The Black Chalice

Thirty-Nine

Alymere stood over his father.

It was true, the familial resemblance was strong. Stronger than it had a right to be, he thought.

"Why?" he asked. He could have been asking so many questions, but what he really wanted to know was why the dying man had chosen to burden him with his crime?

"Love," the old man said. "I loved her."

The voice of the Devil's Bible crooned inside his skull:

The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son a thousand times.

"No," he said, though whether denying the knight or his own fate he neither knew nor cared. "Don't say that. Don't lie. Not now. Don't lie to me."

Fathers shall not be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sin.

"I want to hear the truth. If you are going to burden me with your guilt I want the whole truth. I don't want you painting yourself as a tortured hero unable to resist the maiden's charms, none of that. I want the truth."

The soul who sins is the one who will die. The son will not share the guilt of the father, nor will the father share the guilt of the son. The righteousness of the righteous man will be credited to him, and the wickedness of the wicked will be charged against him.

Kill him. Do it. Take the pillow from beneath his head and put an end to his lies.

For every living soul belongs to me, the father as well as the son — both alike belong to me. The soul who sins is the one who will die.

Tell me he did not sin, tell me he did not betray the greatest trust of all, and in that act forfeit his right to life. Tell me. No; show me.

"I loved her. Every day of my life."

"Not good enough," Alymere said, not recognising the voice that came out of his own mouth. He reached down and tugged the bolster from beneath the knight's head. He held it between them for a moment, staring down with nothing but hatred and disgust for the man in the bed. Something passed between them, unsaid. Lowick understanding what was about to happen, accepting it, even. Alymere leaned forward and pressed the bolster down over the old man's face, holding it firm as the knight's heels kicked at the mattress. His face twisted as Lowick reached up with frail hands to scratch and claw at him. He felt one of Lowick's fingernails break off in the back of his hand. The scratch wasn't deep. He watched with grim fascination as a single drop of blood broke and ran across the back of his hand and fell, staining the perfect white of the bolster. Alymere didn't stop pressing down until Sir Lowick stopped kicking and clawing at his hands and went still.

And then, with grim economy, he placed the pillow beneath the dead man's head, arranging his body so that it looked as though he had passed peacefully, closed his accusing eyes, and left the room.

It was an illusion. There was no peace in the death mask Sir Lowick wore — he looked as though he had just come face-to-face with the Devil himself. The horror of it was wrought plain upon his face for all to see.

And beside his head, that single spot of blood on the white pillow could so easily betray his murderer if any of the household thought to question it.

Alymere met Sir Bors upon the landing. The big man saw his expression.

"He is gone," Alymere said.

"I should pay my respects. Will you be here when I return?"

"I need air."

"That is understandable. I will find you when I am done. Then we must make arrangements for his burial."

Alymere shook his head. "No. It was his wish that he should burn."