The Black Chalice

Fifty-Five

Sir Bors appeared behind Arthur's shoulder.

He drew back a stool and sat himself down. "You've got a skull like granite, lad," the big man said, rubbing his fist, his familiar affable grin on his face. It was as though nothing had ever happened between them. But that was what the king had said, wasn't it? Quick to anger, quicker to forgive.

"I don't mind saying I've worked up a devil of a thirst. Ah," the big man reached out for the only full goblet on the table. "You truly are a wonder, lad," he said to Alymere. "Every time I think I understand you, you go and do something utterly idiotic…" He trailed off, grimacing. "It's a bad habit, lad, and one that could get you in an awful lot of trouble." Sir Bors rolled his head on his bull-thick neck, and worked his shoulders. There was an enviable affability about the man, even now. He truly could never hold a grudge for more than a few minutes.

"Now, I believe a toast is in order to mark this auspicious occasion. So, if you will allow me, I think there is one in particular that lends itself to the situation. Never has a young man been so loved: Corynn, Roth, Lowick, all good people, good friends — even that old bugger Baptiste would have died for you, lad — and to look at you now would make them so proud. You have grown into a good man. A true man. And for that, we all owe them a debt of thanks." His meaty fist closed around the stem of the Black Chalice and he lifted it to his lips. "To absent friends!"

Alymere reacted without thinking.

And this once it wasn't the book, or the Devil, or well-crafted schemes that controlled his actions. It was simple instinct, rising from the Alymere of old, driven by anguish. By loss.

No! He had lost too much in his short life; he would not lose any more. He sprung from his seat, dashing the Chalice from Bors's lips even as they parted to drink from the poisonous cup. Ale sprayed everywhere: down Bors's shirt, across his face and the table in front of him. The Chalice struck the table, spilling what was left of its contents over the king as it rolled away and fell to the dirt.

Alymere, breathing hard, loomed over Bors. The big man couldn't look away from the war going on behind the new Knight's eyes.

"What is happening to you, lad?"

"The Devil," Arthur said, staring at the damned cup where it lay on the ground. "That is what is happening to him."

Kill the king! Do it. Now! Snatch up our sword and drive it through his withered heart! Do it! Gut him! It is our destiny!

Alymere drew his sword in a single smooth action. The blade shone deadly in the moonlight.

Kill him!

No! I will not! I will not kill Arthur! Alymere's heart screamed in protest, and his entire body shook. The tip of the sword wavered.

His eyes darted from the king's exposed chest, to Bors, and back to Arthur. No-one seemed capable of moving, trapped as though by a spell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blodyweth's ragged linen favour, still stubbornly tied around his arm. It had slipped down to his elbow, where he could ease it down and be free of the damned thing, and whatever hold it had upon him.

"Blodyweth," he said, tasting summer on his lips again as he did, and drawing strength from her name. "Blodyweth," he repeated. His chest heaved. His arm trembled violently, the sword's tip swinging wildly between Arthur and Bors. And he heard her again, in that moment when he most needed her. Be my champion. Save me. Stay true. Save me, my champion. Save me, or the Devil take both our souls.

I will not kill! I. Will…

And then with one triumphant surge of will, Alymere hurled the sword aside. Not!

He collapsed to his knees. "You will not have her," he said, having barely the breath to say the words. "And you will not have me."

And then Bors's thundering right fist hit him again.