by M. K. Hume
‘I know I’m a poor substitute for Percivale, Odin, but I have slain wolves and, on one occasion, I speared a cave bear. I’m not a weakkneed youth, else my mother wouldn’t have sent me to serve the king, so you can be sure that I’ll guard Artor’s back during Percivale’s absence.’
Odin rapidly revised his fears and found them resolved.
‘Myrddion’s son lowers himself to labour like a servant,’ Percivale answered slowly.
‘But Nimue’s son would never count the cost if there was any risk to the king,’ Taliesin responded earnestly. ‘If it was in my power, I would save him anyway. So what does livery matter? No badge of service harms my station if it raises my honour.’
Odin embraced Taliesin, and Percivale marvelled at the courage of the Jutlander, for some atavistic, superstitious part of Percivale’s soul still feared the intensity that lay behind the eyes of the harpist.
He gripped Taliesin’s sword hand and felt love and friendship replace the doubt in his heart.
‘Take care during my absence, friends, for I can sense that our world is changing. I catch odd looks and whispers behind corners. Danger is close to the High King, so you must sleep with one eye open and drink only water, if you value the High King’s safety.’
Both men laughed ruefully and embraced Percivale, who had only enough time to collect his few possessions and run to the stables. Characteristically, now that he had a purpose, Galahad was eager to brush the dust of Venonae from his boots.
The days were shortening and the grey skies of winter threatened sleet when Percivale turned his horse towards Glastonbury. He had visited the religious centre many times in the past, but on this occasion he had the leisure to notice that, even with the onset of winter, Glastonbury’s waters sprang cleanly out of the cold, aching earth and her sweeping, pale green slopes were still scattered with the last amber leaves of autumn. The soft, grey mists turned the skeletons of trees into dim and jewelled landscapes, and Percivale felt Glastonbury’s attraction anew. He was struck dumb by the beauty of God’s sanctified earth.
On arrival at the ancient enclave after the short journey from Salinae Minor, he quickly discovered that the priests had little liking for their new bishop. Otha pen Gawr, already nicknamed Rufus for the well-tended beard that spread over his chest in a fiery plume, was one of the younger Celtic clerics, although Percivale immediately noted that the man had a vague Saxon appearance and a greedy, arrogant eye.
When Percivale was ushered into the bishop’s presence, he saw that Otha was a fleshy man under ornate robes that his predecessors at Glastonbury would have scorned to wear. His lips were full and very red, while his eyes were a guileless blue under his Celtic tonsure. As Percivale knelt and kissed the bishop’s ring of office, he made every endeavour to keep his eyes veiled. Common sense warned him that Bishop Otha was the kind of man who set great store by superficial values of ostentatious wealth and luxury. He wondered who had secured Otha’s meteoric rise - and why such an apparent sybarite had been gifted with the fruitful fields of Glastonbury.
For his part, Otha was unhappy with both the presence of Percivale and his quest. They were an irritation that the bishop didn’t trouble to hide.
‘Glastonbury is a religious order and, as such, it owes no allegiance to the High King,’ Otha stated baldly, his lips pursed as if he tasted something foul. ‘Although we are grateful that the High King has sent the staff that murdered holy Aethelthred back to us. We have prayed over this relic to cleanse it of the blood that it shed so intemperately.’
‘You should be grateful. Your order thrives under the protection of the High King,’ Percivale said bluntly but politely. ‘Would you wish Lord Artor to withdraw his succour? I can assure you that there are brigands and Saxons beyond count who wouldn’t quibble at cutting priestly throats, if the spoils were good.’ Percivale stared pointedly at the golden rings that adorned Otha’s chubby hands.
‘Hhmf!’ Otha snorted, pig-like, with disdain, and Percivale was forced to fight down a natural desire to slap the bishop across his fat, hairy chops.
The bishop had yet to offer his guest a seat, or even a cup of water, and Percivale compared this Otha creature with Lucius and his successor, Aethelthred, who were, first and foremost, men of poverty who never flagged in courtesy.
‘I need only speak to the older members of your community to complete the task I have been given by King Artor. I’ve been instructed by the High King to locate and trace the origins of a cup that was used by one of your predecessors, Bishop Lucius. King Artor is curious as to why such a mundane object should have been stolen during the attack on your church.’
‘I’ve heard of this heathen vessel. Fortunately, it has been stolen from Glastonbury, so it no longer taints this haven of peace.’
‘I couldn’t accept that anything possessed by the sainted Lucius could be wicked or ungodly, Bishop Otha, for Lucius was a true follower of Jesus Christ.’
‘Hhmf!’
Percivale wondered if Otha always grunted like a pig when he was out of sorts. But, as the petitioner, Percivale kept his face pleasant and biddable, knowing that he looked like a farm boy and was therefore beneath the notice of a pretentious hypocrite like Otha.
‘Are you Christian, lad?’ Otha demanded.
Percivale managed to school his face, for he was a middle-aged man, a warrior and was almost certainly older than the bishop himself.
‘Aye, my lord. I’ve followed the Christian way for all of my adult life.’
‘I suppose that’s one small mercy,’ the bishop snorted insultingly.
‘I’ve been to Glastonbury on many occasions, usually when the High King makes his annual pilgrimage. One of my tasks has been to cut a sprig of the white thorn on Wearyall Hill for Artor to wear on his bonnet at the midwinter festival. I trust in the Lord Jesus and I believe he walked on the soil of Holy Glastonbury, just as the old stories tell us. I also believe that Josephus of Arimathea built the church and planted the roots of the Christian faith in these lands.’
‘Very well,’ Otha grumbled, unable to find any flaw in Percivale’s religious credentials. ‘But you must not keep my brothers from their duties or their worship.’
Percivale bowed and removed himself from the bishop’s presence with a sigh of relief.
A silent priest accompanied him to a long dormitory where spare rooms were kept readied for visiting penitents and other travellers. The small cell possessed the usual tiny bowl of holy oil, a crucifix and a narrow sleeping pallet. It lacked a window and seemed tiny and claustrophobic. Yet, spartan as his new accommodation was, Percivale felt immediately at home, for he had been raised in the kitchens of Venonae and had learned the value of warm, closed rooms during the freezing winters.
After he had stowed his travelling bag, he sought out the Jew, Simon, who was the overseer of a small workshop and forge in the outbuildings of the Glastonbury enclave.
Brother Simon’s workshop was open at the front to allow the forge to be cooled by fresh air. A sod wall separated the workshop from the open fires used by the blacksmith, although an open doorway linked the two rooms. Wide shelves lined one wall and a heavy table of wooden slabs, nearly a foot thick, served as a workbench. The warm windowless structure bustled with activity as several lay brothers escaped the cold weather to sharpen every scythe, ploughshare, spade and hoe used on the farm.
Brother Simon looked glum, and seemed sunk in a suspicious, unresponsive mood as he sat at his workbench.
‘King Artor sends his best wishes,’ Percivale began, while Simon supervised the melting of a number of golden arm rings in a crucible his apprentice had placed in the fires of the forge.
‘Feast your eyes on this nonsense - an altar plate of sheet gold!’ Simon growled. ‘Bishop Otha orders me to melt down Glastonbury’s treasures to add to his vain trappings of wealth.’
Percivale winced at Simon’s unwise rantings, and the priest’s young apprentice made a small exclamation of surprise that was just audible ov
er the scrapings of iron on whetstones. The lay brothers continued to work diligently, obviously inured to Brother Simon’s unpredictable moods.
‘Keep your ears closed and your eyes sharp, boy,’ Simon snapped at the nervous, tonsured youth who clutched a red-hot crucible with long blacksmith’s tongs.
‘Then you’ve no love for the new bishop?’
‘He’s well enough in his way, I suppose, but he isn’t a suitable bishop to head the Glastonbury order. The man is far too worldly and grasping.’
‘You’re harsh in your judgement, Brother Simon.’ Percivale grinned at the priest to show his sympathy. ‘Where does your bishop call home?’
‘I couldn’t say - and I wouldn’t care to speculate.’
This curt response only added to Percivale’s caution.
‘Please understand my motives, Simon’, Percivale began. ‘I’ve been sent by King Artor to discover the whereabouts of a drinking vessel used by sainted Lucius, a relic that seems far too ordinary to be causing the storm that is gathering around it.’
Abruptly, Simon fumbled a shallow mould of clay that he had been oiling, causing it to fall on to the hardened sod floor. The green-clay mould smashed to pieces and the young apprentice almost dropped the crucible in surprise and alarm.
‘Good God of Abraham!’ Simon blasphemed in exasperation. ‘Look what you’ve made me do!’ His gaze fastened on the young apprentice who was trying to shrink into the floor. ‘Don’t drop that crucible, Ethelbert, or I’ll skin you alive. Put the crucible back on the fire and let it re-heat. Then fetch me another mould from the shelf.’ The cords of Simon’s neck were straining with suppressed emotion.
Percivale waited patiently while another mould was found and laid carefully on the seasoned oak bench. Gradually, Simon controlled his breathing, visibly calmed himself and then knelt painfully on the bare floor. He began to pray in a whispered monotone, while the warrior and the apprentice looked at each other silently.
They waited.
Eventually, Simon had mastered his emotions sufficiently to struggle to his feet, dust himself off and sit on a stool beside the bench. His head rested glumly on one twisted hand.
‘Could you please leave us, Ethelbert? An early lunch perhaps? Or even a walk? I must gather my thoughts, and I’m weary.’
‘Of course, master. I’m sorry to have caused offence.’
‘You didn’t cause any offence, boy. Please ask the brothers to allow us some privacy as well. Give them my apologies for disturbing their labours.’
The brothers hurried out into the weak, winter sunshine.
‘But Otha does cause me offence! May heaven damn the man! The younger men will be all atwitter now because the Jew has thrown a tantrum, and Otha will hear of it and use my intemperance against me. At least Lucius understood that a man might say anything and everything when the anger comes upon him. Never mind. Perhaps the lads will hold their tongues, for our bishop is not universally loved.’ Simon looked at Percivale with a lopsided grin. ‘I beg your pardon, young man, for you’ve offered me nothing but courtesy, and I’ve repaid you with rudeness and irritation.’
‘I have nothing to forgive, Brother Simon. Just please tell me frankly what you know about this wonderful drinking vessel.’
Simon avoided Percivale’s eyes. ‘I don’t know much. Lucius never shared his past life with anyone.’
Frowning with impatience, Percivale wondered how he could extract the truth out of this obstinate old man who was reluctant to discuss the subject. Why would such a dedicated priest flinch at the mention of a common drinking vessel?
‘If you truly know nothing of the Cup, why do you act like a guilty maiden caught with her lover whenever it’s mentioned? An innocent man would merely shrug his shoulders and proclaim his ignorance.’
‘Otha would rejoice if he could cast me out of Glastonbury, regardless of my tonsure or my age. And he will eventually succeed, for Otha is a patient man. He hates my race because he believes we murdered Jesus, as I suppose we did.’
Percivale groaned audibly. Once again, Simon was attempting to change the subject.
‘But Jesus was a Jew!’
‘Otha ignores that particular inconvenient truth.’
‘What does the Jewish race have to do with the Cup? I don’t understand your fears or your reluctance to speak openly with me.’
Simon replied, ‘You were there when Artor questioned the old priests. What none of them knew was that the Cup is of Jewish manufacture. It’s not Celtic, or Pict, or Saxon. It’s Jewish. Any man of my race would recognize it.’
Percivale looked quite blank. ‘I still don’t understand.’
‘I’ll admit that I avoided telling the whole truth when King Artor questioned me. I asked my bishop how he came to own a Jewish peasant’s cup. Lucius smiled at me, in that sleepy way he adopted when he didn’t wish to discuss a particular subject. I knew he’d been a decurion in the Roman army of Gaul, for a man can’t hide his origins entirely. I knew, too, that the ring that Lucius gifted to King Artor had once been thick with congealed blood, but the tears of remorse shed by the bishop over many years had washed it clean. From what my master let slip, I knew that Lucius had killed many men in ferocious battles across the Roman world. I, too, once wielded a sword, and I could see that Lucius carried his history in his eyes, in his stance and in the way he used his hands.’
Percivale nodded. He resisted the temptation to ask Simon why he had become a priest because he knew that Simon would have welcomed the diversion.
‘Go on.’
‘Simply put, Lucius told me that he had received the vessel from another warrior, who had taken it from yet another, who had been given it by another. He told me that the Cup had travelled many leagues, as if these tired old eyes couldn’t see that fact for themselves.’
‘There’s still more to explain, Simon,’ Percivale persisted. ‘I know there is.’
The silence between the two men stretched out achingly, until Simon spoke at last.
‘I asked the bishop about the Cup on many occasions,’ he admitted tetchily. ‘I nagged at him and, eventually, he became a little angry at my persistence.’ Simon’s shoulders slumped as if he was ashamed of the recollection. ‘In my stiff-necked pride, I hungered for something tangible that would link me with the sainted Lucius. Damn me, I think I’ve been vain and intrusive all my life. In the end, Lucius gave me an answer of sorts just to shut me up, although I never solved the riddle.’
‘The riddle?’
‘Lucius was a man who enjoyed devising complex puzzles - not the least being the one solved by King Artor when he became ruler of the Britons.’
‘Aye. That story is well known to all who live in the kingdom.’
‘Lucius said that I might understand what he knew if I could solve his riddle. I puzzled over it for many years but I never solved his word game. Perhaps you’ll do better. For a saintly man, my master could be infuriatingly obtuse, although I’ve often wondered if he was struggling to protect me from the consequences of my vanity.’ Simon smiled. ‘Lucius managed to shut my mouth and silence my questions, so I suppose he achieved his purpose. I never asked him about the Cup again.’
‘Recite the riddle for me, Simon. We no longer have Myrddion Merlinus to show us the answer, more’s the pity, but I’ll try the best minds in the kingdom to ferret out its meaning.’
‘You may have the puzzle, for I could never forget the damned thing!’ Simon sighed as if a weight had been lifted from his soul. ‘Let others bear the responsibilities of knowledge. In return, I ask that you free me of any blame for whatever direction this rhyme takes you. I’m too close to the great hand of my god to carry any more sins on my soul, especially for errors made by others.’
Percivale nodded in assent, and waited.
Simon fiddled with the broken mould, pursed his lips, scraped his sandalled feet over an imagined imperfection in the sod floor and then launched into rapid speech.
I travelled far in bloody hands,
In army camps from arid lands.
My worth is naught in gems and gold.
No blood, nor sacrifice of old
Can touch the centre of my pain.
The hands that hold are changed again.
Lest men still covet my dull shine,
I carry water now, not wine.
‘You may extract whatever meaning you can from this riddle,’ Simon said. ‘However, I’m certain of one fact. The Cup never belonged to the blue hag, Ceridwen, so the black warrior is a liar as well as a blasphemer and a murderer.’ Percivale had never learned to read so, through repetition, he committed the entire rhyme to memory.
‘I swear by my hope of heavenly redemption that I know nothing else,’ Simon told him.
Percivale bowed his head in gratitude and respect. ‘I won’t trouble you further, Brother Simon. You’ve aided me in every way that you can. I would only request that you don’t tell Otha, or anyone else, of the riddle.’
Simon chuckled, a sound that resembled nothing so much as the friction of rusty armour. ‘That’s one promise I’ll keep. The Cup of Lucius should have lain with its owner in his grave until Judgement Day. It has already been the cause of murder, distrust and cruelty. It’s my belief that only the hands of a saint are sufficiently sanctified to hold such a symbol.’
Percivale turned to go.
‘One more thing, before you go, young man’, Simon said. ‘Lucius asked me to ensure that the Cup was placed in his grave after his death. He swore to me that the Cup was perilous and to take every precaution, on pain of my mortal soul, to ensure that the vessel went into the earth with him. I did exactly what he asked of me but, within days, my hands began to grow steadily worse until they became as crippled as you now see them. I’ve searched through the words of Jesus for a message about a vessel such as the Cup, but my prayers have never been answered. In God’s name, Percivale, I beg you to take care, for I’m sure that the Cup is dangerous.’ He paused to add weight to his warning.
‘I’ve forsaken my race and the faith of my fathers to follow the teachings of Jesus. No child of mine will cover my eyes when I die, and no Jewish kin will sing the last song for me. So understand that when I beg you to forget the Cup and let it be, I have no ulterior motives. I do not wish to see Lucius’s curse again in this life. I’ve no doubt that it will kill any murderer who holds it, and it will madden even good men if they should lust after its insidious promises. If there is any fault in your heart, the Cup will discover it, as it found the blood that was still on my hands and ruined them forever.’