The Raven and the Rose

by Jo Beverley

  The bird moved away, stepping along the roof, but still looking at her.

  “Follow? I’m not supposed to leave here.”

  It opened its beak, but didn’t make a noise. All the same, she knew it was a silent command.

  “Where am I supposed to go? I’ve found my protector.”

  It came into her mind, a clear and dreadful message. She moaned. She’d obeyed and obeyed, but this was the most terrifying task of all.

  “I can’t do this,” she protested, but she turned, knees shaking, to put on her veil and go down the difficult stairs.

  At the bottom, the weaver’s wife frowned at her. “Are you going out, lady? It’s not safe out there for the likes of you.”

  “It seems quieter.”

  “Aye, many are watching the fighting, but there’s still enough around to make trouble.”

  “I’ll be safe,” Gledys assured her, certain that the garalarl could ensure that, at least. In any case, idle men around the town were no threat at all compared to what she faced.

  She went out into the street, looking around for her guide.

  Gone again.

  Exhaling with relief, she turned back toward the house, but a flutter of black wings caught her eye. The raven was on a roof down the street, hopping from foot to foot nervously, but clearly indicating the way she must go.

  She obeyed, surprised not to be taken to the castle. Instead, the raven led her toward the camp, fluttering sneakily from place to place, trying to avoid being seen. She supposed the bird risked as much as or more than she did. Then the raven took to the air, swooping around and around a large tent gay with pennants before flying away.

  How could it abandon her? And yet already men were pointing at it and exclaiming. An arrow streaked upward, seeking to kill. It missed, thank heavens, but Gledys saw the risk the raven had taken. Could she do less than a bird?

  She turned toward the tent, seeing a man on guard, eyeing her curiously.

  “Whose tent is this?” she asked.

  “Why are you here if you don’t know?” he asked, playing with her.

  “Is it a secret?”

  After a moment, he shrugged. “Duke Henry’s.”

  That was what she’d feared. That was what she’d known. She made herself stroll closer. “He’s still at the fighting, I assume.”

  “Probably in the baths by now. Can’t you hear that it’s over?”

  Gledys realized the din had stopped. The sun was setting, too. It was later than she’d thought.

  “My lord duke will have won, of course,” the guard said proudly.

  Gledys swallowed to moisten her throat and forced out the words she knew she must say. “Then he will want to speak to me. May I wait inside?”

  The man stared, but then he slapped his thigh and laughed. “You’re a bold one, and no mistake. But why not? You’re pretty enough to interest him.”

  He pulled back the flap of a door and called a name. An older man appeared.

  “This one wants to wait for him. No harm in it, but make sure she gets up to no mischief.”

  The older man looked at her sourly, but he gestured, and Gledys had no choice but to enter the gloom of the tent, feeling as if she entered a lion’s den. Silently she wailed, I really don’t want to do this.

  “Sit there,” the man said, moving a bench into an open space. “Stay there, and don’t touch anything.”

  Gledys sat, her empty stomach churning, but she was curious enough to look around. This part of the tent held a table with benches and one chair. There were other benches and stools and some chests. The man began putting out goblets and platters, and somewhere nearby she smelled roasting meat. A flap in one side was open to let in air and some light, but still it was dim and stuffy here, and she felt as if she struggled for air.

  The man suddenly spoke. “What are you doing here, girl? He’ll only use you for the night and leave you with a trinket, and you don’t look the type.”

  “I’m not,” Gledys said thinly. “I simply need to speak to him.”

  He shook his head. “There’s still time to go home, wherever that is.”

  Gledys sighed. “No, I don’t think there is.”

  As if predicted by her words, a small party burst in, a group of men surrounding a stocky, laughing man—who sobered at sight of her, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

  Into the silence, someone said, “Gledys?”

  Her eyes went to the taller figure. She rose to her feet.

  Michael stepped forward. “Lord, I don’t know why she’s here, but—”

  A raised hand stopped him. “Let her speak for herself.”

  Henry of Anjou was not a handsome man, but his energy and power filled the tent, making her shiver.

  She fell to her knees. “Forgive me, lord, but I must speak with you.”

  “And who are you?”

  Gledys wanted to say, Gledys of Rosewell, but that didn’t seem wise.

  “Lady Gledys of Buckford, my lord,” she whispered.

  “Buckford? The de Brescars?” He almost spat it. “They hold fast to Stephen.” With that, Henry turned angrily to Michael. “You know her?”

  Gledys looked up to see Michael frowning at her. She realized that she’d never given him that name.

  But he said, “She’s my promised bride, my lord.”

  “And your family is loyal.” The duke looked between them, and then he shrugged. “A mystery, and a pretty one. Eat, drink and we’ll explore it.”

  He threw himself into the chair and the other men took the benches. Servants hurried to serve them. Michael, however, came to stand by Gledys’s side. She supposed he was supporting her, but she could feel exasperation coming off him like steam.

  Why was she forced to these things? Was this how it went with martyrs? Did they not go to their fate with resolute intent, but instead were carried to fire or gallows with no power to resist, quaking all the way?

  The duke washed down some meat with wine. “I spoke with your father not a week ago, de Loury, and he didn’t mention this. So she’s your leman. No shame in that.”

  Gledys could hear Michael breathing, but he answered steadily. “No, lord. She is a virtuous maid who will soon be my bride. My father doesn’t yet know.”

  The duke laughed. “Then I’m glad I’m not you. But what’s she doing here? In the camp? In my tent?”

  Gledys was feeling truly sick. The power of the duke was a physical thing, like a dreadful storm, making her want to melt away into nothingness to escape. She couldn’t imagine how the men around him bore it, how Michael could speak so firmly. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding so hard she felt it should be audible, and she wasn’t sure she had breath, but she knew what she had to say.

  “I came to the camp, my lord, to find Michael. I came to your tent because I have a message for you.”

  “For me?” the duke asked sharply. “From your family?”

  “No, my lord.” She swallowed. “May I be private with you, my lord?”

  After a moment of dead silence, Henry of Anjou burst out laughing. “De Loury, you should beat her!”

  “No, no!” Gledys gasped, horrified. “I mean with you and Michael, my lord.”

  “Even worse,” said the duke, and the men around him guffawed.

  “Gledys, be quiet,” Michael said from his throat. “You’re making a scandal of yourself.” He put a hand under her arm to raise her. “Come away.”

  “No,” said the duke sharply. “I want to know what this is about. Come.”

  He rose and swept through a curtain into another section of the tent. Gledys was hauled to her feet and pushed after him as gleeful speculation started up behind them. The small chamber contained a bed, some chests and a chair in which the duke sat.

  “Well?” he asked quietly, eyes cold on her. “Who
se messenger are you, Gledys of Buckford?”

  Gledys swayed on her feet, but the words came anyway, thinly but audibly. “I am sent to offer peace.”

  “Gledys—”

  Again a hand silenced Michael. “From Stephen of Blois?” Duke Henry asked in a flat voice.

  “No, my lord.” Without hope, she said, “From a sacred vessel called the garalarl.”

  The duke grimaced and drank from his cup. “De Loury, what’s she talking about?”

  Gledys expected Michael to apologize, even to claim she was mad, but after a moment he said, “Lord, she believes she has a mission to find the holy chalice, the one used at the Last Supper, which will then bring peace to England.”

  Gledys looked up at him, astonished. Did he believe?

  She flicked a glance at the duke. Instead of anger or incredulity, he looked thoughtful. “Why you?” he asked.

  A strange question.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she said, voice trembling. “I am a seventh child, and that is important. . . . Truly, my lord duke, I don’t want to be here doing this.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do. And you, de Loury. What part have you in this?”

  “I am also a seventh, and apparently her protector. My lord, this is new to me, too, but”—he paused in thought—“if there’s any truth in it, I cannot turn away. England does need peace.”

  “This struggle is not of my making,” Henry said fiercely. “The barons of England swore my mother would reign, and I will hold them to it. There will be peace only when she has her rights, through me.”

  “You have the right of it, my lord,” Michael agreed in a level voice.

  “And I don’t need miracles to achieve it. Stephen’s always been weak, and now he’s old and tired. This spurt of activity will fade and he’ll capitulate.”

  Michael spoke again. “She says that Eustace has the holy lance, and that has caused the new resolve.”

  Gledys expected that to mystify, but Henry’s face set in grim lines, too grim for a young man. His eyes turned on her. “How?” he demanded.

  Gledys blinked. He believed?

  “I don’t know, my lord. There is an evil force. . . .”

  “Eustace!” he spat, surging out of his chair to pace the small area. “I had word of this from the Templars in the spring, that the lance had been stolen, that it could reinflame the war. I thought it nonsense, but then Stephen almost became a new man, and Eustace burst beyond all restraint. He is ravaging the lands of the abbey of Saint Edmundsbury.”

  Gledys heard Michael suck in a breath. She knew that name. It was a place, like Rosewell, designed for sevenths. Was that where he’d been sent? And did Prince Eustace have some reason for harrying it other than greed? Was he seeking possible protectors to destroy?

  They had to summon the chalice immediately.

  The duke turned to her again. “The Templars said that if they couldn’t retrieve the lance, the only defense is the holy chalice.” He glared into her face. “So where is it?”

  She leaned away, close to fainting. “I don’t know, my lord!” She gasped. “But if Michael and I go in search of it, we will—”

  “Go in search?” he raged. “People have been searching for that cup for centuries, and none have found it yet. I don’t have centuries!”

  “That’s not true!” Gledys was surprised by the strength of her own voice. She gulped. “Your pardon, my lord. But I’m told it has been found at least once. When King Henry came to the throne and his brother gave up the struggle to take it from him.”

  She expected that to please him, but his eyes sparked with new fury. “What? Do you know what happened then? Henry Beauclerc seized the throne. His brother, the Duke of Normandy, invaded, but failed. The holder of the crown kept it, and the Duke of Normandy came to grief. Stephen of Blois holds the throne,” he snarled at her, “and I am the Duke of Normandy! I’ll allow no meddling that leads to the same conclusion.”

  In the face of his fury, Gledys’s throat had tightened so much she couldn’t have said anything, even if words had come to her. It was Michael who spoke, in that same calm way. She didn’t know how he managed it.

  “By your grace, my lord, at that time the right king was chosen. King Henry was a strong monarch who brought order to this land. Surely the holy cup would favor the same again. Not Stephen. And never Eustace of Boulogne.”

  After a seething moment, Henry relaxed a little and sipped from his cup. It was as if cool air suddenly flowed into the small room and Gledys could breathe again.

  “True, true.” But Gledys could tell he was still calculating. He was not a man who trusted his fate to others. Not even to sacred mysteries.

  He paced again.

  “I know something of this,” he said suddenly. “From my mother. She had it from her father, that same King Henry. He was born in England and proud of it. He studied some of the ancient traditions. The holy chalice is hidden in Glastonbury, yes?”

  Gledys found a thread of a voice. “I am told the cup dwells in no one place, my lord. That there are many places where it can appear. But Glastonbury Tor is the most important. Joseph of Arimathea—”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, waving a hand impatiently. “But if there are other places, how do you know where to look?”

  Gledys thought of mentioning ravens and lights but her courage failed her. “I will just know, my lord. Once we set out.”

  The duke seemed almost to growl, but then he said, “You have leave to go, de Loury. To go on this mission. Find this holy cup and bring it back to me.”

  Gledys’s jaw dropped and thoughts of King Herod flashed through her mind. He’d commanded the magi to bring back news of the king they sought. They had wisely returned to their homelands by a route that avoided Herod, but what could she and Michael do? She was sure the chalice was not to be possessed.

  “If we are allowed, my lord,” Michael said smoothly. “I believe none of us is entirely free in this.”

  “I am,” said the duke flatly, dangerous again. “Very well. Bring me peace. But peace in my favor, or you and yours will suffer for it. Go, go, get on with it!”

  Michael put his arm around Gledys and escorted her through the outer chamber of the tent, past curious eyes, and into the fresh air. She sagged against him then, her legs losing all strength.

  He gathered her into his arms and carried her back toward the village, saying, “Lord, save us all.”

  “Amen,” said Gledys, sucking in breaths. “I do not like any of this. It’s too hard.”

  “Not even being in my arms?”

  She stared up at him. “How can you tease?”

  He smiled at her. “Why not? We have leave to attempt this mission, which may bring peace. But if I understand the matter right, whatever the end result, we will soon lie together, my lovely Gledys. And that is cause for smiling.”

  Heat swept through Gledys in a wave, but she said, “I wish we could marry first.”

  “Love, I would marry you if we could, but we are commanded to be urgent, and indeed, I feel the need. It beats in the very ground beneath my feet like the drums of war themselves. And Eustace threatens Saint Edmundsbury. It wasn’t the place for me, but I will not see it harmed.”

  He lowered her to her feet outside the weaver’s house. “We can at least say our vows before witnesses.”

  He took her hand and led her into the house, where the weaver and his wife were sitting on a bench near the window, relaxing after a long day, sharing a cake. When Dame Agnes moved to stand, Michael waved her to stay seated. “Of your kindness, my friends, we would like you to witness our wedding vows.”

  “Nay,” said the weaver. “You need grander folk than us, and a priest as well.”

  “We leave on a journey, and need to say them now. It can be done again later with more pomp.” He turned to Gledys. “This need
only be simple. I, Michael de Loury, take you as my wife, Gledys of Buckford, and will cleave to you all my days. I will love and honor you, and share all I have with you. This I vow.”

  Gledys swallowed tears and tried to repeat the same. “I, Gledys of Buckford, take you, Michael de Loury, as my husband. I will cleave to you all my days. I will love you and honor you, and share all I have with you. This I vow.”

  He took the ring she wore on her right hand and moved it to her left, kissing it when it was in place. “Thus it is done,” he said, his eyes bright with pleasure, which gave Gledys a sudden qualm. She remembered Henry of Anjou’s words, implying Michael’s father’s wrath.

  “You may regret this,” she whispered. “I have no money, no dowry or lands. . . .”

  He kissed her into silence. “Nor have I. We are destined, Gledys of Buckford, and the rest doesn’t matter. But we must go. Wait here while I fetch my horse.”

  He thanked the bemused couple and left. Gledys gave the weaver and his wife a faint smile and stood by the door, dazed by all that had happened, but feeling the urgency he’d mentioned. It did seem to thrum beneath her feet, as if monstrous armies marched to the tempo of evil drums.

  Michael soon returned, riding and wearing a sword, but without chain mail or shield.

  “Shouldn’t you go armed?” she asked.

  “My armor needs repair and I’ve decided to trust God. And perhaps even this grarl.” He rode to a raised stone, which enabled her to mount behind him, a feat as alarming as anything she’d done this day. She wasn’t at all comfortable, but with her arms around Michael, she felt completely safe.

  “So,” he said as they rode out through the camp, “I see no raven. Which way should we go?”

  “All will soon become clear,” she replied, praying it would be so.

  “All will soon become very dark,” he pointed out.

  “You had such faith a little while ago. Why doubt now?”

  “Before the duke, I made the decision to support you despite some doubts. Now, once again, I suspect we’re both mad. But then, perhaps the duke is, too.”

  “It is extraordinary that he knows something of this.”