The Black Chalice

by Marie Jakober

  “Am I not pretty, Pauli?” she said. Her voice was soft, mocking. “Are you really so sated you don’t find me pretty? Or do you like little page boys better?”

  The soul eager for sin can persuade itself of anything. I should have flung her aside and stalked away: I don’t care what you think, you little whore! And anyone who does care what you think is too stupid to concern me!

  It’s what I should have done. But instead I stood frozen, appalled by her words, appalled that anyone would say such a thing about me, even in mockery. Dear Christ, what if she said it to others? She was pressing against me again, laughing, and because I did not know what to do I did nothing, and she did as she wished. There was an astonishing power to the encounter, yet I did not enjoy it. Through it all I was aware of how animal it was, how meaningless. Her writhing body disgusted me, and my own disgusted me more. I could hardly believe it was my own, behaving so, burning and heaving, caring about nothing except itself.

  This was the burden of original sin. Through Eve we were lowered to this, and through Eve’s daughters we were dragged back to it again and again….

  She wanted to kiss me after, and play with me, but I could not bear her presence, or the foul sweetness of her perfume. I went alone to the chapel, and there, sick with shame and self-contempt, I wept.

  It was the first time, and the last. I never sinned with a woman again. For no matter how much they tried to tempt me — and they did, sometimes, before I left the world — I never yielded, remembering how ugly it was, and how shameful.

  There was another unlikely outcome from my sin. Six days later, while walking in Duke Gottfried’s orchard, I avoided a meeting with her by hiding myself in one of his private pavilions, and so learned the future of the world.

  It was two days after the tournament ended. The finish was glorious. Until the last, Karelian and Prince Konrad had outshone everyone else. There was barely any difference between them in the scoring, and neither was prepared to concede victory to the other.

  A great deal has been said and written about Prince Konrad through the years; I would just as soon write nothing more. I never thought well of him. Like so many young men raised to power, he thought uncommonly well of himself. He was impulsive and cocky, and tended to say whatever was on his mind without thinking of the consequences.

  Those who liked him admired his outspoken manner; they called him honest. Those who saw more clearly judged him reckless, for he respected neither fate, nor his father, nor his God. Certainly he was fearless. As heir to the imperial throne, he was not expected to take part in tournaments; they endangered not merely his own life, but the future of the dynasty and the security of the state. But in this as in most things Konrad did as he pleased. He enjoyed combat; he loved to win. And there were some who whispered, even then, that he fought so boldly because he had so much to prove.

  I do not know the truth of those rumors. Powerful men always have enemies, and terrible lies can be fashioned out of innocent truths. But the prince was still unmarried, and seemed inclined to remain so as long as possible. All of his close friends were young men, some of them quite beautiful, one of them a minnesinger with amber eyes and a voice which could have melted granite. This youth went everywhere with the prince; he even sang in Gottfried’s court. The enemies of the Salian kings watched him, and smiled, and nudged each other’s ribs.

  But Konrad was a warrior, a very good one. And at the jousting field it was the friends of the Salian kings who smiled and nudged each other; they knew a man when they saw one.

  For myself, I was never sure, though I admit I was inclined to think the worst of Konrad from the beginning. As the tournament drew to a finish, and he kept winning, just like Karelian, I liked him less and less. I wanted to see him beaten.

  So, I think, did Gottfried, though he was much too wise to say so. What he did say — and most everyone agreed — was that a point or two of difference in the scoring proved nothing in a match like this. Whichever man won, the victory would satisfy no one. They had to meet in a duel, and settle it, just the two of them. Three passes with the lance, and then swords, until one or the other yielded.

  Nearly everyone expected Konrad to win. Even I, in my most honest moments, thought it likely. There was nothing to choose between them in strength, and very little in skill. But after days and days of exhausting combat, youth was now Konrad’s great advantage. Karelian was tired, so tired that I grieved for him. I knew he was asking himself what in God’s name he had begun this for, surely not for a hundred gold marks and a wreath of pretty flowers?

  He dressed slowly that morning; every careful motion betrayed his pain. When I had buckled on his sword, and pulled the hem of his surcoat to make it neat and straight, he took a little wine, raising the cup briefly before he drank.

  “The last time,” he said.

  Something cold went all through my bones. For a reason I could not name, I believed him: it was the last time.

  His head and throat were wrapped close in his coif of ring mail. Armor though it was, this garment could give even hardened warriors a strangely youthful look, almost … yes, I will say it: almost feminine … before the helmet was fitted over it. A transformation I always noticed, and which always disturbed me.

  “You will ride in many tournaments yet, my lord,” I said. “You are younger than Duke Gottfried.”

  He ignored the comparison.

  “No,” he said. “I will not.” Then he smiled, beautifully. “That’s why I intend to win this one.”

  And he did, the only way he could have won it: by being wiser, cooler, more experienced than his opponent. At least, that’s what everyone said at the time, myself most of all. We marveled at his steadiness, his ability to wait; we marveled especially at his gift of anticipation. He did not outfight Konrad. Strictly speaking, he could not have done so. He out-thought him. He seemed to know everything Konrad was going to do before the prince did it. Three times I was certain Karelian was finished; three times I saw the blow coming which should have ended it; each time, at the lethal moment, Karelian was somehow not there.

  A year later, I would reflect on the encounter again, in a less worshipful frame of mind, and wonder if it was purely skill. No doubt the witch of Car-Iduna wanted him to win. She wanted him raised to the greatest possible heights in Gottfried’s confidence. He was good, God knows, but he was just a man, and he fought that day like something more.

  Alas, it is all hindsight now, like so much of my wisdom. At the time I was exactly like the others, caught up in the excitement like a twig in a whirlpool, flung back and forth between triumph and dismay. They rode at each other and broke both their lances, and we cheered. They rode again, and crashed together, and went down. Neither had been unhorsed, not even once, in all the tournament; now both were tumbled into the dirt. Karelian got to one knee and faltered there, reeling as the prince strode towards him. That was the first time I thought it was over. But he recovered in time to parry Konrad’s blow. And then he led him slowly, pitilessly, to defeat.

  Slowly? In truth, I do not know if it was slow, or very quick. It seemed forever, an unending, brilliant masque; not mortal, and yet perilous enough, a dance of splendor and darkness. I am a monk now; I know the vanity of it; and I know, too, how evil both men really were. Yet still I feel a tug of admiration. Their swords struck sparks off the sky; they attacked, parried, stumbled, missed ruin by a breath more times than we could afterwards remember. They stood poised, sword caught against sword and neither yielding, and we held our own breaths until one or the other swung free, and struck again.

  Almost from the start, from the moment he had seen Karelian dazed and on his knees, Konrad believed he had the best of it, and he fought accordingly, with daring and confidence, pressing what he believed was his advantage. He never understood that in everything except youth he was outmatched; he grew angry and ever so slightly desperate as victory eluded him. As Karelian eluded him, and continued to return his blows— not as many blows, perhaps
, all counted, but just as many dangerous ones. As Karelian began finally to lead, to set the pace and the style of the fight.

  I never saw the raven; I was too busy watching the field. But some others did, and mentioned it later. It had drifted across the plain of Stavoren in a smooth, high arc, safely distant from the massed gathering of fighting men and weapons. Without haste, they said, and wonderfully graceful, its wings stark and black against the summer sky. Drifting away again, as though it had only come there out of idle curiosity.

  As perhaps it had. Perhaps it was just a bird, an ordinary raven of the forest. That’s what my father would have said, shaking his head at me. At the moment I might have said so myself; the ordinary world was very real just then, very bright and loud, all harsh voices and iron and dust. Konrad suddenly attacking, Karelian circling away, the prince’s sword flashing out like the jaws of an adder, too quick to follow with the eye, just a blur of menace, but the count’s shield was there, breaking its force. Konrad stuck again, in pure fury, all of his strength and weight behind the blow. Karelian swung his blade upward, catching the other in mid-air. For a tiny moment nothing moved at all; they stood like stags in autumn, feet braced and weapons locked. But Konrad had put too much into his massive blow; he was off balance— just a little, just for a breath.

  A breath was all Karelian needed. A sudden shift of his weight, a savage whiplash motion of his wrist, and Konrad’s sword was gone, spinning like a silver trinket across the field.

  After, there would be clamor and chaos and cheering and dismay, but for one long moment there was pure silence. Even the king was struck dumb, leaning forward from his fenced and guarded dais as the young prince recovered his footing and backed away, disarmed and bewildered.

  I remember the moment as clearly as if it were painted on my wall. I remember how good I felt. None of us knew the future. None of us imagined that these two men, meeting for the first time here in a game of chivalry, would soon meet again in a war camp in Mainz. They would regard each other once again across a small, charged patch of ground, and smile.

  Konrad wiped his arm across his face. He did not like losing, and it showed.

  “Are you going to insist on my oath of surrender?” he demanded.

  “No, my lord,” Karelian said.

  And then, before Konrad’s squire could hurry out to help his master, the count bent and picked up his rival’s sword himself, and offered it to him with a small bow.

  It was a singularly courteous gesture. But it was more, and a soft, awed murmur passed over the gathering. Karelian was a profoundly political man. He knew how much bitterness remained against Ehrenfried after twenty years of civil war. He knew how many of the watching lords were pleased to see the Salian prince humbled. Some would have been pleased to see him killed. For Karelian, this was no simple act of chivalry; it was a clear political statement. The game had been a game, and now it was over. Victorious or not, he was still the loyal servant of his king.

  Konrad took the weapon, held it for a moment, his eyes hard— neither angry nor admiring, just hard.

  “I have lost jousts before, Karelian of Lys. But never to a man worthier than you.”

  So it was my lord who knelt before the whole of Germany, just as the sun was setting, to receive the wreath of victory from Ehrenfried’s hands, and who sat after at his elbow, in the place of highest honor. I was drunk with pride, and, for the first time in my life, I ended the evening drunk silly on wine as well.

  I was still suffering from it two days later; I suppose that’s why I fell asleep in Duke Gottfried’s pavilion.

  It was a pleasant place, raised in the middle of the garden like a small tower. I had no idea it was a place the duke favored for private meetings. Even so, I would not have gone inside except for the girl.

  The same girl, the empress’s little whore. She was still halfway across the garden when I saw her, and there were some trees between us. She was coming in my direction, but she had not seen me yet. She was walking idly; she looked bored. I knew what would happen if she spotted me, and I did not want to deal with it. My head still hurt. I was tired, and even thinking about her made me more tired. The door into the pavilion was open, and so I simply went inside, and closed it behind me.

  It was dim inside. I remembered the room with the non-existent kitten. If she had seen me come in here, I reflected, I was worse off than before. So I went up the long staircase to the open bower. I was sure it was empty. And it was— for the moment.

  It was a lovely, peaceful place, entirely open to the wind and the sun. There was a small marble table and some chairs, and a locked cupboard where I supposed they kept silverware and perhaps a stock of wine. For all its plainness, it felt very regal; the duke’s arms hung on one wall, and were inlaid in the glistening surface of the table.

  What in God’s name am I doing here?

  Even as the thought occurred to me, I heard steps on the stairs. I had not walked into a stable or a storeroom or even some casual bower set out for the casual use of guests. I had no right to be here uninvited, and I did not want to be found.

  The only place to hide was the privy, enclosed behind a heavy arras. So I hid there, peeking out to see who came.

  Servants came, and still more servants. They swept and scrubbed the floor. They polished the gleaming marble table until it gleamed even brighter. The privy, I saw with infinite relief, was unused and needed no attention. I waited for them to finish and go away, and when they had done so, I waited longer, just to be safe. It was quiet there; the breezes wafting through were just enough to mellow the day’s heat. I waited too long, and I fell asleep.

  I did not hear steps the second time; I heard voices. They were already in the room. I looked out again in dismay, though I had recognized both voices: Duke Gottfried himself, and Karelian of Lys. They were moving towards the marble table, where a great carafe of wine and two gold cups had been laid out for them.

  God help me…!

  I could not believe my own folly. Oh, I was tired, I was half sick, I utterly detested that girl, but how could I have gotten myself into this? And how was I going to get out?

  Gottfried settled into a chair, and motioned his guest to sit across from him. I expected a servant to appear at once to serve them, but instead the Golden Duke filled the cups himself, and handed one to Karelian with a smile.

  I knew what that meant. They had come here to speak in absolute privacy, and my small folly was turning rapidly into a great one. I cringed back behind the arras, wishing to God I had let the servants catch me. No, dear God, I should have come out on my own, I should have gone to them and apologized: “Please forgive me, I wandered in here by mistake, I am leaving this instant…!” At worst I would have been taken for an ill-bred fool; now, if I were discovered, I might well be taken for a spy.

  “Your health, Karel.”

  “And yours, my good lord.”

  I did not want to listen. I wanted to change myself into a beetle and crawl away.

  “That was a magnificent demonstration of prowess,” Gottfried went on. “I’ve always thought well of you, but you continue to impress me. I couldn’t wish for a better man at my right hand.”

  “You honor me too much, my lord.”

  “I have only begun to honor you.”

  Gottfried fell silent for so long I began to wonder if he had forgotten what he came here to say. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, meditative.

  “I’m concerned about the future, Karelian— the future of Europe, and the future of Christendom. Our conquests in the east are very fragile; unless something extraordinary is done, we will not hold them.”

  I was astonished; I had never expected such a comment from the duke.

  “Raising money,” he went on, “sending a few more ragtag armies like the one we marched in— that’s not going to do it. Would you agree?”

  “Entirely, my lord.”

  “And I don’t believe such a magnificent victory was won for nothing. I will neve
r believe it. Do you not think, Karel, God must surely have a plan for the world?”

  “That has always been at the heart of Christian teaching.”

  “Well, if we look at history, we see there are pivotal moments in the unfolding of God’s plan— moments when everything depended on one person. Moses had to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. Mary had to accept her destiny as the mother of Jesus. Constantine had to turn the empire to God. If any of those persons had failed — if they had refused to do their duty — our history would be very different.

  “Wait! I know what you’re going to say— God’s plan can’t possibly be so vulnerable. And you’re right. He knows the individuals he chooses for his tasks. He knew Moses, and Mary, and Constantine. He chooses those who will not fail him. Nonetheless, Karel, history turns on their actions. Their choices and their tasks are real.”

  There was a brief silence. When the duke spoke again, all the softness was gone from his voice.

  “Ehrenfried is not the man to lead the empire now. It troubles me to say so; he was a good man in his day. But he’s lost his edge. He doesn’t see the world as it is.”

  “Ehrenfried is the lawfully elected and anointed king, my lord.”

  “He’s a fool. Oh, come my friend, we’re quite alone. We both know what he’s become: a prattling dreamer with his head full of scrolls, good for nothing but chess games and prayers. Christendom must be led, in God’s name, not tinkered with!”

  “Meaning precisely what, my lord?”

  On my knees, barely daring to breathe, I watched Duke Gottfried lean forward across the marble table.

  “A new empire, Karel. A different kind of empire, a different kind of world. I spoke a moment ago about turning points in history; this is one of them.” He paused, not to choose his words, I think, but simply to make them more compelling.