The Black Chalice
Page 32
Adelaide’s pale face went rigid— all except her eyes, which leapt towards Thomas with the quickness and ferocity of an arrow. Only those of us who had made the journey from Ravensbruck knew why— Reini and Otto and me. And Karelian, who looked darkly at the priest, and then at the fire. I thought for a moment he might silence the storyteller, but it was too late. Thomas had already begun.
“They say there is one among the hunter elves who was born human,” he was saying. “I won’t claim it’s true, for it’s difficult to know how such a thing is possible. But I’ll tell you the story, and you may judge it for yourselves.
“You all know, of course, about the great massacre at Dorn, when the soldiers of Henry the Second wiped out the last supporters of the Saxon rebel Wulfstan. Wulfstan himself had been flayed and hanged outside the castle gates the summer before, and his body carried in a cart through all the valley for everyone to see— a stupid thing it was, for it only made the resistance worse. So in the end they put all of Dorn to the sword. All the pagans were killed, as well as many Christians who were their friends and kinsmen. And the emperor’s men rode on towards Ravensbruck to deal with some trouble there, and disappeared in the forest of Helmardin, and were never seen again.”
“But some of the pagans from Dorn survived,” Karelian said. “They fled into the mountains— or so it was always said, though no one knew what became of them after.”
“Yes. There were three, according to this story. Two men, whose names were Rudolf and Widemar, and a woman named Alanas, who was Wulfstan’s wife; she was a priestess and a witch. They lived for a time in great misery, for they had nothing but the garments on their backs, and Widemar was injured, and the woman was with child. And by October it was already snowing in the mountains. It was a fell year, when even strong men died of cold.”
I will give Thomas credit for one thing: his voice was riveting. He could tell a story so it came to life all around you. If he spoke of a cold wind blowing, you felt it shiver on your neck; if he spoke of treachery, your own hand crept unwitting to your sword, as if to ward off a secret blow.
“One night,” he went on, “in a bitter storm, Widemar gave up his soul to death, and they could do nothing but leave him for the wolves. Sick of heart, and certain they would die before the morning, the others went deep into a ravine, hoping to find a bit of shelter from the wind. And they saw, faintly through the trees, a glow of light, muted and faint. They sought it out, not caring whose it might be; it was their only hope of life.
“The light came from deep inside a cave. It was a cave such as you and I have never seen, for the floors and walls were all of polished stone, like the inside of a great cathedral, and the fire which burned there gave no smoke. It was empty, but it was clearly inhabited; cloaks and weapons hung on the wall, and there were fresh-killed rabbits lying by the fire, waiting to be skinned and roasted.
“Needless to say, the fugitives did not ask whose cave it was, or whose meat. They warmed themselves and ate like ravens. But the shelter came too late for Alanas. In the night she gave birth to her child, and died of her bearing. Rudolf put the babe beneath his cloak and fell asleep, exhausted. When he woke the elves had returned, and stood before him with their swords in their hands.
“Now elves are very proud, and hunter elves more than any. It’s a very foolish human who goes into their demesnes uninvited, and eats their food, and scatters about the disorder of a birthing and a death. They were all for killing Rudolf, or at the very least driving him out to starve, when the child was wakened by their voices and began to cry. ‘What is that?’ demanded the elf leader. Rudolf took out the babe to show to them, a boy-child, fair-haired and beautiful. ‘Who does it belong to?’ asked the elf. ‘It is the son of the woman who died,’ he said, ‘and of Wulfstan the Saxon.’
“Elves have few children, as you know, because they live so long. And those they father on the veelas they can’t keep; the nymphs will never give them up. So they take human babies when they can, and raise them, and teach them to hunt and to ride the night wind. They feed them on nothing but flesh, and the spirits they make from bracken, so they grow lean and fierce, and can see in the dark, and become in every way like elves, except they have a human life span, and the hunger for a human mate. Or at least, that’s what is said.”
“Pagan rubbish,” one of the knights said. “It makes for great storytelling,” he added quickly, as several faces turned to him at once, all of them scowling. “But there are no such creatures, and never have been.”
“Who can tell?” the priest replied amiably. “In my father’s house, they say, are many mansions—”
“Please,” said the countess. “Go on with the story.”
He bowed towards her, faintly.
“Thank you, my lady. Rudolf knew he was in the greatest danger. So he tried to bargain with the elves: ‘Let me shelter here for the winter,’ he pleaded, ‘myself and the child. I’ll be your servant, and do whatever tasks you set me. I’ll fetch the wood, and make the fires. I’ll mend your garments and your bows. I’ll do anything you wish. In the spring, when the snow is gone, we’ll go away and leave you in peace.’
“‘We have no need of servants,’ the elf said. ‘We would scarcely trust a human among our sacred trees with an axe, and as for mending our bows, they don’t break. You have only one thing we want. Let us have the child to raise, and you may live. We’ll let you keep this cave; we have many others. We’ll hunt for you and bring you game, until the winter breaks. Then you must go and not come back.’
“Rudolf had no choice but to agree. The elves took the infant, and went away. True to their word, they brought him food, and so he lived all winter in the cave, sharing their bounty. But he never saw them again. They would leave their kills outside the cave, silently, and the wind would cover their tracks. When the spring returned, they were gone. They vanished as only those of the Otherworld can vanish, without a trace, almost without a memory. I don’t know if Rudolf grieved because the child was gone forever, or if he thought it for the best, for the story says no more of him.
“The child of Wulfstan grew up fierce and brave. His human name was that of his father, which Rudolf gave him, but what the elves called him is known to no one. He loved the forest, and the life of the wild hunters.They taught him everything they knew, and soon he was as skilful as they were. But he aged quickly, like a human, and he was flaxen haired and fair beside those dark and secret bodies. And they laughed at him for it. ‘Look at you,’ they said. ‘A star’s light is enough to see you by. You might as well go hunting with torches and shawms as with that hair of yours.’”
Otto interrupted the storytelling with a rough chuckle. “He may have been a hunter, that one, but he was no fighting man. It’s a simple enough thing to spread your hair and face with dirt for camouflage.”
“Aye, it is,” Father Thomas agreed. “But no elf ever born would lower himself so. They are beautiful and proud. They would die before they’d make themselves dirty on purpose.
“There was only one thing for the lad. He began to dream of becoming an elf. A real elf. Needless to say, he didn’t tell his comrades, for they would have laughed all the more. He left the mountains and came down to the Maren, to search for the veelas, who were said to have many strange and magical powers. He found one soon enough, for he was half grown by then, and singularly beautiful. She followed him, and courted him, and offered to pleasure him as much as he wished.
“He was dreadfully tempted, but he refused to lay with her until she made him a gift. ‘So be it,’ she said. ‘I will make you any gift you like. You please me very well.’
“So he said to her: ‘I want to be an elf.’ She laughed so hard she fell into the river. But she wanted him nonetheless. We know how determined a woman can be when she chooses a man. Imagine then what a veela is like. It’s said they will tear down mountains, and overturn castles, and stop armies in their tracks… what’s the matter, Pauli? Do you doubt the powers of the female?”
“Well,” the priest went on, “the lad was stubborn, as heroes must be. Finally she stopped laughing, and grew angry with him. ‘You’re a fool,’ she said. ‘Do you really imagine I have the power to make you into an elf? No one could do that except the gods!’ ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘you must tell me how to summon the gods.’
“Weeks passed, and the lad would not give up; so at last she showed him how to make an altar, and what sacrifices he must bring, and what spells to cast upon them, and all the other things which only veelas know. And he called forth Tyr the hunter, who is the keeper of the elves. Some say great Tyr appeared as a stag, and others say he came as wind, or marsh lights, or mounted on the clouds, which shimmered with a strange orange light. But come he did, and he spoke to the son of Wulfstan the Saxon:
“‘What you ask of me,’ he said, ‘is only half possible. I can give you an elf’s appearance, and an elf’s great speed, and the years of living which make human life seem as brief as a whisper. But you have grown up human, and I can’t undo it. You will never love as elves do,but as a man. You will suffer always from the passions of the world; you will never stop caring what becomes of it. You will dream of the smiles of women. You will give life to the sons and daughters of Wulfstan the Saxon and Alanas the priestess of Tyr. They will scatter across the forests of the Reinmark, and beyond its borders, for years yet uncounted, until the gods take back their own. Such is your gift, hunter elf… and my justice.’”
Silence fell, briefly but absolutely. I could not help but look at Karelian, wondering what he might be thinking, wondering what possessed Father Thomas to tell such a tale, to such a man, in such a circumstance as his. There was a black-haired bastard in my lord’s own house, after all, fathered by Rudolf of Selven. And many said Rudolf himself was the secret offspring of an elf….
“Priest,” Otto said grimly, “you have an overworked imagination and an undisciplined tongue.”
“Granted,” Thomas said. “Is there a storyteller in all the world who doesn’t?”
He took a bite of rabbit, and added softly: “I didn’t make the tale up, Sir Otto. Go to Dorn, and ask the people there— the ones who’ll still talk about such things. Ask the mountain folk—”
“They’re a bunch of superstitious fools—!”
“That’s enough, Otto,” Karelian said. “I have no quarrel with the friar’s storytelling. Nor should you.”
He smiled, and if the smile was a trifle forced, it was nonetheless warm. Deliberate. I make my own judgments now; I decide what offends me, and what doesn’t….
And then a thought struck me, one of those thoughts which always came out of the darkest terrors of my soul, which I never wanted to think or to believe, but which came to me nonetheless. Perhaps the story didn’t trouble him because there was more to the story— things he already knew, and we did not? Suppose Adelaide had not been guilty of ordinary adultery? Suppose Rudolf of Selven had been a sorcerer, or something worse? And suppose the child, dear God, the child…? Why was Karelian keeping it, raising it? Why would any man keep another man’s bastard, when he knew the truth about it, when the whole world knew, when the child looked exactly like the dark villain who had fathered him? Was there some kind of pact, some dreadful purpose to be fulfilled?
I gave the half-eaten haunch of rabbit in my hand to one of the dogs, and fled into the trees, fighting nausea. I tried to put the questions out of my mind, but I could only halfway manage it. I could only halfway still believe the world was rational and ordered, like my father thought— full of trouble and evil, yes, but still rational and ordered. My father would have laughed at my questions. He would have howled with laughter, and then boxed my ears and told me to go and work it off in the barracks yard.
“You dream too much,” he told me when I saw him last, before I went to Gottfried. “I thought going to the Holy Land would show you something of the world, and make a man of you. In truth, I think you’ve gotten sillier….”
My father knew exactly why Karelian was keeping Adelaide, and apparently keeping her child. Karelian was almost forty, and in love, and passion had made him soft. It was obvious, so obvious that every man in Germany understood it. They laughed at it, or shrugged at it, or admired it, but they were certain they understood.
“It’s not your affair,” my father reminded me bluntly. “Don’t forget it, lad, and don’t presume. You must learn to keep your place.”
My father was a wise man, but it was the wisdom of the world, and I was losing patience with it. Why should I keep my place? Why should I keep pretending I had no conscience, and no eyes? Why should men like Karelian have so much power, and men like Gottfried so little?
I never heard his steps. The ground was dry, and scattered with leaves and fallen branches, and yet I never heard his steps. Only his voice, soft and troubled, not an arm’s reach from my shoulder.
“Pauli.”
I spun about, startled, reaching for my sword, and caught myself before I could draw it.
“My lord…! Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t hear you. I was lost in my thoughts—”
“Yes, I can see that.”
He had left his cloak by the campfire. His hair seemed to flicker different colors as he moved, brown and gold and ochre, hair made of light and October leaves and the soft back of a running stag.
My glance shifted, caught by the high, sharp line of his cheekbone. I saw it as I imagined a painter would see it, perfect, so perfect the brush would surely linger there, and go over it and over it and never get it right. I looked away again and saw his eyes, not blue as northern eyes mostly were, but hazel mottled with green. I saw his body, the jeweled belt clasping his tunic at the waist, the hard belly and the splendid thighs of a horseman, all a blur of blue silk and brown leather which dissolved in my own sudden and burning loss of sight. Men described him as kingly, after, in the war. But he was never so to me. He had about him nothing of a king’s distance, or a king’s sense of destiny. All of his power was personal. He was a soldier and a sorcerer; I had loved the one and learned to fear the other, but always the man himself seemed in reach of my hand.
“What happened in Ardiun?” he asked softly.
“Ardiun?” I stared at him, completely bewildered. His tunic was open at the neck; I saw the thong which held the pouch I had made. I wondered what else besides my cross was hidden there.
“You’ve been brooding ever since you came back from your father’s house, Pauli. What happened there?”
“Nothing happened, my lord.”
He made a small gesture. “Well, I won’t pry. But you’re less than good company of late, lad, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
My head cleared sufficiently to frighten me. It was unwise to draw attention to myself. And since I had already done so, I knew I had to offer him a reason for it.
I turned away. I hated lying, and so I mixed lies and truth as carefully as I could.
“My father is… disappointed in me, my lord.”
“Disappointed? Why? What on earth does he expect?”
“I’m not sure, my lord. He’s always thought me somewhat… soft. He hasn’t actually come out and said so, but he thinks I should be a knight by now, and have some laurels, maybe even a small fief. He made a point of reminding me that my master was the youngest son, not the second eldest like myself, and nonetheless was knighted at sixteen.”
“Your master was a savage at sixteen, Pauli. Starving for glory and too angry to think straight. I wouldn’t want you or anyone else to be like him.”
I forgot myself, and stared at him. He smiled.
“I’ve surprised you again, I see,” he said. “Since we’re sharing histories, let me remind you of mine. My mother had two stillborn sons before me, and three daughters. By the time I was born she meant nothing to m
y father, and neither did her children. After all, he already had eleven others— six of them healthy boys.
“When I was a child, my eldest brothers were grown men. They hated my mother, and they took their hatred out on me. She was beautiful and clever, and she knew it. Her children were of no dynastic worth, perhaps, but they were special; she knew that, too. We had her beauty and her courage, and our father’s Brandeis passions, and the whole house of Dorn’s legendary talent for getting into trouble. We were the best of the brood. But we had nothing, not even safety in our own house. I learned fast, Pauli. I had to, if I wanted to survive. So yes, I was knighted at sixteen.
“And I spent most of my life thereafter proving that I was worth as much as my brothers were. That I had a right to a piece of land and a woman and a future, just like the precious heirs. And yes, I proved it all, though my mother never lived long enough to see it. Nor did most of my friends.
“No doubt your father is impressed, and holds me up as some kind of shining example of what young men should achieve. But the truth is, Pauli, if I could go back to being sixteen, I wouldn’t do it again.”
“What would you do, my lord?” I whispered.
“I’m not sure. Probably wander around by the Maren, and see if I could get myself changed into an elf.”
He laughed as he said it. He was jesting, but not entirely; under the jest was a hard kernel of pure, unflinching rebellion.
“Don’t take your father’s words too much to heart,” he said. “I have nothing but good to say about your service— and if you wish, I’ll write to him and tell him so.”
I was all but overcome with guilt, and the pain of it made me reckless.
“Will you knight me, then, my lord? I don’t want a fief, I haven’t earned it, but if I were at least a knight…!”
If I were at least a knight, perhaps Gottfried would not think me just a foolish boy; perhaps the warrior monks of Saint David would accept me into their ranks.