The Devil's Cup

by Alys Clare

  The pair of big, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested men, and the younger, very similar one who always rode with them, had become a familiar sight over the days and weeks. The knights from Acquin, people called them. One of the older pair – nobody was sure which one – was a boyhood friend of the King, and one of the faithful old knights who had been summoned to John’s aid. They were amiable and courteous. People treated them with respect, but at the same time found themselves liking them. Watching them now, riding up there on top of the bank and cleverly managing to get past the slow, tedious train, many people smiled.

  When one of the figures gave a cry and fell, nobody – including the young man racing towards them, the son of one and the nephew of the other – could tell which of the pair it was.

  Just before the terrible cry rang out, Geoffroi had frozen. He knew.

  The instant before the arrow found its target and the knight from Acquin was killed, Geoffroi was already trying to press forward, yelling, screaming at those impeding his path to get out of the way. He had a terrible moment of precognition: he could see figures in the mist … a crush of men on horses, but among them two men whose outlines were very familiar, as the very shape of people who are deeply loved is instantly recognizable.

  Then there came the whistle of an arrow through the air …

  There were the two broad figures. One had fallen to the ground to lie face down in a deep puddle. In horror, Geoffroi thought: It’s not a vision, it’s real.

  His own cry frozen in his throat, tears flowing down his face, he strained to see past the crowds now surging up on to the bank, through the mist and the rain. The two bulky, broad-shouldered outlines that were all he could make out were so alike and he didn’t know which one had fallen.

  Oh, Lord, whose turn was it to ride the King’s horse? Which out of his father or his uncle was dead?

  For he was dead, whichever one it was. They were crying out the news, passing it from one to the other. ‘Yes! Yes! Oh, dear God, yes! One of the big knights from Acquin, the pair of brothers who always ride side by side! No, I don’t know which is which any more than you do!’

  One was lying on the sodden ground. The other, bending over his fallen brother, was shocked into silence and could only put his strong arms around the still body.

  And then someone said, ‘This is terrible! We must let them know back at Newark!’

  ‘What’s it to them?’ someone replied harshly. ‘They’ll have enough to worry about.’

  ‘But don’t you see, you fool?’ cried the first man. ‘Somebody – one of the senior lords, maybe that William Marshal – needs to know!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘This was an attempt on the King’s life, you bloody fool!’ the first interrupted. ‘It’s his horse, isn’t it? That lovely chestnut gelding is so distinctive, with that long mane and tail and the star on his brow, and nobody else rides a horse like that.’ The mutterings in the crowd rose to a crescendo, and through it someone cried, ‘Someone’s just tried to kill the King!’

  Geoffroi, so stuck by horror and grief that his mind seemed to have come to a total halt, slowly slid off his mare’s back. He stood on the path that ran along the bank, clutching tight to the two sets of reins. Yves’s Hector stirred uneasily. Automatically Geoffroi soothed him.

  He didn’t understand.

  They were saying someone had tried to kill King John, but how could that be right? The King was already dead. Geoffroi’s father had told him so.

  But someone was dead. Someone lay, broad-shouldered, big, huddled in a still heap in the mud.

  That someone, Geoffroi thought, is either my kindly, affectionate, funny uncle, or my beloved father …

  And I can’t see which one.

  Although he pushed, shoved, shouted and finally screamed, using his elbows, his fists and even his feet, the great throng of people, high on the thrill of sudden, violent, dramatic death right in their midst, wouldn’t move out of the way and let him through.

  There was sudden hectic activity down on the road.

  Geoffroi spun round to look.

  Two riders were about to leave. One was heading back the way they’d just come, to Newark. The other was facing south.

  Someone called out to him. ‘He lives in Kent, quite near Tonbridge. Go to the sheriff there and make sure he understands he must take the news to the family!’

  ‘Tonbridge,’ the rider repeated.

  Then he raced away.

  For some moments Geoffroi stared dully after him.

  Then he bowed his head as the pain engulfed him.

  In the Sanctuary on the edge of the great forest, Helewise was awake soon after dawn. There were too many anxieties crowding her mind to allow much sleep. She lay still in the soft, dim light, thinking.

  Late the previous evening she had had some visitors: her son Dominic and her grandson, Ralf. It was a huge relief to see the young man. She’d been told of the fall of Dover Castle, and, in common with the rest of the family, had been very worried about Ralf’s fate.

  Having given her a very tight hug, Ralf told her what had happened.

  ‘Hubert de Burgh wrote to the King for permission to surrender once he knew it was hopeless,’ he said, ‘but he anticipated the King’s approval and moved as much stuff out as he could before Prince Louis could get his hands on it. Then he told all of us who could walk, and who weren’t involved with someone really important, whose absence the French prince would notice, or else engaged in some vital task, to get out.’

  ‘But how could goods and men leave the castle if it was besieged?’ she had asked.

  ‘That’s one of the great advantages of being inside!’ Ralf said. ‘You get to know the place, especially when you’re shut up and can’t go out. Beneath the castle there’s a maze of tunnels in the chalk cliffs, and thankfully Prince Louis didn’t know about them. I was with a group that emerged right down on the shore, and then we managed to get a fisherman to take us along to Rye, and I walked home.’

  Ralf, then, was safe, she thought now, and the relief flooded her again. And, from what Dominic had told her of the rest of the family, everyone else was all right, too. There had been many more unexpected guests at the House in the Woods, according to Dominic, and it seemed to have become a focus for the archers and the other fighters in the forest.

  I am all the more glad, Helewise thought rather disloyally, that I am here.

  It was still early, but, having gone through her other concerns, all that remained was Josse. Lying in bed worrying about him was not helpful, so she quietly got up, went outside, had a quick wash and put on her outer garments. She built up the fire and put water on to boil. As Hadil began to stir, Helewise had a hot drink and some thin porridge ready for her.

  Hadil took the drink and gratefully finished it, but she ate only a couple of spoonfuls of the porridge. Then, eyeing Helewise closely, she said, ‘Do not reprimand me this morning for not eating, my lady, for you, I perceive, have eaten even less than I.’

  Helewise bowed her head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What ails you?’ Hadil asked kindly. ‘You are tired?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Helewise replied. Then, in a burst of confidence, she said, ‘I am very anxious because someone I love very much is far away and I have had no news.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could have pulled them back, for wasn’t Hadil anxious for precisely the same reason? ‘I’m sorry,’ she added quickly, ‘I shouldn’t have spoken, for you have your own worries.’

  Hadil nodded slowly. ‘Indeed, which is why I understand yours so well.’ She reached behind her, trying to pile up her pillows, and Helewise hurried to help. ‘That’s better, thank you. Now, the best thing for both of us, I think, is for me to continue my tale, so, if you are ready, I shall begin.’

  Helewise, who had been thinking of ways to encourage Hadil to do just that, could only nod and say, ‘Please do.’

  ‘Well, now, I told you, did I not, that the treasure stolen by Fadi
la’s father was soon deemed to be dangerously evil, and so he and his family divided it into five lots and disposed of it?’

  ‘You did,’ Helewise agreed.

  ‘Good. They disposed of it very profitably, as I believe I also said. But then, as the years went by, gradually it became clear exactly what they had unleashed upon the world.’ She paused, frowning, as if searching for the right words. ‘It was as if possession of any part of the treasure, even if it were to be melted down and made into a new object, carried the taint. Over time, dreadful tales reached the ears of the family, and the common feature was always the same: betrayal, leading to despair, destruction and death. And so, as first Fadila’s children and then her grandchildren grew to maturity, they conferred together and came reluctantly to the realization that it was up to them to put right what Fadila’s father and brother had put wrong.’

  Helewise frowned. ‘What a burden that was. It was brave of them all to accept the responsibility, for it must have been a heavy one.’

  Hadil gave her a long look. ‘It was. As I was about to say,’ she went on before Helewise could ask more questions, ‘Fadila’s daughter Basma and her son – he too was called Faruq, and he was my father – began the long toil. They did well, at great cost to themselves, and by the time it was my turn to take up the responsibility, only two items remained. One I found and destroyed.’ The memory of pain crossed her face. ‘Then, when my son was old enough, I told him the family’s tale – or rather, I should say, as much of it as I thought he ought to know – just as my father told it to me; like me, my father, my grandmother and my great-grandmother, he accepted the burden. We had managed to trace what had become of the final fifth of the rogue Hospitaller’s treasure, and together we set out on the long, long trail to find it.’

  She paused, then said meekly, ‘May I have a cup of water? It is thirsty work, telling tales.’

  ‘Of course.’ Helewise leapt up.

  ‘Although my ancestors were called upon to make many journeys in the fulfilment of their mission,’ Hadil went on, sipping her water, ‘just as my son and I have done, it became clear, as he and I began our own search, that a part of the treasure did not immediately leave the area in which the knight had originally dug it up. In order to explain, I shall digress and tell you a little of the history of the country that is my home.’ She sipped again. ‘Around the end of the eleventh century, a great new force of western lords descended on the region. One great lord was known as Hugh the Devil, and he was the sixth duke of that name who originated from a place in France known as Lusignan. He was the leader of a family of power, wealth and influence who were determined to push themselves to the forefront in Outremer.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Outremer is what these outsiders called my land, for, to them, it was over the sea. Ourselves, we call it by a different name.’

  She did not say what the name was.

  ‘Hugh the Devil sought power,’ she continued. ‘He craved it, coveted it, and at the thought of it his blood flowed hot, as does that of other men at the sight of gold, or a beautiful woman, or fine wine, or a table groaning with food. He did not much care how his power was achieved, and when a sorcerer offered to make him a magic silver goblet that would lay low his enemies, he didn’t even stop to think but commissioned it there and then.’

  ‘A sorcerer?’ Helewise was greatly surprised. Hadil had been speaking calmly and reasonably, and the sudden mention of magic and sorcery, casually thrown into her narrative, was unsettling. Especially as, judging by her expression, she appeared to accept such things as totally believable.

  Hadil ignored the interruption. ‘Hugh the Devil’s goblet was a beautiful thing. It was made of ancient silver; silver which had already been in the world and through men’s hands for a very long time and in several different guises, now melted down and formed into this new shape. It consisted of a wide, shallow bowl set upon a graceful stem that opened out into a firm, weighty base. The rim of the cup was set with opals: milk-white opals in which flashes of brilliant blue, pink and green lay hidden; and fiery orange opals which, when they caught the light, almost hurt the eye with their brightness. Because Hugh had caused it to be made, it became known as the Devil’s Cup.’

  The Devil’s Cup. Helewise repeated the words silently. They sent a shiver through her.

  ‘Not that Hugh ever used it himself, of course. He was far too canny for that since, if truth were told, he was a little in awe of the sorcerer and his magic, and did not entirely trust him not to have imbued the cup with the power to harm its owner as well as its owner’s enemies.’

  She stretched, wincing. Then, before Helewise could offer help, went on. ‘Hugh the Devil hadn’t got where he was by taking risks. Once the cup was safely in his possession, he ordered one of his most trusted knights to dispose of the sorcerer.’

  And ‘dispose of’, Helewise thought but didn’t say, was undoubtedly a euphemism for ‘kill’.

  ‘In time, the power of Hugh the Devil’s family in the east waned, along with that of all the other western lords, and eventually they all returned to where they had come from. Hugh the Devil’s descendants went back to France: to their ancient lands in Poitou, to the north-east of Bordeaux and the wide estuary where two great rivers combine and spill into the sea. There they picked up the reins of power as if they had never been away. The Devil’s Cup, naturally, went with them.’ She glanced at Helewise, her eyes narrowed. ‘And, in time, they found the perfect use for it.’

  And, as she revealed what that use was, at last Helewise began to understand.

  It was evening.

  Helewise stood in the little clearing outside the Sanctuary. Hadil was dying, and both of them knew it. For now, she was as comfortable as Helewise could make her, and had fallen into a deep sleep. Although Helewise tried to spend as much time as she could sitting beside her, holding her hand and speaking calmly and quietly, occasionally she needed to take a short break. She wondered if Tiphaine would be back before nightfall. The old herbalist had been at the Sanctuary earlier, willingly taking on the care of the small stream of visitors while Helewise stayed with her patient.

  Hadil will be dead within the week, Helewise thought.

  It was as if, she reflected, having told her tale and made absolutely sure that it would be passed on to Faruq when he returned, there was nothing left for the tired old woman to live for.

  I will stay with her until the end, Helewise resolved.

  She was taking a last deep breath of the clean forest air, about to return inside, when she heard someone approaching along the path beneath the trees, from the direction of the House in the Woods.

  Josse, she thought. Her heart gave a leap of joy.

  But it was not Josse who appeared in the clearing. It was Gervase de Gifford. His face was grave.

  Helewise made herself stay calm. There might be many innocent reasons for the sheriff of Tonbridge to ride over to see the family at the House in the Woods – although just then she couldn’t think of a single one – and he had undoubtedly come on to see her for mere courtesy’s sake.

  But she knew, even before he had spoken a word, that he brought terrible news.

  He hurried forward, taking her hands in his. Hers suddenly felt very cold.

  ‘My lady, word has come from the north, swiftly relayed via a series of fast horsemen,’ he began, his clear green eyes fixed on hers. ‘A rider arrived early this morning, and I undertook to pass his news on to you.’ He drew a breath. ‘It is very bad, my lady.’

  ‘Tell me.’ She was quite surprised that her voice was steady.

  ‘Men have reported that one of the two big brothers from Acquin has been killed.’

  One of the two big brothers from Acquin … At first she heard the words with absolutely no comprehension.

  Then she understood. ‘Which one?’ The words flew out before he had finished speaking.

  He held her hands more tightly, and his taut, strained face was close to hers. ‘Nobody knows. The report is confused – the
messenger set out too quickly, it appears, hurrying off before the picture was clear.’

  ‘But … but how could they not know?’ she whispered.

  ‘I have been asking myself that all the way over here,’ he replied. ‘The conditions were appalling – mist, very sodden ground, extremely difficult going. It’s hard to determine exactly what happened, because the message has been passed on from messenger to messenger several times and it’s obviously become distorted. As far as I can tell, the two of them – Josse and Yves – were bringing the King’s horse back to London, and—’

  ‘To London?’

  His eyes fell. ‘My lady, I should explain. King John is—’

  ‘Not now,’ she interrupted sharply.

  He understood.

  ‘One of them, Josse or Yves, was riding King John’s horse, but we don’t know which one,’ he said. ‘Seen from a distance, or even from close to, they are very alike, those two. But it seems he was mistaken for the King – because he was riding the King’s horse – and someone shot him.’

  Hope flared. ‘He may not be dead!’

  ‘He is, Helewise,’ Gervase insisted gently. ‘The arrow was very well aimed and pierced the heart. It would have been very quick,’ he added, as if this would console her.

  ‘But …’ She was struggling to understand. ‘But why were they bringing the King’s horse south? Did the King not require it himself?’

  Gervais hesitated. Then he said, ‘The King is dead.’

  Abruptly Helewise couldn’t feel her legs. She slumped, and Gervais caught her and supported her, reaching out for Tiphaine’s little stool, in its place beside the door of the Sanctuary, and helping her to sit down. Presently Gervais placed a mug of cold water in her hand, and obediently she drank some.