Lilliana flashed Lucan a mischievous grin. “Jealous?”
Lucan felt his lip start to curl involuntarily, but managed to bend it into a strained grin. “Not for ages.”
Lilliana looked as if she might come back with some witticism, but Teodorico approached and also spoke in whisper. “Were you able to convey to the Irishman my wishes for support last night?”
“It would appear his silly honor is getting the better of him,” she replied. “I don’t think he wants to play our game.”
Teodorico scoffed and mumbled, “He’d better if he knows what’s good for him, hmm?” He then turned to Lucan. “And you, ‘historian?’ What say you? You’ve had opportunity to examine the cup. Is it authentic? Is it the Cup of the Last Supper, hmm, yes?”
Lucan looked over the cardinal’s shoulder at the golden chalice on the altar.
“Doubtful,” Lucan replied with a shrug. “The actual Cup of the Last Supper was made of plain wood, most likely olive wood.”
Teodorico cast a glance over his shoulder. “The Irishman claims the cup was just that—wood—before filling it with wine, hmm? The rest that happened that day, the maidservant coming back to life, was witnessed by many, yes?”
“So they say,” Lucan countered. “We will need more than hearsay to convince the rest of the world.”
“Your lack of enthusiasm is upsetting, hmm?” Teodorico said, displeasure creeping into his voice.
“I’m a cynical man, Your Eminence,” Lucan replied. He met Lilliana’s cold stare. “I’ve had my share of disappointments.”
“You had best get over that.” Teodorico’s whisper dipped to almost a hiss. “You may pretend to work for Pope Paschal while secretly in the service of the emperor, but you tied your fate to mine when you chose the emperor’s rebellious son Henry in this endeavor, hmm?” The cardinal looked Lucan up and down and added, “And if you ever want your ‘affliction’ removed, you will demonstrate a certain level of passion when I ask you to examine the cup before witnesses, authenticating it, hmm, yes?”
Lucan’s lip did curl this time. “As you wish, Your Eminence.”
Victor cleared his throat to remind Teodorico that the other benefactors awaited their participation.
“But first things first,” Teodorico hissed. He put on a warmer face and said loudly to the larger group, “My fellow benefactors, hmm? Thank you for gathering for this informal meeting before the formalities of the council commence. I felt it important for us to see the object of our discussion, and witness its wonder, hmm, yes?”
Murmurs of approval rippled through the group as Cardinal Teodorico motioned to Sir Patrick.
“Sir Patrick, if you would be so kind as to pick up the cup, hmm?” he said. “It was you who could last touch it. Perhaps you can again, hmm, yes?”
The muscles in Sir Patrick’s jaw bulged as it moved side to side. He glanced nervously at the cup, the cardinal, the crowd, and Lady Lilliana. Not until after his own leadership’s questioning stares weighed on him did he move towards the altar. Lucan thought perhaps he saw sweat beading on the Irishman’s brow.
That’s right, Sir Patrick, be afraid, Lucan thought. If you can grasp it, your troubles will be just beginning.
The cup glinted in the morning rays of sunlight. Sir Patrick took another fretful glance at the crowd and reached for it.
When he did, his hand passed through it.
A collective gasp from the spectators rose, and his shoulders slumped.
Cardinal Teodorico leaned on his crozier, an eyebrow arched.
“What does that mean?” Abbot Herewinus declared. “There is no point in discussing the matter if no one can carry it anywhere.”
“Precisely,” Father Wulfric added. “It is where it belongs. Greensprings should become a new site of pilgrimage.”
More benefactors voiced their concerns, and as the murmurs rose, Cardinal Teodorico pounded his crozier on the flagstones to bring quiet.
“Did you feel anything at the attempt Sir Patrick? Is there anything you wish to add, Knight of Cups, hmm, yes?”
The crowd turned their attention to the Avangardesman, expectant. Lucan saw the Adam’s apple in Sir Patrick’s throat bob as the man fidgeted.
He glanced at Lilliana, then met the cardinal’s gaze and declared simply, “No.”
Color rose in the cardinal’s face and the knuckles gripping the crozier turned white.
Lucan suppressed a smile.
“We are not even sure if this is the Cup of the Last Supper,” one of the merchant benefactors said, drawing attention away from Sir Patrick. “We could be arguing over nothing.”
Murmurs in the room rose to full-voiced questions.
“Yes, yes,” Teodorico conceded, then motioned to the crowd. “Lucan, come forward, hmm, yes?”
Lucan approached the altar and stood abreast of Sir Patrick, who still hovered near the cup protectively. Lucan noted they shared a similar height and realized for the first time the Irishman’s odd eye color when they locked gazes.
“Lucan is the relic expert, yes?” Teodorico said, and a murmur of assent went through the crowd. “What say you, Sir Lucan, hmm?”
Lucan reluctantly tore his gaze from Sir Patrick’s unflinching stare and bent over the altar and scrutinized the vessel, noting the surface and the ruby liquid inside. A beautiful object no doubt, but an object made by the hands of man. And not wood. When he felt he had examined it sufficiently, he straightened and addressed the assembly.
“‘Tis the Cup of the Last Supper,” he announced in a bold voice, and even as he saw the scholars among the other delegates open their mouths to protest, he added just as boldly, “When our Lord Jesus rose from the dead, it was in His glorified form, a form initially unrecognizable to His followers. Mary Magdalene mistook him for the gardener. His disciples mistook Him for a stranger on the road to Emmaus. It was He nevertheless.”
Positive murmurs rippled through the crowd. A concerned look crossed Sir Patrick’s face even as a triumphant one crossed Teodorico’s.
Lucan moved to descend from the dais, but the cardinal stopped him.
“Sir Lucan, you once held a portion of the Spear of Destiny at the Battle of Antioch, the lance that pierced the side of Christ,” he said, eyes narrowing at him. “Perhaps you can hold this relic as well, hmm, yes?”
Lucan froze. All eyes came to rest on him.
“Your Eminence, I feel unworthy to even try. I...”
“Nonsense,” Teodorico insisted. “How can your examination be complete unless you try holding it, hmm? Any affliction of sin is no match for the Blood of Christ. Go on then, hmm? Touch it!”
Lilliana arched an eyebrow.
Lucan at first did not move, but pushed by the weight of stares, particularly Teodorico’s, he turned back to the cup. The concerned look on Sir Patrick’s face deepened and the Irishman leaned forward as if he might try to intercede.
Lucan reached for the cup anyway. Sir Patrick let him.
His hand paused just before contact, then passed through it.
He drew a breath. A cold tingling crept up his hand to his wrist, and he stared curiously at it. He sniffed audibly at the air, and then put his hand to his nose.
“Roses,” he whispered with wide eyes. His knees almost buckled underneath him. He closed his eyes and his senses reeled as an overwhelming sensation of falling came over him.
Even before he opened his eyes, a dustiness replaced the flowery smell in his nostrils and dry heat engulfed him.
When he did open his eyes he stood on a rocky butte in a barren landscape. Sun-bleached stones surrounded him, but this day, the sky was almost dark. What feeble sunlight remained raked the world with a reddish glow.
The dimness oppressed the spirit. It weighed him down with a palpable heaviness, magnifying a pounding in his head. Each heartbeat throbbed painfully.
“Centurion!” a man’s harsh voice called to him. “Do your duty!”
Lucan looked down and noted he held a spear in
his hand. He looked at the man who had shouted the order.
Armored in an elaborate breastplate and crested helm, the commander struggled to control his mount. His blue cape flowed around him as the skittish animal reacted to the unruly crowd on the hilltop. Men similarly armored shouted commands that barely held the mob in check. The soldiers held their spears horizontally, forming a fence meant to keep the crowd at a distance.
Lucan looked up.
He stood at the base of a crucifix where a man hung naked, nailed to the wood. Blood and bodily waste trailed down the trunk of the cross, pooling at its base. Terrible wounds covered virtually every inch of the man’s body. Even the top of his head seeped blood from a score of gouges, wounded by the crown of thorns that had been pressed onto his head to mock him.
The earth moved beneath Lucan’s feet.
Again the man mounted on horseback shouted at him.
Again Lucan looked at the spear in his hand. He didn’t want to carry out the command. Looking at the condemned man’s now-peaceful face told Lucan death had already come. His body sagged under its weight on the cross. The order proved unnecessary, but the crowd surged and the soldiers struggled to control them.
“Lucien!” his companions called to him. They stood by, holding mauls, having just broken the legs of the two other criminals being executed this day. “Do it!”
Lucan hesitated. The man had been innocent. The condemned man had even used much of his last strength to forgive and pray for the people who persecuted him. Lucan did not want to add insult to injury.
The cordon of spears and soldiers started to fragment. A man broke through and a legionnaire beat him with his spear shaft. The mounted man drew his short sword, shouting again to Lucan, this time with desperation in his voice.
With one final look at the spear in his hand, Lucan thrust it into the side of the crucified man. The weapon penetrated the flesh between ribs with a sickening squelsh, the metal head and much of the wood shaft swallowed by the chest cavity.
The man did not flinch, proving what Lucan already knew. He was dead. Now the crowd knew it too and started to calm.
The earth also stopped moving, quieting the crowd further. Now, if only the darkness engulfing the land would go away.
With a heavy heart, Lucan withdrew the spear and blood spurted from it, making him shrink to his knees. In his shock, Lucan vaguely understood that it did not ooze like the heavy blood of a dead man, but rather flowed like water.
Between the stunned soldiers, a man rushed forward from the crowd and joined Lucan on his knees before the crucified man. He held out a wooden dinner cup and caught up as much of the liquid he could before the flow subsided.
None of the soldiers moved to stop the man, as it was obvious he was one of the priests. The younger one. The rich one who had vocally disagreed with his elder colleagues over the treatment of the condemned man.
Lucan held up his hands, palms up, noting how the red liquid beaded on his skin like oil.
He sniffed at his hands.
“Roses,” he whispered.
“Lucan!” a voice shouted, breaking him out of his reverie.
He looked up, expecting to see the man on horseback, but instead he stood again before the Greensprings altar, Cardinal Teodorico doing the shouting.
“Well, hmm?” Teodorico demanded. “What say you, yes?”
Lucan looked around, dazed. Sir Patrick narrowed his eyes at him.
“It’s real,” he said in wonder, though more to himself than anyone else.
He absently wiped his dry hand on his surcoat and staggered away from the altar, fighting his way through the crowd toward the exit.
#
The Lady Katherina and Sir Brian McCabe stood alone in the auditorium with pale moonlight illuminating the chamber just enough to serve their purposes.
Katherina bent studiously over a podium at the center of the large room, moving little colored stones on a piece of slate where she had drawn several parallel lines in chalk. After adjusting the black and white stones to strategic locations, she stood erect and sang a note, letting the sound echo throughout the room. Before it faded, they took mental note of how it sounded.
“Almost,” Sir Brian said. His baritone Scottish brogue echoed, too. He hefted his bagpipes, put the reed to his lips, and blew a wheezing note. He followed this with a sung note in his baritone. “You hear the difference?”
Katherina struggled to keep from sighing heavily, saying, “Not really.”
“You do seem distracted tonight,” Sir Brian said coyly. “Perhaps we should try again when your mind is more on it.”
He bent to put the instrument in his travel sack.
“Wait,” Katherina pleaded. “Just a while longer. I almost have it. I’m not distracted. I promise.”
“You mean to tell me you’re no longer troubled by the fellow who looks like your uncle?” Brian replied, continuing to stuff his bagpipe into its sack.
Katherina stiffened, her face twitching before she answered. “I’ve managed to put that behind me. It just caught me off guard.”
Sir Brian swung the sack over his shoulder, smiling. “Perhaps you were also caught off guard by the return of a certain Irishman?”
Katherina’s faced twitched again, and she couldn’t hide it. Seeing Patrick sitting across from her at dinner had surprised her, but that alone she could have managed. It was his scent she found surprisingly difficult to banish from her thoughts. She didn’t want to admit the smell of oiled armor, horses, and a man’s perspiration—Patrick smells—oddly stirred memories of kisses. They also evoked feelings of safety, which countered the feelings stirred by the man resembling her uncle.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied, voice catching in her throat. “This piece is difficult.”
“Regardless, it is very late and I have Long Patrol tomorrow. I must be off to bed.”
“No, please, just a little bit longer,” Katherina pleaded.
“That is what you said while the sun was still up,” he laughed. “Look at where the moon is in the sky.”
“I know, but I want to have the song right before the talent show,” she said.
Brian scoffed in a friendly manner. “There is plenty of time for that. I’m available to help next Wodensday. We’ll practice again then.”
Katherina put on her best pout, but even that could not deter the Avangardesman. He smiled and bid her goodnight. But even before he exited, she set back to moving the stones on the lines and testing the musical notes in the acoustic chamber. None seemed to reflect what Brian had been trying to teach, to her extreme frustration.
She moved the stones one more time, nudging the various colors up and down to correspond to the adjustment in tone she tried to accomplish.
Before she could test the new configuration, however, movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned and almost jumped, shocked to see a little girl staring at her.
“Well, hello,” she said to the dirty little girl who couldn’t have been more than seven years old. “What’s your name?”
The girl did not respond, but looked shyly down to her hands. In one, she held a tattered rag doll; in the other a bright yellow rose that must have come from the garden, judging by its freshness.
“Is that for me?” Katherina asked, coming forward.
The child backed up, putting both objects behind her back.
“I guess not,” Katherina mused out loud. She knelt and came no closer. “I’m Katherina,” she said gently. “And you are?”
The little girl drifted over to the podium and looked at the slate and stones. After a moment, she reached up to touch one.
“Please don’t,” Katherina stood, trying her best not to shout. The little girl jumped back as if stung by a bee, mistrust in her eyes. Katherina didn’t mean to frighten the child, but she had worked long and hard to make as much progress on the song as she had, and didn’t want to see it erased.
“You mustn’t touch people’s thin
gs,” she added both politely and sternly. “Just as you shouldn’t pick flowers that aren’t yours. I’m certain Mother Superior would be upset to know you’ve taken one of her prized roses.” Katherina nudged the stone on the slate back into place. “But your secret is safe with me.”
She said the last with a wink.
“Her name is Chansonne,” a new voice in the room said, “and she is very late for bed.”
Katherina turned to see a nun standing in the room, an older woman in an all-white habit; younger than Mother Superior, but older than most of the Greensprings nuns who wore the black and white Benedictine habit.
“Forgive her intrusion,” the nun apologized, “but she can be a willful child, and I’d be happy to make any compensation for the flower.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Katherina returned, smiling. “As I said, it will be our little secret.”
Katherina came forward and introduced herself.
Likewise, the nun bowed and said, “I am Sister Abigail, chaperone to the children of Saint Peter's Orphanage.”
“You mean she is not one of the students?” Katherina asked.
“No,” Sister Abigail responded. “Cardinal Teodorico has a special relationship with Saint Peter’s and invited many of the children to see the Cup of the Last Supper as a pilgrimage. We are very grateful for his patronage.”
“No doubt,” Katherina said and turned to the girl. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Chansonne.” Sister Abigail pulled Katherina aside and whispered, “Chansonne does not speak, nor does she associate well with others. She experienced a tragedy in her childhood.”
Katherina put one hand to her mouth and another to her breast, squeezing her eyes shut. She breathed, “Oh, my poor dear. I am so sorry to hear that.”
Sister Abigail touched Katherina’s arm. It made her flinch ever so slightly.
“You needn’t worry, child,” the nun said. “The good cardinal takes good care of us and we pray daily for all the special children of Saint Peter’s.”
With that, the nun turned to Chansonne and called her over. The girl reluctantly took the older woman’s hand.
“I’ll see what I can do to curb her inclination towards picking flowers,” Sister Abigail said as they left. “How she loves flowers. Seems everywhere we go she’s picking them from one place and leaving them in another.”
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 15