The Black Chalice
( Knights of Albion - 1 )
Steven Savile
Steven Savile
The Black Chalice
Introduction
Found in a church vestry in 2006, the Salisbury Manuscript (British Library MS Add. 1138) is the only existing copy of The Second Book of King Arthur and His Noble Knights. Apparently a sequel to Thomas Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur, the best-known and most influential version of the story of King Arthur and his Round Table, the Second Book has caused enormous controversy throughout the academic world.
Following negotiations with the manuscript's owner, Abaddon Books won the rights to modernise and publish the stories for the mainstream press in early 2010. The Black Chalice is the first title to be released to the public.
For more information about the Salisbury Manuscript, this translation, and themes and notes from this story, see the Appendices at the rear of this book.
Aspirant
One
Betrayal was the furthest thing from Alymere's heart as he crossed the drawbridge into Camelot.
His journey had lasted for a week and a day more. He wore his father's mail shirt. He didn't feel like a knight. He felt like a boy in borrowed clothes pretending to be a man. But as he crested the rise and saw Camelot laid out before him, all of his doubts left him. This was where he was meant to be. This was his time. He breathed in deeply, savouring the taste of the air as though it were his very first breath. Today he was born again. It didn't matter that the dirt of the road was grained into his skin, nor that the fine mist of rain, cold against his cheeks, couldn't wash it away. All of the miles, so heavy in his legs just a few minutes ago, slipped away with his doubts and he found renewed vigour and walked a fraction taller. It was all he could do not to run the final mile to his new life.
Before him, the sun crept slowly down toward the rooftops of the castle's seven sandstone towers before finally slipping behind the tor upon which Camelot stood. Alymere drank it all in: the slate rooftops of the town sheltering behind the high wall; the still blue waters of the lake that formed part of the castle's natural defences and the stone bridge that spanned it; the curls of mist rising from the water; the colourful tents on the training fields before the walls and the pennons snapping in the breeze; the Maypole in the field; the two men riding their horses up and down the flattened track while others crowded around, goading them on faster and faster; the women like ants marching from the gateway to the water's edge clutching pails and linen. This was Camelot, the beating heart of the greatest castle in all of the kingdom.
Seeing his approach, one of the riders steered his mount toward Alymere. The warhorse's powerful gait ate the ground between them. As he neared, the rider pulled back on the horse's reins; the horse reared, kicking at the air, but there was no doubting the fact that the rider was in absolute control. Alymere felt the ground shiver as the hooves came down. The rider leaned forward in the saddle, eyeing him curiously. He was a big man, broad at the shoulder, with wild black curls and wilder eyes. Beneath the curls there was a distinctive scar on the big man's forehead.
"What brings you to Camelot, son?" the man rumbled, as though stones grated deep in his throat.
"I have come to serve, Sir Knight."
"Have you indeed?"
He nodded earnestly, suddenly all too aware of his scuffed boots, the threadbare weave of his homespun trousers, and the patch his mother had sewn into the hip where they had torn. He thought for one sickening moment the knight was about to suggest a place could be found for him in the scullery, but the big man continued. "What skills do you have, boy? I see a mail shirt, but no sword. I see a maiden's favour but no sign of fluff on your face, nary even a whisker by the looks of things. Unlike me." He grinned as he stroked his jaw; at least Alymere thought it was a grin, it was hard to tell through the thick beard. "Peasant's hose and a nobleman's shirt. You are a veritable mass of contradictions, lad. So, perhaps it is best if you tell me who you are?"
"Alymere, sir."
"Well that explains everything then, doesn't it?"
"I don't follow, sir."
"Then you must lead, young Alymere," mischief sparkled in the big man's eyes. Alymere found himself liking him immediately. "Then you must lead. To Camelot! And best not tarry!" He spurred the horse and drew back on the reins, causing the majestic creature to rear up once again. This time the warhorse snorted great billows of misty breath before its hooves came drumming down. It wheeled away, kicking up mud and dust from the road, and cantered toward the foot of the hill below. The horse was easily twice the size of any Alymere had ever seen. The knight looked over his shoulder, definitely smiling now, and called, "Come on, lad, that means run!"
Despite the fact that he had been on the road for so long, despite the fact that hunger gnawed away at his belly and he couldn't recall his last proper meal, despite the fact that every muscle in his body cried out in protest before he had taken a single step and his head swam dizzyingly before he managed a dozen, Alymere did as he was told. He chased the big man all the way down the hill to where he waited. As Alymere half-ran, half-stumbled the last few yards, concern crossed the rider's face and he swung down from his mount. He caught Alymere with one tree-trunk of an arm before he fell, and steadied him.
"Easy, lad. Easy." He held Alymere, peering deep into his eyes. Whatever he saw there satisfied him. "Let's get you up on Marchante, shall we? First time in Camelot, you should pass beneath the keystone arch like a knight, not a knave, riding tall rather than stumbling and skulking, don't you think, Sir Alymere of the Contradictions?"
Alymere nodded gratefully, even as he protested, "I can walk, sir," causing the big man to chuckle.
"I can see that, lad, but humour me. It wouldn't do for you to fall flat on your face as I introduce you to the king, now would it? Not unless you're planning to offer your service as his new fool, of course? I suspect Arthur appreciates a good pratfall as much as the rest of us. Can you juggle burning clubs, Alymere? Have you got the gift of tongues? Can you tell a joke to make the toes curl or sing a ballad so sweetly maidens swoon?"
"No, sir."
"Then you'd better mount up, lad. Because I doubt you'll be ousting Dagonet any day soon."
And so Alymere accepted his help into the saddle and allowed the big man to lead him the final few yards of his journey across the drawbridge and into Camelot. To be here, finally, was overwhelming. It was more than simply keeping a promise to a dead man. It was the fulfilment of years of sacrifice and privation. Nobility might have been Alymere's birthright, but the big man had been correct. The boy was a mass of contradictions; disenfranchised since his father's untimely death, he had been raised in poverty and privation, yet schooled in chivalry and honour; landless despite being firstborn and by rights heir to his father's estate, he had seen it taken by his uncle while he and his mother, Corynn, were cast out and forced to live on scraps. Every day for years he had been mercilessly mocked as a poor 'knight' by the children of the village, because he lacked even a sword to call his own, yet had a squire who drilled him day and night, using makeshift wooden weapons to instil discipline into his arms. Baptiste had been his father's squire, but more than that, he had been his friend. He had stayed with the family long beyond what was required by duty or honour, making sure the boy Alymere knew his father, if only through stories and recollections, and — as he grew into a man — honoured his memory. But Baptiste had been in the ground three weeks now. Sickness had taken him. He was simply too old and tired to fight it off. Alymere had learned one final lesson from the old man that day, the hardest of all that life had to offer a young man: everyone leaves.
His head swum alarmingly and he was forced to clutch the
pommel as he leaned in the saddle.
Even on his deathbed, Baptiste insisted on maintaining his role as Alymere's teacher, offering one last story. He had heard it before, of course, many times, but it was a good story and to think he would never hear it again pained him, so he listened intently rather than beg the old man save his breath. They both knew this was going to be the last time that they shared a tale, and Alymere was determined to glean every last morsel of understanding from it. It was a simple enough story of how a broken link in a mail shirt had saved his father's life, by catching on his mount's barding and breaking his stride. That single missed step saved his life. One more step and the arrow would have struck him instead of the horse, and Alymere would never have been born. As he finished his tale, Baptiste begged him to draw the travelling chest out from beneath his cot. In it was his parting gift, Alymere's inheritance, the ill-fitting mail shirt he wore on his back. It was the only thing of his father's he possessed. The favour he wore was his mother's, given before her death. There was no sweetheart waiting for him back home, because there was no home waiting for him.
This moment, riding into Camelot like a true knight astride what was surely the most noble horse in all of the kingdom, was his father's reward, Baptiste's reward, and his mother's, for all of their sacrifices and their faith, though none of them were alive to share it with him.
The big man led Marchante by the reins, occasionally stroking the horse's long neck and offering a reassuring word.
Alymere struggled to take it all in at once. A single apple tree grew in the centre of the courtyard, laden down with fruit. A young man sat at the base of the tree, one foot crossed over his knee and his hands crossed behind his head. He appeared to be dozing. Alymere wondered how he could possibly sleep with so much going on around him. Market stalls, filled to overflowing with foods and fruits of every colour imaginable, lined the left side of the courtyard, striped canopies casting long shadows over the dusty ground. The fine mist of rain made the world appear so much more alive. He heard the clang of a blacksmith's hammer and the hiss of steam from water being poured onto coals and the wheeze of bellows. Somewhere off to the right, he heard horses. There were so many people. They crowded around every stall, haggling and joking and laughing, each voice rising above the other, the noise making his head spin. A woman was at the well, drawing up water. Somewhere else a church bell chimed, calling the faithful to prayer. The sheer smell of humanity was overpowering. But Alymere just breathed it in, savouring it.
Camelot.
A stablehand moved to take the reins from the big man as they neared the row of stables.
"See to Marchante, there's a good man."
"Of course, my lord. Will you be requiring him again today?"
"No, Merrick, I think we've had more than enough excitement for the time being."
"Very good, Sir Bors."
Bors de Ganis surrendered the reins and helped Alymere to dismount. The stablehand led the horse away while they walked together through the courtyard toward the keep itself. "I almost envy you, lad, seeing her for the first time. Tell me, is she everything you dreamed she'd be?" the knight asked, as they climbed up the few short steps to the great oak door.
Alymere didn't need to think about his answer. "Everything and more," he admitted, though even an hour ago he hadn't known quite what he expected.
At the door they were greeted by two armoured guards who drew sharply to attention as they recognised Bors. The men eyed Alymere curiously and seemed disinclined to let him through until the knight said, "Be so good as to inform the king that Sir Bors de Ganis and Sir Alymere de …nigme seek an audience. You might want to tell cook to prepare a feast; I suspect Arthur is going to want to show his visitor far more respect than you currently are."
Alymere found himself smiling as he caught the Norman joke: Sir Alymere the Puzzle. They heard the title, and saw his threadbare hose, and obviously didn't know quite what to make of either. Bors made a brusque 'hurry along' gesture when neither of them rushed to do his bidding. He seemed determined to find gentle fun wherever he could.
"You really don't want to make me ask you twice," Bors said, reasonably enough, but there was a steel beneath his tone that brooked no argument. One of the two men nodded sharply, spun on his heel and rushed off into the labyrinthine passages of the keep. He returned a few minutes later, flustered and flushed.
"The king will receive you in the aviary, Sir Bors. He bade me tell you he never could resist a good puzzle, and is most looking forward to whatever delights you have to stretch his mind."
"Excellent. Follow me, Alymere, we're off to meet the king." Without waiting to see if he was keeping up, Bors strode off into the many passageways of Camelot. Alymere hurried to catch up, nodding apologetically to the guard as the man moved aside. Inside, the castle was no less spectacular than outside: here, rich tapestries depicting the wild hunt hung from walls, while between them torches guttered in metal embrasures, casting fitful shadows deeper into the maze. Bors, six steps ahead of him, moved with the easy familiarity of someone at home. Alymere rushed to catch up with him as he navigated the twists and turns. The deeper into the castle they journeyed, the more soot-stained were the stones around the iron embrasures, and the darker the crannies and crevices between the huge stones. The quality of light changed subtly. Very few chambers in the heart of Camelot appeared to be blessed with natural light, if this brief tour was anything to go by. Alymere gawked as he walked, staring at the pages and scullery maids running about their business and at the imposing figures of the knights and fighting men they encountered. Bors nodded politely to every single one of them, no matter their station, Alymere noticed, and each and every man, woman and child they encountered seemed genuinely pleased to answer the big man's smile.
They paused at the foot of a narrow, winding stair as a pretty-faced maid came down the last five steps in a bustle of skirts and, as she reached the bottom, offered Bors a coquettish smile, fluttering her eyelashes playfully. She said something Alymere didn't quite catch, which earned her a gentle slap on the rump from the knight. "Alas, my lovely, as much as I would dearly love to take you for a bit of rough and tumble, my heart belongs to another."
The woman shrugged with mock-sadness and said, "Same as it ever was, my lord."
"Indeed, sweet lady. But we both know my love is a jealous love, and she owns me body and soul, Katherine, and ever was it so." Alymere could feel the comfortable familiarity of the exchange, and couldn't help but wonder how many times they'd danced the same dance, because this surely wasn't the first time.
"How about this little man all dressed up in his finest armour? Is his heart taken, too?" The maid asked, turning the full force of her smile onto Alymere for the first time. He felt his breath catch in his throat. It wasn't that she was beautiful — she was comely, in a homely sort of way, he realised, but the word beautiful was not one he would have ever used to describe her. She was not some fair maiden, but neither was she some foul hag — but rather, when she smiled something happened behind her eyes. Something came to life back there. It took Alymere a moment to recognise it for what it was: mischief. It was the most disarming thing he had seen in his young life, and in that moment, under the influence of her eyes, he would have done anything she asked.
"Ah, that, sweet Katherine, is a sad, sad tale. A tragedy indeed," Bors told her.
"Is it now?" the woman's smile broadened and Alymere felt every nerve and fibre of his body thrill to the sound of her voice.
"Oh, for sure. My young friend here, Sir Alymere of the Wounded Heart, took to walking in the Dryads' Wood when his one true love was taken by the pox, and there, in the throes of grief, he happened upon one of the wretched, shrewish, tree sprites who tricked him into one kiss to betray everything he ever held dear. Alas, he was not himself, and fell victim to her charms. Everyone knows — well, everyone save for poor foolish Alymere here — that the wood nymphs cast their mischievous magics in the heat of a kiss. It's a poison
as deadly as any venom, that's what it is. In that moment, as their lips touched, she claimed his soul, forcing him to forget his one true sweetheart, whose favour he still wears, though he cannot recall so much as the curve of her lips as she smiled or the twinkle in her eye as she breathed out his name — "
"Why do I think there's a joke about wood coming up?" the woman said, cutting Bors off mid-flow.
The big man laughed. It was a joyous sound that rumbled deep in his belly and shook his entire body as it broke free. It seemed as though his laughter filled the whole of Camelot. "Because age has turned you cynical, lovely Katherine. Because you've no romance in your soul," Bors said.
"Or perhaps I just know you too well?" she offered.
"There's always that," he agreed, "But you must admit I have a gift for tall stories."
"I would never dream of arguing with a gallant knight such as yourself, good sir. I am but a humble girl who scrubs and cleans. What would I know of wood nymphs and lovesick fools?" She curtseyed to the big man, and then to Alymere, looking up into his eyes as she did. "But I'll say this much, 'tis such a pity," she said. "You're far too pretty to be saving yourself for a bit of dead wood." She winked at Alymere then.
Flustered, he bowed clumsily in return, but she was already bustling off toward the kitchens.
"Watch yourself around that one, lad," Bors said after the maid left them. "She's more dangerous than anything you'd meet on any battlefield, trust me, and with a damned sight less honour; a woman who knows just how to stop your heart dead with a single look, a single smile, a single word. So let this be lesson one, my young conundrum. A true knight must be pure of heart and mind, always, and it's damned hard to be pure of anything if your head is full of that woman. And that, young Alymere, is the wisdom of Bors de Ganis. Do with it what you will."
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