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
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.
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.
