The Black Chalice

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.