'This is becoming something of a habit,' Bors said, looking down at him.
Alymere didn't know where he was. The only thing he could remember was asking the king if he had heard the Devil's voice. Before that, nothing; after that, nothing.
There was nothing familiar about the room. It was dark, the single source of light a torch guttering in a sconce behind Bors's shoulder. It was cold; looking down, he realised all he had to fight the chill was a thin blanket. It was the most uncomfortable bed he had lain on in years. The wooden slats of the cot dug into his back and side.
'Where am I?' he asked, groggily. He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles.
'Ah, well, hmmm,' Bors said uncomfortably, shuffling from foot to foot. 'You did draw a weapon on the king…'
Alymere eased himself around so that he sat on the low cot, and in doing so saw the thick timber door and the week-old straw scattered across the cold stone floor. He knew where he was: one of the dungeon's cells beneath the castle.
'This wasn't how I dreamed I'd spend my first night as a knight,' Alymere said, nursing his tender jaw.
'Not the most auspicious of starts. What possessed you to — ' Bors stopped, lost for words.
Alymere held his head in his hands. He felt like himself for the first time in ages, all thanks to the ruined favour still tied around his left arm. She had saved him.
Had she always known of the weakness in his heart that the Devil might exploit?
Surely she had, and that was why she had given him her favour.
'Take me to the king. I need to see him. Please.'
'I don't think that would be such a good idea, lad. Let him cool down first.'
'Please,' Alymere pleaded.
Bors shook his head. 'I don't think so.'
Frustration welled up within Alymere. There was no vile voice driving it, this time. The frustration was his own. He knew what he had to do.
And then it hit him.
The Black Chalice was only part of the threat. It was the book; that was where the real danger lay. The book could transform a man, letting the Devil into his soul.
The king had handled the Devil's Bible. He had run his fingers over those tainted whorls of ink. And, when Alymere had asked if he had heard the voice, Arthur had not denied it.
'The book,' he said. 'Where is it?'
'What book? What are you talking about?'
'The Devil's Bible. The book. Where is it?' Alymere demanded, rising unsteadily to his feet. The entire cell pitched and rolled around him, and he reached out for the wall to stop himself from falling. 'Does Arthur have it? Please God, tell me he doesn't.' But he knew that he did. That would explain the silence in his head.
Bors reached out a hand to steady him. 'Slowly, lad. Slowly. Now, tell me what this is all about.'
And he did, confiding his fear — that the Devil had found a way into the king, and it was his fault. Bors paled, his usually jovial face strained as Alymere explained how the voice whispered its demands and insinuations until they became irresistible. How it became a part of you, slowly driving your sense of self down until it was buried in the darkest recesses of what passed for your soul. And the more he talked, the sharper the memories of confinement in that Hell became. He was trembling by the time he finished, a fine sheen of sweat peppering his brow.
But it was his eyes that convinced Bors he was telling the truth: they were haunted. Alymere had seen things no man ought to see, things that had changed him. That much was obvious. And it explained his behaviour these past weeks. That, in itself, was almost a relief, until Alymere asked again: 'Does Arthur have the book?'
'He keeps it with him at all times now.'
'Lord give me strength. I have to do something,' Alymere said. He pulled away from the big knight's grip, only to be confronted by the barred door. He stared at it helplessly, wanting to beat it down with his bare fists, but he was weak. 'This is my fault. I gave him the Chalice, and now he has the book. I have to stop him. I have to save him. Please.'
'If I let you out of here he'll have my head, lad.'
'And if you don't, the Devil will take Arthur's soul and it won't matter a damn if you have your head or not.'
'I can't,' Bors said, torn.
Alymere turned away and slammed his fist against the wall, venting his frustration.
'But,' Bors said, thinking quickly. 'I can take the book. If it is as dangerous as you say I can take it and destroy it.'
And for a moment Alymere dared to hope that it would work, that Bors could cast the damned book onto one of the smouldering bonfires outside and the flames would eat it. But then he remembered Medcaut. It wouldn't burn. The book had its own defences.
'No. It won't work.' But an idea began to form in his mind, and he knew he had no choice. This, at last, was how he would redeem himself, and how he would become a true man. 'But, but — Let me think. Let me think. Yes. Right. Yes. You have to bring me the book. It's the only thing you can do. You have to bring it to me here. I will do the rest.'
Bors looked at the young knight sceptically. 'But won't that put you at risk?'
Alymere looked at him. It would have been easier to lie, but lies were the Devil's way. He was not one of his creatures now, so he summoned the courage to tell the truth. 'Yes. But I know what I have to do. You will have to trust me. Please, my friend, do not fight me on this. Let me become the man I was always meant to be. Let me become someone my father — God rest his soul — can be proud of.'
Bors nodded slowly, then grasped Alymere with both of his meaty hands and drew him into a fierce embrace.
He didn't let him go for a full minute. He whispered in Alymere's ear, 'God be with you.' And left him.
Bors did not return for hours.
The cell door opened twice before he did. The first time it was a young, gangly maid, come with a tray of food. The prisoner would get to eat a hearty meal, at least, before the king decided his judgment. She had long dirty blonde hair and round cheekbones, and a slightly elfin quality to her face, with bright blue eyes. She blinked against the darkness. The cutlery on the tray rattled against the plate. She looked as though she were wearing her mother's clothes, like she had just come into womanhood and was uncomfortable in her new body. There was something appealing about her gaze; something familiar.
'You look familiar. Tell me,' Alymere said, taking the tray from her, 'have we met before?'
'Yes, my lord, though in truth I did not expect you to recognise me like this.'
'Where?'
'I was the May Queen this year. You cut me down from the Maypole so the men could carry me to the river.'
He looked at her then, trying to see her properly in the low light.
He shook his head slowly. 'What is your name, girl?'
It wasn't Blodyweth. It had never been Blodyweth.
She left him with the food, but he didn't touch a morsel of it. He sat on the edge of the cot, waiting for Sir Bors to return with the book.
The second time the door opened it was another one of the maids come to retrieve the tray. She looked down at the untouched plate, shrugged her shoulders as though to say
The torch burned out an hour later, leaving him alone in the dark.
It was deep in the night when the door finally opened a third time to let the big man in. He clutched the Devil's Bible close to his chest with one hand, and held a burning brand overhead with the other. The guard who had opened the cell door shrank back into the shadows. Alymere didn't move from the bed; for the longest time Bors simply stood silhouetted in the doorway, looking at him.
