The Black Chalice Read online

  The Black Chalice

  by Marie Jakober

  Copyright © 2000 by Marie Jakober

  E-Book Edition

  Published by

  EDGE Science Fiction and

  Fantasy Publishing

  An Imprint of

  HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  CALGARY

  Notice

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author(s).

  * * * * *

  This book is also available in print

  * * * * *

  Map

  Dedication

  To Gale

  For introducing me to the books which formed, in part,

  the inspiration for this novel;

  For a hundred other things;

  But mostly for being such a beautiful friend.

  Characters of the Novel

  The County of Lys:

  Karelian Brandeis, count of Lys

  Paul von Ardiun, his squire

  Reinhard, his seneschal, commander of his men

  Otto, a knight in his service

  Father Gerius, Father Thomas, chaplains of the manor

  The Castle of Car-Iduna:

  Raven, Lady of the Mountain, sorceress and guardian of the Reinmark

  Marius, her steward

  The County of Ravensbruck:

  Arnulf, count of Ravensbruck

  Clara, his wife

  Adelaide, his daughter, betrothed to Karelian of Lys

  Helga, his youngest daughter

  Rudolf of Selven, a knight in his service

  Peter, Arnulf’s squire

  Sigune, a Wend slave

  Electoral Council of the Holy Roman Empire:

  Gottfried the Golden, duke of the Reinmark

  Ludwig, duke of Bavaria

  Duke of Thuringia

  Landgrave of Swabia

  Landgrave of Franconia

  Archbishop of Mainz

  Archbishop of Cologne

  Other Characters:

  Ehrenfried, Holy Roman Emperor, king of all Germany

  Prince Konrad, his son

  Radegund, duchess of the Reinmark, wife of Gottfried

  Theodoric, Gottfried’s eldest son

  Armund, his younger son

  Helmuth Brandeis, father of Karelian, former margrave of Dorn, now dead

  Ludolf Brandeis, brother of Karelian, present margrave of Dorn

  Anselm, a monk of Saint Benedict

  Wilhelm von Schielenberg, an exorcist

  Cardinal Volken, Papal legate to Germany

  * * * * *

  THE BLACK CHALICE

  Who could possess a greater prize than I have

  in your high love, even if it cost him his life

  and all he ever owned?

  — Wolfram von Eschenbach

  * * * * *

  ONE

  The Monk

  Nothing drags the mind of a man down from its

  elevation so much as the caresses of a woman.

  Saint Thomas Aquinas

  * * *

  On the twenty-fourth day of November, in the year of Our Lord 1103, in the forests of Helmardin, there did my lord and master Karelian of Lys, knight of the Reinmark, kinsman and vassal of Gottfried the Golden, fall thrall to the powers of darkness. May God have mercy on his soul!

  The monk paused, squinting as the candle guttered and almost went out. Past fifty now, and lean with fasting, his face held a hardened serenity, his eyes the ascetic brightness of a saint. In good light one might guess he had been handsome in his youth; he had a broad, high forehead and fine cheekbones; where his hair was not cropped short, it still twisted into grey curls. He dipped his quill and, bending close, began to write again.

  * * *

  There, in that fell place where no Christian may walk without peril, he was ensnared by sorcery and the foul embraces of a woman, and so destroyed utterly his honor and his immortal soul. I, though I sinned grievously, was by the grace of God permitted to escape.

  It is the burden of my failing years to record now all which passed there, and all which came of it: treason and war and the deaths of princes….

  He was aware, vaguely, of the sounds of night around him: the distant, soft lowing of the monastery cattle; a cough in the cell next to his own; the close, irritating scurry of mice; the curtain shifting at his window. None of it mattered. The world of small and common things was barely real to him at all.

  I would not willingly undertake this task. I do so out of holy obedience, and to lay bare for the world the dangers of carnal passion, and the villainy and devouring corruption which so often lie beneath the surface of a fair woman’s skin. For it is in the flesh of women that the Evil One weaves his snares; by their smiles and caresses uncounted good men are brought to ruin—

  He heard the flutter of a bird’s wing, still unreal, still unregistered in his conscious mind, then the whisper of something moving past his shoulder. The candle tumbled, and burning wax spilled across the parchment. It flared into a gulp of bright heat, collapsed, and the room went dark.

  “So.” A voice spoke from the void before him: a woman’s voice, bitter, mocking, utterly familiar. “You haven’t changed much, Paul of Ardiun. You’ve been seventeen years in the house of your God, and you’re still a liar.”

  He rose to his feet, grasping the crucifix he wore about his neck and crossing himself with his other hand. Both actions were as quick and natural as the reflexes of combat. He was not a timid man. He had fought the heathens of the east for eleven years, and he had encountered the Otherworld before. But his body was icy now with sweat, and his heart almost failed him as the darkness before him changed, and he saw her.

  There was a kind of pale light about her, unsteady as firelight. Years had passed, yet everything about her was familiar, even the scar on her wrist and the gown which wrapped her body like running water, its colors never the same. She was, of course, still beautiful. Black hair spilled over her shoulders, and emeralds lay like green berries along the curves of her throat. Karelian’s emeralds, heirlooms of his ancient house, lost and soiled forever now, like pearls thrown to swine. Hatred calmed his fear a little, and gave him breath.

  “Begone from this place, creature of Satan!” he cried savagely. “I command you in God’s name! Begone!”

  It was as though he hadn’t said a word. She moved towards his small wooden desk, brushed the fingertips of her graceful ringed hand through the ashes of his evening’s labor, and picked up his quill.

  “Those who eat the world write its histories,” she said. “Some lie knowingly, and some in truth no longer remember what they did, for if they remembered they could not bear to live.”

  Still holding the quill, she looked directly at the monk.

  “You will begin again, Paul. And this time, you will tell the truth.”

  She touched the quill to her lips, murmuring words he could not understand. It seemed to glow with the same pale fire surrounding her.

  He tried to think, to find some way to shield himself, but his mind floundered in confusion and his body could not move. Everything was happening too quickly. He had come to feel safe, here in the monastery, safe after so many years of quietly acquired peace. Now all his knowledge as a man of God abandoned him, and his invocations of self-protection died unspoken in his throat.

  She spoke to the quill again, this time in his own tongue, and aloud.

  “You are bound
now, feather of Reinmark,” she said. “He cannot unbind you; he doesn’t have the power. Write now what he truly remembers, and not what his masters expect him to say.”

  She laid the quill down, looked at him once, and smiled. A cold smile, pitiless, like the one she must have smiled long ago, thinking of Gottfried, closing her hand upon the stone of his destiny. A look which spoke without words: Do what you like now; it won’t matter. I have defeated you.

  She dissolved into darkness and a soft whir of wings, and the night was still.

  He knelt then, one hand gripping the edge of the wooden desk because he thought he might fall. He crossed himself. The words of prayers formed in his mind, and scattered again and were gone. Karelian’s voice took their place, soft as it so often was, an astonishing soft voice in such a fierce man of war:

  Pauli, Pauli, there is so much you don’t understand….

  He was wrong, of course. It was Karelian himself who never understood, and never saw his danger; Karelian who was too proud, too sure of his good sword-arm and his sophisticated mind and — yes, one had to say it, shameful though it was — too little the master of his own base appetites. Too willing to take a harlot’s favors, and then, ensnared by his desires, to pay for them with any coin she named.

  Paul shuddered. How could she have come here, to this sacred place, inside these hallowed Benedictine walls, where the footsteps of saints still whispered across the stones? How was it possible?

  “Jesus, saviour of the world, protect me…!”

  It was so hard to pray. Memories kept intruding, sharp as spears of light, as though thirty-one years had not passed, and he were a youth again, in love with a dream. So splendid a dream it was, and so quick to fade. A kingdom of heaven upon earth. A ruler who was more than a king, more than a conqueror, more than a man. A lord who would pass on to his sons and his grandsons, through all the centuries of time, a sacred heritage.

  A royal house of God….

  * * *

  Much later, in the icy darkness before lauds, he carried the quill in a pair of tongs to the refectory fireplace and flung it in, piling chunks of wood and kindling on it and watching until the hearth was roaring with flame. He went to chapel then, and afterwards to breakfast. When he returned to his cell, the quill was lying on his desk as before. He went rigid with shock, and yet he was not surprised.

  For a week he did not touch it. He asked for a new one from the abbot. It promptly disappeared, and he did not ask for another. Finally, knowing how dangerous it was, and knowing also that in the end he would have no choice, he sat down with a fresh piece of parchment, and began to write again.

  * * *

  On the twenty-fourth day of November, in the year of Our Lord 1103, in the forests of Helmardin, there did my lord and master Karelian of Lys, knight of the Reinmark, kinsman and vassal of Gottfried the Golden, come with his companions—

  He stared at the paper. He had written the same words as before: fall thrall to the powers of darkness. He had framed them in his mind, and formed them with his hand.

  Dear Jesus…!

  It was not a spoken prayer. He could not speak. He was sick with fear, and not the least part of his fear was a terrible fascination, a hunger to know what the next words would be. He watched his hand moving. He watched but did not believe as the words spilled across the page like uncaged birds, like bloodstains, like tears:

  * * *

  ….There did Karelian of Lys come with his companions to the castle of the Lady of the Mountain, a castle which no one finds except those whom she will welcome there. He was the greatest knight in the Reinmark, save only for the duke himself, and he had covered himself with glory in the great victory of Christendom, when we took back Jerusalem from the dark hands of the infidel. For this and many other services the duke lavished my lord Karelian with honors, and named him count of Lys.

  I was his squire then, and with us travelled some twenty knights, an escort of mounted soldiers, a baggage train, and many servants. We were five days north from the crossroads at Saint Antoninus when we met a caravan of traders, ill-tempered as hungry dogs. They told us the bridge at Karlsbruck had been swept away in a storm, and they foolishly blamed it all upon the duke, our lord Gottfried. He had been seven years in the Holy Land, valiantly serving Our Lord and the Holy Cross, but they still expected him to be tending bridges in the backwoods of the Reinmark.

  The merchants, with heavy wagons and valuable cargo, had no choice except to retrace their steps, and go east again to cross the river at the great bridge of Karn. We urged the count to do the same.

  God, on what tiny hinges turn the lives of men! For we lingered there, he and I, on that wild grey autumn day, and he looked to the southeast, where the wagons of the traders were winding sullenly into the valley; and he looked to the north, where the high forests of Helmardin waited dark and forbidding.

  “It will cost us a fortnight to go back,” he said. “More, perhaps, if the weather turns. If we took the forest road, we would scarcely lose two days.”

  There was a stir among the men, and quick, uncertain looks. They were good men, all of them. Two of the knights, Reinhard and Otto, had been to Palestine with Karelian. Several of the soldiers, enlisted at Gottfried’s court in Stavoren, had been imperial guards, and served the emperor Ehrenfried himself.

  Reinhard held the rank of seneschal, and commanded the count’s escort. He was a man who always spoke bluntly, without flowery words or flattery, yet under his gruff manner he was totally devoted to his master.

  “Helmardin has an evil name, my lord,” he said. He was a native of the north country; he knew Helmardin’s reputation very well. And he was not a youth like myself, or a foolish churl like the ones we met later at the inn. He was a brave knight and a good Christian, and when I saw Karelian was not inclined to take his arguments seriously, I swallowed my own fears, and said nothing.

  So many times, in the days and the weeks which followed, I made the same decision, for which I now bear an eternal burden of guilt. I chose to say nothing. Who was I, a mere squire, to question the judgment of a lord like Karelian of Lys? He was twice my age. He had fought in the service of a dozen great kings, and in Jerusalem, too. He was afraid of nothing. More than anything in the world, I wanted him to think well of me. Even when my own heart faltered at the thought of riding into Helmardin, I admired him for it. I knew the world was full of heathen creatures and their evil, but I wanted to deny my knowledge. I wanted to believe, as my father had, that there was nothing to fear in the dark except the follies of our own minds, and nothing to fear in the woods except the wolves.

  So to my shame I said nothing. But Reinhard argued with him, and some others did as well. And in the end, when he saw they were serious, he smiled — he was a beautiful man when he smiled — and took a royal coin from his pouch, and tossed it playfully in the palm of his hand.

  “I will leave it to God,” he said. “The crown, we go by Helmardin. The cross, we go by Karn.”

  The coin flew and fell. We looked down and saw the silver helm of Ehrenfried shimmering on the road.

  “So be it,” he laughed, and wheeled his horse into the wind. He was happy with his fate, and none of us could say anything afterwards to change his mind.

  He was riding to his bride.

  TWO

  Helmardin

  Mankind is by nature wild and strange.

  Wolfram von Eschenbach

  * * *

  From the very start Paul’s heart misgave him— from the very moment he reached down to sweep Karelian’s coin out of the dust, and followed after him into the black November hills. Nothing thereafter was quite the same. The easy talk of the soldiers began to annoy him, and the edginess of the servants annoyed him more. He found himself looking at the sky and the forest like a fugitive watching for enemies.

  He was not usually given to wild superstitions; his father had made sure of it. Unlike many of his peers, the Baron von Ardiun had learned to read and write, and to look up
on the world as something which could be studied and understood. He was a practical man, hard-minded and hard-souled, without a trace of weakness in his being, and deeply religious in the same practical way. He laughed at most of what passed for sorcery among the common folk. Rabbits’ feet and rubbish, he called it. God disposed of matters in the world, he said, not old hags with broken teeth. God decided when it would rain. God sent sicknesses to men and beasts, and God cured them. And that was the end of it.

  Mostly Paul agreed with him, for he loved his father, and he feared him. But there were times when troubling questions nudged into his mind, when it seemed to him that life was stranger than his father was willing to acknowledge— stranger and much darker. He might never have done more than wonder about it, though, if he had not gone to the Holy Land. There he saw things which his father had neither seen nor dreamt of. The east was full of magic. And the east was powerful— powerful not merely in wealth and arms, but in other, more disturbing ways. More than one good knight rode to Jerusalem a devoted Christian, and was lured there into every kind of wickedness, and came home again scarcely a Christian at all.

  And from the day the count’s retinue left Stavoren, and journeyed farther and farther into the hinterlands, Paul found himself wondering if the Reinmark were Christian, either, in anything but name. He thought again of all those things from his childhood which his father had ignored. The old women mouthing incantations over leather boots and hearthstones and marriage beds. The strange ointments they made, the secret potions, the amulets. The Walpurgisnacht fires. The people who lived in the woods, without crops or beasts or trades, and yet never went hungry.

  Then Karelian tossed a silver coin, and left his fate to fortune, and a thousand dark things seemed to ride with them now, as if invited. Black clouds, so heavy over the forests there seemed to be no heaven there at all. Black birds in great, silent flocks, wheeling and circling. Scattered farmhouses huddled in scattered patches of ill-cleared land, more hostile, somehow, than the wilderness around them. Rough folk with ragged hair and sullen faces, staring at the passing lords without a trace of human feeling in their eyes. And the wind, howling in the dead trees, tugging at his hair, endlessly snarling and laughing. It seemed to Paul the laughter of fiends, who remembered when there had been no priests here, and no empire, and who would try with all their dark power to bring an end to both.