The Black Chalice Read online

  More than once he straightened in his saddle, and wiped his face, and took himself in hand. It was November, he reminded himself; what other weather might a man expect? And peasants were a sullen, dirty lot, and always had been. As for the wind, and the birds, and the sounds in the forest, dear God, the world was full of such things; if he saw an omen in every leaf and feather he would drive himself mad.

  Then they came to the inn, and his heart misgave him again.

  The inn was the last habitation along this road, the last shelter they would find until they passed through the forest and arrived at Marenfeld, beyond the hills. He did not expect it to be a pleasant lodging, or even a comfortable one, but he was appalled at the gloomy look of it. It was low and rough-hewn and almost windowless, cowering against the base of a heavily wooded hill. It seemed to him less a hostel for travellers than a hideout for thieves.

  The innkeeper and his servants were accommodating— indeed too much so. They fell over themselves scurrying to welcome such an extraordinary guest as the new count of Lys. But it seemed to Paul they smiled too much, and much too easily. The innkeeper had an ugly laugh and a vicious scar across his cheek. A long knife hung from his belt, and he wore a thong around his neck on which were threaded several heathen charms. All the country folk wore such things, and kept on wearing them no matter what the priests said. In some villages, Paul knew, the priests started wearing them, too. The innkeeper’s wife was the only woman in the place; she had a hard, unsmiling face, and sullen eyes. She rarely spoke, but when she did her words were clipped and bitter.

  Karelian did not seem concerned at all. Over the years he had rubbed shoulders with many kinds of people, and he accepted his surroundings with an easy worldliness. After everyone had eaten, and the beer had flowed freely for a while, he put his feet up on the crate where the innkeeper’s cat was snuggled, and asked how the north had fared during the duke’s long absence.

  The innkeeper shrugged and said nothing.

  “We met some merchants on the way,” the count persisted, “who were turned back at Karlsbruck. They said many things have suffered from neglect.”

  The innkeeper smiled. “That be true, my lord, but we knows the duke been fightin’ heathens, and winnin’ back Jerusalem. And God’ll shower favors on us for it, an’ make us rich in heaven. Won’t he, my lord?”

  He spoke with perfect humility, but his hand while he spoke fingered some horrid animal thing hanging from his neck, and his eyes were not humble at all.

  But Karelian showed no resentment. The cat stretched, eyed him for a moment, and wandered onto his lap. He reached to stroke it idly.

  “The duke brought many riches back from the east,” he said. “He’s promised to make the Reinmark into the jewel of the empire.”

  The innkeeper crossed himself. “Pray God I live to see it,” he said.

  Paul shifted irritably in his chair, wishing Karelian would object to this carefully servile insolence. In the same breath he admitted that Karelian’s unruffled self-possession, his refusal to make quarrels out of trifles, his willingness to listen to almost anyone at least once— all were the qualities of a wise and steady man.

  “My squire is growing weary,” the count said. “And in truth, so am I. We must make an early start in the morning.”

  “You be headin’ back to Karn, then, my lord?”

  “No. We’ll take the forest road, and go through Helmardin. It will be a rougher journey, but a quicker one. I was already expected in Ravensbruck some days ago.”

  One by one the scattered voices in the room broke off, and Paul could hear the wind howling, and the crackle of fire in the hearth, and the harsh scrape of the innkeeper’s iron cup as he shoved it across the table.

  “Be a strange place, Helmardin,” he said. “Some as goes there don’t come back.”

  “We are well armed,” Karelian said. “Any bandits who attacked a company as large and skilled as ours would be foolish indeed.”

  “It isn’t bandits you got to fear!” This was one of the hostlers, a young man, skinny and ill-kempt as a mongrel. “Leastways, it isn’t only bandits. I been in that place once, and I wouldn’t never go there again, not for all the gold on the streets of Jerusalem!”

  “You’d be ill-rewarded if you went for that,” Karelian said dryly. “But surely many travellers must use the road, or there’d soon be no road left at all.”

  “Many do,” the innkeeper said. “And most pass safe. But even those will tell you things as makes you shiver. There be dead men there. And veelas.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing a veela,” Otto said lightly. His mind was always on lechery, and he was more than a little bit drunk. “I’ve heard said they’re pretty, and they don’t wear any clothes.”

  A small ripple of laughter went around the room, a mixture of bawdy amusement and very real unease.

  “You don’t want to see a veela,” the hostler said fiercely. “Not ever you don’t! They’ll kill you for anything. They say the woods is theirs. All I did was sit beside a tree to rest, and she come and tried to strangle me! Look!” He pulled open his rough shirt so they could see the mark on his neck, a thin, deep-cut mark like the scar from a garotte. “Best you don’t go to Helmardin, my lord! It be no place for Christian men!”

  Karelian considered him in silence. It was Otto’s squire Dalbert, a youth Paul’s age and not easily frightened, who asked the obvious question:

  “Well, if she was strangling you like that, then how come you’re here, and still very much alive?”

  “The Virgin saved me.” Quickly and reverently the hostler crossed himself. “I called out to her with my very last breath, and she come in a flash of light, golden as the sun, and the veela screamed and let me go, and flew away.”

  “But you were travelling alone, weren’t you?” Karelian said. “Veelas are solitary creatures. I’ve never yet heard of one appearing among large groups of men.”

  “Be a great fool if she did,” the innkeeper’s wife said scornfully.

  Her husband cast her a brief, unpleasant look.

  “Veelas be the least of it, my lord,” he said. “There’s worse things in that devil’s wood. And armed men have come to grief there, too. Near fifty good knights they were, with their sergeants and men at arms along with them, in the time of Henry II, headin’ for Ravensbruck after the massacre at Dorn. They rode into Helmardin with all their banners flying, an’ none was ever seen again.”

  “The witch got them in her castle,” one of the servants muttered darkly.

  “And the bishop of Ravensbruck, too,” added another.

  Paul shuddered faintly. The massacre of Dorn was nearly a hundred years ago, and the loss of the emperor’s men had been made into a legend. But the bishop of Ravensbruck disappeared not long before Paul was born, and his father talked about it many times. The bishop was a brave and a saintly man. Learning of pagan practices and heresies in the regions of Karlsbruck and Helmardin, he sent two of his priests to investigate. After the priests visited many villages, and spoke to many common folk, they returned by the forest road to Ravensbruck, strangely altered, and bearing an astonishing tale.

  They had, they said, become lost in a fog, and after wandering for hours they came upon a splendid castle, with high ramparts and golden banners whose crests they had never seen before. They went to bang on the gates to ask where they might be, and how they might find their way back.

  Inside was music, and tables laden with food, and knights and ladies in beautiful garments, and minnesingers, and wild animals which were friendly no matter how dangerous they looked, and many other wonderful things. Ruling this castle was a black-haired queen, more beautiful than any goddess, who gave them food and wine and spoke with them— but what she spoke of, they swore they could not remember. After some days, they begged to take their leave, and return to their duties. The queen gave them gifts of food, and let them go. When they stepped out of the castle gates, the forest road was before their feet, as though they h
ad never left it, and when they looked behind where they had come, there was only woodland, shimmering with sun.

  This tale they told to the bishop of Ravensbruck, who promptly ordered an escort of soldiers, and went in search of the castle. He would exorcise it, he said, and cast the woman out, for all this kingdom belonged now to Christ. Like the triumphant ravagers of Dorn, the bishop and his escort were never seen again.

  But the two priests could not forget that magic place. However much they prayed and fasted and did penance, they could not free themselves from memories, or from their longing to go back again. One at last undertook a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and died in the journey. The other withdrew to an isolated monastery, where, according to the stories, he ended his days quite mad.

  * * *

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t go there after all, my lord.”

  Paul’s heart leapt at the seneschal’s words, but he said nothing, his face lowered as he unfastened his master’s hauberk in their small, ugly room.

  Reinhard was sitting with his back to the door, his arms resting lightly on his knees. He would spend the night there, perhaps lying down for a few hours of sleep, or perhaps not; but no enemy would enter the room without killing him first. A good man, Reinhard was, loyal and solid as a rock. But he was no match for Karelian in mind or in spirit, and he never would be— a fact which pleased Paul very much, though it shamed him to admit it.

  “You’re very serious about this,” Karelian said.

  “I fear no enemy I can see, my lord,” the knight said stoutly. “I think you know it well—”

  “I do,” Karelian interrupted him, smiling faintly.

  “But these evil things…! What harm would be done if we returned to Karn? Count Arnulf won’t blame you for the delay, knowing the bridge is gone. And besides, the wedding won’t be till after Twelfthnight.”

  The count sat on his bed, and Paul dropped to one knee to begin tugging off his boots.

  “Faithful Pauli,” Karelian said to him. “You haven’t said a word, but you also think we should go back to Karn, don’t you?”

  Paul faltered, staring at him. There was warmth in Karelian’s eyes, but there was also a kind of weariness— the weariness of a man who was always stronger than the men around him, and who sometimes got tired of it.

  There is no reason in the world to go back to Karn. That was what Paul wanted to say. We are men, we are warriors, we are lords. Are we going to be scared off by wood nymphs and ghosts?

  And in another part of himself, he wanted even more desperately to say: Oh, please, my good lord, let’s turn back! It’s dangerous there, and we’ve no reason to go, and everyone’s afraid…!

  “It’s for your lordship to decide,” he said. He had meant to speak firmly, like a brave knight eager to follow wherever his liege might go. But his voice was small and dry, and gave him away completely.

  “I see,” Karelian said. “Well then, listen, both of you, and I’ll tell you something, and maybe you’ll rest easier for it. Before we left the Holy Land, I went to see a mage in Acre, a man whom other knights had spoken of—”

  Paul sank onto his heels, appalled. “A Saracen?” he whispered.

  “He told me many extraordinary things, some of which I knew already, and some of which I still don’t understand. And he also told me this: I might go safely where other men saw danger, and I should most fear danger where other men believed they were safe. So….” He smiled, and tousled Paul’s hair lightly. “I don’t think we’ll have much to fear in Helmardin.”

  “You trust the prophecy of a Saracen, my lord?” Reinhard asked harshly.

  Karelian stood up, his easy mood broken in a breath, and the seneschal hurried on: “I’m only thinking of your welfare, my lord—”

  “And so am I,” the count said grimly. He walked to the window, staring out at nothing, for the night was overcast and black. “I’ve looked for guidance in many places over the years, my friend, and I found precious little of it anywhere. I’ll take it where I can get it.”

  Quite suddenly Paul felt cold, as though Karelian had flung back the shutters, and the icy night was spilling in.

  “Surely God has guided you in all things, my lord,” he whispered.

  Karelian turned then, and laughed. “Really? If he has, then men have little good to hope for in this world.”

  It was a terrible thing to say. Paul dropped his eyes. His master was weary, and probably a little drunk. Even the noblest and most necessary wars would leave their mark on a man, and move him sometimes to say harsh and bitter things. Only later, looking back, did Paul understand: Karelian was already falling into the doom which awaited him. Year after careless year he had disarmed himself with doubt and worldliness, and he rode into Helmardin an easy target for his enemy. Like a rich man, Paul thought bitterly, or a stranger in a foreign city, walking late along the harbor without a sword.

  * * *

  It was still dark when they mounted for the road. In the harsh light of torches Karelian’s face was drawn and weary, and his mood was extraordinarily dark. Nothing was said about turning south again, and Paul knew nothing would be. Half asleep, the soldiers loaded the pack animals and climbed into their saddles. Reinhard approached the count, rubbing warmth back into his hands, his breath turning into coils of white fog.

  “Everything is ready, my lord.”

  For a tiny moment Paul thought he might protest one last time, but then, as if anticipating the possibility, Karelian paused, one hand on his horse’s bridle, and met his vassal’s eyes. The expression in his own was unyielding. Not another word, Reini, if you value my good will. Not one more word….

  This, too, was Karelian: a man whose smiles and easy words belied an astonishing hardness of resolve. He was the youngest of seven sons, bred to high rank and dismal prospects, living in war camps and trenches before Paul of Ardiun had been born. His father was Helmuth Brandeis, the margrave of Dorn, a lineage known equally for its excellent bloodlines and its unpredictable loyalties. Helmuth quarreled with the duke, and was reconciled with him again, more times than anyone could remember. Each quarrel left him poorer. Nonetheless he married three times, and had numerous children. By the time Karelian was born there were already six strapping older brothers waiting to gobble up the margravate’s lands, the margravate’s captaincies and baileys, the margravate’s carefully arranged marriages with its neighbors’ carefully guarded daughters. Karelian was going to have to make his own way in the world.

  Go be a monk, his father told him. There is nothing for you here.

  If that is so, demanded the lad of twelve or thereabouts, why did you bother to beget me? From this bit of insolence he acquired three broken ribs, and a taste for soldiering in other lands.

  He fought Angevins in Italy, Vikings in Normandy, Capetians in Flanders. And so many others. If he gathered together all the banners he had followed, he said once, they would cover all the walls in the great hall of Stavoren.

  Then Pope Urban came in splendor through the empire, calling on the warriors of Christendom to gather and march east, to take back the Holy Land and destroy the infidel. One of the first to take the cross was Gottfried the Golden, duke of the Reinmark. And a scattering of the duchy’s free knights returned home to join him, Karelian among them. He was thirty-one then, and tired of the small and pointless wars which Europe’s princes kept fighting among themselves. He wanted something better. He wanted a place in the world, and land, and a future with something more in it than wandering and blood.

  And he had it now, earned by his own hand. He had wealth, and a splendid reputation. He had the county of Lys, a territory larger and richer than the one his brother inherited. Helmuth, the weathervane of Dorn, was dead; and though his eldest son, Ludolf, was margrave of Dorn, it was Karelian who was seen now as the leader, the favored one, the ornament of the house of Brandeis.

  He had travelled a long way, but he had left many things behind him on the journey— all his innocence, and most of his faith in God,
and any trace of willingness to be directed by other men. He made his choices carefully, with a good deal of thought, but once he made them, it was wiser to stay out of his way.

  And he had made his choice in this. Having survived perils which the simple folk of these highlands had never dreamt of, having grown used to judging danger by the standards of the battlefield, he saw no reason not to make a short journey through Helmardin, and meet his bride, and get on with his promising new life. Paul bowed faintly, and helped him to mount, and they rode silently into a day over which the sun would never rise.

  Midday had barely passed when it began to snow. At first the flakes were thick and wet, and there was an eerie peacefulness in the low-hanging sky. The soldiers riding guard ahead were vague and silent shadows, fading and reappearing like horsemen in a dream.

  But the land rose, and bare summits emerged here and there from the forest, and the wind began to cut like knives. They rode single-file then, bent low in their saddles, their hands and faces numbing in the cold. Grey-black clouds swept overhead, advancing and dissolving like swift-moving armies, more and still more of them rolling in behind. The trees, bare as they were, leaned in the force of the cruel wind, and howled. The innkeeper’s words echoed in Paul’s memory: There be dead men there, and veelas….

  He took little comfort in the fact that he rode with armed men. He would have felt safer among a horde of pilgrims, in hemp shirts with crosses sewn across their backs. But in Stavoren Karelian had removed all of his insignia from the great crusade. He wore the colors of Lys now. His shield and his high banners bore a crest of Brandeis: a black tree without leaves, poised against a pale December sky.