The Bloody Cup (32 page)

Galahad looked blank, but then realization slowly animated his face.

‘Is it possible? Could Joseph of Arimathea be the Trader? The same Joseph who brought Jesus to this land? Who buried the Lamb of God in his tomb?’

Both warriors stared at the words on the tabletop with eyes that were round with excitement.

‘The legends insist that Joseph came to Britain, but I always assumed that the tale was a fiction,’ Galahad said, his face shining.

‘Perhaps the legend was a memory from times long gone and the tale has changed with the passage of time. Have you ever seen the likes of the Glastonbury thorn elsewhere in Britain? Myrddion Merlinus believed the thorn tree came from a sprig of Christ’s crown of thorns. But who can say after all these years?’

Galahad shook his head. His eyes constantly returned to the charcoal words scrawled on the tabletop.

‘First things first,’ Percivale insisted, noting his master’s preoccupation. ‘What was the relic that came from this place? And where is it now? Listen to me, Galahad, and stop leaping to conclusions about the origins of the Cup.’

‘It must be in the tower. Where else could it be?’

Decisively, Percivale rose to his feet. ‘Then it’s time we searched the tower.’

‘Aye.’ Galahad smiled at his friend. ‘Searching is far better than staring at that damned rhyme.’

Several fruitless hours followed.

The tower had been stripped of all trace of Miryll’s existence and only the bare stone room with its many narrow apertures remained. A few leaves from the last winds of autumn had banked up in the corners, for the servants were unwilling to enter this ghost-ridden space where the air was almost frozen from the winter chill. The two warriors tapped the stones with knife hilts, checked the stairs and lay on their bellies and burrowed into the crude foundations.

But they found nothing.

‘I wonder what this room contained before Miryll’s occupation?’ Percivale stared around the small space.

Galahad shrugged. He was seated cross-legged on the central stone that raised him some two feet above the tower floor.

‘If you lived here, would you sleep on a cold stone bed?’ Percivale asked him.

‘I don’t even like sitting on this thing. It clearly wasn’t intended to be a bed and, if it’s an altar, its presence in a tower room makes no sense. Who would put an altar here? Think of the effort and ingenuity needed to raise the stone into place.’

Percivale gingerly kicked at the slab of stone. ‘Why is it here?’

Galahad ran his hands over the rough surface. There was no carving, and no pagan symbols. In fact, it was just a rectangular rough-cut stone in the middle of a tower, in the middle of an island.

Both men dropped to their knees and started to inspect it in earnest.

Percivale was a practical man, as is anyone who has once hewed firewood and cleaned dirty pots for his daily bread.

‘The floor should collapse under the weight of this stone,’ he muttered to himself. He strode to the nearest aperture. If he craned his neck, he could see huge oak slabs protruding some two feet out of the walls. They were little more than six inches apart in two rows all round the tower, and made it look as if it wore a crown of spikes.

Galahad watched Percivale as he crawled around the room and examined the iron-hard floor so closely that the tip of his nose was almost touching the timber.

‘There are heavy beams, then thinner slabs of wood set on crosspieces. And here is a groove in the flooring.’

‘Are you sure?’ As usual, Galahad spoke first and thought afterwards.

Percivale was dirty, tired and exasperated. ‘See for yourself!’ he retorted irritably. ‘A competent craftsman would have spotted this seam sooner. Unfortunately, I’m not a carpenter and I’m not remotely familiar with stonework.’ Percivale was now talking to himself as a rush of ideas tripped off his tongue. ‘I’m sure that this floor was built for a specific purpose.’

He looked at the bemused Galahad. ‘Think, Galahad! Why would anyone go to all this effort . . . years of backbreaking work by a team of skilled workers? I know that oak is difficult to shape at any time, even with iron implements. A small grove of old trees has been sacrificed for . . . what?’

Percivale hurried on, ignoring Galahad’s puzzled face.

‘Now, do we try to move the stone? There’s a seam there, but it’s black with age. No. There’s not a hope of moving it, even if we had the strongest warriors in Britain to carry out the task. There has to be another way.’

Percivale darted out of the tower room and down the stairs.

Galahad followed.

‘Yes!’ Percivale stated excitedly. ‘There it is, in the centre of the wheel.’

Galahad craned his neck upwards from the twelve steps that led up to the tower chamber. ‘What am I looking at, Percivale? I swear I’ll clout you if you keep mumbling nonsense at me.’

Percivale pointed upwards.

The great double spokes of a wheel made of ancient oak were clearly obvious. The wood was hardened through years of seasoning to the rigidity and colour of old iron.

‘Look at the centre of the structure. It’s six feet in diameter and inlaid with dressed timber.’

‘So?’ Galahad was curt. His expression remained blank, and Percivale was reminded that the kin of Morgause weren’t noted for their intelligence.

‘If you wanted to hide something, where better to put it than under a slab of stone that can only be accessed by opening another slab of wood under the floor of the tower room. Does anyone ever look upward when they’re in a place like this?’

Light was beginning to dawn inside Galahad’s inflexible thought processes. If Percivale’s calculations were correct, there had to be a circular cavity below the floor that supported the stone.

‘We’ll need ropes to check that cavity,’ Galahad said eagerly. ‘You’ll need to find a pulley and some sharp chisels.’

Percivale laughed at the younger man’s enthusiasm - although he was less impressed at being ordered about like a slave.

‘I’d prefer to do this chore in the daylight when we can see what we’re about. If you wish, you can try to find entry at night but I plan to eat, then sleep soundly through the hours of darkness. This hiding place has been here for hundreds of years, so it can wait until tomorrow.’

Unwillingly, Galahad agreed, but neither warrior really slept well through the long, cold night, although their reasons for sleepless - ness were quite different. Galahad was in hot pursuit of a Christian relic and the reputation he would win with such a discovery. Percivale was searching for God’s purpose, for he was sure that Joseph of Arimathea would never bother to hide a relic unless it was important to the Christian faithful.

And so the discoveries made during the next day were an anticlimax. Percivale was winched into position under the floor and risked life and limb by hanging over the empty, central well of the tower. Below him, the stone flagging threatened to break every bone in his body if he fell.

As he sought footholds on the stone that made up the wall, Percivale realized that relatively fresh iron hooks had been placed in position and painted black to disguise them from all but the closest scrutiny. With the assistance of the hooks, he reached the centre of the wheel in minutes.

‘Someone’s been here before us, Galahad,’ he called down.

After peering at the solid wooden wheel for several minutes, he pulled on one of the slabs of oak that was part of the construction and the thin plank moved slightly, leaving a narrow, dark aperture. Percivale pulled more forcefully until the board slid a little too far and fell into the depths below.

A long length of woollen cloth tumbled out of the gap, unfurling as it fell.

Percivale felt inside the diagonal space that was left, but if a relic had ever been there, it was now long gone.

‘Damn, shite and Hades!’ Galahad swore from below. ‘All that effort for nothing!’

Breathing raggedly, Percivale hauled himself back on to the tower steps.

‘It wasn’t for nothing, Galahad. We now know for certain that there is a relic, and that it was once hidden in this tower.’

‘But we knew it existed before we looked.’

Percivale shook his head. ‘We only
thought
it did. Now we know for certain.’

Over ale in the scriptorium, the men examined the length of cloth that had been left in the wheel.

The wool was ancient, unbleached and it had discoloured to the hue of old honey. Oil stains marked the folds in the fabric, and they could tell that the wrapped object had been long, thin and almost six feet in length.

‘The relic must have been a staff,’ Percivale guessed.

‘So what made this hole in the fabric?’ Galahad countered, wiggling a finger through a small tear caused by friction wear at one end.

‘Perhaps it had a sharp edge . . . or something.’

‘Possibly,’ Galahad said glumly. ‘But it’s long gone now.’

Percivale remembered the length of old, dark wood that had bludgeoned the Bishop of Glastonbury to death. It had been carved with a Roman satyr at one end, which had been covered in blood.

‘Gronw must have found the relic,’ Percivale murmured. ‘Perhaps he thought it was a Druid staff, or an object of magic. It’s even possible that Gronw didn’t know what it was. Questions. There are always more questions.’

The two men folded the woollen wrappings and stared fixedly at them. Once again, they considered the words of the rhyme and the legend of Joseph.

‘We have a staff, a Cup, a thorn tree and mention of the Trader of Arimathea,’ Percivale muttered. ‘But the tower was hiding a staff, when it should have been a spear . . .
the
Spear!’

The silence lengthened as Galahad considered the Roman spear that was said to have pierced the side of Jesus as he suffered on the Cross. His blood roared in his ears.

Abruptly, Percivale rose to his feet. ‘We may have some of the answers to the questions in our puzzle, but we could easily be wrong.’

Galahad pointed to the words of the rhyme. ‘The reference to arid lands fits the description of the land of Israel, and a Roman soldier speared the side of Jesus while He was dying on the Cross. The soldiers were said to have gambled for His possessions, which could have included His drinking vessel.’ He smiled across at Percivale. ‘Lucius said his Cup had once held wine.’

‘Slow down, Galahad. We know of the staff that killed the bishop, but we know nothing for certain of a spear. A small hole in woollen wrappings is not proof of its existence. And to guess that the Cup of the Last Supper travelled all the way to Glastonbury is . . . well . . .
very
hard to believe.’

Percivale’s cautionary words were just so much background noise to the feverish thoughts that circulated within Galahad’s brain. ‘All the facts fit,’ he insisted. ‘And the rhyme makes sense if the Cup of Lucius belonged to Jesus.’

‘But why would Bishop Lucius keep the Cup of the Last Supper for his personal use?’ Percivale cautioned. ‘Why didn’t he send such a sacred object to Mother Church for safekeeping? We are probably imagining a solution to the puzzle that suits our purpose, rather than following logic.’ He closed his eyes in concentration. ‘Lucius knew the danger of his Cup. He’d been a Roman officer, he’d seen the worst excesses of warfare. If he suspected its origins, he’d have known that such an object could become a powerful tool for any unscrupulous kinglet who desired to further his power and influence. Lucius must have wondered at the connection when he heard the legend of Joseph at Glastonbury and saw the white thorn growing in an alien land.’

‘So why did he keep it?’ Galahad demanded. ‘At the very least, he should have hidden it, even if his suspicions were unfounded.’

Percivale grinned. He had heard from Gruffydd the tale of how Lucius led Artor in the search to find the sword and crown of Uther Pendragon.

‘Lucius was a subtle man, so he probably wanted to hide the Cup in plain view, just as he did with Uther’s crown and sword. Who’d suspect that a battered old mug might have such a history? Besides, Lucius may have had doubts about the origins of the Cup. Nothing else fits the facts as we know them.’

‘I agree. Lucius must have had some doubts.’ Galahad’s sluggish brain had been stimulated and was now working with greater speed. ‘And his natural caution would have impelled him to have the Cup interred with his body after his death.’

Although common sense warned Percivale not to leap to conclusions, he was a Christian and he yearned for an affirmation of his faith. Heady thoughts sent his mind spinning with promises of God’s love made concrete through Lucius’s Cup.

‘There are no other answers that make any sense,’ he said slowly, his eyes shining. ‘The Spear that pierced the side of Jesus, the Cup, and the fragment from the Crown of Thorns might have found a home in Britain. The thorn tree grows freely at Glastonbury, but the other two are in unknown hands.’

Percivale wanted the relics to be Christian to validate his life choices but, gradually, his eyes cleared and he became his normal, controlled self again.

‘Perhaps these relics really are what we would like them to be . . . and perhaps they aren’t,’ he said. ‘Either way, they could easily be manipulated by some ambitious and greedy person who was fortunate enough to gain possession of them. A man as pious as Lucius would never have made personal use of the Cup of the Last Supper if he’d truly believed that was what it was. But he knew how dangerous the Cup could be if it fell into the wrong hands. Lucius took great care to keep the Cup out of men’s imaginations, for the very reason that he
didn’t
believe it held religious power.’

‘He could have been wrong,’ Galahad stated flatly.

‘Aye, but perhaps we yearn for proof that our faith is paramount. Perhaps we ascribe too much meaning to the Cup’s purpose. Whatever the truth might be, we can never truly know - never. The Cup is dangerous because it could be made into Ceridwen’s Cup, or the Cup of the Last Supper, or anything else we care to imagine.’

‘So Gronw holds the most powerful relic in all of Christendom in his profane hands,’ Galahad murmured. ‘Artor must be told of this danger.’