Steven Savile: The Black Chalice

Dusting the flour from her hands, Maeve started to tell him how his parents had first met, in that very room, with the help of the brothers Percival, Lamorak and Aglovale playing Cupid, but then, seeing Bors return, she promised to tell the story another day, but only if he promised to tell her a few stories of his parents' life after Camelot. It was a promise he was only too happy to make.

He left with Bors.

The second surprise came in the armoury.

Bors unlocked the heavy oak door and slipped the brace beam, pushing it open, and Alymere followed him inside. The room itself was somewhat smaller than the kitchen, and replaced the scents of cooking with the metallic tang of mail and goose grease. All manner of swords were stowed in racks along one wall, from single-handed broadswords polished to a shine, through hand-and-a-half bastard swords and great two-handed longswords to short one-handed stabbing blades for close combat. Three windows filled the armoury with the dying light. Motes of dust turned lazily in the dwindling shafts of sunlight. One shaft struck a breastplate, transforming it from simple metal into something breath-taking. There were twenty-five such harnesses around the room, but only one captured the sun. Alymere walked across to it and placed his hand over the heart, feeling the sun's heat thrill through him. It was almost as though the empty metal were alive, as though somehow it held the spirit, the essence, of the warrior it protected.

Bors moved to stand beside him. "I do not think Lancelot would take kindly to your greasy hand-print in the middle of his chest, lad. So best not touch. Just between us, those Bretons can be a touchy lot and they're not exactly renowned for their sense of humour. Put it this way, lad, it'd be a crying shame if I was picking bits of you up off the practice field come sunrise because of one of Maeve's greasy roasts."

Alymere recoiled, pulling his hand away as though suddenly scalded by the metal, and stood there staring in horror at the greasy outline of his palm planted in the middle of the breastplate and then down at his treacherous hand.

Bors dropped a rag into his hands and chuckled, but Alymere was too mortified to realise what he was meant to do with it until Bors said, "There's leather strips in the bucket over there. I suggest you make it shine, lad. But clean the grease off your hands first or you'll be at it all night."

By the time he was done with the buffing rag the breastplate was gleaming. He had been so consumed by the task that he'd not noticed Bors searching the sword racks, picking out a single-handed broadsword and working the whetstone along the edge to hone its bite. When he was satisfied with it, he set the sword aside and turned his attention to all manner of shields — kites, bucklers and heaters — stacked up in the racks, again taking his time to gauge the size and weight before making his choice. He discarded the bigger, sturdier shields in favour of a relatively thin wooden heater overlaid with leather. It would withstand a number of solid blows without encumbering Alymere, allowing him freedom of movement on the battlefield. It would most certainly do for the practice field tomorrow. He laid a simple pair of leather gauntlets on the table beside the sword and shield, and finally he chose a helmet, a simple cervelliere skull cap, rather than a bascinet or more elaborate closed or great helm. There was nothing either embellished or decorative about any of the equipment the knight had selected; it was all chosen for its functionality.

Alymere set aside the leather buffing cloth and saw the equipment that had been set aside for him.

"Try this for size," Bors said, tossing the helmet over the table to him. It nestled snugly on Alymere's head, flattening his wayward hair as he secured it in place. Bors helped him pull on the leather gauntlets. He stood back. "Let's have a look at you then, shall we?"

Bors looked him up and down without a word. He didn't need to say anything. Alymere was all too conscious of what he must have looked like in his mismatched armour and too-big mail shirt.

"I'm sure we could find you a shirt that you'd fill out, lad. Something that doesn't make you look quite so much like an orphan playing dress-up."

"No," Alymere said before he could stop himself.

If his refusal surprised the knight, he didn't let it show. Bors merely inclined his head slightly, as though considering a problem, then cast about the room and found a leather belt to cinch the long mail shirt at his waist.

"Better. Now there's just one thing missing. We'll make a knight of you yet, lad."

And with that, Bors gifted him the second surprise. There was a soft knock on the armoury door, and a moment later Katherine, the feisty serving girl they'd met on the stairs, entered the room. She carried a tabard draped over her arm, and on it was a familiar crest: a leaping white stag on a black engrailed slash across a white cloth.

"It's not much, but it seemed appropriate," Bors said, taking the tabard from the woman and offering it to Alymere. Suddenly Alymere knew what the knight had been doing while he ate in Maeve's kitchen. He didn't know what to say. What words could he offer, save thank you ? The gesture went beyond simple kindness. In giving him his father's tabard Bors had, in no small way, given him part of his own identity back. "It was your father's." Bors explained needlessly. "Put it on, lad, and let's see what you really look like."

Alymere pulled the tabard on over his head. Bors nodded approvingly, then helped strap the heater onto his left arm and handed him the sword.

"Come here, Katherine, and tell me, what do you think? Have we made a knight of him or does the poor lad still look like some waif we dragged from the fields?"

The maid came to stand beside the knight and took his measure, looking Alymere from head to toe and back to head again. Her smile was genuine when she said, "He looks most noble, sir."

"He looks nothing short of his father's ghost, come to haunt these hallowed halls once more," Bors said. "If I didn't know better I'd think it so. The likeness is uncanny." He made the sign of the cross over his chest, then grinned that infectious grin of his.

To the maid he said, "Thank you, Kate. You can leave us now."

She curtseyed and slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Then the big man turned back to Alymere. "Come on then lad, away to bed. You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow."

And that was more true than either man could have known, for tomorrow was where the third surprise would reveal itself.

"Move your feet!" Bors' voice boomed from the side-lines.

Two dozen spectators manned the ropes around the combatants, knights and their squires come to see how Alymere acquitted himself. A smattering of applause rippled through the onlookers. It wasn't for him.

"Get your guard up!" another voice added helpfully.

The others sucked in their breaths as one, as the crack of wood on wood reverberated across the practice field. The rhythm of the fight changed, growing faster and faster, the blows merging into a single sound as the echoes hit the high walls of Camelot and folded back on the practice field.

"Better, lad!" Bors encouraged. "Keep your eye on him! Watch the way he moves! Read his body! That's it, lad. That's it!"

But for all the encouragement, the blows kept coming without any hint of letting up, and there was no way he could hope to ward them all off. Alymere was outmatched in every way: his opponent was a head taller, and faster of foot and eye both, blessed with a longer reach, and quite simply more accomplished. Had this been a real fight, out there on the field, there would only ever have been one winner, and the fight would have been over a long time ago.