Steven Savile: The Black Chalice

He was mighty. He was Alymere, and in just a few moments he would kill King Arthur.

Arthur held a crown in his hands. This was the May Crown. It wasn't made of gold or precious metals and stones, but of flowers woven around briar twigs, hundreds of tiny perfect blossoms crammed tightly together. Each petal was a thing of beauty, like the girl about to wear it. But Alymere only had eyes for the torn hem of her dress.

The girl curtseyed, spreading her skirt and stooping so low she nearly knelt at his feet, and lowered her head, dark curls trailing on the grass. The king smiled down at her, then lifted his gaze and addressed the onlookers. "Friends, we are here this night to join in two-fold celebration. First, to revel in the richness of the land and the renewal of spring as the cycle of life begins once more; and second, to welcome a brave knight, a true man, as he swears the Oath of chivalry and takes his seat at the Round Table." A cheer went up at this. Alymere inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the adulation of the crowd. "Make that three-fold, my friends, for then we shall revel in good company, drink and make merry 'til the sun comes up!" Arthur proclaimed, and the cheers that greeted his words were twice as loud.

"But first we need a Queen!" Alymere watched as the king's smile widened and his gaze drifted toward his own beloved queen, Guinevere. She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but beside the soon-to-be-crowned Queen of May she was at best merely pretty, at worst plain.

The king leaned forward, placing the briarwood crown on the girl's head, and moving a stray curl away from her brow.

"The Queen is crowned!" someone in the crowd shouted. The boy beside him took up the cry, "Long live the Queen!" and others joined in. Again and again it rang out around him, voices raised in jubilation. Alymere studied the woman's face as she looked up, and found that he could not look away from her eyes. Instinctively his fingers drifted toward the favour tied around his arm. Something passed between them; a connection. Not between himself and the woman, but between her and the man he had been.

He flinched, pulling his hand away from the favour as though burned.

The May Queen drew herself up to her full height and turned to face the cheering crowd, and the three younger girls ran forward with baskets of petals for her to cast on the wind. Her smile could have melted the stoniest heart as she moved barefoot through the crowd, bestowing her smile, and the softest brush of her lips on cheeks and foreheads, on her worshippers, who loved her all the more. Dirt and grass stains smeared the soles of her feet. She was skipping, a trail of petals strewn across the moonlit grass in her wake, by the time she took the ribbon from the outstretched hand of a grinning lad, and running by the time she finished circling the Maypole. It was all part of a well-rehearsed ritual that ended in the one great truth of life: what comes from the earth needs must return to the earth.

The May Queen stood with her back against the pole, breasts heaving, curls of hair matted flat to her scalp, and looked around until her eyes found Alymere in the crowd.

She blew him a kiss, much to the delight of the women in the audience.

Her smile widened. And in that moment her eyes, her smile, together, were the most beautiful he had seen. He felt his body stir, aroused by her scrutiny.

He was burning. He reached up instinctively to touch his ruined cheek.

She waved a signal to the other dancers, who each held a trailing ribbon in their hands, to start the dance, around and around the Maypole, until the ribbons had bound the May Queen completely to the pole at her back. And still they twisted and twined the ribbons around her until they smothered her completely, and not a trace of her white dress or porcelain skin was exposed.

Alymere stared at her, watching the shallow rise and fall of her breast beneath the shroud of ribbons, and thought of her fighting for breath, suffocating under there. Of course, the ribbons were not wound so tight that she couldn't breathe. And soon the men would rush from the crowd and cut her free, but it would be 'too late,' and they'd bear her down to the river where they'd lay her down on a raft on a bed of spring flowers, and sail her down the river. But not yet. Her release would come at the end of the feast.

First, Alymere had to kneel and swear the Oath to Arthur, and then the king must die.

He broke the circle and walked toward the king.

"Kneel, lad," Alymere recognised the voice, and for a moment thought it was another hallucination. He turned to see Sir Bors de Ganis place a meaty hand on his shoulder. The knight smiled reassuringly, as though their fight of a few days before was forgiven, or at least forgotten. Perhaps it was. Still, his presence unnerved Alymere; he had not allowed for it. He sank to one knee and lowered his head, thinking desperately. Did the knight's presence at Camelot change things? Had he come looking to stop Alymere from fulfilling his destiny? He looked up at Bors. There was pride in his face, not anger. He had no intention of stopping the ceremony. Far from it, he was here to watch Alymere fulfil his destiny. Despite the arguments, despite the harsh words and threats, two years and a day from when they had first met, here on this open field, Bors had returned to watch Alymere be knighted. He was the closest thing the young man had to family.

If he hadn't sensed the threat the big man posed, Alymere might have been touched by such loyalty.

As it was, he hated the big man. He would be the first to die.

Second, he amended. Arthur would be the first; in just a few moments they would toast his triumph together, and the screaming and dying would begin. But first he had to mouth useless platitudes and empty promises.

Bors stepped aside to make room for the king.

Alymere looked around at all of the expectant faces.

Arthur held Excalibur, the tip of the great blade piercing the ground between his feet. He braced both of his hands on the cross-guard. The king smiled broadly at him. "Do you recall the code?"

"I do, my liege," Alymere said. Oh, I do, I do, the voice inside crooned expectantly.

"Good, for on this hallowed night, and in the presence of all Camelot, beneath the skies of God, I would hear you swear to uphold it."

"I swear to uphold the honour of Albion, my liege."

Arthur nodded. "With these words you will not only become a true man, but a Knight of Albion. Think on, before you speak. These are no rash promises you make tonight; you will bind yourself to me, and to Camelot, for the rest of your days. Now, Alymere son of Roth, tell me, do you swear to hold life sacred above all else?"

"I do so swear," Alymere said, releasing the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Do you swear that treason shall have no place in your heart, and that you will honour and serve the will of Camelot above all others?"

"I do so swear," Alymere said.

"Do you swear that you will offer mercy to all deserving of it?"

"I do so swear."

"Do you swear that you will offer succour to those in need if it is yours to offer?"

"I do so swear," the words came easily to him now.

"Do you swear never to take up arms in wrongful quarrels for love or worldly goods?"

"I do so swear."

"Do you swear never to stand by idly whilst such evils are perpetrated by others upon the weak and innocent?"

"I do so swear."

"And do you so swear to be noble, worshipful and just in all things?"

"I do so swear," Alymere concluded, the lie tripping easily off his tongue.

The king raised Excalibur. "I will hold you to this oath, Alymere, for now you are no longer the son of Roth, but a Knight of Albion, witnessed before all here present. Serve your king and your country well, Sir Knight." He touched the blade first to Alymere's right shoulder, then to his left, and bade him, "Arise, Sir Alymere."