Alymere reacted without thinking.
And this once it wasn't the book, or the Devil, or well-crafted schemes that controlled his actions. It was simple instinct, rising from the Alymere of old, driven by anguish. By loss.
No! He had lost too much in his short life; he would not lose any more. He sprung from his seat, dashing the Chalice from Bors's lips even as they parted to drink from the poisonous cup. Ale sprayed everywhere: down Bors's shirt, across his face and the table in front of him. The Chalice struck the table, spilling what was left of its contents over the king as it rolled away and fell to the dirt.
Alymere, breathing hard, loomed over Bors. The big man couldn't look away from the war going on behind the new Knight's eyes.
"What is happening to you, lad?"
"The Devil," Arthur said, staring at the damned cup where it lay on the ground. "That is what is happening to him."
Kill the king! Do it. Now! Snatch up our sword and drive it through his withered heart! Do it! Gut him! It is our destiny!
Alymere drew his sword in a single smooth action. The blade shone deadly in the moonlight.
Kill him!
No! I will not! I will not kill Arthur! Alymere's heart screamed in protest, and his entire body shook. The tip of the sword wavered.
His eyes darted from the king's exposed chest, to Bors, and back to Arthur. No-one seemed capable of moving, trapped as though by a spell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blodyweth's ragged linen favour, still stubbornly tied around his arm. It had slipped down to his elbow, where he could ease it down and be free of the damned thing, and whatever hold it had upon him.
"Blodyweth," he said, tasting summer on his lips again as he did, and drawing strength from her name. "Blodyweth," he repeated. His chest heaved. His arm trembled violently, the sword's tip swinging wildly between Arthur and Bors. And he heard her again, in that moment when he most needed her. Be my champion. Save me. Stay true. Save me, my champion. Save me, or the Devil take both our souls.
I will not kill! I. Will…
And then with one triumphant surge of will, Alymere hurled the sword aside. Not!
He collapsed to his knees. "You will not have her," he said, having barely the breath to say the words. "And you will not have me."
And then Bors's thundering right fist hit him again.
A Man Redeemed
Fifty-Six
"This is becoming something of a habit," Bors said, looking down at him.
Alymere didn't know where he was. The only thing he could remember was asking the king if he had heard the Devil's voice. Before that, nothing; after that, nothing.
There was nothing familiar about the room. It was dark, the single source of light a torch guttering in a sconce behind Bors's shoulder. It was cold; looking down, he realised all he had to fight the chill was a thin blanket. It was the most uncomfortable bed he had lain on in years. The wooden slats of the cot dug into his back and side.
"Where am I?" he asked, groggily. He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles.
"Ah, well, hmmm," Bors said uncomfortably, shuffling from foot to foot. "You did draw a weapon on the king…"
Alymere eased himself around so that he sat on the low cot, and in doing so saw the thick timber door and the week-old straw scattered across the cold stone floor. He knew where he was: one of the dungeon's cells beneath the castle.
"This wasn't how I dreamed I'd spend my first night as a knight," Alymere said, nursing his tender jaw.
"Not the most auspicious of starts. What possessed you to — " Bors stopped, lost for words.
Alymere held his head in his hands. He felt like himself for the first time in ages, all thanks to the ruined favour still tied around his left arm. She had saved him.
Had she always known of the weakness in his heart that the Devil might exploit?
Surely she had, and that was why she had given him her favour.
"Take me to the king. I need to see him. Please."
"I don't think that would be such a good idea, lad. Let him cool down first."
"Please," Alymere pleaded.
Bors shook his head. "I don't think so."
Frustration welled up within Alymere. There was no vile voice driving it, this time. The frustration was his own. He knew what he had to do.
And then it hit him.
The Black Chalice was only part of the threat. It was the book; that was where the real danger lay. The book could transform a man, letting the Devil into his soul.
The king had handled the Devil's Bible. He had run his fingers over those tainted whorls of ink. And, when Alymere had asked if he had heard the voice, Arthur had not denied it.
"The book," he said. "Where is it?"
"What book? What are you talking about?"
"The Devil's Bible. The book. Where is it?" Alymere demanded, rising unsteadily to his feet. The entire cell pitched and rolled around him, and he reached out for the wall to stop himself from falling. "Does Arthur have it? Please God, tell me he doesn't." But he knew that he did. That would explain the silence in his head.
Bors reached out a hand to steady him. "Slowly, lad. Slowly. Now, tell me what this is all about."
And he did, confiding his fear — that the Devil had found a way into the king, and it was his fault. Bors paled, his usually jovial face strained as Alymere explained how the voice whispered its demands and insinuations until they became irresistible. How it became a part of you, slowly driving your sense of self down until it was buried in the darkest recesses of what passed for your soul. And the more he talked, the sharper the memories of confinement in that Hell became. He was trembling by the time he finished, a fine sheen of sweat peppering his brow.
But it was his eyes that convinced Bors he was telling the truth: they were haunted. Alymere had seen things no man ought to see, things that had changed him. That much was obvious. And it explained his behaviour these past weeks. That, in itself, was almost a relief, until Alymere asked again: "Does Arthur have the book?"
"He keeps it with him at all times now."
"Lord give me strength. I have to do something," Alymere said. He pulled away from the big knight's grip, only to be confronted by the barred door. He stared at it helplessly, wanting to beat it down with his bare fists, but he was weak. "This is my fault. I gave him the Chalice, and now he has the book. I have to stop him. I have to save him. Please."
"If I let you out of here he'll have my head, lad."
"And if you don't, the Devil will take Arthur's soul and it won't matter a damn if you have your head or not."
"I can't," Bors said, torn.
Alymere turned away and slammed his fist against the wall, venting his frustration.
"But," Bors said, thinking quickly. "I can take the book. If it is as dangerous as you say I can take it and destroy it."
And for a moment Alymere dared to hope that it would work, that Bors could cast the damned book onto one of the smouldering bonfires outside and the flames would eat it. But then he remembered Medcaut. It wouldn't burn. The book had its own defences.
"No. It won't work." But an idea began to form in his mind, and he knew he had no choice. This, at last, was how he would redeem himself, and how he would become a true man. "But, but — Let me think. Let me think. Yes. Right. Yes. You have to bring me the book. It's the only thing you can do. You have to bring it to me here. I will do the rest."