“You’re sure of it?” Konrad asked him. “This is what you want?”
“Yes.”
The king got to his feet.
“Do as he says.”
So a bier was fashioned, and he was lain upon it gently. They had removed his helmet and coif; his fine hair was matted now and stained. Konrad ordered men of his own guard to accompany him, and kissed him farewell.
“I would not have you go like this,” he said. They say he wept as the small procession wound away, across the valley of Stavoren towards the borderlands of Dorn.
Just past the first of the villages, while the great castle of von Heyden was still looming at their backs, they passed through a heavy wood, and there their path was blocked by riders. At first Reinhard thought they were pilgrims, for they were all dressed in plain brown, with hooded capes pulled low across their faces. But their leader was a woman— a woman too beautiful, he said after, to belong to the ordinary world. Her followers were armed with swords and bows.
She slid quickly and gracefully from her mount, and came to the bier where Karelian lay. And he saw they knew each other. She was the lady of whom Karelian had spoken. She held him, and kissed him many times, and turned to Reinhard a face covered with tears.
“We will take him now,” she said.
The seneschal did not argue; the world had passed far beyond his meagre understanding.
“Can you save his life?” he pleaded. “Please God can you save him?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “All the power I have will be spent on it, and I have much. But you must know, faithful Reini: whatever comes to pass, he will not return to you.”
“But he is a great lord,” Reinhard said.
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “Greater than any in the land. And he is mine.”
She left the seneschal little time for his farewell. She signaled to her followers, and they came and took the bier, and she mounted to ride alongside of it.
“Go now,” she said to Reinhard. “Go quickly, and don’t look back.”
But of course he did, after a time; he could not help it. And all he could see, as far as the earth and the sky and his heart and his prayers could reach, was grey cloud and black trees shivering in the wind.
* * *
Did he live that day, my Karelian? Is he with her still, in the depths of Car-Iduna? Sharing her bed, and feasting by her side, surrounded by harpsong and dancing women and sorcery? There are many who say they see him riding to the hunt on stormy nights. The serfs of Lys swear they see his fires in the woods, in the dead of winter, and there are tracks there after— tracks which lead to no place within the world. The countess smiles and tells her women that he comes to her by night sometimes, to lie with her. But the countess, God knows, is mad….
What more is there to write? Gottfried is dead, and for all the love I bore him, and all the honor he deserved, I cannot keep him living in my mind. He stands as if in shadow; it is effort now even to remember the color of his eyes.
But that one, shimmering in the desert sun of Acre, snow-kissed in the storms of Helmardin, falling on the torn heath of Stavoren, against the death-bolt I dealt him, against my heart, soaking both in blood… that one I do not forget.
Karelian….
A lovely name, Karelian. It plays on the tongue like a kiss, and I do not forget.
Accknowledgements
I wish to thank everyone who read the manuscript at various stages,
and offered their comments and support. I would also like to express my appreciation for assistance received from Elli Jilek of the University of Calgary Library, and Dr. Juergen Jahn of the Department of Germanic and Slavic Studies.
Details
The Black Chalice
Copyright © 2000 by Marie Jakober
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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