The Chalice by Phil Rickman Page A

mean, a precious chalice that he was so anxious to
hide ...?
           The Grail, Verity? I
hardly think so. If the cup from the last supper was indeed preserved, it was
surely not precious in that sense. Certainly not made of gold. Wood or
earthenware, more likely.
           The Colonel had raised his glass, peered into the clouded wine,
repeating,
           We are with you, Lord
Abbot. With you this night.
           Drawing an obvious parallel with the Abbot's own last supper.
           In October 1539 - Verity remembered all the dates as clearly
as if she had been there - Thomas Cromwell, the King's agent, had ordered that
Richard Whiting, a kind old man who was always mindful of the poor and the sick
and known for his generosity, should be 'tried and executed'.
           The 'trial' took place at Wells, where the Abbot and two monks
said to be his 'accomplices' were swiftly sentenced to death and brought immediately
back to Glastonbury. This was November 14.
           The following day, the Abbot was brutally stretched and bound
to a wooden hurdle, dragged through the streets by horses past helpless, horrified
townsfolk, past the forlorn Abbey.
           And so to the Tor.
           Verity now rose among the shadows, poured wine into the Abbot's
crystal glass and a little drop to moisten her own parched lips. It tasted
bitter and salty, like blood.
     
    There was a hazy- necklace
of light around the St Michael tower, just where it sprang free of the watery
mist that rose from the Levels and gathered on the sides of the Tor.
           Clutching her shawl around her, Diane stepped off the bus
platform. Somewhere, a sheep bleated, a rare sound at night outside the lambing
season.
           It was OK; this was ordinary light. Perhaps a circle of candles.
It wouldn't be visible at all from the edges of the town. So they were all up
there, doing whatever they'd come to do. Gwyn the Shaman presiding. With his
ceremonial sickle.
           That had been a pretty scary moment. All alone, and raising
his sickle to the moon.
           Another reason to get out of here. This was not the convoy
she'd joined.
           She moved silently across the grass, careful not to bump into
any vehicles, always a risk when there was so much of you.
           She'd moved her van closer to the field gate, knowing she'd
probably be leaving before the others, knowing Juanita would let her stay at
the flat for a couple of weeks while she sorted herself out.
           Mort's hearse loomed in from of her . Love is the law, love over death. She'd seen another, unpleasant
side of Mort tonight. Another side of all of them. She stopped. There was the
glow of a cigarette.
           The thin moonlight showed her the hateful Hecate, sitting on
the bonnet of the hearse. Her van was on the other side of the hearse. She
couldn't possibly reach it unseen.
           Well, gosh, what did that matter? She could leave if she wanted
to. Don't be pathetic!
           But she was pathetic.
She imagined getting into the van, trying to start the engine which always took
absolutely ages to fire. And Hecate standing there watching her, this large, strong
and horribly precocious child smoking a joint. Opening the van door, which she
could do because its lock was broken, and dragging her out, the younger
children hearing the noise and coming to join in, black gnomes swarming over
her.
           Shivering, Diane crept back to the bus. She'd wait until Hecate
had gone - for a pee or something - and then creep past the vehicles to the gate
and go on foot to Wellhouse Lane and the town. Knock on Juanita's door, beg for
sanctuary.
           She sat in the front of the bus, in the driver's seat. A night
breeze awoke and made the bus rattle; more sheep began to bleat. Diane felt
like a solitary spectator on the perimeter of an enormous stadium, the
landscape primed as if for some great seasonal festival,