Free The Bloody Cup by M. K. Hume

moved to counter the cold winds.
    A large slab of undressed stone dominated the floor in the very centre of the tower, and Gawayne trailed his fingers over the heavy piece of limestone that had been raised with much labour to catch every shaft of light. A richly woven length of cloth softened its harsh, tomb-like appearance.
    One corner of the room housed a frame on which the flowers, reeds and meads that grew beyond the window had been translated into woven thread. The half-completed work was oddly beautiful. He raised one eyebrow in inquiry at Miryll, who smiled back shyly.
    ‘Yes, this is my work. I weave and embroider what I see through my windows. My next task will recall the scene of you and your son resting by the oak trees, with Gronw in his skiff coming to fetch you to the villa. My weavings reflect my life here on the island.’
    For a moment, she seemed very sad, and Gawayne wondered what weight lay across her spirit like a malevolent spell. Then her eyes widened and her lips parted.
    Gawayne’s breath caught in his throat and his easy, seductive compliments were immediately forgotten.
    The prince’s day passed in a waking dream as Lady Miryll strolled with him through the gardens and whiled away the afternoon with stories designed to amuse her visitor. Before he was aware that the light was fading, evening came with a gentle reminder that they should return to the villa to bathe and dress for the evening meal.
    Galahad was uncharacteristically silent when Gawayne joined him in their room, and the prince had to coax his son into speech. The young man had spent the day amongst the shelves of the scriptorium, looking through dusty rolls of fine vellum and Egyptian parchment.
    ‘Father, there’s a large collection of pottery jars stored here, all very ancient, to judge by the dirt and dust that covers them. I found documents that were rotten and still others that were brittle with age. I couldn’t understand the language, but I found notes written by Lady Miryll’s father that speak of an ancient relic that has been hidden here for safekeeping.’
    Gawayne was surprised to see his son’s excitement, for the young man rarely expressed enthusiasm for anything but his god.
    ‘That may be so,’ Gawayne said slowly. ‘Miryll spoke to me of some treasure that was supposed to have been hidden in the tower.’
    Galahad was silenced for a moment, before rushing back into speech.
    ‘I believe the scrolls may have been written in Aramaic. I’m only guessing, but the notes written by Rufus refer to the original builder of the tower as having spoken in that heathen tongue. The name, Josephus, also suggests that he was of that cursed race - a Jew.’ He gazed piercingly at his father. ‘Can you imagine the wealth of knowledge stored here?’ he asked in awe. ‘It must become the property of the Church.’
    ‘The Church! The bleeding Church! Don’t you think of anything else?’
    ‘Not often, Father. Except, of course, of my duty to you.’
    As Galahad paced about the room, Gawayne reflected that his son had at least found something on the island that captured his interest.
    ‘Salinae Minor is neither a fair nor a healthy place, Father,’ Galahad added stiffly. ‘I can smell the decay that pervades this villa and lies under the scent of the perfumes.’
    Gawayne dismissed his son’s warning with frank incredulity. ‘Really, Galahad! All I can smell here is good cooking and cleanliness. Surely, Salinae Minor and its tiled floors make an exquisite change from the rushes thrown over flagging stone, the odour of your grandfather’s hounds and the odd old fish head that stinks up Lot’s hall. Grow up, boy, so we can enjoy this brief sojourn while we can.’
    Galahad couldn’t deny that Lot’s house was lice-ridden and dirty, especially during winter, so he retreated into a sulk.
    ‘I am certain there’s a relic here in this villa, Father. I believe it’s a holy object and I do not trust the hands that protect