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He picked up his sword and examined it, grimacing as he rubbed his thumb over a chip in the blade. That mundane action made Gledys laugh. It was shaky, but it was a laugh.

“He thought you were a monk,” she said.

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“Stupid as well as vile.”

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“Perhaps the chalice guided you to leave your armor behind. It gave you the advantage of surprise.”

He considered that. “Indeed, but I think the darker work this night belongs not to a chalice, but to the ancient garalarl. It may be the agent of peace, but it's also a bloody cup. Come. It's time to leave.”

Gledys felt it, too: an urgency as the cave cooled and dimmed, as if they might be trapped here if they lingered. They dressed quickly and hurried to the exit, but there she paused.

The rose had been left for a reason, so she ran back and took it before fleeing into the normality of night.

***

They rode into the camp when the sun was high, and headed to Duke Henry's tent.

From Glastonbury, they'd been guided to the hut in the woods again, and the familiar bed. There they had found new pleasures in each other. After their breakfast of bread, cheese and ale, they'd left, but Gledys now had a bundle. She'd brought back her habit, for it held good memories. She also had the rose, tucked carefully in her pouch.

Henry of Anjou was outside among a group of men, their horses ready. He was clearly about to leave. When he saw them he halted and abruptly returned inside. They dismounted and followed.

The duke turned to face them. “Well?”

“We think it is so, my lord,” said Michael, his manner calm, as he had been with Henry before. “The holy chalice appeared to us, and then it disappeared. It seems this means that the wheel has turned toward peace.”

“Does it . . . does it? But you couldn't bring it back.”

“We didn't try, my lord.”

Henry of Anjou frowned.

Gledys opened her pouch and took out the rose. “But we brought you this, my lord. Evidence, perhaps, of miracles.”

He took the flower. “Lovely, and I've never seen so deep a red, not even in Aquitaine, where roses grow particularly well. But I don't need evidence of this sort. I just received good news.”

“An offer of a new truce, my lord?” Gledys asked.

He smiled, a wolfish grin. “Better than that. The certainty of peace and victory. Eustace of Boulogne is dead.”

Gledys heard Michael gasp, too, and she prayed guilt didn't show on either of their faces.

“He died of an apoplexy in the night. God's judgment, people are saying, for his pillaging the abbey at Saint Edmundsbury.” He raised the rose and inhaled. “What's more, I hear good news about his father's health. Stephen is failing. The holy chalice has made its wise choice.” He gave the rose back to Gledys. “You have my thanks and my favor. When I am king, you will both get your just reward.” He swept out and they heard his horse's hooves pounding away.

Gledys looked down at the rose, which showed no sign of wilting. “I feel sorry for the king, who has lost his son.”

Michael drew her into his arms. “A better king, a better man, might not have bred such a son. Rejoice, my love, for now our children will have peace.”

She looked up at him. “But we must make sure to have seven, just in case.”

He grinned back at her. “A pleasant sort of holy duty.” Sobering, he cradled her face. “The holy chalice brings not just peace but a deeply precious love. If the troubadours knew of this kind of love, they'd know their songs were shallow.”

Gledys turned her head to kiss his thumb. “My love, my love . . . And we will have a good life. The cup rewards those who serve it well.”

“It already has,” he murmured, kissing her.

Neither noticed when the rose fell to the floor, nor when it faded and disappeared. But for a while, the sweet perfume lingered as the land of England began a new, harmonious song.

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