The Crimson Chalice by Victor Canning Page A

we can safely leave the old man to himself.”
    â€œMany days?”
    Baradoc laughed. “Now your face grows as long as Sunset’s. Do you think the old man will recover by tomorrow? He will be long on his couch and longer before he can work his garden and care for himself and his shrine.”
    â€œBut that means—” Tia broke off suddenly, ashamed of her own selfishness.
    Baradoc said easily, “Aquae Sulis will not run away. A little more rough living will make it seem like paradise. But if you wish you are free to go and to take Sunset with you.”
    Tia’s face stiffened angrily. Then putting out her hand, she said, “This hand you took in gratitude has an itch to smack your face!”
    Baradoc shrugged his shoulders. “Good. That means you will stay. Now, let us get things in order.” He laughed, took her arm and tugged her gently toward the door, saying, “You have forgotten to bring the fish and I have lost the duck you were going to pluck. We will wring the neck of a hen. The old man will be better for a good broth to help him heal.”
    Looking back at the old man, Tia said, “He’s very old. Might he not die from the burns?”
    â€œHe is old, yes. Just skin and bone. But he will not die.”
    â€œHow can you know that?”
    â€œBecause we are here. Because the gods, yours and mine— aie , and his—joined together to weave the pattern that way. Now, come and I’ll show you how to twist a hen’s neck.”
    For the next few hours as the tree shadows lengthened across the clearing they were both busy. Baradoc killed the hen and Tia sat outside the hut and plucked it. The dogs drew back to the fire, and Sunset was tied on a long halter to one corner of the hut. Baradoc carried all their belongings inside and emptied the bundles. He made up two rough beds on the floor with cut rushes from a pile he had found behind the hut. Tia’s bed was at the far end of the hut, next to the adjoining fowl run. Baradoc set his just inside the low doorway. All the arms were laid out in readiness. Atro and the others, Baradoc guessed, would not come back. By the time they had found new weapons their minds would be set to fresh mischief.
    Sword in hand, standing over the old man, he looked at the wall above the bed. Hanging there was a rough tablet made of three pieces of board held in a frame. Painted crudely on it was the portrait of a beardless young man with a halo around his head. Above his head was the Christian Chi-Rho monogram. The shrine in the hillside was a Christian one, and the old man its keeper. There were many now in Britain who held to the new religion, worshipping the Nazarene and his Holy Father. Baradoc felt that it was the religion of slaves, no matter what its virtues. For him the gods of his people could never be replaced. Anyway, the world and the hereafter were wide and big enough for all religions.
    He went out and began to help Tia around the fire with the cooking of their meal. They ate it in the fading light outside the hut doorway. Tia fed the old man with some broth, but he took little, most of it spilling down his chin and neck, matting his beard so that she had to wash it clean afterward.
    Coming back to Baradoc and sitting cross-legged on the grass near him, watching the hawking flight of martins across the darkening clearing, the sky paling to a faint marigold glow from the dropping sun, she said, “Why did they treat the old man so badly?” “Because they believed he had a great treasure hidden here.”
    â€œHas he?”
    â€œWho knows? He is a Christian shrine keeper. A holy man. The country around will know him. He probably wanders about preaching. His kind are always talking of laying up treasures in heaven. Simple people get things mixed in their minds.” He took a chicken leg from his platter, chewed at it until it was near clean and then tossed it to Cuna.
    They went to bed by the