The Crimson Chalice

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• Victor Canning
  
• Dedication
  
• 1. Forest Meeting
  
• 2. The Black Raven
  
• 3. Hunter's Dream
  
• 4. The Keeper Of The Shrine
  
• 5. The Centurion's Cup
  
• 6. The Circle Of The Gods
  
• 7. The Villa Etruria
  
• 8. The Flood Riders
  
• 9. The Fortress Of Birds
  
• 10. The Island Parting
  
• List of Place and Tribal Names
  

Victor Canning was primarily a writer of thrillers, and wrote his many books under the pseudonyms Julian Forest and Alan Gould. Among his immediate contemporaries were Eric Ambler, Alistair Maclean and Hammond Innes.

Canning was a prolific writer throughout his career, which began young: he had sold several short stories by the age of nineteen and his first novel,
Mr Finchley Discovers His England
(1934) was published when he was twenty-three. Canning also wrote for children: his
The Runaways
trilogy was adapted for US children's television.

Canning's later thrillers were darker and more complex than his earlier work and received great critical acclaim.
The Rainbird Pattern
was awarded the CWA Silver Dagger in 1973 and nominated for an Edgar award in 1974.

In 1976
The Rainbird Pattern
was transformed by Alfred Hitchcock into the comic film
The Family Plot
, which was to be Hitchcock's last film. Several of Canning's other novels including
The Golden Salamander
(1949) were also made into films during Canning's lifetime.

For the One Who Wept
When the Dream Ended

As the sun tipped the eastern reaches of the forest and fired the pewter sea to silver at the far end of the valley, the May morning was full of song. Through the belling of tits, the monotonous sawing of the chiffchaffs and the melodious pealing of thrushes and blackbirds, Lerg, the big grey wolfhound, caught the clatter of a distantly falling stone on the valleyside path. Except for a slight lift of his muzzle from his crouched forepaws, he made no move; but his grey-flecked green eyes watched the turn of the path where it entered the wide glade. To his right Aesc, the water dog, with the long drooping red-furred ears, had heard the stone fall some few moments after she had caught the human scent coming up on the morning breeze from the sea. On the left of Lerg, Cuna, small, short-legged and wirehaired, neither heard, nor saw, nor smelled anything. Not long out of puppyhood, he was curled into a ball and, empty-bellied now for twenty-four hours, dreamt of vole and rat and hare and the dark tunnels of fox earths and badger sets.

Above them the body hung. The hide thongs about the ankles still bit tight, but those about the wrists, which held the body suspended from the stout horizontal branch of an oak, had stretched so that the balls of the tied feet just touched the ground. But it had been twelve hours since there had been any power in legs and feet to take advantage of earth's touch to ease the weight of the body on shoulder muscles. Bluebottles, and a small cloud of midges and early gnats, clustered over the crisp-curled head of hair and the brown, sweat-dried face. An hour before sunset a pair of red kites had spiralled down, forked tails splayed, to roost on the upper branches of the oak. Bran, the raven, had given an angry
carp, carp
and had flown at them, chasing them away inland over the rolling green sea of forest.

Bran sat now on the oak top and watched the newcomer moving up the path toward the glade. Twice during the night a lone wolf, ancient and pack-exiled, had come to the glade's edge and Lerg had driven him away. Now, five miles away to the east, the wolf fed on a calf among the slaughtered cattle in a stockyard close to the fireblack ruins of a homestead. In the dust of the forecourt an old woman sat holding her long grey hair over her face to keep the day away, keening and moaning softly to herself, numbed by the memory of the horror which had filled the last two days.

The newcomer came to the edge of the glade. It was a girl grown close to young womanhood. The hood of her short brown woollen mantle was pushed back onto her shoulders leaving her fair hair free. Around her waist, over a white, dust-streaked linen tunic, she wore an embroidered belt with a bronze clasp in the shape of two dolphins. On her feet were leather sandals held by a cross-gartering of doeskin thongs which ran up her bare legs and were tied beneath her knees. Over her right shoulder she carried a bulky sack made by the knotting of four corners of a bedcover of green-and-yellow striped silk.

Standing at the edge of the glade she saw the three dogs, saw the rapid mouse-movement of a tree creeper work up the rough trunk of the oak, saw the raven at the top of the tree, and breathed with a slow, anguished tightening of her face as she saw the body. For a moment she closed her blue eyes against memory. A low rumble from Lerg frightened her. To turn away, she knew, for she was no stranger to animals, might bring the dogs after her. To go forward, too, she reasoned, could start the trio of guarding beasts into a violent, rushing attack. She stood where she was and waited, her eyes on the bowed head of the body that hung from the tree, ringed with a moving halo of flies and gnats.

Lerg growled low again and Cuna, awake now, slowly sat up but knew better than to move past Lerg. Lerg was the leader.

The girl waited, her body trembling under the swift assault of her fears. The strengthening sun burned against the skin of her right cheek. Across it ran a dark smudge of black ash, and above her right eye, dark against the fair skin, was a bruise as large as a crab apple. Lerg growled again and then slowly rose to his feet. The other dogs made no move. Long-legged, lean-bodied, the grey coat shaggy as lichen, he stood as high as a month-old calf. She knew his kind for they were highly prized now far beyond Britain for their speed and courage in the killing of wolf and deer. And the other dog, too, she knew, with its red coat and long ears—a kind that loved water as much as the otters and wildfowl it hunted. Then she remembered that her father had often said, “There is no dog that cannot read the cast of any mortal. Harbour villainy and they will return it. Offer friendship and they will accept it—but at their own gait.” She forced herself to stand where she was and watch the slow movement of the hound toward her. He came, not directly, but on an arc which took him away to her right where she lost sight of him. Without words, the cry locked silently in her mind, she pleaded with the hound …
Your master suffers … there is suffering with me, too … leave me free to help him
. … She stared ahead at the hanging body. Its top half was covered with an undershirt, its front open, stirring slightly in the morning breeze. The lower part of the body was sheathed in tight-fitting leather breeches reaching just below the knees. On the feet were heavy, metal-studded, thick-soled sandals fastened by thongs at the ankles.

The hound paced back into her view and circled to her left, but this time halted within her sight. He raised his head, looked back at the oak tree and the other dogs, then swung his head slowly round and eyed her. Her instinct was to make some move, some show of friendliness, but she held still. Fear ran steadily in her, but it was a fear now that she fought to control. Slowly swamping her own misery and recent griefs there rose in her a warm compassion for the being who hung from the tree, who might still live and need her help. The hound lowered his head and moved toward her, stiff-legged, hackles partly risen. He stopped close to her and, reaching out his muzzle, sniffed at her left hand, which hung against her side. She felt the warm breath on her fingers. Suddenly the hound licked her hand, gave a low, easy growl and turned from her. Lerg walked back to the other dogs and sat on his haunches, his eyes on the girl.

Then, as though possessed by some strange power never known to her before, the girl felt her trembling ease, the quick beating of her heart die down. Without hesitation she walked forward. There was no fear in her now. She eased her bundle to the earth and unknotted the covering. Reaching inside, she fumbled around for a while and brought out a small sharp-edged dagger. She put the haft in her mouth, then crouched and jumped for the overhanging branch. She got two handholds, then swung her legs up and worked herself to a prone position on top of the branch. She eased herself along and began to saw at the thongs of the left wrist. As she cut the last one the body lurched sideways, spun slowly on the stretched thongs of the right hand, and the bound feet dragged across the earth.

The dogs watched but made no sound.

She wormed herself farther along the branch and with a few quick slashes cut the thongs of the remaining hand. The body fell in a heap to the ground. As it hit the earth there was the sound of a long-drawn moan. On the oak top Bran called sharply
carp carp
, and launched himself into the air in a clumsy spiral.

The girl dropped to the ground. She cut the ankle thongs and rolled the body over onto its back. For the first time she saw the face clearly. It was the face of a youth of about eighteen, a lean, strong, tanned, face, streaked with sweat and dirt, a young tawny-red beard growth fuzzing the square chin. Across the right side of his face was a jagged cut over which the blood had dried in a hard crust.

Oblivious now of the dogs, she went back to her bundle and brought out a small bronze cooking cauldron. She ran across the glade and along the path by which she had arrived. A little way down it a small spring sprang from the hillside. She filled the cauldron and went back to the youth. Pulling a small earthenware beaker from her bundle, she squatted on the ground and lifted the youth's head and shoulders up onto her knees. She forced his mouth open and poured water into it. He moaned a little and choked, the water spilling over his face and neck. She tried again and this time eased only a little water into his mouth, her hand shaking, chiding herself, “Gently, Tia, gently.”

Slowly she fed him water and when she judged he had had enough, she lowered his head to the ground, cushioning it on a woollen blanket from her bundle. She tore a long strip from the edge of her linen tunic and bathed his face, keeping the water away from the hard crust on his wound as much as she could since it was a better protection than any she could devise. His wrists were raw and bloody with the thong marks so she tore her linen facecloth into two strips and bound them around the wounds.