He was silent, thinking back. Sitting here in the orchard, with the sunlight gilding the grasses, and the fresh sounds and scents of morning around him, it seemed impossible that he had ever fallen victim to the smoky charms of Morgan le Fay.

Alice, seeing the trouble in his face again, spoke gently: “Did you perhaps think that you yourself had need of it? I’m sorry. It seems that poor mortals such as we have no right to it, to any part of it, even if we could find where the rest of the treasure – the spear and the grail – lies hidden. Perhaps they are now beyond the reach even of Nimuë. Perhaps they are with Merlin himself, hidden in the light. You know what they say of him, that he sleeps in his own holy hill, with all his fires and travelling glories around him. So you must content your spirit, my lord, with the sight of the grail that we brought with us from Gaul.”

“Yes, that – the grail you brought. This is what I don’t understand. You make it sound as if there was more than one cup of the Lord’s Supper!”

“Oh, there is,” said Alice, a little sadly.

“What do you mean?”

“I told you that I’ve travelled with my father on pilgrimage – twice to Jerusalem, and twice to the shrine of St Martin in the Frankish kingdom. In those places, especially in Jerusalem, the pilgrims are offered relics of the time when Jesus lived; relics, even, of the sacred moments of His life and death. And – but I don’t want to distress you –”

“No. Go on.”

“Well, there are men who make a living from this trade – for that’s what it is. Relics command good prices, from poor pilgrims and also from the emissaries of the wealthy churches and courts that would own and revere such things. I’m sorry if you didn’t know this.”

“Only because I never thought about it! But now that you tell me … But do you mean that Macsen’s treasure, those things of power, are false? Surely that cannot be!”

“Of course not! But from what one has heard, Macsen’s grail, though like the sword they call Caliburn it’s a thing of power and great beauty, is no more the cup that Jesus drank from than a dozen or so I’ve seen in the Holy Land.”

“And the one that you brought with you?”

“It’s a small cup of gold, very lovely, and beautifully made.” She smiled. “But would you have thought that Jesus and his friends ate and drank off gold?”

“I – I never thought about it like that.”

“I’m afraid that His cup must have been clay, a simple pot long since broken to pieces.”

“But if you know this –” Alexander, she was glad to see, was not disturbed by any flaw in faith, though he still looked troubled – “if you know this, why did you – or rather why did the duke your father – let this Frank who travelled with you bring this ‘grail’ back to the brothers here? Already tales of its holiness are going about, and the poor folk will expect miracles!”