Chalice of Blood

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The snow had begun to descend in thick icy flakes, driving into their faces, cold and clinging, obscuring the path along the river bank and adding another coating to the already whitened landscape. The low mountains that surrounded them on both sides of the river seemed to vanish under the white shroud, for they already had several weeks of snow lying on them. There was no sound of birds, wisely taking shelter, or of other animals. The heathland and trees were silent and even their footsteps made no noise, for the snow was thick and soft beneath. Only the great river, to their right, announced its presence with a constant rumble as it cut its tumultuous path through the white surroundings.

‘Is it far?’

The tall, bearded man who was leading the way did not pause in his measured stride.

‘Not far,’ he called without turning his head. It was not the first time that his companion, hurrying in his footsteps, had asked the question since they had left the little settlement. The second man was slightly built and roughly thirty years of age, wrapped in the dark brown woollen robes of a religieux. The response from his burly guide, clad in a warm badger’s fur hunting cloak, was always the same as they trudged along the river path.

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