Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Praise
ABOU BEN ADHEM
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE
PART I - In the Shadow of Camlann
1 - WOLF
2 - GWYNEDD
3 - A HEARTHSIDE TALE
4 - EAVESDROPPING
5 - PRIVATE GROUND
6 - MACSEN’S TREASURE
PART II - The Hawk of Lanascol
7 - AIDAN
8 - GALYN
9 - BLACK LAKE
10 - PROMISES
11 - CORDOVIC
12 - THE BARGAIN
13 - AN HOUR PAST MOONRISE
14 - THE KING OF LANASCOL
15 - THE GOLDEN CITY
PART III - Three Tokens
16 - THE SMITH’S TALE
17 - CAER EDEN
18 - MARRAH’S PRAYER
19 - THE MASTER OF CASTLE NOIR
20 - THE CUP OF MAXIMUS
21 - DUNPELDYR
22 - THE SCABBARD
23 - DINAS BRENIN
24 - THE SEAT PERILOUS
25 - AN ILL WIND
BOOK TWO
PART I - Fields of Battle
26 - THE LANDING
27 - THE PROMISE
28 - THE STOWAWAY
29 - PRINCE OF GWYNEDD
30 - THE MEETING
31 - LANCELOT’S CURSE
32 - THE SEARCH
33 - THE SOLDIER
34 - THE TREASURE OF MAXIMUS
35 - THE LETTER
36 - AUTUN
37 - THE VICTOR’S SPOILS
38 - THE DRAGON AND THE HAWK
PART II - The Return of the King
39 - THE CROSSING
40 - CERDIC’S FIELD
41 - ON THE PLAIN OF CAMLANN
42 - THE QUEEN OF CAMELOT
43 - THE HARBINGER OF DOOM
44 - DAY OF DESTINY
BOOK THREE -
PART I - Three Women
45 - THE GIANTS’ DANCE
46 - THE FISHER KING
47 - THE BRIDE OF GWYNEDD
48 - THE CHOICE
49 - THE TOWER
50 - THE FORD
PART II - The Once and Future King
51 - AMESBURY
52 - THE GOOD SISTER
53 - LANCELOT
54 - THE ISLE OF GLASS
55 - QUEEN OF GWYNEDD
56 - THE SAXONS
57 - THE GRAIL
Also by Nancy McKenzie
THE DESCENT OF PENDRAGON
THE HOUSE OF GWYNEDD
THE HOUSE OF LANASCOL
Copyright Page
To Meg Affleck, Deborah Hogan, and Mary Stewart
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No writer I know writes without the help of other people. Grail Prince would never have been written without the pivotal influence of three women: Meg Affleck, Deborah Hogan, and Mary Stewart.
After I had sent my first Arthurian novel (The Child Queen , republished in 2002 as Queen of Camelot) off to an agent, I languished in postpartum doldrums, wondering what to write next. My sister Meg suggested I write a book about Galahad. At first I was appalled—what was there to say about a perfectly virtuous, perfectly boring man? But of course no one is perfect, and in the end it was the challenge of creating an imperfect character—more, one capable of downright despicable deeds, who nevertheless was the kind of man to inspire legends of stainless virtue—that won me over. Thanks to Meg, I decided to give it a try.
This wasn’t an easy task. I both loved and hated Galahad. More than once I sought the advice of Deborah Hogan, professional editor and friend, without whose expert assistance I would still be wrestling with Galahad. Her perspective, her appreciation of dark characters, her ability to perceive the best structure for a manuscript, were instrumental in bringing the work to publishable form.
I owe my greatest debt to Mary Stewart, author of my favorite Arthurian novels: The Crystal Cave, The Hollow Hills, The Last Enchantment , The Wicked Day. Her imagination and skill brought fifth-century Britain alive for me and helped shape my own vision of Arthur’s time. I took to heart her wish, expressed at the end of The Last Enchantment, that her books might be a beginning for some new enthusiast. I can think of no greater homage to Lady Stewart than to openly acknowledge that I strive to follow in her footsteps.
Heartfelt thanks are also due to Shelly Shapiro and Kathleen O’Shea David, editors at Del Rey Books, and to Jean Naggar, my agent, for their advice and assistance in shaping and publishing Grail Prince.
Finally, thanks to all my friends on Arthurnet for their words of encouragement, their erudition, and their unflagging interest in all things Arthurian.
—Nancy Affleck McKenzie
September 2002
PRAISE FOR NANCY McKENZIE’S QUEEN OF CAMELOT
“A rich and powerful tapestry of words layered in legend and myth . . . Surely Merlin’s magic reached out to touch Nancy McKenzie’s pen.”
—ELAINE COFFMAN
“Guinevere comes alive—a strong, resourceful, and compassionate woman, accessible to modern folk . . . McKenzie makes a quantum leap in defining the character of Guinevere as a real, flesh-and-blood woman. The Arthur-Guinevere-Lancelot triangle comes alive as well—believable, poignant, and bearing the seeds of tragedy.”
—KATHERINE KURTZ
“A lovely story, a wonderfully human retelling of the Arthur and Guinevere legend, one touched with passion and enchantment.”
—JENNIFER BLAKE
“McKenzie brings immediate freshness to her entertaining reworking of an often-told story by focusing on the girl destined to be queen.”
—Publishers Weekly
ABOU BEN ADHEM
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.
—JAMES LEIGH HUNT
(1784–1859)
PROLOGUE
In the twelfth year of the reign of Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, the full moon rose on the night of the autumn equinox. On that night Niniane, the Lady of the Lake, walked out the curved gates of Avalon unattended and ascended the Tor by secret paths to hear the Oracle of the Great Goddess.
She walked alone in her white robe to the clearing near the summit of the Tor. Below her stretched the glittering lakes, orchards, marshes, fields, meadows, flowing rivers, rich woodlands, and rolling hills of a land at peace: Arthur’s Britain. It had not always been so. She remembered well the years of war, the long fight against Saxon domination, the burned fields, the desecrated shrines, the rape of women, the savage butchering of children, the mortal terror of coastal villages at the sight of a Saxon sail.
Niniane stood by the Black Stone, waiting for the moment when the moon would rise above the pines and se
nd her first shaft of light onto the concave surface of the rock. She recalled the morning, over a decade past, when her predecessor, old Nimue, Chief Priestess of Avalon, had descended at dawn from her night on the sacred Tor. She had babbled at first. Perhaps that was why the Ancients called the oracle the Sacred Speaking. It had taken days to get sense from her. But what she had told them—that their young war leader would grow into the greatest king Britain had ever known; that he would unite the warbands and the kingdoms, from Lothian to Cornwall, into a single Kingdom and win for Britain a breathing space of peace from barbarian invasions; that Merlin the Enchanter would die entombed inside a rock; that for all his power the great king would fail to breed an heir of the woman he wed—all had come to pass.
Niniane shivered. Her dark hair was washed and dressed, pulled back from the pale oval of her face, her body bathed and scented, her robe as white and flawless as a thousand bleachings could make it. She was prepared. But in her heart she knew she did not want to receive this oracle. The land was at peace. She served Arthur, a man she liked and trusted against all her expectations, even though he was a Christian. She did not want anything to change. But she knew well that time turned, nothing stayed the same.
Overhead the heavens wheeled. The pines trembled as the great virgin disc rose brilliant and majestic above their branches. The first bright shaft of light stabbed down at the rock. Niniane took her curved knife from her belt and cut her wrist, letting the blood spill into the stone’s concave bowl. When it was full to overflowing she bound up the cut, lifted her hands to the moon, and murmured the ritual greeting. Light-headed, she staggered against the rock. The bowl of her blood looked black in the moonlight, glittering silver on the surface like a shining skin. Niniane blinked. There in the blood was the face of the Goddess, blank, white, inhuman. Niniane winced at the sudden sound of a strident, metallic voice.
The wheel is turning and the world will change. Those who are weak shall grow in power and the mighty shall be cut down. A dark prince from the Otherworld shall arise and slay the Dragon. A great serpent shall wade forth from the sea and swallow the Dragon’s remains. The Dragon himself will be borne across water and buried in glass. Forever. And a son of Lancelot, with a bloody sword and a righteous heart, shall renew the light in Britain before the descent of savage dark.
The voice stopped. Hands pressed hard against her ringing ears, Niniane slid to the ground. Overhead the night breeze sang sweetly in the pines. Somewhere below her on the hill a nightingale took up its song. Crouching in the shadow of the great rock, huddling from the moonlight, Niniane covered her face with her hands and wept.
BOOK ONE
PART I
In the Shadow of Camlann
In the first year of the reign of Constantine
1
WOLF
Galahad woke instantly. It was cold and dark. Silence breathed on his neck, and his heart raced. Where was he? He lay still, holding his breath, listening hard. He could see nothing, but something was there. The very air was thick with menace. He knew, without knowing how, that death was near.
Suddenly he heard again the sound that had jerked him awake: the shrill bleat of a horse in terror. His horse! Memory flashed back: Farouk tied at the back of the vaulting cave, Percival tucked in his bedroll against the rock face, a fire lit in a circle of stones at the mouth to keep away wolves—
He raised himself cautiously on one elbow. Two feral golden eyes stared at him out of the night, ten feet away, throat high. His breath stopped. By the dark light of dying embers he made out the thin gray-black body of a mountain wolf, head down, ears forward, ruff bristling, nose alive to living scent. Without moving his body he let his fingertips slide toward his belt and his dagger hilt. But even as the weapon slipped into his hand, he knew it was no use. He would never have enough time. At the first threat of movement the animal would attack. Already the lips stretched in an ugly snarl, revealing the great fangs. He stared back at the golden eyes as hard as he could. The wolf did not blink. A low, rumbling growl sprang from deep within its belly. Behind him the frightened horse swung around on his tether, nervous footfalls vibrating through the earth.
“Jesu God!” Percival’s terrified whisper split the silence. The wolf’s head shot up, turned. Galahad’s arm drew back and whipped forward as the animal, sensing its mistake, whirled and flung itself at him. The wolf fell dead as it hit his chest, the dagger’s hilt stuck in its throat.
“Galahad!”
“Shhh!” Galahad rose to a crouch, shaking, and scanned the darkness beyond the cave, but he could see no other eyes.
“My God!” Percival stifled a sob and wriggled out of his bedroll. “It’s my fault! The fire died—I fell asleep—he might have killed you! Oh, Galahad, after all we’ve been through—to think we might have ended as a meal for a mountain wolf! A wolf, of all creatures, when we’re on the road home to Gwynedd!”
“Be quiet, will you, for pity’s sake?” Galahad glanced at Percival’s shoulder badge, where the Gray Wolf of Gwynedd stood proudly guarding the Irish Sea. Did the boy think the creatures knew who he was? “Get busy with that fire. There may be others about.”
Forcing his breath to normal, Galahad looked down at the wolf’s emaciated body. It had been a hard year for wolves as well as men: a late, cold spring, a dry summer, a hot, desolate autumn, and now winter looked to be early. It must be bitterly cold in the heights to drive them down into the valleys so soon.
It’s a new world now. The thought came back to him unbidden, rising in his throat like vomit. Everything is changed.
He dragged the wolf’s body back to the cave mouth, pulled the dagger out, and slit its throat. Blood spilled out onto the rock ledge outside the cave, and dribbled down into the blackthorn thicket hedging the brook below. Percival lay on his stomach, cupping the precious embers as he blew gently on their only hope of fire. Galahad watched him a moment, saw the glow brighten and strips of whittled kindling curl and dissolve into little flames.
He nodded. “Keep your eyes open and your dagger nearby. The stench of wolf’s blood may deter any others, but fire’s better. I’m going to settle the horse.”
The black stallion snorted and flung his head at the end of his rope, but calmed when he felt the reassuring touch of his master’s hand. Galahad took his time with the horse, running his hands over the sweating coat and speaking calmly. “Rouk, Rouk, steady on, my boy. It’s only a wolf. You’ve faced worse: Romans in Gaul and Saxons in Britain. It’s all over now.” But underneath the steady flow of assurances, the fear he had lived with for six long weeks clutched him again. It is a new world now. Arthur is dead. Oh, dear God, Arthur is dead. . . .
He bowed his head against the horse’s flank as hot tears escaped his hard control. It was only last spring—a lifetime ago—he had left Britain with Arthur’s army to join the kingdoms of Less Britain in their stand against the Romans at Autun. That battle had ended the threat of Roman domination, but it had come at such a cost! So many men had died! His own father— He shrugged the thought away. He did not want to think about Lancelot.
And after Autun, disaster had followed hard upon disaster. Was it only six weeks ago, the Battle of Camlann? Six weeks ago half of Britain had died near the banks of the Camel within sight of the towers of Camelot.
Angrily he pushed away that memory. There was no point in remembering. Even the last six weeks were growing more difficult to recall. He had spent most of them at Percival’s side in Avalon’s House of Healing. That was a time shrouded in grief. Or had the Lady of the Lake drawn a living mist across his mind to guard the secrets of Avalon? He wouldn’t be at all surprised. Niniane, chief priestess when Arthur was King, was a powerful enchantress, a witch of the first order. And young Morgaine, who took her place after Camlann, was a gifted healer. Although it was widely claimed they used their power only for good, he did not trust them. He would have preferred a pile of bracken on the floor in one of the mean cells at the Christian monastery atop the Tor, ra
ther than sleep in a real bed with a down pillow as a guest of pagan priestesses in the orchards of Avalon. But they had saved Percival’s life. For that, he owed them courtesy.
What would happen now? He glanced toward the cave mouth, where Percival crouched over the growing flames. Percival of Gwynedd, his cousin, was eleven years old—too young to be a warrior king. He was one of twelve, the Lady said, to survive Camlann. But he had barely survived it. It had taken six weeks in Avalon and all the healing power the Lady could summon to close the sword cut in his shoulder and put color back into his face.
Galahad ran his hand over the stallion’s flank. The horse had cocked a hind leg now and slouched in boredom. How lucky animals were to forget fear so quickly! His own fear pressed down upon him like a bird of prey crouching on his shoulder, with every faltering step digging talons in. Once, he had had a future. King Arthur had given him a mission, a quest—the witch Niniane had sent him a dream about it—but now Arthur was gone and Niniane had disappeared. Nothing was the same as it had been. What on God’s sweet earth would happen now? Slowly, like a man in sleep, Galahad walked forward toward the fire.
“I’m sorry I shouted,” Percival mumbled. “I thought he was going to kill you.” He crouched over the pile of brush and branches they had gathered before dusk, searching for the right size tinder for the nascent flames.
“He might have, if you hadn’t drawn his attention. Your shout probably saved my life.” Percival colored shyly and reached for a branch. Galahad watched him struggle to break it across his knee. The boy had no strength yet in his injured arm. “Do you want some help?”
“Certainly not! Any village child of six can do this. And I’m nearly twelve.”
“No man of twenty could do it if he’d had his shoulder cut clean through six weeks ago.”
Percival flashed him a grateful look. Beads of sweat had formed along his brow, as cold as it was. “Nevertheless, let me try. I’ll get it.”
“You’ll open the wound again. And this time you won’t go to Avalon. You’ll have to settle for whatever care your kin can give you in Gwynedd.”
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