Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  She grinned at his discomfort. “You’re not as smart as you think you are, are you, princeling?”

  “Hush, child! Tame your tongue. Apologize for your behavior, Dane, and beg this young man’s pardon.”

  The physician straightened. “I can save him, my lady, but only with a leeching.”

  Anet shuddered. “Very well. His chamber is being prepared. But I pray you, sir, let him rest here until he is warm.” She turned to her daughter. “I know you are frightened, my dear, but that is no excuse for rudeness. You are awfully quick to judge. Apologize to Percival’s friend for your behavior.”

  “What has he done to deserve such deference? We don’t even know who he is!”

  Scandalized at her defiance, Galahad’s face flamed, and he was spared further embarrassment only by the sudden arrival of blankets, hot bricks, and bedding. The physician soon had Percival wrapped warmly, and gradually his shivering diminished and his color improved. They carried him to his own room and laid him on his bed. Galahad noted the bare walls, the meager furnishings—one clothes chest, one table by the uncarved bed, no lamp. By Camelot’s standards it was hardly fit for a prince, never mind a king. But the floor was swept clean, the mattress was plump with stuffing, two thick blankets of finely combed Welsh wool covered a bleached linen sheet, and the single table, intricately carved in the old style of the northern Celts, held a candlestand of silver.

  Glowing coals in the brazier struggled against the brisk whistle of wind through cracked window shutters. It was a losing battle. The room was cold and growing colder. Two blankets would hardly be enough. The place smelled musty from disuse, more like a tomb, Galahad thought suddenly, than a sleeping chamber. He shuddered and glanced quickly at Percival’s ashen face. In the small cell at Avalon, hung with fragrant herbs and warmed by an applewood blaze, Morgaine had prophesied a glorious future for Percival of Gwynedd. But one would be a fool to trust a witch. Galahad crossed himself quickly. Queen Anet took his arm and gently led him away, leaving the physician to his awful art.

  3

  A HEARTHSIDE TALE

  "I cannot bear to watch a leeching,” Anet confided with a shudder. “Come with me back to the fire, and tell us about yourself. You must be nearly as cold as Percival. We will give you hot soup and honey mead, and if you will oblige me, I am afire to hear all about your travels with my son.”

  As they passed through the hall the main door opened and a burly man strode in, covered with snow. He stamped his feet and shook himself as the servants hurried to relieve him of his cloak.

  “Damned storm covered the tracks,” he growled. “But it was a big boar—we’ll get her before the winter’s out.”

  “My lord Peredur!” The queen dipped him a quick curtsy. “Percival is home! He is ill, and wounded, but at last he has come back!”

  Peredur embraced her warmly. “Thank God! Anet, our prayers are answered. Where is he now?”

  “In his bed, asleep. Timonius is leeching him.”

  “He lies near death!” Dane cried, pushing forward. “Oh, Uncle, he’s been horribly wounded and nearly frozen to death in the snow!”

  Galahad scowled furiously at her but she paid him no attention.

  “What’s this? He’s wounded? How so? How did he get here?”

  Anet turned toward Galahad. “This brave young man brought him home. Timonius assures me Percival will live, but we may have this young lord’s help to thank for that.”

  Peredur’s blue eyes regarded Galahad. He was a thick-bodied man of middle years with a bushy brown beard going gray at the temples. Although not as tall as Galahad, he was twice his weight, with a bearing of authority.

  “Who are you, sir, and how do you come here with my nephew Percival?”

  Galahad bent his knee to the floor. “My lord, my name is Galahad. My homeland is in Less Britain, a place called—”

  “Galahad!” Peredur stepped forward and raised him. “Of Lanascol? Aye, lad, I know it well. Why, you are my sister Elaine’s son, and my nephew!”

  Galahad took an instant liking to this rough Welshman. It was the first time in his life he had been welcomed as Elaine’s son instead of Lancelot’s.

  “You see now what you have done,” Anet said quietly to Dane. “It is your own cousin you have insulted by judging so hastily. Are you not ashamed?”

  The girl’s face was already crimson. She turned to Galahad and made a pretty reverence, contriving somehow to look feminine in her boots and leggings. “I beg your pardon, cousin. Please forgive me.”

  To his fury, Galahad found his tongue tied. A nod was all he could manage, and he saw her eyes flash green with amusement before he looked away.

  “Let’s sit before the fire and hear your tale,” Peredur cut in. “Tell us where you’ve been and how you came to meet Percival. Of my brother Maelgon and of Arthur we have already heard, may they rest in peace. We had a courier from Gaul telling us of Maelgon’s death, and as for Arthur— news as bad as that travels on the wind. But come, Galahad, and give us the details. Tell us how young Percival came to be wounded.”

  They sat before the great log fire in the room where Percival had so recently lain. Servants arranged chairs and benches around the hearth, brought a bowl of rich, steaming broth for Galahad and cool mead in a silver pitcher. Peredur took the central chair and stretched his legs out to the fire while his servant stripped off his soaking boots. Anet settled herself beside Galahad with a few of her women behind her. The unruly girl curled at her mother’s feet, hugging her knees, placed, he noticed, so that she could watch him and yet be unobserved by her guardians.

  “Tell us, my lord,” Anet began, “how you met my son.”

  “I met him the night after Arthur’s ships landed in Brittany.”

  “Did Maelgon present him to King Arthur?” Anet smiled. “Perhaps Percival has told you how he begged to go with his father to the wars, and how Maelgon refused even to consider it. We thought him too young. He had no sword training; he did not even have a sword. But I suppose the truth is, we did not want to risk him. Of course he was wild to go and serve King Arthur. At the last moment, as they boarded the ships at Segontium, Maelgon relented, for we had a courier with the news he had taken Percival after all.”

  A slow blush spread across Galahad’s face. He knew the truth of that tale: Percival had sneaked aboard the ship without his father’s knowledge, and Dane had lied to Anet that Maelgon had changed his mind and decided to take Percival with him. Dane had presented Anet with Maelgon’s ring as a token of it, pretending it had come from Maelgon’s courier, although she had stolen it from her father’s chest weeks before when the plan was hatched. Galahad looked down at the girl’s upturned face. She glared defiantly back, daring him to tell the truth. He was tempted to do it and see if she got the beating she deserved, but the thought of Percival stopped him. Percival, lying ill and senseless, bled by the physician’s leeches, needed every bit of a hero’s welcome.

  He faced Anet. “He met Arthur the next morning. Then we moved off to Kerrec with the army and met King Hoel of Brittany. And Childebert, King of the West Franks.”

  “And Lancelot, of course,” Peredur prompted.

  Galahad nodded woodenly. “Everyone was there. Everyone united under Arthur—Britons, Bretons, and Franks. From Kerrec we marched south and east into Gaul and met the Romans at Autun.”

  No one spoke. All their eyes were on him. He described the great battle as best he could, seeing still in his mind’s eye rank upon rank of foot soldiers and cavalry clear to the horizon, hundreds of banners—boars, bears, hawks, wolves, dragons, and, of course, eagles—the bright blaze of armor amid whirlwinds of dust, the blinding flash of sword blades in the sun. As he spoke he heard again the tremendous roar of clashing armies, the incessant din of the battlefield, screaming horses, screaming men, bellowed paeans, and sobbing wails of pain. The very earth trembled beneath his feet. Again his blood ran hot with excitement and his flesh pricked cold as the black shadows of circling ravens
passed overhead. That brilliant June day had been a day of glory: Arthur of Britain and his allies had defeated the legions of Rome and sent them packing. But so many, many Britons had died. . . . Anet wept silently to hear again of Maelgon’s falling. It had been quick, at least, and honorable, a warrior’s death. Afterward, Arthur had handed Percival his father’s sword and given him the kingship of Gwynedd.

  Here Galahad stopped and glanced swiftly at Peredur. The ice-blue eyes were already fixed on him, narrowed slightly at the corners, perhaps in amusement, perhaps in assessment. Peredur nodded. “Arthur did Gwynedd the honor of sending us a courier directly from Gaul with the news of Maelgon’s death and his acknowledgment of Percival as his heir.” He smiled lightly. “And my appointment as regent until he is of age.” He leaned forward. “You suspect me, don’t you, young hawk? Don’t. I also acknowledge Percival’s claim. I will keep his kingdom strong and whole for him. It is not in Gwynedd’s best interest to divide the royal house, especially at a time of such uncertainty in Britain.”

  Galahad inclined his head. “Percival will be a strong king, my lord, I am sure of it, when he has a little more training. Why, he has already fought more Saxons than most knights twice his age!”

  “Saxons!” Dane’s head lifted, like a hound’s who scents the fox. “What Saxons? You said it was Romans you fought at Autun.”

  Color washed across Galahad’s face. He glanced hurriedly at Anet and Peredur, who watched him with polite, expectant faces. “Percival and I . . . we didn’t actually fight at Autun. We were too young for Arthur’s army.”

  “You were too young?” Dane cut in before anyone else could speak.

  “A year too young. I’m fourteen.”

  “But, surely”—Peredur frowned—“he could have fought with Maelgon’s troops. That decision was Maelgon’s, not Arthur’s. As you surely could have fought with Lancelot.”

  Galahad looked away. He did not want to explain his refusal to fight with Lancelot. Let the past lie quiet in the shadow of Arthur’s passing. It was a new world now.

  “I served King Arthur. So did Percival. Arthur did not want to risk both sons and fathers in the front line of the battle.”

  “Bless him,” Anet whispered.

  “Then what did you do?” Dane asked sharply. “Or were you both just watching?”

  “The High King put me in charge of the field guard,” Galahad retorted. “Percival was my lieutenant. We organized the grooms and pages and servants, and went among the fallen to see who could be saved, and killed anyone who tried to rob the bodies.”

  “Scavenger hunters!” Dane snorted in disgust, using the soldier’s term for the unpleasant but necessary duty usually assigned to the injured, the inept, or the cowards. “God in heaven! Percival a scavenger hunter!”

  “Hush, Dane!”

  “If he didn’t fight, how did he come to be wounded?” Peredur’s voice had lost some of its warmth.

  “That was later. After we got back to Britain. We fought and beat a Saxon army a day’s ride from the Giants’ Dance. At a place called Cerdic’s Field.”

  “Is that where Percival was wounded?”

  “No. He was wounded after that . . . at Camlann.”

  “Camlann!” Even Peredur paled, and Dane went perfectly white.

  “Only twelve survived Camlann, they say,” she whispered, her wide eyes as gray as spring storm clouds, dark and alive.

  “Percival was one.”

  “And you another.”

  “No.” Galahad’s lips thinned. Leave it to the wicked girl-child to ferret out his shame. “I did not fight at Camlann.”

  “You did not fight? My brother nearly died and you did not fight! Then you are a coward.”

  “Dandrane! Please!” But even Anet’s protest was not as strong as it had been before.

  Heat rose to Galahad’s face and he stared hard at the floor. He would tell them the truth, but not the whole truth. The whole truth was impossible. “I couldn’t fight . . . because I wasn’t there. Arthur sent me on a secret mission to Camelot. He gave me a message for the Queen. I had to get past Mordred’s lines, and sneak in and out of the castle without being seen.”

  “You saw Guinevere?” Anet asked quickly. “How does she fare?”

  “The King sent her to Amesbury, to the monastery there. To await him while he dealt with Mordred. That was the message.”

  “Thank God,” Anet said under her breath, crossing herself. “So that’s where she is! I have wanted so much to know. Peredur, this explains Constantine’s anger. When he took Camelot, he found her gone.”

  Peredur nodded. “The ambitious swine. Marriage to her might have brought him the allegiance of all Britain.”

  “Ah, God, poor woman. I have thought of her so often these weeks past. Still as lovely as a girl. And now, for all her beauty, she’s alone in the world, a widow as I am, but with no home, no place to call her own. Arthur and Mordred were her only family.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t go home with Lancelot,” Peredur said. “There are a thousand men in Britain who would be willing to give her a home, if she’d deign to have them. I thought Lancelot might be the one she would accept.”

  “Poppycock!” Anet cried. “You’ve been listening to kitchen gossip! There never was a woman more faithful to her lord than Guinevere was to Arthur. The faith between them was absolute—a thing rarely seen—stronger and more lasting than the ties of life. She’d never go with Lancelot, even as a widow. And I don’t believe Sir Lancelot would ever ask her.”

  Galahad shut his eyes and hung on desperately to his manners. They did not know Lancelot as well as he did. . . .

  “Well,” Peredur grumbled, “it’s a damned shame if she didn’t. The thought of that beautiful woman in a nunnery!” He shuddered. “And it’s a damned shame about Camlann. With Arthur gone to Gaul, Mordred had to take the kingship or the Saxons would’ve been at our throats. But we all thought he’d yield up his crown again if his father returned. Yet it seems they had to fight it out.”

  Galahad gulped. If only they knew the truth, they would weep for weeks at the injustice of it. He felt Dane’s eyes upon him and forced himself to ignore her.

  “Father and son,” Anet said slowly. “It seems that fate was against them.”

  In the long silence that followed, the only sound was the strident snapping of the fire.

  Predictably, it was Dane who spoke first. “So where were you during Camlann, that you did not fight?”

  She should have been a hound, Galahad thought. She never lost a scent. “After my visit to the Queen, I went to Avalon with a message for the Lady Niniane. I delivered the message, but she would not let me go to the Christian monastery atop the Tor, where I wished to spend the night. Instead, she gave me a bed in their House of Healing. And sent me a dream.”

  He looked at their faces, Anet’s polite and waiting, Peredur’s lightly frowning and slightly bored, Dane’s still and intent. He wondered if they would believe him. “The next thing I remember, I woke up in a cell at the monastery. And the Battle of Camlann was over.”

  No one spoke. He looked down at his hands. The knuckles were white.

  “How did you wake up in the monastery if you fell asleep in Avalon?” Dane asked quietly.

  He expected the question. It surprised him she exercised restraint in asking it. “I don’t know. That’s the truth. I don’t know. The witch of Avalon cast a spell upon me, I suppose. She’s famous for them.”

  Dane bit her lip and her eyes flashed. He could not tell if she was angry or laughing at him. “You were asleep while Percival and Arthur risked their lives for Britain?”

  No protest this time from Queen Anet. He flushed darkly. “You could call it that, I suppose. It was not a sleep of my own choosing.”

  “No, no, certainly not,” Peredur said easily. “No one doubts your courage, I am sure. Where did you find Percival, then? On the battlefield?”

  “No. Next morning at Avalon. It was where all the wounded w
ere taken. Lancelot . . . went back to Lanascol, but when I found out Percival was alive, I stayed with him in the Lady’s House of Healing until he was well enough to travel. Then I brought him north. It was a bad wound, and he was senseless or wandering for a fortnight, but Lady Morgaine promised him it would heal cleanly, and he would be able to use a sword.”

  “I thought you said Niniane was Lady of the Lake,” Dane said sharply.

  “She was. But after Camlann she left. The Lady Morgaine has her power now.”

  “Where did Niniane go?” Anet asked.

  “I don’t know. They don’t answer questions outright, even if you ask.

  Some said she had gone back to her husband’s home. Pelleas, King of the River Isles, was one of the twelve survivors. He was wounded and she might have gone home to tend him.” He shrugged. “It does not matter.”

  “But it does,” Peredur said warmly. “It matters to me. Pelleas’s kingdom is in Guent, which is part of Wales. I’m going to try to unify Wales, if I can, and I don’t want that pagan witch messing things up.”

  Galahad straightened. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t think of that. I wish I knew for certain where she went, but I don’t.”

  “Perhaps you can tell us something else the whole kingdom wants to know: Where does the High King lie? Have you any idea?”

  Galahad swallowed. “Yes, my lord.” Dane’s head whipped up. “But I have sworn an oath of secrecy. Lancelot bound me, so that the Saxons will never find him. It was what Arthur wanted.”

  “So Arthur anticipated the Saxons coming that far west into Britain?” Peredur fingered his beard. “I don’t think Constantine expects it. Well, well. And your father went back to Lanascol? And you didn’t go with him.”

  Galahad felt Dane’s eyes upon him and lifted his chin so he could not meet them. “My lord, I . . . I couldn’t. We, er . . . I had to find Percival. Dead or alive, I had to bring him home.”

  “For which we thank you, Galahad,” Anet said, warmth returning to her voice.