Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  The woman gasped and grabbed for the blankets. “In front of your own son! Are you not ashamed?”

  But the king lay still, watching him calmly, holding the sword without effort.

  “Galahad. Son. Could you not sleep?”

  The boy gulped. “Leave her alone! You are hurting her! Why can’t you leave her alone? Go away! We don’t want you here!”

  The king moved off her, then, and carefully set the sword down. Slowly and with deliberation, he swung out of bed and faced the boy, a naked giant of a man, tall and lean, war-hardened and battle-scarred, a king’s man, a king. The boy stepped back. His mother’s hand pulled him close against the bed and held him. She whimpered something to him but he did not listen. He could not take his eyes from the man before him.

  “I am not ashamed,” the king said. “She is my wife. It is my right. But even so”—and the voice softened slightly—“I would not hurt her. Go ahead and look. There is not a mark on her. She is not in pain.”

  “You hurt her!” Galahad blurted, fighting tears. “I saw you!”

  The man said nothing, but reached for his leggings and pulled them on, then his boots, his tunic and mantle and royal brooch. Finally he reached for his sword.

  “Galahad. Be easy, son. Your mother is well and whole. If I have hurt her, it is in her vanity only, and does not touch her honor—”

  “Honor!” she howled, pointing a finger at him. “Oh, yes, let’s talk about honor! How you lust after one woman and lie with another! What precious honor!”

  “Hush, Elaine,” he replied in irritation. “This does not help him to understand it.”

  The boy listened as the familiar bitterness of their arguments eddied past him, making him feel alone and small. All he understood was that the king had admitted to causing her pain. He stepped forward from her embrace.

  “I will kill you for it,” he said firmly, standing straight as a soldier and looking his father in the face. “When I am grown. I will kill you.”

  His mother squeezed his arm but the king did not move. The gray eyes pinned him with the swiftness of a dagger blow. Although his heart was pounding, Galahad could not look away from his father’s face, from the black hair and straight black brows, the clean lines of cheekbone, jaw, and chin, and the crooked nose, broken in childhood, that women said robbed him of beauty. Slowly the king raised the sword and touched the blade to his forehead in salute.

  “When you are grown, we shall see,” he said with a grim smile, and turned away. At the door he stopped and looked back. “Soon, Elaine, I will take him with me. Next summer, perhaps. He is ready. He has been too long with you.”

  “Take him, if you dare!” she spat. “I will kill you myself first! He is all I have! Go back to Britain, where everyone values you so, and leave us alone. The great Lancelot! No one wants you here.” She clutched the boy to her breast as the door closed.

  He turned and kissed her face. “I’m sorry, Mama. The sword was heavy.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek as she ruffled his hair. “My fierce little protector, you couldn’t have stopped him. Not tonight. His blood was up. It’s not your fault, my brave boy. It’s the fault of that wicked Queen, that sorceress, Guinevere. The whore of Britain.”

  The day Lancelot left for Britain, Galahad and his brothers gathered in the forecourt with their nurses, waiting with Lancelot’s brother Prince Galyn and his new wife, Adele, to bid the king farewell. The escort waited with them, a hundred horses in five neat rows stamping their feet, flicking their tails, tossing their heads and playing with their bits until the shuffle and jingle of their impatience filled the courtyard, raucous in the peace of early morning. Overhead, cool spring clouds hung low, promising rain.

  In the center of the courtyard a groom held a riderless black stallion who danced and snorted, refusing to be still. A saddlecloth was strapped to the horse’s back, embroidered with the Hawk of Lanascol. Galahad watched the stallion prance. Alone of all the men in Lanascol, Lancelot rode bareback, even in battle. He was, Galyn had once said in envy, music in motion on a horse. Suddenly the stallion quieted, pricked his ears toward the king’s house, and nickered.

  Elaine and Lancelot came out the door together and down the shallow steps of the king’s house. Even from where he stood Galahad could hear the hushed murmur of their voices and knew at once they were arguing. His mother’s face was cool and proud, his father’s strained.

  “I’ll be back for him before the summer is out,” he heard Lancelot say as they came toward him. “He’s old enough. There are lads in Camelot as young as he.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Try to see reason, Elaine. He is my son, too.”

  She looked away, her face hard. “Attempt it at your peril. You will regret it.”

  “I regret so many things.” Lancelot spoke grimly. “One thing more. This year I’m leaving Galyn in command of Lanascol, since he’s not coming with me. His orders, all his orders, are to be obeyed.”

  Galahad glanced swiftly at his mother. Her face froze, but a slow blush crept upward from her throat.

  “Do not try to thwart him, Elaine. You will answer to me for it. And I might as well tell you now that I’ve sent to the bishop for a new priest—an honest one. His name is Patrik and he’ll be here soon. Galyn will see him installed in the chapel. As for Aidan—keep that filthy charlatan out of Benoic and away from my sons. I’ll not tell you twice. If he shows his face inside the gates, Galyn has orders to kill him.”

  Elaine’s blue eyes widened, and then narrowed. Her lips moved stiffly. “How like you, Lancelot, to kill a man who does not suit you. Even a man of God.”

  Lancelot grunted. “He’s as much a man of God as I’m a Saxon. I’m not the fool you think me, my dear. Be warned.”

  Her chin lifted in defiance but she said nothing. Lancelot gazed down at Galahad. “Galahad, my son.”

  “My lord.”

  “I have agreed to let your mother keep you here in Benoic a while longer. But before the next equinox I’ll return to take you back to Britain. It’s time you came to Camelot and joined the fellowship of soldiers who serve Arthur. It’s where your place will be when you are grown.”

  “His place is here with me!” Elaine snapped. “At least until Arthur has freed himself of that profligate witch of a wife! She’ll not have charge of my son! Not while I live!”

  Lancelot’s face whitened and his nostrils flared. “Mind your promise to me,” he said in a flat voice, “or I’ll take him with me now.”

  “I have not said her name. That is all I promised.”

  Lancelot drew a deep breath and looked down at Galahad. “Judge by actions, Galahad, not by words, and strive to make truth your companion. I must be going—stay by your mother and keep her from harm. I’ll be back by summer’s end.”

  They watched as Lancelot leaped lightly onto his stallion’s back. He raised an arm as the nervous horse swung round, and the soldiers drew their swords and touched them to their foreheads in salute. Lancelot sketched a salute in return and, whirling the stallion on his haunches, started down the road toward the gates of Benoic.

  The onlookers watched silently until the galloping horses were no more than a low vibration on the heavy air. Then, as if a signal had been given, everyone began to move at once.

  Elaine reached for Galahad’s hand. “Galahad, come with me.”

  She led him to her garden, where Grannic huddled on a carved bench, wrapped in a cloak. Elaine began to pace back and forth along the stone-paved walk, wringing her hands and moving in short, sharp strides.

  “Who does he imagine he is, to order me about so? I, Elaine of Gwynedd, to take orders from his brother? Have I not ruled Lanascol in his absence these four years past? And now I am unworthy to be obeyed by his kin? He uses me as a doormat; he wipes his boots on me!” She spun around, snapping her fingers. “That for his commands! I shall do as I please. What can he do to me that he has not done already? He has abandoned me here in this cruel count
ry, so far from home! Let him have me horsewhipped, if he dares!”

  At this Grannic stirred. “Calm yourself, my lady. Sir Lancelot has never horsewhipped anyone, and you know it well. You will throw yourself into one of your weeping fits, if you’re not careful.”

  “I don’t care!” Elaine cried, flinging her arms out. “Why shouldn’t I weep? He has left me with little else to do!”

  “Prince Galyn is a kind man. You will have the running of the household, not Adele. You will not be powerless.”

  “A queen of chamberlains, cooks, and gardeners?” She held out her arms to Galahad and he ran into her embrace. “I am not even queen of my own bed! Ask Galahad. He knows.”

  “Shame!” Grannic cried, rising. “He’s but a child!”

  “Perhaps, but he knows more than most boys twice his age. Don’t you, my handsome prince?”

  She sat next to Grannic on the bench and let Galahad climb into her lap. “My little warrior,” she said fiercely, hugging him close. “You will be strong one day, stronger than all of them. It has been foretold. Strong enough to protect me from him, won’t you, little prince?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She stroked his hair and spoke solemnly. “One day you will outshine your father. Remember the prophecy of the Lady of the Lake. He is corrupt, but you will be pure. One day you will raise the sword of righteousness in Britain, and the light of your glory will eclipse all other lights.”

  Galahad had heard this many times before. It was her favorite refrain in her injured moods. The words meant little to him, but he loved to see the way her eyes lit when she spoke.

  “It means you will destroy your father,” she said firmly, “and that is a sight I should dearly love to see.”

  Old Grannic shook her head. “Shame on you, Elaine. It’s wrong to turn a lad against his father. Just because your nose is out of joint.”

  “Out of joint!” Elaine’s great blue eyes filled with tears. “Grannic, you were born and raised in Wales, as I was. Don’t you miss it? Don’t you ever miss those solemn mountains, those narrow valleys, and the cold, gray sea? Don’t you dream of it every night? Doesn’t the longing for it fill every waking hour of every interminable day? I tell you, I shall die if he does not take me home. A year, a single year, was all I asked.”

  Grannic sighed. “Elaine, my dear, from a child you’ve always wanted what you couldn’t have. You are queen of a kingdom larger than your father’s. You have three healthy sons. What more do you want?”

  “What more?” Elaine cried. “Are you jesting? You are no help to me anymore, Grannic. You’re so old your wits are gone. Go inside and leave me alone with my son.”

  Elaine hugged Galahad tightly and pulled his head to her breast. “You know the wrongs he has done me, don’t you, Galahad? You remember the things I’ve told you? He has taken me from my home and all my kin, and for what? To sit alone in this dark fortress, surrounded by an impenetrable forest, while he waits hand and foot upon my wicked cousin, King Arthur’s wife! Oh, God! What has she ever done to deserve such homage? Why cannot Arthur see with the eyes God gave him? Your father, Galahad, worships her—he worships her before even God.” Her voice broke; she wiped her tears fiercely away. “He will do anything to please her; he will grovel; he will beg to be allowed to kiss the ground she treads. But I am not worthy to receive his brother’s bow! How unfair it is! She, who was born in a tiny kingdom without hope of power, she has them both! And I, Princess of Gwynedd—who am owed such adulation by right of birth—I have no one!”

  Caught in the whirlwind of her emotion, Galahad gripped her hand and held it hard between his own. “I’m here, Mama.”

  “Ah, Galahad!” She clutched him and wept into his hair. “I will be revenged. By God I will!” She smiled weakly down at him. “You’ll be a thousand times the man he is! What a gall you will be to him!”

  “What is a gall?”

  “He is cruel to me, Galahad; you don’t know how cruel. And this latest insult! Your father thinks he can rule my life even when he is not here. But I have never, ever submitted to his will, except when he has forced me. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mama.” Galahad looked away.

  “Did you hear what he said about Father Aidan?”

  Galahad nodded and Elaine smiled bitterly. “Pay no attention. Aidan will come to me when and where I will. Lancelot is powerless to prevent it.” She cast a quick glance beyond the garden wall. “I will tell you a secret, Galahad. Aidan has been here for weeks now, but in hiding. Let the new priest come. Your uncle Galyn will officially install him and Lancelot will be content. But Aidan will still be here in secret. You see, Galahad”—and suddenly she turned to him, her bright blue eyes holding his own—“no worldly power can keep him out. Father Patrik, or whatever his name is, may have the bishop’s blessing, but Father Aidan has God’s own. He is a wandering holy man and beholden to no one, not to a bishop, not to a pope. He lives as the lilies in the field, from season to season with only God’s protection. And this summer, Galahad, he will be your teacher. Learn well from him. But make this our secret. Don’t tell even Maida or Renna. And certainly don’t tell Galyn. The young fool thinks he must kill him because Lancelot wants his death.”

  A bird called somewhere in the silence, sweet and shrill. Elaine went suddenly still. The call came again and she rose, pushing Galahad from her lap. “Now go. Renna must be wondering where you are.”

  Although she did not move, Galahad sensed excitement in her. He followed her gaze, but could see nothing unusual in the corner of the garden. “Mayn’t I stay with you? Please, Mama?”

  She bent down quickly and kissed his cheek. There was a gaiety about her that he had not seen all winter. “No, my sweet prince. Not right now. Later I shall send for you and we’ll sup together. Will that do? Now run along and find Renna. There’s a good boy.”

  He obeyed, walking slowly back the way he had come. But on the threshold of the house he turned. His mother stood where he had left her, running a hand over her gown to smooth the wrinkles, her eyes on the low door in the garden wall. And slowly, very slowly, the latch lifted and the door began to open.

  “There you are!” Strong hands spun him around and Renna lifted him bodily from the ground. “Where have you been, you young scamp! I’ve been searching the place from the rafters down!” She laughed just a shade too loudly, shut the door behind him, and took him away.

  Galahad awakened suddenly from a dreamless sleep. Heart racing, he slipped out of bed, pulled on his tunic, and belted it tightly around his narrow waist. Then he slithered onto the stone sill and paused, looking out at the night. It was moonless and chill, with clouds hanging low over the surrounding forest. He did not stop to wonder where he was going or what it was that called to him from the silent dark. Without any thought beyond anticipation, he dropped silently to the ground, slipped into the shadows, neatly avoided the sentries, and made his way beyond the grounds of the king’s house, through the twisted alleys of the town to the postern gate. Here he stopped, suddenly uncertain. A single sentry stood watch under the dim light of a burning torch. Galahad hid in the shadow of an old oak and waited. Before long he heard footsteps. The sentry heard them, too.

  “Who goes there, in the king’s name?”

  “It is I, Gilles. As arranged.”

  “My lady.” The sentry bowed low and, without lifting his eyes, backed away into the dark.

  Two figures appeared, walking side by side along the wall. The man wore a monk’s robe tied at the waist with a braided leather thong. His face was hidden by his cowl. The woman wore a light cloak over her gown and a hood that only half-hid her golden hair.

  “You’ve heard the prophecy,” she was saying. “He needs to be directed and prepared. He’s easy to instruct; you’ll find him quick and obedient. Use care, though. If he’s riled beyond endurance he can fly into a passion. It’s more than temper, I promise you. In that, he’s like his father. I will leave him in your hands, but don’t d
elay. We have only months. Lancelot will be back at summer’s end to take him.” She paused. “I intend to go with them, but if I am refused, you must keep him from taking Galahad. I don’t want him going to Britain until he’s old enough to wield a sword. I want revenge.”

  A low voice answered, deep, rich, and authoritative. “You will get your revenge in time, Beauty. Lancelot’s glory will be as a candle to Galahad’s sun. This every seer worth his salt has already seen in the stars.”

  Elaine stopped in front of the gate and put a hand on his arm. “I want to see that day! I want to see Lancelot’s face!”

  “That I cannot promise.”

  “But you must. And you will, for me. Can’t you come earlier tomorrow? There is so much to discuss. And”—she pressed closer—“my need of you is great.”

  The robed figure bowed over her hand. “Not until moonset.”

  “An hour ago you scoffed at the regent’s power—now you are afraid of being caught by his soldiers?”

  The man stiffened at her bantering tone. “I fear no man. Nor any woman.”

  The queen laughed. “The bravest of all men, no doubt. I have heard that boast before. ”

  “No man can harm me when God is my shield.”

  “Indeed? Even so, you might do well to fear a woman. . . . Come at moonset, then. Send the usual signal. Tomorrow I will bring the boy.”

  “No need. He will come at my call.”

  “Without my leave? You overstep yourself.”

  “I have already summoned him. He is here. Now.”

  Her head whipped round, scanning the shadows. “Where?”

  “Hiding. You might do well, Beauty, to remember this one thing: What is between your son and me is nothing you can share.”

  “There is nothing at all between you until I give you leave!” she retorted angrily. “Understand this, if you wish to live until morning!’

  The tall man laughed gently and bowed low. “You will get your due, Beauty. Never fear it.”

  “You will be ruled by me.”

  “By God first.”

  “Agreed. And you will not harm my son.”