Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Indeed, I will not. He is more precious to me than you can guess.”

  “Good. I bid you good night, then. Come tomorrow and be on time.” She turned away with the characteristic lift of her chin, and then she paused. “Is he really here?”

  The robed figure turned toward the oak tree and went still. Galahad felt silent fingers reach out to him, close about his will, and move him forward three steps into the outer reaches of the light.

  Elaine gasped. “Galahad!”

  Galahad did not turn to look at her; he could not. He was drawn to the deep black space inside the cowl. As he stared, the outlines of a face gradually appeared, lit by a pair of light, feral eyes. He tried to call out. His lips moved but made no sound. Aidan! Inside the gates! The wild eyes smiled. Galahad fainted.

  8

  GALYN

  "You know, don’t you, that he’s here, that she meets with him every day.” Adele paced back and forth across the chamber, plucking at her gown.

  Galyn stood as still as the carved chair he leaned on. “Are you sure? Have you seen him?”

  “No.” Adele turned. Her dark eyes narrowed with worry; damp tendrils of hair escaped her net and danced in agitation as she moved. “She’s very clever, Galyn. I don’t think Lancelot knows half how clever she is. She sneaks away and no one knows where she’s gone, not Pella, not Desse, not even Grannic.”

  “What makes you think she’s meeting him?”

  “The triumph on her face. The sly smiles. The condescension. The veiled references to Galahad’s instruction. To his ‘higher’ calling. It’s as if she’s daring us to ask her outright if the man is here.”

  “Have you?”

  Adele flashed him a quick look. “Indeed, no! That’s man’s work, if there ever was! She’s Lancelot’s queen; I’m not crossing her path if I can help it. You ask her. You’re regent.”

  Galyn lifted his shoulders a fraction. “I don’t want a contest of wills this soon after Lancelot’s departure. I’d rather find out another way. When she disappears, does Galahad go with her?”

  “Sometimes.” Adele wrung her hands together and then made herself stop. “Galyn, what if— I know Lancelot is worried about the boy’s corruption, but what if . . . what if it’s Elaine who’s really in danger?”

  “What do you mean, ‘in danger’?”

  “I think—I’m not at all sure, because she conceals it—but I think there’s something more between them than the boy’s education.”

  Galyn straightened slowly. “Speak plainly.”

  She stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “Why did Lancelot marry her, Galyn? We both know it wasn’t for love, and surely he could have had his pick of women. Why her?”

  “He got her with child.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  Galyn frowned. “He’s never told me, Adele. And I’ve never asked. I only know the stories you know.”

  “That he was drunk and took her by mistake, thinking she was Guinevere?”

  “It must have been more than drink.”

  “What, then?”

  Galyn hesitated. “Lancelot’s a man of hard control. But when the control breaks, it’s like a dam smashing. All his passions break their bond at once and sweep his sense away. He does things that in his right mind he would never do. It serves him well in battle; it makes him well-nigh invincible. But it happens at other times as well, when he’s been pushed too far. It’s his only flaw. He himself calls it his curse. I’ve always imagined his bedding of Elaine must have come at such a time.”

  Adele sighed sadly. “A moment’s derangement he’s paid for with his life. And I don’t believe that’s the whole story, either. Do you know what I think? I think Elaine planned it. Elaine plans everything.” She looked up at him and spoke in a whisper. “But this I know. He doesn’t lie with her now, except when he’s driven to it.”

  Galyn gasped. “Are you suggesting . . . are you suggesting they aren’t his sons?”

  Adele smiled. “No, no. You have only to look at them to know they’re his. No, I meant, what would a woman do in such a circumstance? What would Elaine do? She has a nature that demands admiration. She cannot deny herself the satisfaction of her smallest whim. As little as she loves Lancelot, she resents the insult of his inattention.”

  “I don’t know.” Galyn frowned. “What would she do?”

  Adele glanced quickly behind her. “She would find herself a man she could command. She would find herself a lover.”

  “She would not dare!” Galyn said softly. “He could kill her for it!”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t. Not Lancelot. He might kill the man. And hasn’t he given you those very orders?”

  Galyn let out a low whistle. “I wondered what was behind the banishment. It’s not like him to treat a priest so. When he told me it was on account of the man’s corruption, I thought he was worried about the boys. My God. This sheds a clearer light on everything.”

  “But he was right to be worried about the boys. Galahad’s secretive enough as it is, but lately he’s been more so. He spends all day bent over the Sacred Scrolls, working out the words and learning them by heart.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

  “It isn’t natural!” Adele cried. “He should be out with the other boys, fishing in the river, riding his pony, rolling about in the dust with his companions, playing with wooden swords and daggers, out in the bright sun of summer, in God’s blessed light. Instead, he hides away in a corner with a candle and his scrolls, and memorizes verses until his little head ought to burst with the knowledge! Who inspires him to this, Galyn? Not Elaine— she says she can read, but I’ve never seen her glance twice at a scroll. He has no friends. Who sets him these tasks?”

  Galyn frowned. “Have you asked him?”

  “He doesn’t answer. He just politely apologizes for disturbing me and vanishes to another corner. Something is very wrong, my dear. I’m sure that priest is here. Somewhere.”

  Galyn came forward and took her in his arms. “I’m indebted to you, Adele. I’ll keep an eye on Galahad from now on. I have an idea or two how his interest might be diverted from his studies. Underneath that serious demeanor of his, he is a boy.”

  Adele looked at him worriedly. “I suppose so. But sometimes I wonder.”

  Galyn pushed open the stable door, and the warm, musky odor of horses, hay, and rubbed leather engulfed Galahad in a wave, drawing him inside. He had always found it a heady scent, enticing and impossible to resist. From his corner tether a gray pony whinnied hopefully.

  Galyn laughed. “Little pig.” He slapped the pony hard on the rump as they walked by; the ears went flat. “You’ve had enough already.”

  “Watch out, Uncle Galyn. He’ll kick you.”

  “No, he won’t. Look at his eyes. He’s still watching your pouch, looking for carrot tops. How’s your riding coming? Have you had a chance to try the new course Lancelot set the cavalry?”

  Galahad nodded. “I can do it. But Cherub is awfully slow.”

  Galyn grinned. “You’ll get a faster mount in time. Then we’ll find out if you’ve got your father’s skill. Come see the surprise I told you about. Ho, Nedric, bring the new stallion out.”

  The groom led out a gleaming liver chestnut with large, dark eyes and a white blaze down his forehead. Neat-footed as a pony, the stallion sidled against the groom, tucking his head until his bent neck was a long, bulging curve of smooth-coated muscle. The groom made him stand quietly, and the horse looked at them eye-to-eye, unafraid.

  “What’s his name?” Galahad asked softly.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten around to that. What do you think I should call him? Anything but Blaze.”

  “Caesar!” Galahad cried suddenly. The stallion snorted and his ears shot forward. The groom pulled on the halter rope and laid a hand against the horse’s neck.

  “Why Caesar? What made you think of it? It’s a Roman name, and he’s hardly a Roman horse.”

&nbs
p; “It’s the highest rank. Higher than generals.”

  “Ahhh. I see. But you’re forgetting the High King of Britain. That’s a higher rank than caesar.”

  “It is?” Galahad stared wide-eyed at his uncle, who went forward to stroke the horse.

  “It is indeed,” Galyn replied, and then under his breath finished, “but God save Arthur if he ever has to prove it.”

  “Call him Arthur, then.”

  “No, no.” Galyn laughed. “I’d not do such a thing to Arthur. Caesar is good enough. Ho, Caesar, stand while I handle you. Now, Galahad, are you ready? Come on. I’ll give you a leg up.” Galyn swung him aloft and settled him onto the stallion’s back. “There you go. Grip his mane; it’ll keep you steady.”

  But Galahad did not need to grip the mane. He sat up straight and looked past the horse’s ears to the far wall, all his concentration on the animal beneath him. He could feel every muscle, every sinew as it moved, stretched, shifted, every breath taken and released, every lift of the tail behind him—all this he could feel from the warm back beneath his seat. This was nothing like sitting his pony, which was not much different from sitting in Grannic’s chair with the curved braces that rocked back and forth. This was like sitting on living magic, powerful beyond imagination, capable at any moment of breaking free of the groom’s control and speeding him away. He thought about what that would feel like, racing over meadow grasses, leaping streams, flying down forest tracks— His legs tensed, the horse stepped forward, was brought up short by the rope, and snorted in frustration, pawing the ground.

  “Not yet, my handsome devil. Not yet.” Galyn’s voice had an odd quality about it, and Galahad turned to look at him. His uncle was smiling. “I knew it. You’re born to it—it’s in your blood already. You just think it and the horse obeys.”

  “He wants to run. He’s tired of the stable and he wants to run free.”

  Galyn smiled. “Exactly. It’s what he does best. He’s young yet, and hasn’t got all his manners. Come on, princeling. That’s enough for now. Pretty soon he’ll talk you into setting him free in the Wild Forest and we’ll never see him again.”

  But Galahad ached to stay on the horse. “Uncle Galyn,” he said quickly, ignoring the uplifted arms, “why is my father wicked?”

  Galyn stared. “What! Lancelot wicked? Who has been telling you such tales? Why, he’s the best man alive and the best knight on either side of the Narrow Sea, second only to Arthur himself! There’s not a man in all of Less Britain, never mind Lanascol, who can touch him for skill with a sword. The only man in Britain who can best him is Pendragon himself. Of course, it’s not his prowess as a soldier that makes him a good man. Lancelot’s word of honor is as good as gold. That’s why kings, dukes, knights, common folk, children, and wise graybeards all hold him in such high esteem. Everyone trusts him. He’s foremost among Arthur’s companions. No one challenges Lancelot. He’s the best there is.”

  “Mama hates him.”

  Galyn waved the groom away and took the halter rope himself. “Surely ‘hate’ is too strong a word. Married people have . . . differences. . . .” He paused, but the boy’s puzzled expression did not change. “They say things to one another they don’t mean, in a moment’s passion. It is because they love one another that they are so sensitive to slights.”

  “But he went away. To see the wicked Queen.”

  “Wicked Queen? You must be— Now listen.” Galyn gripped him firmly and lifted him down from the horse. “Listen to me, Galahad, I will tell you truth.” He knelt down to the boy. “Your father is the best man I know. He is beloved by all who know him, who truly know him. He cherishes virtue; he fights for Arthur and Britain; he worships God. He loves honor above all. And that is goodness.”

  Galyn beckoned to the groom and handed back the horse. He took Galahad by the hand. “Now come with me. I’ve something to show you.”

  Galahad followed obediently. “He makes Mama cry.”

  His uncle stopped at the stable door. “Galahad,” he said slowly, “when you are older you will understand this better, but women cry for many reasons. It’s not always a man’s fault. And as for love, love between men and women is a tricky matter. It’s not always as it seems. But I can tell you this: Lancelot treats Elaine honorably. He defends her name. He gives her rule of his household. He gives her children. These things encompass a woman’s domain. He honors her, he protects her, and he keeps her from harm. He does his duty by her.”

  Galahad looked at him steadily. “Is that love?”

  Galyn shook his head with a rueful smile. “Perhaps not. But it’s respect. And in marriage, respect is often more important. We can’t choose whom we love, but we can always pay respect where it is due. I’m lucky that the woman I love, loves me, and was free to wed me. It doesn’t happen that way to many.”

  Galyn swung open the stable door and led Galahad out into the misty sunshine of a soft, spring day. They had gone fifty paces toward the kennels and Galyn had begun to feel relief that the subject had lost the boy’s interest, when Galahad spoke again.

  “He hurts her.”

  “Never,” his uncle scoffed. “Not Lancelot. He doesn’t beat women. Feelings, of course, are another matter. He may, perhaps, from want of tact, hurt the queen’s feelings. Women are oversensitive that way.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Galahad trotted to keep up with his uncle’s strides.

  “What do you mean, then? Galahad, what have you seen?”

  “I saw him hurt her. I was there.”

  “He hit her? With his hand?”

  “No.”

  “With what then? Not with a weapon, surely!”

  “No. His sword was on the stool. But he hurt her. I saw him.”

  Galyn frowned. “I’m sure it was not intentional. Striking women is beneath him.” He paused. “Even good people, Galahad, make mistakes from time to time. It doesn’t make him a bad man. All men sin. And sins may be forgiven.”

  Galahad did not immediately reply, and Galyn quickly whistled for the houndsman. “Ban! Ho, Ban!” He smiled at Galahad. “He’s named for your grandfather, did you know that? My father, Galaban. Ban of Benoic he was called. Rescued Lanascol from the Franks, and helped King Uther hold Britain after Ambrosius died.”

  A short, squatly built man emerged from the kennel sheds and bowed low when he saw them. “Prince Galyn! Prince Galahad! Good morning, my lords. A fine day, eh? By God, I’ll be glad when the rains are over! Mud’s a danger to colts and puppies.”

  “We’ve come to see Dia’s litter,” Galyn said. “The pups should look like something by now. What’s it been? Three weeks?”

  The smile faded from Ban’s weathered face. “Aye, my lord, but they look like bastards, they do, except for the two.”

  Galahad followed his uncle into the dimly lit shed. In a corner a thin black bitch lay stretched on a blanket with a row of fuzzy puppies at her teats. Her tail beat eagerly as Ban approached. He spoke softly to her and she lay quiet. “Y’see, my lord, only two black. The others tan and white, or spotted. It’s my belief a village stray got to her before we bred her to Apollo.” He hawked, turned, and spat. “The king won’t be pleased. But by the time he returns, with any luck she’ll be heavy with another litter. All by Apollo.”

  Galahad knelt down and touched the tiny, wriggling bodies. “What will happen to the tan ones?”

  “God knows what they’re good for,” Ban muttered, pulling one from the bitch’s teat and holding it frozen in midair by the loose skin on its neck. “Food for foxes. I’ll need to know soon what you want to do, my lord. No need to make Dia nurse nine of them when we’re keeping only two.”

  Seeing Galahad’s face, Galyn lifted a hand to silence Ban. In a gentle voice he explained to Galahad, Lancelot’s theory of breeding and why they could not keep the puppies of a village stray. “If you have a bitch and a dog with good noses, their puppies will have good noses, too. Perhaps even better. If you want to improve the skill of your hunting dogs,
you take care which dog you breed to. We don’t know anything about the father of these bastard pups. He might be slow; he might be cowardly; he might be vicious. But because we don’t know, we can’t take the chance that when they’re grown, they’ll breed to one of the king’s bitches, just as their father did. The whole work of the past ten years will be for naught if we don’t destroy them.”

  Galahad looked down at the puppies. Three of them had left the bitch and lay fast asleep on the blanket, their pale stomachs swollen with milk. Galahad picked up one of them, a spotted pup, and felt in his hands the racing beat of a tiny heart. “Can’t I keep this one, Uncle Galyn? Can’t he be mine? I’ll keep him away from the king’s bitches. I promise I will.”

  Galyn hesitated, then smiled. “All right. It might even be a good idea. This summer you can learn how to handle dogs. I’ll teach you how to train him. Of course, we’ll have to geld him once he’s grown. And you’ll have to get Lancelot’s permission to keep him.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Galyn!” Galahad reached an arm around his uncle’s neck and hugged him. Startled, Galyn drew him into an embrace. He could not remember ever having seen Galahad weep, but the child’s brilliant blue eyes glistened with tears.

  “You can’t take him now, son,” he said softly into the silky black hair pressed against his cheek. “He needs his mother’s milk for a few more weeks. But you can come and visit him as often as you like. What will you call him?”

  Galahad drew away, wiped his eyes quickly, and looked down at the sleeping puppy. “Valiant. Because that’s what he will be.”

  Galyn smiled. “A good name. Now you’d better put him back with his brothers. See how the bitch is watching you. Come visit him every day, and she’ll get used to you and trust you better. Ban,” he said, rising, “this one belongs to Galahad. When you’ve time, you can get rid of the others.”

  9

  BLACK LAKE

  Galahad sat on a three-legged stool in the center of the hut. Through the open doorway blew the sweet-scented breezes of early summer: honeysuckle, larkspur, and wild roses. Above his head sunbeams picked their way through dilapidated thatching and lit the hard dirt floor in tiny pools of brilliant light.