Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  Galyn’s eyes flicked briefly to Galahad and then back to the queen. “You know what the accusations are.”

  Elaine smiled her gentlest smile. “Is it such a sin to admire me? Am I so old and ugly no man may look at me twice without having suspicion laid at his door?”

  Galyn flushed. “Of course not, my lady; that is not what I meant. You are beautiful, indeed. No one denies it. But it is not a priest’s place to—”

  “Lancelot misunderstood it, Galyn.” She spoke very softly, her hand on Galahad’s head. “He jumped to conclusions. Why don’t you make the effort to know the man yourself? Go on, question Galahad about him, if you like.”

  Galyn’s gray eyes widened. “That is what I came to do,” he admitted. “You will allow it?”

  “Certainly. I have nothing to hide. Galahad.” The tone of her voice changed. “Ride back with your uncle Galyn and tell him about Father Aidan.” The lake seemed to ring with the words she had not spoken: You know what to say. . . .

  Perched on the saddle in Galyn’s lap, Galahad watched the world speed by at a thrilling pace. The stallion’s canter was easy to sit, even without his uncle’s strong arm about his waist, but Galahad resented the saddle. He could no longer feel the horse beneath him. It was like riding a swiftly bobbing log, not a living beast. When they were clear of the forest and reached the open meadows ringing the walls of Benoic, Galyn slowed the horses to a walk.

  “Well, Galahad, you’ve been in a scuffle, I see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your opponent?”

  “Brith, sir.”

  Galyn chuckled. “No wonder you won, though he’s twice your age. He’s full of a thousand fears. I’ve not seen much of you lately, boy. I’ve missed you in the stables and the kennels. Valiant’s missed you. Caesar’s missed you. Now I know where you have been.”

  “Mama wants me to study.”

  “Hmm. Your mother’s got a narrow view of education. A prince must learn to hunt and fight as well as read. What do you say we get you something new to ride? The horse trader’s due next week.”

  “Can I have a horse?” Galahad asked eagerly.

  “Well, something bigger than your pony, surely. A small horse, perhaps. To suit your size.” He paused. “Tell me what you do with Father Aidan.”

  “I learn the Word of God.”

  “Prayers and psalms? Invocations? What, exactly?”

  “Commandments. Verses. Stories. Father Aidan has scrolls and scrolls, all packed in an old chest.”

  “What’s in the chest beside books?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No weapons? Not even a dagger for food?”

  “No.”

  “Not a sword for protection?”

  “He has spells for protection.”

  “Is he an enchanter, then? Have you seen him use magic?”

  “No,” Galahad said slowly. “But he has funny eyes.”

  “Indeed! How are they funny?”

  “He looks at me and I can’t look away. I have to do what he wants.”

  “Ah.” Galyn’s voice was grim. “I know that kind of spell. It’s called a Watching. To defend against it, think of something you love very much, your dearest friend, your happiest memory. Love is the only barrier that Watch-spells cannot brook.”

  Galahad nodded obediently, but privately he doubted Father Aidan’s spells could be so easily conquered.

  “Do you go to him willingly, Galahad?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you like him, then?”

  Galahad paused so long that Galyn leaned down to see his face. “What’s the matter? Is that a hard question to answer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Is he not friendly?”

  “Not very.”

  “Do you not feel safe when you are with him?”

  “He frightens me sometimes.”

  “How? With threats?”

  “No. It’s just his eyes. He’s a holy man.”

  “Is he? You believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Holier than Father Patrik?”

  Galahad considered the plump, jovial priest newly come to Benoic, a good man and well-meaning, but overfond of the king’s food and wine. “He’s much, much holier than Father Patrik.”

  “Galahad,” Galyn said carefully, his arm tightening around the boy, “what does Father Aidan want of you? What are you studying so hard for?”

  The boy shrugged. “To be a great knight and serve King Arthur. And to keep my robe clean.”

  “Well, well. Those are admirable goals. No harm in that.”

  “ ‘Consort not with abomination. Sin is anathema, and those who commit it. Put them all away.’ What is anathema?”

  Galyn smiled. “Death to the spirit. Well, Galahad, I can’t fault his teaching. It’s good advice. And I’m pleased he wants you to be one of Arthur’s knights. Those are your father’s plans for you, as well. If you can follow in his footsteps, my lad, you will be a great man, indeed. There is no one more worshiped in Britain than Lancelot. Excepting only Arthur.”

  “Father Aidan calls King Arthur the soldiers’ god.”

  Galyn laughed. “And so he is, in some ways.”

  “He says a wicked woman has my father’s soul.”

  Galyn hesitated. When he finally spoke his voice was sad. “That’s not true. The woman isn’t wicked. She has his heart, perhaps, but not his soul. Your father worships virtue, like every good knight, in a woman as well as in a man. But there are those who, for reasons of jealousy, fear, or hate, will twist the truth and find evil and betrayal where none exist. Rumors start and men will believe them, even men who have the truth before them, plain to see. If you hear rumors about your father, don’t believe them. Watch with your own eyes and judge truth yourself. Promise me that.”

  Galahad nodded obediently. “I promise.”

  Galyn smiled. “Now it’s time to get back to Benoic. You tell Caesar it’s time to move on. Go on and try.” At once the stallion paced forward and Galyn laughed. “Yes, we must find you a mount to test your skill. And we must find you a lad your age to play with. You are too much alone with women and priests. Bors’s son Cordovic is about your age. A little older, perhaps, but you’ll get along well enough. They’ll be here within the month. At last you’ll have someone to wrestle with, to race against, to test yourself against in swordplay. That’s a healthier life for a boy than memorizing commandments and living beneath a priest’s skirts. Why, in two months’ time you’ll be ready to test yourself against any boy in Camelot. And that’s my promise to you.”

  11

  CORDOVIC

  Bors arrived on the hottest day of the whole summer. When his escort trotted through the gates and up the hill to the king’s house, the ground shook and the shimmering air filled with dust.

  “Bors!” Galyn cried, coming forward with arms outstretched.

  “Galyn, you young dog!” A black-bearded giant of a man slid from his charger’s back and embraced him. “You’re looking well and I don’t wonder at it, knowing how you spend your nights! Is this your bride? What a beauty you are, my dear. Let me welcome you to the family. We’re a rough lot, I’m afraid, here in Lanascol, uncivilized by some standards, but we stand by one another.” He swung an arm around Galyn and kissed Adele.

  Galahad’s eyes ran swiftly over the ranks of cavalry behind Bors. In the first row a sturdy boy of middle height with thick brown hair and a dusty face sat astride a small, fine-boned horse. Galahad stared at the animal. She was a blood bay, quick and fine, with a small head and big, dark, soulful eyes. She lifted her tail delicately as she danced in place, sidling this way and that in a nervous struggle to relieve the pain in her mouth. Galahad’s fists clenched at his sides. The mare’s nose bobbed in the air, her mouth open, froth dripping from her lips. The thick muscle on the underside of her neck told a tale of long abuse, of a head held high to escape bits too cruel and hands too heavy. Galahad winced as the boy absently hauled at her mout
h in yet another vain attempt to make her stand still.

  “Beautiful Lady Elaine!” Galahad’s head jerked around. In the shaded doorway of the king’s house Elaine leaned against the doorpost, fanning herself slowly. Her long white arms gleamed with silver bracelets. Her hair was drawn back from her face and coiled in golden braids upon her head. Around her brow she wore the queen’s crown of Lanascol, silver, garnet, and iridescent mother-of-pearl. Her light shift was belted high above her waist to hide the growing roundness of her belly.

  Bors knelt in the dust before her. “How is it you grow lovelier every year? Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were eighteen and not a day over!”

  Elaine smiled and stepped out into the sun to greet him. Light flashed on her bracelets, her crown, her hair. “You must get a good deal subtler than that, my dear Bors, before I’ll believe a word you say.” She extended her hand to him and he drew it to his lips. “How fares your lady wife? You left her in good health?”

  He rose and grinned. “I left her well enough, but not, I’m sorry to say, in your bloom. He’s done it again, hasn’t he, my randy cousin—planted his living seed in your fertile soil. Bless you, my dear girl, I wish I knew how you do it—breed them one after the other, you do, all of them healthy, handsome sons. All branches off the tree of Lanascol.”

  Bors looked pleased with his turn of phrase, but the light had left the queen’s face. “You talk like a common gardener. Where are your manners, my lord? Pray, speak of something else before I’m ill.”

  “Manners and I have never seen eye-to-eye!” Bors laughed. “As you know well! And if you’re ill, it’s your husband’s doing and none of mine! But I mean no offense,” he added hastily, seeing her expression. “It does you honor to bear princes to Lancelot.”

  Elaine forced a smile but her voice was cold. “Did you say you had brought your son, my lord? Pray, let me see him.”

  Bors turned and beckoned eagerly to the boy on the bay mare. “Aye, my lady, I’ve brought him along as company for your Galahad. It’s about time Lancelot’s sons met their kin.”

  Elaine watched the sturdy boy come toward her, dusty from the road, with thick, badly cut brown hair and small, sullen eyes. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I doubt your son and mine have much in common.”

  Galyn drew a sharp breath, but Bors had already turned away to sling an arm around Cordovic’s shoulder. “Here he is, my lady. This is my son Cordovic. My firstborn. Cordovic, this is your kinswoman Elaine of Gwynedd, Lancelot’s wife and Queen of Lanascol.”

  The boy touched his knee to the ground and mumbled stiffly, “My lady.”

  “As to what they have in common,” Galyn put in firmly, “they have Lanascol. And that is all they need.”

  “Indeed?” Elaine looked down at the boy’s filthy hair. “One to lead and one to follow. It is bond enough, I suppose.”

  Galyn’s face flamed. “My God, Elaine—” he began, but Bors only shrugged and laid a hand on his arm to stop him.

  “No matter, Galyn. It’s true enough. Galahad’s bound to be Cordovic’s king someday. Better they meet now, in kinship, than later, when there may be more between them.” He turned and scanned the onlookers. “Where is the boy, anyway? There? Not still with the nursemaids? A strapping lad like that? Galyn, whatever are you thinking?”

  “He is my son, Bors,” Elaine snapped. “Not Galyn’s. Don’t forget it.” Bors opened his mouth to protest and then thought better of it. Elaine beckoned Galahad to her side.

  “Galahad, this is your cousin Cordovic. This is my son Galahad. Prince of Lanascol.”

  The two boys looked at each other. Although Cordovic was older, he was short and stockily built like his father, and the boys stood almost eye-to-eye. Neither of them blinked.

  “Cordovic,” Elaine said loftily, “kneel to your prince.”

  There was a stunned silence. Bors’s heavy hand fell on his son’s shoulder, pushing the boy to the ground as Galyn found his voice.

  “Rise, Cordovic! Christ, Elaine, I did not invite them here to be insulted. They are kin. We owe them the best we have.”

  “They are no kin of mine,” she retorted. “I’m Welsh, not Breton. Remember that.” She turned on her heel and without another word strode back into the house.

  “Whew!” Bors exclaimed. “There’s a tongue that’s a weapon!” Galyn’s face was flaming. “I beg your pardon, cousin. She is with child again and it plays havoc with her temper, I’m afraid.”

  Bors raised an eyebrow. “Is it that, or is it you, Galyn? He left you regent this time, didn’t he?”

  Galyn smiled. “As always, your aim is true. But come, more of this later. Let’s get your men settled and the horses out of the sun.”

  The boys headed for the river path.

  “I’m sorry she made you kneel,” Galahad offered. “It was wrong.”

  “Bring it up again and I’ll make you eat dust.”

  Galahad glanced at the sulking boy and let the challenge pass. He led the way through the winding streets of the town and down to the water meadow. He assumed his cousin must want to wash the dust of travel off. They were nearing the towpath when Cordovic finally spoke.

  “So you’re Galahad. What kind of a sissy name is that?”

  “It’s not a sissy name.”

  “It’s the stupidest name I ever heard. What do they call you? Gal?” He sniggered.

  “I don’t have a nickname.”

  “Christ! They actually call you Galahad?”

  “You shouldn’t swear.”

  “I’ll swear if I damn well want to. Don’t you tell me what I can do! I’m twice your size!”

  This was a patent falsehood, but Galahad let it pass. “Aren’t you called Cordovic?”

  Cordovic grinned suddenly. It was nearer a sneer than a smile. “ Prince Cordovic, to you. No nicknames or I’ll bust your head in.”

  “You can try.”

  Cordovic launched a sidearm punch. Galahad ducked.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Smiling, Galahad turned away, when suddenly Cordovic landed him a blow across the shoulders that spun him to the ground. He spat dust out of his mouth. Cordovic stood above him, chuckling.

  “Just you try to rule over me, you little mother’s whelp! I’ll tan your hide!”

  Galahad rose, wiping his hands on his tunic. Cordovic swung at his head; Galahad ducked and butted him in the stomach, knocking him off balance.

  “Race you to the river!” he cried, and fled down the path. Cordovic was after him at once, pounding heavily behind him, gaining with every stride. Galahad reached the river with Cordovic’s fingers grasping for his tunic, and dove into the water. When he surfaced in midstream he saw Cordovic standing among the reeds, gasping for breath and cursing.

  Galahad grinned. “Come on and get me.”

  “Come back here, you little coward!”

  “You can’t swim. But I can.”

  “Damn you, you little weasel! You pampered brat!” Cordovic sneered. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

  “I got away from you.”

  Cordovic splashed the cool water on his face and shrugged. “I’ll learn to swim when it pleases me.”

  Galahad swam closer. “It’s not that hard. I could teach you. Starting tomorrow. Starting today.”

  Cordovic eyed him warily. “What would it cost me?”

  “Let me ride your mare.”

  Cordovic laughed. “When Saxons fly! My father bought her off a trader from southern Gaul last winter when I turned eight. Ten pieces of gold he paid! And now you think I’m going to let you ride her?” Cordovic threw back his head and howled with laughter. His foot slipped suddenly and he went down with a splash, his head ducking underwater. He came up screaming, “Help! Help!” His arms flailed as water filled his mouth.

  Galahad picked up a thick branch of driftwood that lay lodged in the reeds and held it out to Cordovic just beyond his reach. “Change your mind!”

  “Help!” Cor
dovic choked, going under a second time. “Help! I’m your cousin, damn you!”

  Galahad bent toward him. “Change your mind.”

  “All right!” Cordovic screamed, and Galahad tossed him the branch. The boy clutched at it, gasping and sputtering, sobbing out curses and recriminations. “You were going to let me drown! I take back everything! It’s not fair—you can’t force me at the point of drowning!”

  “Stand up.”

  “What?”

  “Go ahead. Stand up.”

  Struggling for composure, Cordovic got his feet under him and stood. The river came only to his thighs. He flushed darkly. “I hate you.”

  Galahad shrugged. “Father Aidan says many men will hate me.” “Who’s Father Aidan? I like him already.”

  “A holy man. He lives on an island in the middle of Black Lake. He’s my teacher.”

  “Serves you right to have a priest for a teacher. What do priests know about anything? They’ve never ruled anywhere or killed anyone.”

  “Father Aidan knows everything. We built a coracle together. You can come see him with me if you want.”

  Cordovic grunted. “I’m not fond of priests. Too much kneeling.” “When you can swim you won’t be afraid to go.”

  “I’m not afraid! Get that through your thick head, all right?” Cordovic climbed out of the river and sat heavily on the bank. “This is the first time I’ve been cool in days. . . . It might be fun to swim. I’d be the only one in Ganys. . . . Maybe I’ll think about it.”

  “And the mare?”

  “You teach me to swim, first.”

  Galahad smiled. “It’s a bargain, then.”

  Cordovic and Galahad stood naked on the riverbank an hour past sunrise. Galahad pointed to a spit of land upstream of the reed bed.

  “Stand there. Go on, it’s shallow.” Galahad pulled from its hiding place among the reeds a small raft he had made of driftwood bound tightly together with long reed stalks. “Hold on to this.”

  “What for? It’s not very sturdy.”

  “It floats. Hold the raft out in front of you and kick your legs out behind. You’ll go forward, across the river. I’ll swim next to you.”