Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  He followed Aidan into the hut and stood solemnly by the door. “My mother needs her medicine. She said Sir Bors is a fool and the well is dry. Uncle Galyn sent a courier to Britain. Tonight we’re going to the chapel an hour past moonrise. She said to tell you it is time.”

  Aidan said nothing. He went to the shelf by his pallet and lifted down a small glazed vial stoppered with cork and marked with a label impressed in wax. He held it in his hand and looked down at it a long time. Then he straightened.

  “This is what she asks for. Give her this. Tell her not to take it until dark.”

  For a moment Galahad was afraid. It was not the same vial he usually carried. “It’s for sickness, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Aidan said softly. “It’s a cure for earthly ills.” His keen eyes flashed at Galahad and the boy froze. “Take it to her in this linen bag. Keep it well inside your tunic and let no one see it. If you are asked about it, do not answer. It is no one’s business but the queen’s. Do you understand?”

  Galahad nodded. Aidan lifted his chin and searched his face. “Has she told you what will happen in the chapel?”

  “No.”

  “You will face your destiny. Tonight you will be dedicated to it. Do you know what that entails?”

  Galahad gulped. “No.”

  “You will be offered to Almighty Living God. If you are worthy, if He accepts you, you will be His. When you are given to the Almighty, you belong to Him absolutely. No longer to your father, to your mother, to your king. God becomes your Father and your King. It is His commands you follow. This requires courage, Galahad, and discipline. You will be set apart. You will never be the same as other men.”

  Galahad stared up at him, hardly daring to breathe. Aidan’s firm hand clasped his shoulder. “But you will not be alone. I will guide you. I will not leave you.”

  “How . . . how do you know what will happen?”

  Aidan smiled. “The Lord has given me eyes that see. During the ceremony He will give them to you, as well. When you look into the Cross of Visions you will see your destiny and the man you will become.”

  “The Cross of Visions?” Galahad asked. “What is that?”

  “You will see soon enough,” Aidan said, leading him to the door. “Now go home and prepare yourself. Pray for strength and courage. Remember the prophecy. Your future beckons and it is time to begin. You will not be the same afterward, ever again.”

  Galahad stared at the golden eyes and trembled.

  “Wear white. Tell your mother to do the same. Wear white and come barefoot into the sanctuary.” Aidan turned away without smiling. “One more thing. Give that horse back to the boy it belongs to. Rid yourself of the desire for earthly possessions. After tonight, you will have no need of them. Go now. I need time to prepare.”

  Galahad clutched the vial to his breast and fled.

  Halfway back he saw a small group of soldiers riding fast toward him. He slowed the mare and waited. Valiant, asleep in his tunic, did not stir. Galyn and Bors led a troop of men. They surrounded him in a semicircle. Cordovic was there, too, riding a large pony he’d never seen before and looking ready to spit flames.

  Galyn’s face was grim. “What the devil do you mean by this, Galahad? Stealing Cordovic’s horse and sneaking hell-bent-for-leather out the gates? Are you mad, son? What possessed you?”

  “I didn’t steal Cordovic’s horse.”

  “The hell you didn’t!” Cordovic screamed. “We’ve caught you red-handed! Who gave you permission to take her?”

  Galahad glanced at him coldly. “You did.”

  “Liar!”

  “You’re an oath breaker!”

  “Liar! Thief! Swine!”

  “That’s enough, son,” growled Bors. “Let’s hear his explanation.”

  Galyn raised an eyebrow at Galahad. “Well?”

  “He promised I could ride her when he swam the river.”

  “Liar! I said we’d talk about it! I never gave you leave!”

  Galahad lifted his chin defiantly.

  Galyn frowned. “You should have asked him. It’s his horse.”

  “He broke his oath.”

  “You royal bitch’s whelp!” Cordovic wailed. “I’ll—”

  “That’s enough!” Galyn cut in, lifting his hand for silence. “Galahad, what’s that in your tunic?”

  Galahad froze. “Um . . . there’s nothing—” He bit off the lie as Galyn’s face darkened. Suddenly warm fur wiggled against his chest and the puppy’s nose pushed out.

  Galyn smiled. “Valiant! Well, why didn’t you say so? I’m amazed he stood for it.”

  “It’s that damned ugly dog!” Cordovic muttered. “He takes it riding!”

  Galyn sobered. “Well, Galahad, in the matter of Cordovic’s horse you acted rashly and without permission. For that I must punish you. You will spend the evening in your room and miss the feast tonight.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Galahad fought to hide his relief. God was here; God was working; God was following Aidan’s plan.

  “What about my horse?” demanded Cordovic, yanking the pony’s head around and battering its ribs with his boots. “Make him get off her and ride his own!”

  “As to that,” Galyn said dryly, “that’s not his pony yet. I haven’t paid for it. And seeing how you treat your mounts, I think I’ll spare your mare.”

  “What!” Cordovic was aghast. “Father! Do something!”

  “Shut up!” Bors snapped. “Galyn’s right. I wish you could ride half so well as Galahad. That mare goes like a dream for him. Haven’t you been watching? You should have had him teach you to ride, too, while you were about it.”

  Cordovic’s face flushed an ugly red.

  “Enough,” Galyn said quietly, swinging his stallion around. “That can’t be taught. It’s in his blood. Now let’s go home.”

  13

  AN HOUR PAST MOONRISE

  Galahad lay on his bed in his best tunic of white combed wool. Outside his narrow window a nightingale sang, alone and confident. The night was warm with haze, the stars hidden. Dimly he heard the sounds of talk and laughter. The feast had begun. He smiled secretly. A guard stood outside his door, but Galyn had forgotten how easy it was for boys to slip through windows.

  He heard his mother’s step before he heard her call, and he was through the window before she had finished speaking his name. He went down on one knee when he saw her. Waves of glimmering, golden hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her white robe shone in the mist like a beacon on a dark sea. She was a maiden again, highborn and lovely. She smiled at his awe and took his hand. They walked slowly through the garden and down the narrow trail behind the king’s house. Galahad held the candle and guided her steps, for she was unused to going barefoot and her feet were tender and easily bruised. He did this solemnly, holding in his excitement and his pride.

  “Did you take the medicine?” he asked. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, I took it, much good it did me. I feel worse.” She shrugged. “I will feel better presently, when Bors is gone.”

  “What did he do to you, Mama?”

  “Do?” She laughed bitterly. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He has less ambition in his whole body than I have in my fingertip. He’s a fool.” She stopped suddenly and clapped a hand to her belly. “Dear Christ!” She bent over, gasping, eyes screwed shut, clutching his hand with clawlike fingers.

  “Mama!” he cried in panic. “Mama, stop!”

  The spasm passed; she drew breath and straightened. But her face was the color of her robe. “Let us go on, Galahad. In the chapel I will sit down and rest.”

  He led her down stone steps and past the old well built by ancient men in times unknown. Nearby stood a small, square chapel built of pale, polished marble as smooth as silk to touch. It shone in the moon-bright haze as if its stones carried light.

  A hundred candles burned around the altar, haloed in mist. Stone walls, stone bench, stone floor grew warm and welcoming in their soft, r
esplendent glow. Elaine and Galahad moved forward slowly. In the center of the altar hung a golden cross, heavy and crudely fashioned, polished to a dull sheen. In the center of the cross a garnet glinted, set deep and oddly cut, as big as a gull’s egg and a dark blood red.

  “I’ve never seen that cross before,” Elaine whispered. “Have you?”

  Galahad shook his head. They sat together on the bench. Outside, night sounds filled the air: the nearby chirrup of crickets, the far-off wail of a wolf, the scurry and rustle of small forest creatures followed by the slow, heavy beat of wings as death passed by.

  Galahad shivered. “Mama, can’t we go home? I promise to be the best knight that I can.”

  “I know you will, my sweet boy. But you must promise it to God. Aidan says it needs a priest to summon the presence of the Almighty. You must be offered, found worthy, and accepted. I don’t know what it all involves. But don’t fret, Galahad. You will find the courage when it is necessary.”

  He swallowed but his throat was dry. The arching cavern of the chapel rang with emptiness.

  Elaine gasped. A spasm of pain crossed her face. “Galahad!” He took her hand. Her fingers bent stiff like claws. Sweat glistened pale on her cold brow; the skin around her mouth looked drawn and tight. Her hand upon his arm was ice. “Something . . . something is not right. Listen to me. I brought you here at Aidan’s bidding. He has a plan for you. But if . . . if Aidan’s plan does not work, or if I . . . I . . . things somehow go awry, if I fall ill of this cursed child within me, I want you to promise me—”

  “Only ask it! I will do it!” cried the shaking child. “What is wrong? Who is hurting you?”

  She looked down at him, her face as pale and lifeless as a death’s head. “Avenge me. Avenge me upon Lancelot. He is the root cause of all my suffering. From the beginning, the source of all my pain. He has killed my spirit.” Her eyes closed slowly as she drew breath; the lids were blue. “I will not rest easy, in Heaven or in Hell, until he is dead.”

  Suddenly from behind them came the sound of Aidan’s voice. “Be still, Elaine.” Galahad whipped around. Aidan walked calmly toward them, robed in white, his rich curls falling in profusion about his shoulders. He carried a horn cup full of steaming liquid. As he neared them, Galahad caught the heavy scent of poppies. Aidan put the cup into Elaine’s hand. “Drink this. It will ease your pain and enable you to endure.”

  She looked up quickly at him and clung to his hand. “Aidan, what was in that potion?”

  “You disobeyed me, didn’t you?” The golden eyes were metal. “You took it before dark. Impatient woman. I will mix another poppy draft for you later. But take this now.” His voice commanded her, and she drank.

  Then Aidan stood before Galahad. “Rise, Galahad. Are you ready?”

  Galahad tried to still his shaking, but could not. “No, Father.”

  Aidan smiled. “At least you are honest about it. He who comes before God without fear in his heart is arrogant and doomed to perdition.” Aidan placed a golden cushion at the foot of the altar. “Kneel here, Galahad, and pray. Ask God to grant you courage.” Galahad obeyed. The cross hung before his face, the great, dull jewel at eye level.

  Aidan placed three cups upon the altar, one of horn, one of silver, and one of gold. Galahad’s eyes slid sideways. He could not keep from staring. Where had all this treasure come from? He had never seen any sign of wealth in the hut or on the island. Aidan lifted a wineskin and filled each cup half-full. He looked suddenly at Galahad. The boy ducked his head and closed his eyes.

  “Pray, Galahad. The Lord is watching. Your curiosity will be satisfied soon enough.”

  From his pouch Aidan withdrew three linen bags tied with silken cord. From the first bag he took a pinch of gray powder and dropped it into the horn cup, mixing it with the wine until it dissolved. From the second bag he took white powder and dropped it into the silver cup, and from the third bag, black powder into the gold cup. Then he tucked the bags away, folded his hands within his robe, and lifted his eyes to the vault above his head.

  “Almighty God, I bring you Galahad, whom You have chosen. Inspect him; look into his heart. If he is found wanting, dry up his courage and send him away from this place. But if he proves worthy, anoint him with Light.” Aidan’s deep voice echoed around the glowing walls.

  “Rise, Galahad. Stand before the altar.” Galahad rose. “Rise, Elaine. Stand by me.”

  She looked better, Galahad saw with relief. The poppies had restored color to her cheeks and life to her eyes.

  Aidan made the sign of the cross over the horn cup, touched it to his lips, and handed it to Galahad. “This is the Cup of the Servant. Drink, Galahad, that you may serve God.”

  Galahad’s hand shook as he took the cup from Aidan. The golden eyes bored into him, steadied him, and he drank. The wine tasted oddly bitter. He swallowed once and put it down.

  “You shall serve the Lord, your Father, with your body, with your spirit, with your life. No one else commands you. You are become the Servant of God. Swear it.”

  Galahad repeated the oath. His head felt light and a little dizzy. Aidan made the sign of the cross over the silver cup, touched it to his lips, and handed it to Galahad.

  “This is the Cup of the Soldier. Drink, Galahad, that you may become a soldier of the Lord and one day carry his mark upon your shield.”

  The wine slid sweet on his tongue, but stung his throat as he swallowed. His head began to spin and he gripped the altar to steady himself. He seemed oddly disconnected from his body, as if he were watching himself from a distance.

  “You shall serve Arthur and you shall serve Britain as the king’s soldier. But when you are grown you shall go forth on a mission of your own, for the greater glory of Almighty God. You, Galahad, are become the Soldier of God. Swear it.”

  Again, Galahad repeated the oath. With glittering eyes, Aidan raised the golden cup. He did not touch it to his lips but held it out to Galahad. His voice fell to a whisper.

  “This,” he said, “is the Cup of the Sword. Just as a sword slashes its way through all opposition, he who drinks of this cup will see only the straight path, the Path of Light, and will be blind to the twists and turns of the dark roads that surround him. Drink, Galahad, that you may follow the path of righteousness. Drink, that you may strike down evil in the name of God.”

  Galahad took the cup. It was heavy. The wine it held had turned a dark, muddy blue and smelled sharply of rotten eggs. He glanced quickly at Aidan, at the voracious eagerness on his face. It flashed across Galahad’s mind that the wine might not be safe to drink—but a will beyond his own commanded his flesh. He lifted the cup with both hands and drained it.

  Aidan smiled triumphantly.

  Elaine looked up at him, frowning. “Aidan, what—” But he waved her silent, not taking his eyes from Galahad’s face.

  The fearsome liquid lay on Galahad’s tongue like ambrosia. When he swallowed it down, it sank sweetly into his body, filling his limbs with an airy lightness and a welcome warmth. Aidan and Elaine seemed to waver and melt before his eyes, dispersing into nothingness.

  “Galahad, look at me.” Aidan’s voice brought him back out of the void. “It is your destiny to lead men to the light. Be strong. Be stainless. Be unforgiving. Judge men without mercy. Falsehood and wrongdoing are your only enemies. You are become the true blade, God’s own weapon, forged in the refiner’s fire. Pure. Swift. Clean and deadly. Where the Lord points His finger, you will strike men down. You are Galahad, the Sword of God. Swear it.”

  The golden eyes trapped him. He struggled briefly, suddenly afraid, but he was as helpless as a butterfly newborn from the chrysalis, caught in the hunter’s net, pinned by Aidan’s will.

  “I swear it.”

  “Swear also to keep the secret of this dedication. What we do tonight, what you have seen and are yet to see, must never be revealed. To anyone. On pain of death. Swear it.”

  “I swear it.”

  “Kneel, Galahad,” Ai
dan whispered. “Look into the Cross of Visions. See what lies before you.”

  The dull surface of the gem dissolved even as he watched. It began to gleam, light from the candles reflected in a thousand facets behind the garnet’s face. In one of them he saw himself, pictured small. He leaned closer. There he was again, a youth now, with silk-black hair, bright blue eyes, and features of surpassing beauty. The handsome youth raised a sword—Lancelot’s sword—with a cross of rubies on the hilt. On his arm was a white shield with a crimson cross. The light began to shiver and beat around the youth, around Galahad himself; the whole world began to pulse with light and shadow.

  Bloodred facets flashed before his eyes with the images they carried: a battlefield of gore and horror where corpses stared with open eyes into the beaks of ravens; a young woman’s body, naked in dim torchlight, her eyes closed and her hair tangled with dirt; a weary commander, tight-lipped, sitting his stallion on a hilltop, looking down on the open field where his betrayer approached; an island in a river where a wounded king awaited his coming; a tower where girls were imprisoned who reached out to him with eager arms and dulcet voices; a wild ride in cold, whipping rain to an empty garden; a black horse carrying him wearily into a dusty town where a small boy played with a wooden sword; a royal bier winding slowly uphill with a dreadful burden; a lantern on the floor by an altar, at the edge of a deep pit; a king’s hall lit with a thousand candles and filled with the song of angels; a shield on the wall above a dying man’s body; an old, blind blacksmith holding Lancelot’s sword across his lap; a secret room where a dozen ancient chalices lay hidden in the dark; himself kneeling in a dusty storeroom in the bitter cold, a rotting scabbard in his hands; a young woman crouching before a fire, smiling at him, a smile that turned his bones to water; a dark wasteland spread out before him in the driving rain, a place of fearful desolation and disgrace. The images flashed faster as the pulsing light quickened—Lancelot’s body, drowned in a pool of blood; the white walls of a holy house; the white veil hiding a woman’s face; and then, in the flash of glittering, reflected light, a dazzling spear, a gleaming krater encrusted with gems, held aloft between a woman’s hands; himself again, a grown man, bathed in light, glory shining about him and in his hands, the blessed Grail—his breaths came in short gasps; pain pierced his head; he sought to look away but failed.