Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Fisherman,” Galahad ventured. “Good evening.”

  The little man grunted and tossed out his line again. He muttered something in a guttural language Galahad could make nothing of.

  “My name is Galahad. Do you live here?”

  The fisherman ignored him until a third fish was safely in his pouch. Then he wound his line around his finger and turned to Galahad with a long, considering glance.

  “You,” he said suddenly. “Son of Lancelot.”

  The words were thickly accented and barely distinguishable. Galahad bowed politely. “I am. And you?”

  All he could see now in the dark were the whites of the man’s eyes and the silhouette of his head against the mist. The deep voice spoke gravely.

  “Bran. Son of Bran. Son of Bran. Son of god.”

  Galahad bowed again. “I am honored. Do you . . . live nearby?”

  The hillman grunted and jerked his head eastward toward the rising Pennines.

  “I came to see Lludyn’s Hill,” Galahad ventured. “I heard it was a place of wonders.”

  Bran’s dark eyes glinted. “Empty. Forgotten. Llud gone.” He pointed to the island floating above the mist. “Long time gone.”

  “Yes. I was afraid of that.”

  “Otherworld. Many gates.”

  “Indeed?” Galahad paused. “I wonder if— Have you ever heard of the Grail of Maximus? Macsen Wledig?”

  The fisherman shook his head and said something in his own tongue. “Fisher King,” he announced abruptly.

  “What?” Galahad gasped. “What did you say?”

  Teeth gleamed white in the dark face. “Take care. Take care. Beware. Beware. Fisher King. Blackthorn ring.” The little man was dancing in circles, pointing east, reciting the words in a guttural singsong. When he had turned thrice around, he ducked into the mist and disappeared.

  “Bran? Bran! Come back! Please!” Galahad called his name and searched the riverbank, but the man was gone. The mist, thick as cloth, clogged his throat and nostrils and forced him back from the water. In the distance he heard Percival calling his name. He whistled softly for the stallion and leaped up on his back.

  From that height he could see past the island to the narrow finger of mist that moved up from the Eden east into the foothills. A tributary! Excitement ran up his spine. Hadn’t the old smith claimed that Weland Smith’s forge was on a tributary of the Eden River? And hadn’t the ancient Briton as good as told him that the abode of the Fisher King lay east? He swung the stallion around and sent him up the ridge toward camp at a fast canter.

  18

  MARRAH’S PRAYER

  Marrah swept the chapel steps and yawned. Around her the forest awoke to life in the dawning light. A new day, she thought, stopping for a moment to gaze around the clearing, and what will it bring me? I’ll be another day older and still unwed. Turning, she glanced behind her at the chapel door, always open to welcome visitors. A single candle gleamed upon the altar. The dirt floor was packed hard and strewn with clean straw. On the cracked, curved wall behind the altar her father had hung his sword. It was the only cross in the place, for it had been a pagan shrine, time out of mind, until her father had quit the King’s service and retired from a soldier’s life. It still looked like a pagan shrine to her mind, low and rounded with curved, ill-fitting doors and narrow windows.

  And the shields made it look positively secular—more like a weapons room than a chapel. Her father had hung thirty shields upon the walls, most of them gathered from the battlefield at Camlann, some left by occasional travelers, some found in the aftermath of skirmishes around Castle Noir. One of them, according to her father, was a special shield indeed: a bloodred cross upon a field of spotless white. She shrugged. Her father had grown witless since her mother died. He honestly believed the tale the hillmen told, that one day the best knight in all the world would come to this forlorn, forgotten place, and claim this simple shield, out of all the others, for his own. Such patent hogwash! As if an honest Christian could believe that bandit race of dwarves! As if any knight in his right mind would pick such a plain shield when most of the others bore the fierce faces of wolves, eagles, wildcats, and boars. As if any knight with pride would choose a shield that lay hidden in the shadow behind the door, when all the others hung in the light! She shook her head. And yet her father polished that silly shield every month, more religiously than he said his prayers, believing that someday the knight would come who would bring honor and glory to the chapel and its caretaker.

  Marrah wiped away a bitter tear. If her mother hadn’t died, if her father hadn’t been wounded in King Mordred’s army, she might have grown up at a prince’s court and been married by now to some likely lord. As it was, in these deserted hills she would be lucky not to die a virgin.

  She set aside the broom and flattened her rough gown against her body, running her hands over the curves of her flesh, imagining what she looked like to other eyes. Her breasts felt firm and full, her waist narrow, her hips gently rounded—she closed her eyes and let her breath out slowly. She knew she must be desirable; she was eighteen; it was past time and she was ready—her body swelled, aching, under her touch, but it was no use. She was a flower bursting into bloom alone in darkness.

  She stood in the middle of the chapel and uttered a quiet prayer, whether to Mary or to Modron or to the ancient earth Goddess, source of fecundity, she neither knew nor cared. Mother, hear your daughter! I am an empty vessel, a fallow field, a sweet wine untasted. I languish in a wasteland! O Mother, before my youth is gone, bring me a man!

  The yellow dog came charging from her father’s hut, barking wildly. Startled, Marrah opened her eyes and turned. There, down the forest track where the dog was pointing, rode a horseman. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. Two horsemen, young men, knights, by the look of them, well mounted, well clothed, and, she crossed herself quickly as her heart lifted, fair of face! She reached for her broom and clung to it.

  “Silence, Red!” Her father strode around the corner and grabbed the dog by the scruff of his neck. “Silence!” The dog, hackles raised, contented himself with a low growl.

  The horsemen pulled up in the clearing. The younger of the knights was little more than a beardless boy, slightly built, but with a man’s sword nearly as long as his legs. His mount was a thick-boned gray that had already seen its prime. The second animal was a tall and beautiful warhorse, smooth-coated and large-eyed, with a long, graceful neck and a coat that gleamed blue-black in the early sun. Marrah’s heart began to pound. The knight who sat astride this horse was the handsomest man she had ever seen. His hair was as black as his horse’s coat, and his eyes a devilish, brilliant blue. His tunic was finely made; he wore deerskin boots and a cloak of good, combed wool. He could not be less than a king’s son. But he wore no wristbands, no torque, no buckle, no ornaments of any kind, only a badge at his shoulder with a hawk device.

  “Be welcome, my lords,” her father said, tugging at the growling dog.

  “Thank you, sir.” The beautiful young man slid from the stallion’s back and gathered the reins in his hands. Marrah stared. He had only a cloth strapped to his horse’s back, no saddle at all, no spear, no shield! Her eyes flew to his hip. But he was not weaponless, after all. He wore a sword. The jeweled hilt glinted red as he turned. “What place is this we have come to?”

  “It is known as the Chapel in the Green, my lord. It is an old name. I am only the most recent caretaker. My name is Ulfin, my lord, at your service.”

  “Sir Ulfin, if I am not mistaken. You carry yourself like a knight.”

  Ulfin bowed. “I was once in the High King’s service.” Ulfin’s eyes slid to the young man’s hip. “You’re a knight yourself, I’ll wager. What lord do you serve?”

  The blue eyes flashed. “I serve no lord.” The beautiful knight gestured to his companion, who slid from the gray’s back and bowed low to Ulfin. “My name is Galahad, and this is my cousin, Percival of Gwynedd.”

  Marrah sa
w a third man coming up the trail into the clearing. He rode one of the rough-coated mountain ponies that bred freely in the hills all over Britain and he led, with difficulty, a mule.

  “And this,” the beautiful knight continued, “is Garfalon, once in the High King’s service like yourself. And, like yourself, reduced by war to harder times.”

  Garfalon grinned and ducked his head. “No complaints, my lord. Could be a sight harder, I wager, than questing about for a—” He saw Galahad’s face and stopped. “Than riding all over Britain in your service,” he finished.

  “What we seek,” Galahad said firmly, “is a place to rest. We followed a tributary of the Eden up into these hills, but I’m afraid we lost it. We found this track instead.”

  Ulfin grinned. “There’s no wonder in that, my lord. Llud claims the river halfway up the mountain, but the spring’s out back behind the chapel.” He jerked a thumb toward Marrah, who blushed.

  The beautiful knight seemed to freeze in place. “Llud?”

  Ulfin laughed and let go of the dog, who had ceased his growling and was wagging his tail in greeting. “Oh, that’s how the hillmen talk. All it means is that the stream runs underground up here. It has its source in the spring. That’s probably why the chapel was built, to honor the god of the spring. We keep the chapel, my daughter and I, but in the Christian way.” He nodded to the princes. “You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like. We have fodder for your horses and food enough for all. This is a rich country, and game’s been plentiful all summer. My daughter Marrah”—he gestured toward her and she colored again as she curtsied—“is an excellent cook. You haven’t tasted a mealcake until you’ve had one of Marrah’s.”

  All three men bowed in her direction. The gaze of the black-haired knight seemed to scorch her flesh. Ulfin coughed warningly. “Take the horses to the shed, Marrah, and be quick about it. Stake the mule under the trees. It’ll do until nightfall. I’ve lit the oven fire. Be sure we’ve bread enough, and bring out the mead from the cellar hole. I’ll hie down to the stream and try my luck with the trout.”

  “And I with you,” Garfalon offered. “I’ve a way with fish. They just leap into my net.”

  Ulfin laughed. “If you can catch mountain trout with a net, you’re a better man than I! Wait a bit and I’ll fetch my pole.”

  “I’ll take care of the horses,” Percival declared as the men moved off. He winked at Marrah. “Why don’t you show my cousin Galahad around the chapel?”

  Marrah’s face flooded with color and she dropped her eyes, but not before she had seen a blush darken Galahad’s cheek. She hid a smile.

  “He’s not very subtle, is he, my lord?” she murmured when Percival had led the horses away.

  “He’s supposed to be learning,” Galahad replied sourly. “What’s in the chapel?”

  “Not much.” Marrah turned, conscious of his eyes on her. She thrust her thin shoulders back so her breasts pushed tight against her gown, and stepped forward with careful grace. “See for yourself, my lord. It’s a small place, and dark without the candles. But there’s the altar and the cross. That’s my father’s sword. He doesn’t use it anymore. He says his fighting days are behind him.”

  Galahad stood in the center of the chapel and looked around slowly, his gaze sliding over the shields, past the dim shadow of the door, without a flicker of hesitation. “Then these must be quiet hills. What are the shields for?”

  “Camouflage. There’s an old legend that— Have you never heard of the Knight of the Shield?”

  The blue eyes turned to her, intent. Marrah trembled, hardly able to breathe but unable to look away. “No. Who is he?”

  “The best knight in the world. My father believes he’ll come someday and lift down the shield that’s meant for him, all unknowing. And with that shield he’ll save Britain.” She smiled shyly. “It’s nonsense, my lord. It’s just an old tale the hillmen tell. I don’t believe half their stories. They claim they see gods everywhere and talk with Faerie folk. It scares me. Father listens to them, but that’s because they please him. He loves to hear them call him the Fisher King. It goes right to his head—”

  “What?” Breathless, Galahad gripped her shoulders and stared down into her face. “What did you say?”

  But Marrah hardly heard his words, her heart was pounding so. She gazed up into his burning eyes and her body blazed, her blood roared in her ears and her head tilted back, lips parted. He froze. She saw in his eyes the moment when he felt her heat and understood it, when the question that had been on his lips died, forgotten, and there were only the two of them together in the dimness, so close, so eager, so long desiring, with nothing between them but the silence of the chapel and the thin fabric of her gown.

  With a cry like a gasp he thrust her away.

  “My lord,” she whispered, swaying on her feet.

  “No!”

  “But, my lord—”

  He whipped around, turning his back on her. “Leave me! Get out!”

  She hurried to the door, but then looked back. He knelt at the altar, bent over his clasped hands.

  “Gracious Mother,” she whispered, breathing swiftly and leaning against the jamb. “He’s the one. He must be. It couldn’t be anyone else. Dear God, let him be the one!”

  As the sun lifted above the encircling pines, they gathered for breakfast in the clearing. Ulfin cleaned and spitted five fat trout while Percival got a fire going. Garfalon dragged a cool flagon of mead from the cellar pit and Marrah produced a batch of mealcakes hot from the clay oven and a basket of blackberries fresh from the woodland thickets.

  “A feast!” Ulfin cried in satisfaction. “Surely the king at his table eats no better! Come, my lords, sit where you will, but join me and partake of these blessings. I feel in my bones it will be a glorious day, this day of your coming. May the Lord of Heaven bless you and all your endeavors. Amen. Marrah, my dear, mead for the young lords.”

  The mead slid smoothly over Galahad’s tongue, tasting faintly of peat smoke and mountain heather. Around them the forest grew golden with light, the sky deepened from azure to sapphire, and the morning blossomed with pine scent, birdsong, and woodsmoke. The yellow dog dozed in the warm dust at the back of Ulfin’s hut, his paws twitching in some dreamy escapade, as the awakening locusts took up their scratchy song and the very air thickened with their noise.

  “A coin for your thoughts, my lord.”

  Galahad started at the touch on his elbow. Ulfin, Garfalon, and Percival were deep in talk about fighting tactics, but Marrah sat at his side, gazing shyly up at him.

  “Nothing,” Galahad said stiffly. “I was daydreaming, that’s all.”

  “You looked so serene, I thought you must be thinking of something wonderful. Your wife, perhaps? Or your lover?”

  Galahad flushed brightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “What, then?”

  “If you must know, I was taken by the peace of this place. It’s very beautiful.”

  Marrah sighed. “I suppose it is. Father loves it here. He’ll never leave.”

  “And you wish to? Are you unhappy?”

  Marrah grimaced. “Wouldn’t you be, my lord? It’s so far from the main road we hardly ever see another human face. Nothing ever happens. The whole world and all that’s in it passes us by.”

  Galahad shrugged. “The world outside is a violent place. You are safe here, at least.”

  “Safe! So safe I’m nearly dead of boredom! If we’d stayed in York I’d be wed to a lord by now. I was born there, you know. York’s a real city. My father served Sir Lucius, the garrison commander. My mother was a lady. We had a villa and a farm. And servants.” She gestured lightly toward the hut and the sleeping dog. “It all seems like a dream, now.”

  “What happened?”

  Marrah dropped her eyes and trailed a finger through the grass at her feet. “My mother died. My father suffered a war wound. A sword in the hip. He was a long time recovering. We could not keep up the farm between
us, and in truth, he had no wish to. He was determined to spend the rest of his days in the mountains of his youth. So here we are.”

  “He was born here, then?”

  Marrah flicked him a curious glance, noting the sudden interest in his voice. “Near enough. Why?”

  The blue eyes turned to her with a sudden intensity that transfixed her. “Why is your father called the Fisher King?”

  Marrah’s jaw dropped. “It’s just an epithet. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “No one calls him that but hillmen.”

  “And why do they?”

  “Because he beat their leader in a fishing contest.” A smile tugged at the corners of Marrah’s mouth. “Why should you be disappointed? What did you think it meant?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Galahad paused. “Have you ever heard of Macsen Wledig?”

  “Who?” Marrah frowned.

  “His Roman name was Magnus Maximus.”

  “Oh, of course, the Emperor Maximus! Why didn’t you say so? He’s well known in these parts. Sir Brastias keeps the Cup of Maximus at Castle Noir.”

  Galahad gasped aloud. “The what? Where?”

  The men paused in their conversation and turned.

  “Castle Noir,” Marrah repeated in a bewildered voice. “Just over the ridge.”

  “Ah, we were talking of Castle Noir ourselves,” Ulfin interrupted. “Imagine that!”

  Galahad struggled for command of his voice. “Tell me about it, would you, sir?”

  “Why, certainly. It stands at the head of Dark Valley on the other side of the mountain, and commands the hill country east of here. Sir Brastias holds it. I’ve just been telling your companions about Sir Brastias. He’s an odd duck to have for a neighbor, but he’s done us no harm. He’s really a prince of Strathclyde but he dislikes being addressed so. He’s the youngest brother of King Hapgar, that was king in Arthur’s day. Hapgar died at Autun, and his brother Pertolys at Camlann. Brastias, I’ve heard men say, should have been next in line for kingship. But he had long since disappeared into his mountain fastness here in Rheged, having, he says, seen the handwriting on the wall. So young Kastor, Hapgar’s son, now sits in the king’s chair at Caer Farne, although he’s barely twenty. And his uncle Brastias hides himself away in Castle Noir, amusing himself with his music and his scrolls and,” he added with a lift of his eyebrows, “his magics and enchantments, if rumors are to be believed.”