Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Listen now and listen well. We have bandied this about for long enough. You have a choice before you. You can be slave dogs of Constantine the Cornishman, who will bleed your kingdoms dry just as Arthur did, with no honor to yourselves but plenty to him. Or you can live independently and alone, without alliance, and be devoured by the Picts, the Anglii, the Gaels, or whoever it is that tests your borders every spring. Or we can band together and form a kingdom of the north. We will be a council, with a king and war leader picked from among ourselves. Let the tribes of the north reclaim our former glory; let us reclaim the power we had before Pendragon! The south of Britain can go to the Saxon dogs, for all I care. I’ve had a bellyful of southern domination. Constantine has given me his last order. I am my own man from now on.” He paused. “Where has your spirit gone? Has Pendragon turned you into bleating sheep? Where is the old conquering spirit of the independent north?”

  Talorc rose. “The independent north is dead, and with good reason. Let our own experience be our guide. Together we have withstood the barbarian onslaught—Picts, Anglii, Gael, and Saxon combined. But divided— remember the days before Arthur—under Uther, under Ambrosius, under Vortigern. Remember how we bled and suffered then! We need to unite, yes. Who doubts it? But let our union be larger than five kingdoms of the north. Let us keep our treaties with the south, as our fathers promised. Without southern troops to swell my ranks the Anglii on my borders would have devoured Elmet long ago.”

  Owaine pushed himself to his feet. “And who would be high king of this new kingdom? I will submit to no man’s domination, Valvan, not even yours.”

  “Well,” Kastor drawled, leaning back in his chair and staring insolently at Valvan, “I’m willing to be bought. But it will cost you. Yearly.”

  Valvan’s eyes flickered, but he turned to Rydor.

  Rydor sighed deeply. He rose, swaying slightly on his feet. “I’m all for the union of the north. But breaking our ties with the south will make us enemies. I don’t see that we gain by making enemies where now we have friends. Lukewarm they may be, but they’re allies nonetheless. I’m not sure it’s a wise move, Valvan. Not sure at all.”

  Valvan straightened. “So. That’s how it is,” he said softly. “A month of talk and all we have to show for it is words.”

  “The wine’s been good,” Kastor murmured.

  Valvan’s quick eyes narrowed. “You leave me with few choices, my friends. What you will not give me, I must take perforce.”

  “What do you mean?” Talorc asked quickly.

  Valvan lifted his shoulders and smiled. “Only this—that what you will not help me do, I will do alone. I should advise you”—his voice softened— “to consider your position.” His gaze slid to the wine-drugged troops, to his own guards, armed and ready in the doorways, a gaze that seemed to encompass not only the drinking hall, but the corridors and stairways, the very fortress, the hill it stood on, the land it commanded.

  Owaine’s chair shot back with a screech as he leaped to his feet. “You are bound by guest law, Valvan! You will protect us, and those who ride with us, while we are in your halls! Or else—”

  “Or else?” Valvan’s teeth gleamed between his lips. “Are you threatening me, Owaine? Who said you are not safe here? Not I. I merely ask you to consider your position.” He lifted a heavily ringed hand and gestured casually to his troops. “Use your eyes.”

  Owaine’s face darkened. “You filthy, serpent-tongued rogue, I’ll—”

  A guard rushed in at the door and threw himself on his knees before Valvan. “My lord! My lord! Come quickly! There is a stranger at the gate! He has threatened you—me, us, the kingdom—with dire harm if I do not let him in!”

  Valvan turned. “A fool with a death wish—who is he?”

  “He will not give his name, my lord. He has the eyes of a wildcat! He said to tell you he is the Knight of the Shield!”

  For an instant Valvan paled. The other lords stared at him.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Rydor demanded.

  “Oh, it’s an old legend they tell in the ice-capped hills,” Valvan said lightly. “A hero killed before his time walks through the gate of the Otherworld and returns bearing an invincible shield. A white shield—”

  “With a red cross,” the guard finished wildly. “My lord! My lord! It is the very one! The Spirit King has come for us!”

  “Take him away, for God’s sake,” Valvan said sharply to his captain. “If you can’t shut him up, lock him in. I won’t have such rumors spreading among the men.”

  But already they could hear the buzz of low-voiced murmurs from the corridor. The soldiers glanced nervously at one another and made the sign against enchantment behind their backs. Valvan cursed swiftly under his breath. “I’m going down to get a look at this madman. While I’m gone, think about what I’ve said.”

  “The hell you are!” Owaine shot back. “You’re not leaving without me! I wouldn’t trust you not to slip a knife between my ribs while my back is turned. I’m coming with you.”

  “And I,” replied Rydor and Talorc together.

  “Oh, very well,” Kastor grumbled. “If no one’s going to stay.”

  Snow whipped and whirled in circles in the courtyard, a steady, light snow which curled across the cobbles and licked the walls. From the parapet above the gate Valvan looked out across the broad, encircling ditch to the crest of the road, where a small group of horsemen huddled together. Their faces were indistinguishable but their leader was recognizable nonetheless. On his arm, unmistakable through the blowing snow, was a white shield with a red cross.

  “Beckon him to come within shouting distance and ask him what he wants here,” Valvan commanded the sentry at his side. He turned to the other kings who had come up behind him. “What do you say, my lords, to a little sport? He looks a likely warrior, whoever he is. Shall we test his strength against ours as the price of entrance?”

  “Price of entrance?” Talorc repeated. “And if he loses, you will let those people freeze?”

  “They are at my mercy within the walls or without,” Valvan snapped. “Their fate is mine.”

  “If that knight meets whatever test you set him, you will shelter those people within your walls and grant whatever request they have come to ask of you.” It was a statement. Valvan saw Talorc’s hand drop to his sword hilt and rest there. Behind him Rydor nodded and Owaine grunted in assent. Even Kastor’s eye had lit.

  Valvan’s lips thinned. “I will grant them shelter. I promise nothing beyond that. Here is the test: Let him fight and disarm all five of us with no help from his companions.”

  “No man can win at five to one!” Rydor cried.

  “Except Lancelot,” Talorc said softly. “May God preserve him. He did it more than once.”

  “Let us go out one after the other,” Owaine demanded, “and see which of us can disarm him in single combat. Let the strength of our sword arms decide who among us is to be High King of the North.” He grinned at Valvan. “I’ll go first.”

  “A decision of such import is better made in the council chamber,” Valvan returned icily. “But as for this upstart knight, by all means take him on. One after the other or all together, it matters not to me.”

  “Upstart!” Talorc exclaimed. “What has he done but ask for shelter?”

  “He has threatened me, and I am Lothian.” Valvan snarled as he turned to the sentry. “Go on. Ask him to ride to the gate. Alone. Then put our challenge to him. I will tell you what to say.”

  The black-cloaked knight rode forward, alone, and listened to the sentry. Slowly he lifted his face and looked at the row of kings watching from atop the battlement.

  “He’s but a youth!” Talorc whispered.

  “He rides without a saddle!” Rydor gasped. “Whoever heard of such a thing among warriors? Only farm boys—”

  “And Lancelot.” Kastor peered through the falling snow at the knight’s face. “Lancelot never bothered with a saddle. And never ca
me off his horse.”

  “Who is he?” Owaine demanded. “He can’t be Lancelot.”

  “Ask the fool for his name,” Valvan called down to the sentry.

  But as he spoke the knight unsheathed his sword, touched the blade to his forehead in salute, whirled his stallion neatly, and cantered back to his companions.

  “Now we’re for it,” Talorc grumbled. “He’s accepted.”

  “What name did he give?” Valvan demanded of the sentry.

  The man shook his head. “None, my lord. He said you had not earned the right to know his name.”

  Color rose to Valvan’s face. “No? Let him wait out in the cold until he freezes, the insolent puppy!”

  Owaine thumped Valvan hard on the back with his bear-paw of a hand. “Too late for that, fox! You’re bound by your own challenge now! I’ll go down to my horse. Open the gates when he’s ready.”

  Talorc pointed to the far side of the ditch, where all the knight’s companions were gathered around him, gesticulating wildly. “Look. They argue with him. They are friends, then, not troops. He does not command them.”

  “So much the better for us,” Valvan muttered. “When he falls, no one will dare to take his place. Let’s see what that oaf from Gorre can make of him.”

  Owaine charged out the open gate. The knight whirled to face him and shouted to his friends, who cantered a safe distance away and then turned to watch. Owaine’s first blow fell on the white shield, and his horse, a heavy, big-footed beast, carried him past the unknown knight for three full strides before he could be slowed and turned. But in that space of time the knight spurred his own horse to Owaine’s side and with a well-placed blow, knocked Owaine’s shield from his arm. Owaine bellowed and hauled his horse around, slashing wildly with his sword. But the knight had already galloped away and stood waiting at the edge of the ditch ringing the fortress. Owaine gathered his mount under him and charged again. The knight waited, sword held ready, shield up. Owaine raised his sword high over his head and shouted his battle cry. At the last moment the black stallion whirled neatly away. Too late, Owaine saw the gaping ditch and yanked hard on the reins. But the lumbering horse could not pull up on the frozen ground and plunged headlong into the ditch with a screaming whinny. Owaine pitched face-first into the icy dirt. He lay stunned for a moment, struggling for breath, then pushed himself up to look for his sword. He saw, instead, a bright blade inches from his face. He raised his head slowly. The black-cloaked knight stood over him, holding Owaine’s sword in his other hand.

  “Who are you?”

  Owaine spat dirt from his mouth. “Owaine of Gorre, lord. Who are you?”

  “A stranger seeking shelter. Why did you attack me?”

  Owaine shrugged. “It was Valvan’s idea. He thinks you’re a spirit from the Otherworld. It’s some old legend about a shield. Didn’t the guard tell you? You must fight us all to gain entrance.”

  “I didn’t believe him.” The knight spoke quietly. “How many more?”

  “Four.” Owaine looked up into his face for the first time. “Why, you’re a beardless boy! I have two sons older than you! How did you defeat me?”

  “I have a better horse. Can you stand?”

  “Aye.” Owaine pushed himself to his knees. Nearby his horse stood, head lowered, on trembling legs.

  The knight pointed. “Go take your horse and stand in the lee of the wall. I will leave your weapons in the ditch. When this tyrant’s game is over you can return and fetch them yourself.”

  Owaine nodded. “Better look quick behind you, my lord. That’s Rydor of Rheged coming out the gate.”

  Rydor halted at the edge of the ditch where the riderless black stallion waited, reins dangling. He leaned over, grabbed the reins, and smiled down.

  “Yield, stranger! I have your horse.”

  The knight looked up. “But can you keep him?” He whistled sharply and the stallion jumped. Finding his head restrained, the horse reared and lashed out with his forelegs. Rydor’s stallion snorted, screamed, and reared, ears pricked forward, answering the challenge. Rydor clung to his neck and turned him away, but the black’s reins slipped out of his hands and the horse slithered down the steep-sided ditch to his master.

  Rydor was a brave, forthright fighter but he could not get his sword past the white shield, and he had trouble controlling his stallion, who was more interested in the other stallion than in the battle. As many blows as he withstood himself, he could land none on the other knight. Feeling his horse tire beneath him, Rydor made one last, desperate thrust, only to find his sword wrenched from his hand altogether.

  “I yield!” he cried. “Whoever you are, you are a better man than I! Where on earth did you learn to fight like that?”

  “In Camelot,” replied the knight.

  Rydor stared at him, going pale. “They are all dead, who lived in Camelot.”

  Brilliant blue eyes stared levelly back. “Not all.”

  Rydor’s weapons joined Owaine’s in the ditch, and Rydor joined Owaine against the wall. Together they watched Talorc ride out.

  Talorc saluted the knight, and instead of charging, engaged him directly. He had seen enough of the horse’s ability and the knight’s moves to know he was facing a real test of his skill. But he had led the men of Elmet against the Anglii warriors for four years and knew his own strengths well. Patience, endurance, a bold move at an unexpected moment, these were his weapons. He was a thinking fighter; no man who could not overpower him could beat him quickly. All this proved so, and yet as the fight progressed, Talorc discovered that the young knight fought from instinct as much as from brains, had such fluid communication with his horse that he no sooner thought of a maneuver than the horse performed it, and had the ability to create new moves, new strategies, new defenses when the standard ones proved unavailing. Gradually Talorc found that he was losing. He was stronger, and perhaps more patient, but his thoughts moved more slowly than the other’s intuition, and he was struck more times than he struck back. At length, when rivulets of sweat dripped from his nose and chin, and his stallion was frothed with sweat and blowing, he raised his hand into the air.

  “My lord, I yield. I have given you my best, but you have gotten the better of me today.”

  He was rewarded with a quick smile. “Had you held on a little longer,” the youth said in a gasp, “I must have yielded or died. As it is, I am easy meat for the next man. What a worthy fighter you are, my lord! May I have your name?”

  Talorc bowed. “Talorc, son of Drustan. King of Elmet. And yours?”

  The knight paused. “I have sworn not to give it to the cowards who make us pay for shelter with blood. How can such a man as you be one of them?”

  Talorc’s face darkened. “I would sooner cut my throat than be one of them. Yet I have Elmet to think of. Without allies in the north, it may come to throat cutting soon enough.”

  “I see. And who is this riding out to meet me now?”

  “Kastor of Strathclyde. A lazy fellow, but not a stupid one. Be on your guard.” Talorc smiled. “I will fling my weapons into the ditch on my way to the wall.”

  Kastor rode forward and stopped his horse ten paces away. He stared at the weary knight, sheathed his sword, and slid off his horse. He walked to within three paces of the black stallion and stared up into luminous blue eyes.

  “Who the hell are you? Are you flesh or spirit?”

  “Flesh.”

  “If you are flesh, then you can die.”

  “As easily as you.”

  Kastor’s teeth flashed in a brief smile. “We shall see.” He made to turn away, then drew his dagger and flung himself toward the horse’s belly. The stallion reared, screaming, as the dagger, missing the belly, plunged into the inside of his flank.

  “Coward!” the knight yelled. He slid off the horse, whipped out his dagger, and threw it. Kastor caught it with his shield, rolled quickly away, and reached to draw his sword. He froze when he felt the sharp edge of cold steel against his nec
k. “You filthy coward! I ought to kill you for it!”

  Kastor turned slowly and saw fierce blue eyes blinking back tears. He shrugged. “Fair is fair. That horse is a weapon. Like the dagger.”

  “He’s worth a thousand daggers!” the knight whispered. He prodded Kastor’s chest with the sword. “Get up. Drop your shield and swordbelt.”

  Kastor smiled. “Shall I not drop them in the ditch, as Talorc did?”

  “You are not the man Talorc is. Leave them at my feet. Who is left inside that blighted fortress? Just Valvan?”

  “Just Valvan. King of Lothian. Give some thought to what may happen to you if you harm him. The place is thick with his men.”

  “I have given a lot of thought to Valvan of Lothian.”

  Kastor moved off toward the wall, but the gates did not open. The knight went to his stallion, ran a calming hand over the shaking horse, then pulled the dagger from his flesh. The wound bled lightly, but the animal was lame, unable to bear weight on the injured leg. He talked to the horse a moment, cradling the stallion’s head in his cloak. Then he drew off his cloak and flung it over the horse’s back.

  He strode to the gate clad only in his heavy tunic and leggings.

  “Valvan!” he shouted. “Come out and meet me, if you dare! I have defeated your champions! You cannot freeze me out without freezing your allies, too. Come spring, the whole north will rise up against Lothian!”

  A horn sounded somewhere, and the gates swung open.

  Valvan rode out on a proud white horse, regally robed in a crimson cloak with the crown of Lothian around his brow. But he wore no battle dress and carried no weapons. A phalanx of foot soldiers followed him.

  “And who are you, to beg entrance uninvited?” he demanded when he had come within a dagger’s throw of the young knight. “What do you mean by such effrontery? Why, you’re only a boy! Tell me why I should bother to truck with you. I’ve more than half a mind to throw you in the dungeon.”