Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  Galahad turned back to face the soldiers alone, his heart racing. First the dream, now this! Events were moving again, and fast. The captain and his men wore the Boar of Cornwall on their badges. “Greetings, Sir Galahad. This is luck, indeed. You are the very one we seek. We come from the High King Constantine, who wants you in Camelot without delay. He needs your help.”

  Galahad raised an eyebrow as the men surrounded him. “Do I have a choice?”

  The captain had the grace to blush. “I doubt we could force you against your will, my lord, but we’d have to try.”

  “No matter. I’ll come with you. I was heading south anyway.”

  24

  THE SEAT PERILOUS

  Galahad rode southeast with the escort, past the marshes bordering the Lake of Avalon, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for the turn in the road that would bring him the first sight of Caer Camel and the magnificent fortress that for nine years of his boyhood had been his home. Set high on a green hill, commanding a view of many leagues in every direction, the towers of Camelot glittered like burnished gold in the late sun. From a distance it looked unchanged. But as he drew nearer he saw with a sense of foreboding that the fortress, like the rest of Britain, showed everywhere the marks of slow decay. Grass grew unchecked between the paving stones. Bushes and scree had sprung up in the greensward at the top of the hill between the trees and the castle walls. Arthur had always kept this growth cut back for a hundred paces all around the outer fortifications, so that no enemy could approach unseen.

  Inside the gates it was much worse. Gone was the air of orderliness and discipline that had characterized the place in Arthur’s day. The sentries at the gate diced in a corner, hardly casting them a glance as they rode in. No one guarded the approach to the castle, and two guards lay drunk and snoring under a tree near the forecourt—in broad daylight!

  The town of Camelot was half-deserted, the training grounds a pool of mud, the horse meadows empty of the glorious animals once bred in the Camelot stables. The poor steeds who stood at the paddock fences gazing at him as he rode by looked like mountain ponies straight from the hills, rough-coated and thin.

  When they slid from their horses in the courtyard no grooms came running to lead their mounts away. One of the escort gathered up all the reins and led the horses away himself.

  The captain bowed. “This way, my lord. The High King awaits you.”

  Galahad followed silently. At least the golden stone of the castle itself still stood firm; the marble steps were not yet worn into unevenness; the great oak doors were still carved with fighting dragons, Arthur’s emblem, and had not been replaced with the Boar of Cornwall. But his relief was short-lived. Inside, dust had been allowed to gather in the corners, spiders had been at work on the ceilings, even the guards looked grimy and discontented. No one came with bowls of water to let them wash the dirt of travel from their faces, hands, and hair. The captain did not even pause to wipe the mud from his boots, but set off down the corridor at a swift pace. He stopped at the door of Arthur’s workroom, signaled Galahad to wait, entered, and bowed low. “My lord King. I have brought Sir Galahad, as you commanded.”

  A chair shrieked as it was pushed suddenly back against marble flooring. “He is here? Now? That was fast work, Darric. I commend you. Bring him in.”

  Galahad entered. In his mind’s eye he pictured the room as he had first seen it that morning in high summer when he was a boy: a graceful room with tall, glazed windows looking out on a lovely garden, polished benches adorned with beautiful cushions stitched by the Queen’s ladies and by the Queen herself, handsome tapestries depicting glorious battles lining the stone walls, Arthur’s heavy marble-topped desk with dragon-claw feet at the far end of the room near the opened doors to the garden, his white hound scratching lazily for fleas in its shade. And behind the desk, a tall man in a plain robe and sandals, dictating to a scribe, an ordinary man he had taken for a servant until he saw Lancelot bend his knee to the ground.

  Galahad shook his head to clear the memory. It was the end of March, not high summer, and the windows were shuttered, the doors closed. Old, stained rushes covered the floor. The tapestries showed threadbare in places. The cushions had gone brown from lack of cleaning, their bright colors barely discernible in the gloom. Two oil lamps threw off a sullen, smoky light. Only the brazier by the desk at the far end of the room burned bright enough to see by.

  The man behind the desk was magnificently robed, his garments trimmed in fur. Gold gleamed on his fingers and wrists, at his shoulder, waist, and neck. Around his brow, unbelievably, he wore the crown of Britain. Galahad nearly gasped aloud. Arthur had rarely worn it, reserving its use for only the most important occasions, thus preserving its solemnity and power to impress. But then, Arthur had considered himself a soldier first and a king second.

  Constantine’s dark eyes glared at him from either side of his eagle’s beak of a nose. Galahad dipped his knee and bowed. “My lord Constantine.”

  Constantine’s features lightened and he almost smiled. “I thank you for coming, Sir Galahad. I am aware that the escort I sent could not have forced you. I’ve, uh, heard, of course, about how you defeated the men of the north single-handedly. I congratulate you. I have wanted to speak with you for a long time. But you must be hungry and thirsty after your long ride.” He clapped his hands to summon a page. “Meat, cheese, and a flagon of mead for Sir Galahad. At once.” The page darted away. “Come, Galahad, have a seat by the brazier and warm yourself. Tell me all that you’ve been doing since Camlann. I’ve been hearing strange stories of your travels in the north.”

  Galahad had never met Constantine before but was not surprised at his instant dislike of the man. “What stories, my lord?”

  “I hear you’ve stirred up those northern kings. Rubbed their noses in their own high and mighty arrogance. That true?”

  “No, my lord. Not exactly.”

  “Are they still a federation? Determined to hold their own and the rest of us be damned?”

  “I wouldn’t call them a federation. They’re loosely organized.” Constantine grunted and looked at Galahad through narrowed eyes. “They say you carry a magic shield that protects you. Is that true?”

  “No, my lord. An ordinary shield I found in a hermit’s hut.”

  “But you’ve not been touched by a sword since you took it up, I hear. Is that not true?”

  “Yes. But not on account of the shield.” Unseen by Constantine, Galahad’s hand slid to his scabbard, Excalibur’s scabbard that he had oiled and sewn and strapped on to sheath Lancelot’s sword. He believed now in its power. When he oiled it the cracks in the leather had virtually disappeared, and after two years of use, not only had it conformed to the shape of Lancelot’s sword as though it had been made for that weapon, it had protected him from so much as a scratch in battle.

  Constantine chuckled. “No one doubts your skill, prince. What are you now, eighteen? Even at eighteen you’ve more of a reputation than any of my battle captains. It’s all I’ve heard for three years past from every traveler coming south, Galahad this and Galahad that. They say you personally defeated all the northern lords at Dunpeldyr.” He cocked an eyebrow at Galahad.

  “In a manner of speaking, that is true. We engaged in a sort of contest. I won. But no kingdoms were at stake.”

  “Hrmmm.” Constantine cleared his throat and spoke carefully. “How would you describe your relations with those arrogant bastards—Rheged, Strathclyde, Lothian, Gorre, and Elmet? Friendly? Cordial? Hostile?”

  Galahad regarded the hard eyes that never left his face. “Friendly with Elmet. Talorc’s a good man. As to the others”—he shrugged—“civil at best. I spared their lives and they owe me a service. But they will not do it willingly. I will have to force them to it when the time comes.”

  “I see.” Constantine turned and stared moodily into the fire. His next question, when it came, was casual. “Why did you go north in the first place? Why not go home? With Lancel
ot.”

  Galahad dropped his eyes. “My lord, there comes a time when a boy must leave his father. To learn to make his own way.”

  Constantine nodded. “Indeed. It can’t have been easy having Lancelot for a father. There was nothing he couldn’t do. Cador, my father, was the same.”

  Galahad hid his surprise as best he could. He wondered if Lancelot would be amused or annoyed to hear himself classed with the ambitious, hard-nosed Cador of Cornwall.

  A light scratch sounded at the door. Constantine sat back in his carved chair as the page appeared with Galahad’s food and drink. The boy set the tray down and retired at the king’s quick wave of dismissal.

  Constantine gestured at the food. “Eat up, eat up. You’re thinner than you ought to be to serve me. I want your sword arm strong.”

  Galahad ate with a sense of relief. Constantine was interested only in his fighting skills. But he did not see what connection such service might have with the dream which had sent him south.

  “You’re an odd man, Galahad. They say that no king yet has won your loyalty, not even Lancelot. That gold does not tempt you, that neither your service nor your heart can be bought. This interests me. I want the chance to win your loyalty. For Britain.”

  The dark eyes flicked briefly to Galahad in a quick, assessing glance. Then Constantine leaned back and stared at the ceiling. After a long moment he began speaking quietly. “I’ve heard it said that in his last days Arthur expressed an interest in unearthing the treasures the Emperor Maximus brought back from Rome.” Galahad froze. Constantine sighed a tiny sigh and kept his voice light. “I don’t know what those treasures are, but I called upon a bard in Cornwall, old blind Trefayne, to tell me what he knew of them.” As he spoke his voice grew lighter and more offhand. “He knew a fair bit, it seems. And he told me something I didn’t know. If these objects—there are three of them, the Sword, the Spear, the Grail—are ever again united in the hands of Britain’s king, then Britain herself shall remain invincible. Forever.” He smiled quietly. “Imagine it, Galahad! Safe from Saxons! From Gaels, from Picts and Anglii! To enter a battle with the outcome never in doubt! Now it is a dream I nightly dream. But it was Arthur’s vision before it was mine.”

  Galahad did not speak. He did not even breathe.

  Constantine sighed deeply. “I know where Excalibur is. Your brave but misguided father threw it into the Lake of Avalon. I’ve no doubt I can dredge it up, in spite of Morgaine’s objections. But what’s the use, unless I can discover the whereabouts of the other two?” He looked sharply at Galahad but met only two blank blue eyes across the table. “I’ve no doubt it would take a lot of searching. I’ve never heard of anyone who knows where these things are. It would take a certain kind of man, a man indifferent to power and gold and the pleasures they buy, to find such treasures and return them to me. A man like you. I’ve heard the prophecy about you: Your future is a marvelous one. It occurred to me this might be the way to fulfill it.”

  He paused and watched Galahad carefully. During the speech Galahad had not touched his meal or moved an eyelash. Now he carefully lifted the mead cup to his lips, drank, and set the cup down with a steady hand.

  “Is this what you want of me, King of Britain? To find you another man’s treasure? I would rather kill Saxons for you.”

  Constantine’s lips thinned until his teeth showed. “You shall have your chance, prince, never fear. There are plenty of Saxons about. But does this other matter not interest you? You would be the most honored man in all Britain if you could find these things. And I did hear you had gone north to seek a marvel. Is that not true?”

  “It is true.”

  Constantine watched his face for any sign of change, and then sat forward, slapping his hands on the desk. “Well, well, enough of this for now. We will speak of it again another time. As for marvels, this is the place for them. There are plenty of marvels in Camelot. Let me show you around a bit before you go to your rest.”

  He rose and Galahad rose with him.

  “My lord has forgotten that I grew up in Camelot.” By the startled look on Constantine’s face, Galahad saw he had not known, and that the knowledge was a blow to him for some reason. “I lived here from the age of five until fourteen. ”

  Constantine’s frown made him look instantly angry, but a moment later he wiped the frown away. “Come see the Round Hall at least,” the King said quickly. “It’s changed a bit since Arthur’s day.”

  Arthur’s day, Galahad thought bitterly as he followed Constantine down the corridor, was only four years ago. It seemed a lifetime. He did not want to see the same slovenly deterioration in the Round Hall that he had seen in the workroom, and he held his breath as Constantine pushed open the door.

  To his unutterable relief the Round Hall looked unchanged. The large, round, white oak table nearly filled the room. Thirty chairs sat around it, the King’s chair taller than the rest, with a dragon carved in the crest. Above the King’s chair Excalibur’s hanger still hung from the wall, beautifully stitched by Queen Guinevere herself. It was empty. At least Constantine had not yet had the effrontery to hang his own sword there and pretend that a blade forged in Cornwall could be the symbol of victory for all Britain.

  Constantine was walking slowly about the room, touching the chair backs as he passed, and talking. Galahad followed and tried to attend.

  “—had each knight’s name carved in his chair,” the king was saying. “It pleases them, and gives them the sense that their place in council is a permanent one, although it takes but three days to carve in another man’s name.” He paused at the chair directly opposite the king’s seat. “But this one, as you see, is uncarved. It is the Seat Perilous.”

  “Yes, I know—” Galahad began, remembering that it was first known as the Chair of Complaint, where people brought unsettled grievances before the High King himself, and had been given the name “Perilous” on account of some harsh judgments rendered.

  But Constantine was telling a different story. “—reserved for one person, an unknown knight of perfect valor who will one day take his seat here. The greatest knight in Britain. It has been foretold. Anyone else who tries to sit here suffers dreadful torment. Three have tried it. All of them took violently ill with cramps and bleeding the same night. The third one died, and no one’s tried to sit here since.”

  Galahad masked his disbelief and nodded obediently. The chair was clearly newer than the rest, unworn and well polished. Constantine stood before it a long time, talking about council meetings and the knights who served him. Galahad waited patiently, remembering only too well the last time he had seen this room. Nine years ago he had witnessed the knighting of Gareth of Orkney, his boyhood companion. A week later Galahad had gone off to Brittany in Arthur’s train. He had never seen Gareth again.

  “Gryff will show you to your quarters now, my lord.” It seemed Constantine had finished. “If you know the castle, you’ll recognize them. Tomorrow after breakfast we’ll drill the troops and you can judge for yourself the quality of men I keep.”

  Galahad followed the page through corridors and up a winding stair. The rush mats that had once served as a carpet were long gone, and his boots resounded sharply on the cold stone flooring. The page stopped by a solid oak door and bowed. “My lord.”

  Galahad pushed open the door with a sense of homecoming. They had given him Lancelot’s chamber. A youth in a ragged tunic and rough-knit leggings bowed low as he entered. “My lord. I am Brynn, your chamberlain.”

  “Good evening, Brynn.” He noticed his bedroll in a corner. His meager belongings had already been unpacked. “Where are you from?”

  “Cornwall, my lord. My father’s family has always served the Dukes of Cornwall.”

  “I hope you don’t mind serving a Breton. Our kingdoms have not always been on friendly terms.”

  “It is an honor, my lord,” Brynn responded eagerly, “to serve you. My father knew Lancelot. They fought together at Autun.”

  G
alahad raised an eyebrow. “Constantine’s son Prince Meliodas led the Cornish troops at Autun.” He turned to let Brynn unbelt his sword and unlace his tunic.

  “Yes, my lord. But so many were killed—toward battle’s end Sir Meliodas and Sir Lancelot fought together.”

  “Did they, indeed? I did not know that.” He had seen that battlefield. Too well he remembered the spent, gray faces of the dead, the green field trampled to mud and soaked with gore, the butchered bodies of his kinsmen sprawled facedown in filth. He shut his eyes to blot the memory out. “And how does Meliodas? I know him; he’s an excellent commander. Is he here in Camelot?”

  “No, my lord. He’s in Cornwall.”

  Galahad paused as Brynn drew off his boots. “Surely, as heir to the High King, he ought to be here.”

  Brynn averted his eyes. “Aye, my lord, so many say behind the High King’s back. But a year or two ago King Constantine quarreled with Sir Meliodas, not liking his son’s choice of wife. Since then he’s had Sir Markion, his second son, serving him here instead.”

  “What? Are they not yet reconciled? What kind of woman did he wed?”

  Brynn sighed as he bundled Galahad’s clothes and set them by the door for later cleaning. “I never saw her, my lord, but they say she was very beautiful. She was the daughter of a bard. She grew up in Amesbury, cared for by the nuns at the monastery while her father traveled. She brought Cornwall neither money nor land nor honor. That’s what infuriated the High King, that Sir Meliodas should marry her only for love.”

  “You speak of her as if she lived in the past. Did Meliodas put her away?”

  Brynn filled a basin with water from a pewter pitcher, and began to sponge the dirt of travel from Galahad’s body. “No, my lord. She died in childbirth, leaving him a strapping son. I don’t think he’s gotten over it yet. He does not speak to his father. Or to his brother, Markion.”

  “A shame,” Galahad said thoughtfully. “Meliodas is a good leader and an honest man.”

  “Oh, my lord, he is beloved by every man in Cornwall! To a man, we would die for him.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He is a better king to us than my lord Constantine ever was. If we have our way, Sir Meliodas will succeed his father. No one can abide Markion.”