Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  With a slap on the back, Gawaine drained his cup, turned away, and strode out into the night. Galahad looked swiftly about. The only men left inside the tent were deep in conversation with the King. No one had overheard. He raised a trembling hand to the tent flap and stepped outside into the cool evening air.

  His heart hammered in his ears and he drew a deep breath to steady himself. Alliance with Gawaine! This was an offer worth considering. Lancelot might defeat one of them, but never both. This was his chance to revenge his mother for all her pain. I will not rest easy, in Heaven or in Hell, until he is dead. Not so long ago he would have jumped at the chance. Why now did his spirit recoil as if something unclean had just passed by?

  Late that night, curled in his bedroll at the foot of Varric’s pallet, he awoke to voices talking in the inner chamber. Mordred was bidding his father farewell.

  “My lord, I still think it is a mistake to put Gawaine in charge.”

  “All the others are of your mind, as well.”

  “Well, then, will you not reconsider? Give him some title, some ceremonial post that will content his pride and do Hiberius honor. But do not let him command the embassy. I fear his short sight and hot temper will end in some disaster.”

  “You are afraid he will insult someone, or start a fight, from which retreat will necessarily mean war?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, Mordred, I am content with such an outcome. I suspect it might be the best thing that could happen.”

  “My lord!”

  “Listen. This is for your ears only. There will be war, Mordred, as surely as the sun rises. There is no hope of averting it. There never has been. Hiberius has come all the way from Rome to subdue the Franks and Bretons; he will not be content with less. I have allowed my commanders to believe in the chance for peace because I want Hiberius to think our embassy is sincere. I want him to believe we are unwilling, or unready, for the battle he is planning. The truth is, he is not quite ready yet himself. The Burgundian forces under his command are chancy fighters. They shout loudly and are eager to brandish weapons, but they have no staying power. Hoel’s spies have news that when he learned of our own arrival on Breton soil, he sent to Rome for reinforcements, and these have not yet arrived.”

  “They fear you, sir, even in Rome. He fears to meet the Dragon of Britain unless he outnumbers you three to one.”

  “Whatever the reason, I would prefer to force his hand before those troops arrive. If Gawaine accomplishes this for me, however innocently, so much the better.”

  “My lord, I am glad you told me. I will leave with an easier heart. Does no one else know?”

  “Hoel knows. And Lancelot, of course. In a week’s time, Mordred, as you are riding through King’s Gate and into Camelot, we might well be marching to Autun, and destiny.”

  “You will have victory that day. No one doubts it.”

  “I’d be well pleased if that were true. . . . Well . . . give her my love, son. Tell her I think of her often during the days, and every night she visits me in my dreams. It is true enough. She will be lonely, Mordred. Say what you can to comfort her.”

  “Yes, my lord. With pleasure.”

  “I shall be lonely, too. But I will be busy.”

  “Ah. That reminds me. There is one more thing.”

  “Yes? Well? Why do you hesitate?”

  “Forgive me, my lord. But—from son to father—sir, Hoel sends me with a message.”

  “Yes?”

  “In short, he worries that you allow yourself no pleasure. He has three maidens, he tells me, who would gladly come to your tent. I have seen one of them—a raven-haired beauty of seventeen—yes, I thought you might laugh.”

  “How old is Hoel?” Arthur chuckled. “Seventy, if he is a day, and still his appetites are undiminished! He has my admiration and my thanks. But even if the girl is willing—”

  “More than willing, my lord. Eager. And she is a beauty.”

  “I’ve no doubt, Mordred, or you’d not have noticed her yourself. But no, thank you. A man who has been used for twenty years to the nectar of gods cannot after a mere month look forward to local brew.”

  “I hinted as much to Hoel, but he was adamant I make the offer. He thinks you have looked tired of late.”

  “Not tired. Worried about Lancelot.”

  “I thought that was settled.”

  “He cannot forgive himself for his son’s words to me. He feels responsible.”

  “Galahad is old enough to speak his own mind. Lancelot is too quick to take blame upon himself.”

  “Yes, and always has been. He will work it out in time. But I worry that we do not have time. If he carries this guilt into battle, he is likely to take chances and endanger himself without need. He has done so before.”

  “I knew that boy would cause trouble if you brought him.”

  “I could not leave him home without dishonor both to him and Lancelot. He is learning, Mordred. It’s a difficult age.”

  “Please, my lord. At his age you were crowned High King of Britain.”

  “Well, it is more difficult for some than for others.”

  “For him it is impossible. I think he’s mad.”

  Arthur paused. “When I learned about the soldier’s mutilation, I wondered myself. But I think perhaps he is a lonely boy, with a great soul and a great need, lost in the world of men. I wish I knew how to give him ease.”

  “You can’t. He doesn’t know what ease is. He knows only trouble.”

  “No. But he has a single eye.”

  “Send him back with me. I will keep him busy and get him out of Lancelot’s hair.”

  The King’s voice came softly through the tent cloth. “And take him away from Percival? No. They need each other now. This is a gift from God to both of them, this friendship. I would not disrupt it now for all the world.”

  “You have heard what the soldiers call them? Nemesis and Bumpkin! An ill-made match, it seems to me.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. The men are cruel; they’re only boys. The match is not so ill-made as it appears.”

  “Well, if you are so determined. You know best. You always have.”

  “Mordred. My son.”

  “Arthur.”

  “Go with God.”

  Footsteps retreated and silence followed. Galahad crept from his bedroll and parted the cloth, peeking into the inner chamber. Arthur stood like stone, staring at nothing. At last he sighed and crossed himself.

  “If You love me,” the King said softly to the empty air, “let me live to see him once again. It is all I ask.”

  For reasons he could not fathom, Galahad hid his face in his hands and wept.

  36

  AUTUN

  Like a hungry serpent slithering toward a long⸍awaited meal, the huge army snaked through the wooded hills and down onto the rolling plain of Autun. Here and there in the clouds of dust they raised, the summer sun glinted off spear tips and helmet studs, caught a flash of color from the myriad banners lifting in the soft June breeze, shimmered on the glossy coats of horses, and set alight the great Red Dragon on a field of gold. They wound through meadows where wildflowers grew rampant, glorying in brief beauty, waving and bowing as the soldiers passed. Galahad saw all around him a rich land, green and growing, and wondered if within the week this soft and fertile earth would be bathed in blood.

  If there were ever an army which could beat back Rome, this was the one. How Arthur had done it, Galahad did not know. In the month since he had arrived from Britain, the King had won the trust and the allegiance of all these foreign troops. Childebert loved him as a brother. To a man, the Franks would die for him. Was it his air of confidence and power? He let everyone know he never doubted the battle could be won. Was it his fairness? He had settled so many disputes to everyone’s satisfaction, he was now the only arbiter the soldiers would accept. Was it his prowess as a warrior? Grown men half his age sat in awe to hear the stories of the Saxon wars. Perhaps he merely charmed t
hem all; he let them see their cause was just, and he made them feel beloved. When men looked at him, they took heart and believed.

  The embassy to the Romans had ended in disaster, as Arthur had foreseen, before it had really begun. No sooner had Bedwyr and his fellow diplomats retired inside the meeting tent than Gawaine ran afoul of a Roman youth who ridiculed his atrocious Latin and called him an ignorant savage. Gawaine had drawn his sword and run him through before anyone had time to blink twice. Utter chaos followed, and the Britons had barely escaped with their lives, for the murdered youth turned out to be Hiberius’s own nephew.

  Toward sunset the allied armies came to the banks of a river. The High King set his tent upon a small rise and the armies coiled protectively around him. At every campfire men sharpened their weapons, polished their buckles and armbands, mended leather straps and scabbards, and checked over their equipment one last time. They were ready now, poised for the enemy’s approach. The scouts were out and Arthur and his commanders met in council to go over, one more time, the battle plans.

  Two days later when the Romans came to Autun, the armies of Britain were well rested and deployed to be deceiving in their strength. From the hill where Arthur camped, all Galahad could see on the night of the Romans’ arrival was a sea of tents and campfires from horizon to horizon. Before council broke up that night a great cheer was raised for the glory of King Arthur, but the commanders, when they left to join their troops, went silently.

  Lancelot sought out Galahad and brought him to his own tent. He dismissed his servant and served Galahad wine himself. Then he stood, head bowed, before the seated boy. The lamplight threw shadows across his face, picking out the fine line of jaw and cheekbone and making deep pits around his eyes.

  “Galahad. My son. This is the eve of your first battle, and perhaps of my last. At such times a man thinks of odd things.” He paused and clasped his hands tight together. “He thinks of all the things he cannot change—of the harm he has done others without intent, of what he might have done that he did not do.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I know there are things between us—a history of mistakes and misunderstandings—but I wish to do what I can to clear the air. I need to speak to you. Will you attend me?”

  Galahad nodded and placed his winecup on the ground.

  “Thank you. What I have to say has been on my mind for some time. If I am killed in battle, these are things I wish you to know.” Lancelot drew a deep breath. “Life is short and often bitter. But God has given us choices. If you are wise, you will choose the honorable road, however hard that is. Do what you ought, not what you want. Then someday, when you are as old as I am, you may look back and at least know you have done the best you could. If you are lucky you can even be proud that you have served Britain. I have been luckier than most men—I have lived in Arthur’s time; I have served him both as friend and as soldier; I have known the generous love of the two most loyal hearts in all the world.”

  He paused and took a turn around the tent. “I know that Arthur has dismissed you from your post, that he is sending you away. It grieves him deeply to do this. But you still serve him, Galahad. And in his service, as in no other, you will come to glory.” He smiled briefly. “I, too, remember the prophecy. Do not fret that you are not in Arthur’s army. Perhaps your way lies along a different road. From your earliest years, you have always been different from your fellows. It is not a curse to be so; it is a gift.”

  Lancelot stopped. He searched Galahad’s face, but the boy sat still on the stool, gravely attentive, waiting. “Learn mercy, son. Not every man will measure up to your standards. Learn to forgive the ones who fail. When you are building Britain, do not worry that your workmen have dirty hands or soiled faces—in their hearts they are the same as you. Keep your eye upon what it is men have in common, as Arthur does. It is the path to greatness, and to honor. Accept men for the weak and sinful creatures they will always be, and look beyond.”

  Lancelot paused again. “You have had words with Mordred. Whatever the cause, set aside this enmity and put things right between you. He is not a bad man, and when Arthur is gone he will be your King. Britain needs you both.”

  “He will never be my King. He is abomination.”

  Lancelot regarded him sadly. “He is a reminder to us all that we are Adam’s seed. Even the greatest among us stumbles and falls. ‘There is not a just man upon earth, who doeth good and sinneth not.’ ” His voice grew soft. “Even Arthur.”

  The words hung heavy between them in the ensuing silence. Beyond the tent walls came the low call of voices, the distant jingle of tack and mail, the occasional whinny, the soft thud of boots hurrying past. The night seemed to hold its breath, stretching moments into hours, as the lamp flame burned steadily in the still air.

  “Men are imperfect,” Lancelot said quietly. “Even the best of them. I am, perhaps, less perfect than most. But whatever else I have done, I have always striven for the glory of Arthur and of Britain. If you are to have a future, Galahad, this is where it lies. Serve Arthur with your very life. Make him your example; be as like him as you can. Take your eyes off the sins of men, and see their goodness. When we are gone, Arthur and Bedwyr and I, Britain will be in your hands—yours and Percival’s and other men your age. Be steadfast, Galahad, in your endeavors. Let nothing deter you. ” Lancelot passed a hand across his eyes. “These sound like the words of an old man who is afraid to die and is trying to make his peace,” he murmured bitterly. “Nevertheless, it’s good advice.”

  He picked up a dagger from the table at his elbow and twirled it absently in his hand. Galahad watched with admiration the swift play of his clever fingers, the delicate touch, the balance and agility he could so unthinkingly command. With deliberation, Lancelot replaced the dagger on the table and, drawing a deep breath, faced his son.

  “I have always loved you, Galahad. I give you my blessing and wish you well. If you . . . if you should change your mind and want to fight, I give you leave to join me. Arthur would not mind. There is not much honor in scavenger hunting.”

  “There is honor enough for me.”

  “The offer is good any time.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ah. Well.” Lancelot dropped his gaze. “Will you pardon me, son, for the wrongs I have done you?” he asked suddenly, stiffly, dragging his eyes back to the boy’s face. “Can you forgive me for Gareth?”

  A lump rose in Galahad’s throat. “Yes, Father. I have . . . I have put that grief away.”

  “Lucky boy,” Lancelot whispered.

  Galahad looked up at his father’s shadowed face. “I beg your pardon for shaming you in front of Arthur.”

  Lancelot exhaled slowly and his look lightened. “Thank you for that. It has lain heavy on my heart. For my part, I forgive you. That Arthur has not killed you means he has forgiven you as well.”

  Galahad rose. “The woman is all that remains between us, Father. Renounce your affection for her and I will fight with you. Proudly.”

  “This has nothing to do with the Queen.” A spasm of pain crossed Lancelot’s face. “I speak of the wrongs I have done you.”

  “It has everything to do with her! She is the root cause of all our suffering. Yours and mine.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Lancelot retorted hotly. With an effort, he calmed his voice. “She has never been mine to renounce,” he said slowly. “And what is in my heart is not within my power to deny. It can only be forgiven.”

  “I can forgive it if you will give it up.”

  “It is not within my power to give up,” Lancelot whispered.

  “Then why did you marry my mother? Why did you beget me? Is it true, what they all say behind my back? That you lay with her because you thought she was Queen Guinevere?”

  Lancelot looked at him a long time. At last he stepped forward and took his son in his embrace. “God keep you, Galahad. Defend Arthur with your life. I think you had better go.”

  At dawn, when the call to battle sou
nded, Galahad hurried down to his place behind the lines and organized his company of boys. Dimly, he heard the blare of horns and felt the earth shake beneath him as the armies moved. “As David was to Goliath,” he prayed quickly under his breath, “so let us be this day to Rome.”

  His little corps, some of them hardly more than children, readied themselves to go onto the battlefield once the lines moved forward. Their chief duty was to protect their wounded men from scavengers until the orderlies could carry them from the field. Wounded men were easy pickings. After every battle ragged men crawled out from everywhere to scavenge among the dead and dying, robbing them of jewels and weapons, sometimes dispatching any who tried to resist. This Galahad was sworn to prevent. He and his troops had been trained by Gaius Paulus, the chief physician, on how to detect the signs of life, how to know when a man could not be saved, and how to give quick death. They would be first among the fallen and would call the orderlies to tend the living. Scavengers and Romans they would kill.

  Percival looked pale as they stood nervously in formation. The ground shook; the din of clashing swords, screaming men, and pounding horses blasted their ears.

  “Galahad!” Percival cried, leaning toward him. “Tell me truly—what is it like to kill a man? Is it hard to do?”

  Color washed Galahad’s face. “The men we kill will be half-dead already. Don’t worry about your skill.”

  “It’s not that,” Percival said bravely, squaring his shoulders. “I will do what I must do. But I am afraid to look into their eyes.”