Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  For half a day battle waged fiercely over the green plain, retreating and advancing, going this way and that. Outnumbered though they were, the Briton armies gave no ground, and toward noon the Burgundian lines began to waver. Men fell, and bled, and died in unthinkable numbers. The hospital tents were full by midmorning, and still the wounded came. The orderlies could do no more than lay the moaning men on pallets in the shade and give them water.

  As the sun rose and the sweet stench of blood simmered in the heat of the long June afternoon, Galahad’s young army straggled, exhausted, back and forth across the field. Scavengers abounded. There were too many bodies and too few boys. Suddenly, in midafternoon, when numbed men could hardly move one foot before the other, the Britons attacked and broke through the Roman lines. Within the hour the battle turned. Everywhere the Briton lines pushed forward, commanders screaming orders to keep their troops together in the rout. Arthur of Britain had prevailed yet once again, but at a heavy cost. And hours of mopping up still lay ahead.

  So tired he no longer felt his pain, Galahad moved slowly among the bodies, bloodied sword held ready, scanning the gray faces of the men who sprawled in the red mud. He had learned to recognize death. He knew now what a man’s body held inside it; he had seen gray-white bones buried in dark flesh, he had seen green innards spilling out while their owner’s dirty fingers tried frantically to push them back inside. He had seen hearts beating, heads opened, blood spurting rhythmically from glistening vessels, severed arms with fingers still groping, eyes hanging from their sockets, mouths and noses filled with vomit, ears filled with blood.

  He was beyond feeling anything at all. His sword had lost all vestige of finesse. When he found a dying man or came upon a Roman, he struck down at the throat with all his strength. He often stumbled and sometimes fell, but the fear of lying there and being stabbed himself brought him to his feet, shivering, moving onward. There were so many! It was impossible to save them all before dark. His voice was hoarse from calling for the orderlies.

  It dawned on him slowly that all the bodies in his view were Roman. The Britons had moved on—they must be winning. He lifted his head and saw he was a long way from the trees that stood above the hospital tents. There was no one about to ask. Some distance away he saw a scavenger crawling furtively, a dagger between his teeth. Even as he watched, the man stopped and tore the armband from a body, then grasped his dagger and struck viciously downward. Swearing under his breath, Galahad moved toward him. He staggered, his legs heavy as blocks of wood. He had killed over twenty such vermin already.

  “Sir! Mercy!” screeched the filthy thief, taken by surprise. With a stroke, Galahad sliced his head half from his shoulders and stooped to take the stolen armband from his hand. Then he saw the face of the man the thief had stabbed.

  “Cordovic, my cousin!” His stomach heaved. He looked around. “These are all Bretons! This is Lanascol!”

  A slow anger began to burn within him, bringing feeling back. He knew all these faces with staring eyes. He knew them well. Nirovayne, Hebes, Palomides. Movement caught his eye—another scavenger fumbled at a soldier’s tunic, prying loose the shoulder badge. Galahad staggered toward him, but the man heard him and leaped to his feet.

  “Go away, boy! My children are starving. Let me keep this badge and I will trouble you no more!” In his hand he brandished a dagger. Without thought, Galahad’s left hand whipped his dagger from his belt and threw it. The man fell, choking on his own blood, the dagger in his throat.

  “That will teach you to steal from dead men!” But when he pried open the twitching fingers to retrieve the badge, he froze. There was the Hawk, silver on a field of black enamel, with a ruby eye.

  “Father,” he croaked, looking down at the long body in the mud. “Father!”

  Unbelievably, the body moved. The gray eyes opened and looked up at him, glazed and unseeing. Stiffly, the lips formed a word.

  “. . . Arthur . . .”

  “Father! Don’t speak—I’ll get you water. Orderly! Here! It’s Lancelot! Quickly! Father, where are you wounded?”

  Lancelot was covered with mud and gore, but Galahad saw no wound. Kneeling by his side, he felt his body gingerly for broken bones. When he touched his left leg, Lancelot cried out and fainted. Then Galahad saw the gash across his thigh, mud-filled and seeping blood. The ground beneath him was already a liquid pool. His hands, his face, his flesh were gray and lifeless. Already that day Galahad had killed men less desperately wounded, knowing they could not live. Two orderlies arrived with a crude stretcher, but when they saw Lancelot, they swore.

  “Why have you called us here? He is a dead man.”

  “See his face, boy? He cannot live. We are three hours behind as it is. He’ll not last twenty minutes. Use your sword.”

  “He must last! You must take him straight to Gaius! This is Lancelot, King of Lanascol! Bind the leg—go on! It’s not pumping. If you do not, I shall see the High King learns who it was who killed his dearest friend!”

  Wearily, the orderlies obeyed him, bound the leg, and carried Lancelot away. Galahad sat heavily in the pool of his father’s blood, too numb for thought, too exhausted to go on. The late-afternoon sun sent his shadow long over the trampled ground and, in the distance, tipped the new-leafed trees with gold. He could not watch any longer. His head was spinning. Slowly, he lowered his head onto a dead man’s chest, closed his eyes, and let go.

  37

  THE VICTOR’S SPOILS

  He woke to darkness and the sound of pouring water. Someone thrust a soaking cloth into his mouth. He sucked it eagerly, his throat aflame. As memory flooded back he struggled to rise, and thin arms pulled him upright.

  “Percival?”

  “Here, cousin. A moment and I’ll have a light.” A candle swam before his eyes and Percival’s mud-streaked face came into view.

  “Is it over?”

  “Aye. Drink this. Gaius made it for you. Go on, it’s only water with healing herbs to give you strength.”

  “I’m strong enough.” But he drank it thirstily. “Gaius mixed this for me?”

  Percival nodded. “Because you saved Lancelot’s life.”

  Galahad let his breath out slowly. “He lives?”

  “For the moment. He awoke near sundown as they prepared to sew his leg. They had to stun him with smoke to do it. He’s very weak. I should tell you that Gaius does not expect him to live much longer. But he wouldn’t have lived this long if you hadn’t found him.”

  Galahad sat very still. “Now I have paid him back for the gift of birth.”

  “So many scores are settling fast.”

  Galahad brought the candle closer to the younger boy’s face. Beneath the dirt and gray fatigue he saw marks of grief. “Percival, what has happened?”

  “My . . . my father’s dead.”

  “Maelgon slain? I’m sorry.” He slid an arm around Percival’s shoulders and hugged him gently. “It is a most honorable death, fighting for Britain against an army of Romans who outnumbered us five to one.”

  “That’s . . . that’s not all. Arthur is missing and Gawaine with him. Lancelot is dying—and so many are dead! Urien of Rheged, Prince Riderch and his son—even poor Gabral and Bryddon. Bedwyr leads us now—oh, Galahad, how everything is changed! What will become of us?”

  Galahad felt his throat tighten until he could scarcely speak. “What do you mean, Arthur is missing?”

  “No one can find him. He has sent us no word. When Lancelot awoke, he was in a panic. He said he had seen the dragon banner fall. By the stream near our left flank, where the hard fighting was at the end. He was half out of his mind with pain, but he would not let Gaius stun him until they’d sent a search party out to the place the King had last been seen. They found the bodies of his companions, but not the King. They found”—he gulped— “they found his sash and his badge. Lancelot was wild with worry on account of the Saxons—”

  “The Saxons!”

  “Yes, because all their tre
aties are with Arthur, and if news got out that he was . . . missing . . . the treaties would be void and they might attack. And with the army out of the kingdom! Lancelot sent a courier to Mordred to tell him what had happened. And to tell him that, failing immediate news, he must be king.”

  “What! He has lost his wits!”

  “Only the High King can renew the treaties, Galahad. Lancelot feared to leave Britain unprotected until we discover what has happened to Arthur.”

  “But he can’t! It’s treason!”

  “I don’t think so. According to Sir Bedwyr, Arthur had planned for this.”

  “Not Mordred!”

  “Who else, then? Constantine?” He spoke bitterly and Galahad paused. This was not the same boy he had comforted that morning. In a single day, how much had changed!

  “He had no right to send that message.”

  “He had every right. He had given his oath to Arthur that he would, if Arthur fell.”

  “He has not fallen!” A heavy silence hung between them.

  “Then,” Percival whispered, “where is he?”

  Galahad wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t know. But he’ll be back. I know he will.”

  “If he lived, he’d have sent a message. It’s every commander’s duty. But no one has come. . . . Can you stand, do you think? Sir Bedwyr wants to see you as soon as you are able.”

  “I’m fine. Where is he?”

  “In Arthur’s tent.”

  “He presumes too much!”

  “For God’s sake, Galahad, someone has to lead the troops and treat with the Romans! He is doing no more than he must. Go look at him, if you think he enjoys it.”

  Bedwyr had aged ten years since morning, his face drawn dark with grief and his movements labored. His right arm rested in a sling; near the shoulder a dark stripe of blood soaked through the bandage.

  “Ah, Galahad, I am glad to see you. Come in.”

  “My lord Bedwyr.” Galahad bent his knee. “I am at your service.”

  “Only temporarily, I pray, but I thank you. Do you know that your father lies gravely ill?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I have sent for a priest of Christ. Gaius gives him little chance of living through the night.”

  Galahad’s gaze slid to the silver token Sir Bedwyr wore on a thong about his neck, a symbol of Mithra, the soldier’s god. “Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.”

  “It’s the least I can do. Lancelot is my friend.” He paused. “Do you wish to attend him? If you do, I will make the arrangements.” He saw the reluctance on the boy’s face and added, “He’s not alone. Your uncle Galyn sits with him now.”

  “In that case, my lord . . . I . . . I would rather do something useful. I’m sure I could be of no use to my father.”

  Something moved behind Bedwyr’s dark eyes. “Very well. I can use you.” He turned and led Galahad to the inner chamber of the tent, where great piles of weapons, armbands, necklaces, and badges were stacked. Three men were sorting these belongings under Gereint’s supervision, and two scribes were labeling them with the names of their dead owners.

  “Until we carry these effects home to the families of the men who died, they must be guarded,” Bedwyr explained. “We have lost thousands. I judged this to be the safest place to keep them, the easiest place to guard. Arthur valued your skill with a sword, Galahad. Will you do us all this service and guard these treasured belongings home to Britain?”

  “Yes, my lord. May I have Percival to help me?”

  “You may appoint anyone you like to the duty. I leave the choice to you.”

  Percival shook his head when he heard the news. “It’s because they all think you are mad, you know, that he chose you.”

  Galahad stared. “What do you mean? Who thinks I’m mad?”

  “The whole army. They know your skill with a sword and they fear it. On account of what you did to the bandit before you killed him.”

  Galahad froze. “Who told you that?”

  Percival shrugged. “You know how soldiers gossip. Sir Bedwyr has certainly heard it. Your new reputation will serve us well. No one will dare to come near the men’s effects. You are the perfect choice.”

  Galahad found himself breathing hard. “And you, cousin? Don’t you fear Nemesis, too?”

  Percival laughed. “You’re not my nemesis. And you’re not mad; you’re just single-minded. Bumpkin is perfectly happy to accept the protection of your sword.”

  “How brave of you.” Galahad spoke bitterly, and Percival laid a hand on his arm.

  “There’s something else they say about you, cousin. They say you are chosen. That God has called you to some special service which will bring you either to an early death or to glory. Because you are not like other men.”

  Galahad began to breathe again and color flooded his face. “Don’t be silly. Nobody says that about me. They’re only repeating that wretched witch’s prophecy. How could she possibly know what will happen?”

  “They say she predicted this war,” Percival said slowly, “and . . . and the death of Arthur.”

  The two boys stared blankly at each other.

  Three days passed. A great gloom descended on the army as they went about the grim task of finding, stripping, and burying the dead. Every time a horseman rode by the men looked up in hope. When they paused from their labors they scanned the battlefield, the sparse woodland, the distant meadows. Everyone prayed to whatever god he worshiped that Arthur would not be found among the slain, but it would take a week to clear the field. And if he had been robbed or beheaded, what would be left to know him by?

  To Bedwyr fell the task of dealing with the Romans. He kept Arthur’s absence secret from the envoys and negotiated terms of surrender as he knew Arthur would have done. He demanded no gold, no hostages, no recompense for the trouble Rome had caused, but he returned Hiberius’s body to his countrymen with the words, “This is all the tribute Britain pays to Rome.” He left the Romans free to return home unhindered and demanded only Rome’s oath to leave Britain in peace for a thousand years. He signed the document “AR”—Arturus Rex— and sealed it with Arthur’s seal. The Roman commander praised his virtue and his mercy, and declared he had proved his reputation as a fair man. Beyond that, all Bedwyr could do was watch them as they gathered and buried their dead, and send scouts to see them off on the road to Rome.

  For three days Lancelot lay in the world of shadows between the living and the dead, gray and frail, unmoving, unwaking, shrinking, it seemed, before their very eyes. Gaius shook his head helplessly. “If he cannot wake to take water, he will die.”

  Galyn sat by his brother’s pallet and bowed his head in grief. So many were dead from Lanascol! Bors had been slain by a spear through his belly, Cordovic’s throat was slit, and a hundred others as well loved were gone forever. If only Arthur were there, Lancelot might rally. But if Arthur lived, surely he would have sent a messenger to Bedwyr. Like as not, his body had been ravaged by scavengers and picked apart by kites. They might never find more than his bones. In despair, he covered his face and wept.

  Inside the High King’s tent, Galahad watched the stacks of belongings mount day by day, talismans of the heavy cost of victory. He and Percival stood guard in shifts, sleeping and taking their meals by the pile of treasure, stepping outside only for brief respites while Bedwyr himself was there in council. It was onerous duty, but no worse than grave digging or bearing the dead from the field.

  Percival’s grief for his father was barely within his command. He spoke little and sometimes wept when he thought no one could hear. Galahad mourned Gabral and Bryddon. He desperately missed their nightly banter, the half-wit’s teasing and Bryddon’s dour replies. Daily he visited the ditch which held their bodies, along with a thousand others, tossed wildflowers on their blanket of raw earth, and knelt in prayer until his knees ached so he could barely stand.

  At twilight on the third day a whisper began among the troops, low and fitful at
first, passing from man to man, and then, gathering strength, ran through the camp like wildfire on a swift wind.

  “Arthur! The King returns! Arthur lives!”

  Men raced out onto the plain, abandoning their campfires, their dinners, their work, to stare as a small group of men emerged from the distant woods, crossed the stream, and came slowly toward them. Two horsemen led fifteen foot soldiers. They carried no banner but, limp and ragged as they were, they marched in formation.

  “By Mithra!” Bedwyr whispered, standing before the tent and shading his eyes from the setting sun. “Could it be Arthur and Gawaine? Galahad, look! Your eyes are better than mine. Can you see them?”

  “I know the horse, my lord! It is the High King’s!”

  Even as they watched, men dashed across the open ground and knelt at the rider’s side, kissing his boots, weeping as he passed. There could be no doubt; it must be Arthur. But the man himself, gaunt, bearded, and weary, Galahad hardly recognized. Gawaine, too, looked pale and exhausted. They approached the camp while the host of soldiers cheered and wept for joy. Arthur slid from his horse. Bedwyr embraced him, tears in his eyes, and kissed his cheeks.

  “Arthur! By the light, I am glad to see you!”

  “And I you, Bedwyr, my dear companion. Fate has proved a fickle friend. We sent a messenger to tell you we were off to catch the ruffians who ambushed us, but on the way back we came across his body. You have been three days without news?”

  “It feels more like three years!” Bedwyr cried, managing a smile. “Come inside and rest, my lord, and let me tell you about the Romans—”

  Arthur lifted a hand. “In a little while. First, take me to Lancelot.”

  When he sat at the side of his old friend, Arthur wept. He took Lancelot’s frail body in his arms, held him close, and spoke into his ear. Lancelot stirred; his lips moved. Quickly, Gaius lifted a cup to his mouth, and he drank. Lancelot could not open his eyes, or speak, or move his hands, but as long as Arthur held him, he drank the healing broth and breathed more easily.

  “When he can be moved,” Arthur ordered, “bring him to me.”