Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  Slowly Galahad sank to his knees. “He is gone. My father is dead.”

  Percival knelt and put his arms around his cousin’s shoulders. Sobs rose one after the other in Galahad’s throat, broke in harsh waves upon his lips, and spilled out uncontrollably into the waiting night. He clenched his eyes and fists against the torrent but his will was a tiny thing, fluttering and useless against the never-ending springs of grief. After a long while Percival led him to his pallet and, dazed and exhausted, he slept.

  He awoke to the touch of gentle hands, a touch so familiar that for a moment he was carried back in memory to another grief, another darkness. Strong arms lifted him and hugged him close.

  “Galahad,” said the King’s voice in his ear. “Galahad, my brave lad. Rejoice with me. He lives!”

  Galahad looked up into Arthur’s face. All the King’s weariness had vanished. He looked young again, radiant and strong, alight with joy.

  Percival sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Sir Lancelot lives?”

  Arthur’s smile lit the chamber. “Yes, Percival, by the grace of God he lives! I heard your grief”—he turned back to Galahad—“and knew you thought him dead. After crisis comes collapse. If death comes, it comes then. But to the lucky comes peaceful rest after the hard struggle with fever. Lancelot struggled a long time—his rest now will be as long. But Gaius says he will recover.”

  “Thank God!” Percival cried. “It is a miracle!”

  Arthur laughed for the sheer pleasure of it. “All of life is a miracle. Anyone who has been to war knows this.”

  Arthur embraced Galahad again and then looked into his face. “I knew that in your heart you loved him,” he said very gently. “Now you know it, too.” He smiled again. “God works in mysterious ways, does He not?”

  PART II

  The Return of the King

  In the twenty-sixth year of the reign of Arthur Pendragon

  39

  THE CROSSING

  Galahad stood in the bow of the ship well forward of the great sail. He still could not believe they had finally put out to sea. Two whole weeks they had spent in Lanascol after the long trek from Autun, and three in Kerrec, penned in by the wayward wind. The storms that had assailed the seas all summer still played havoc with sailing vessels. Every second boat leaving harbor in a calm sea later foundered in a freakish wind. There seemed no end to it. Even Arthur’s temper had begun to wear a little thin. King Hoel had advised them not to attempt a crossing, but Arthur was impatient to get back to Britain. They had readied their ships and camped at wharfside, waiting for the seas to slacken. And now, three weeks short of the autumn equinox and four months after they had left for Gaul, they were finally returning victorious to Britain.

  He heard his name and turned. Percival made his way carefully between the neat coils of braided hemp. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you. Guess what I heard about Prince Mordred?” He lowered his voice. “I overheard Sir Gawaine telling one of his men what passed between Arthur and King Hoel back in Kerrec. We thought we were waiting for a wind, but it seems the High King was negotiating for Mordred’s future.”

  Galahad glanced right and left but no one else was near. “Go on.”

  “Well, King Hoel was in a bad way, as you know—he couldn’t get over his grief at Riderch’s death, and his grandson Oltair’s as well. All gone in a single stroke! He told Arthur he had no one to leave his kingdom to. His second son—did you know Prince Riderch had a brother?—is a man of forty named Grayvise who spends all day among his scrolls and studies music. He’s a master on the lute and harp but, according to Hoel, has not a warrior’s bone in his body. He’s not wed, but neither has he an eye for women. Boys are more to his taste. And King Hoel wept because he had no one but Grayvise to leave his kingdom to. So guess what King Arthur suggested?”

  “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “Hoel has named Prince Mordred as his heir! Arthur and Hoel are cousins, so it’s not as if Mordred had no right to it.”

  Galahad grimaced. “Better Grayvise. Better even a woman. Oh, I see what Arthur is about. He thinks to unite the Britains when both he and Hoel are gone.”

  “And in the meantime, the King promised Hoel, it means Brittany will be well defended.”

  “More to the point, it gives Mordred something to do when the High King takes back his crown.”

  Percival nodded. “It’s not a bad idea, Galahad. If Prince Mordred has been High King all summer, and if he’s as ambitious as Gawaine thinks, it won’t be easy for him to give it up, even for Arthur. This is tempting bait. I think it’s very clever.”

  Galahad shook his head. “It’s madness. However clever it is, it will never happen. Gawaine probably invented half of it—he’s been itching for trouble ever since we left Lancelot in Lanascol. If Arthur hadn’t been there, I doubt his sense of honor would have kept him from attacking my father in his bed.”

  The breeze freshened suddenly against his cheek. On the horizon he could see the shore of Britain shimmering in the heat of late summer. They were nearly home. Behind them sailed the ship Bedwyr commanded, and somewhere in Bedwyr’s wake were three more vessels—what was left of the army could return in one crossing, while it had taken three before.

  Suddenly the ship lurched, throwing them off balance. They collided, stumbled, and clutched at the rail. In a few heartbeats the sea had heaved itself into gray, froth-decked mountains as a gale struck from the west with icy breath.

  “Come on!” Percival shouted, grabbing Galahad’s arm. “Let’s get below!” Together they staggered aft as the spray-soaked sailors swore and sweated to reef the sail. There was not a cloud in the sky, yet the wind was whipping the seas, turning the day dark, and staining the water black. The ship rolled violently, flying eastward as the sea poured over the deck. The captain fought to keep the laden rig upright, but he was powerless to steer her course. Eastward and landward they flew, the sail in ribbons, faster and faster toward the looming cliffs and the rocky bays below. Men lashed themselves to the mast, to anything that might withstand the water’s onslaught. At every wave crest they caught a glimpse of the rockbound coast fast approaching. They all shouted to their gods to save them, but the sound was borne away to nothingness before it was past their lips.

  The breakers flung them past a rocky point and into a shallow bay. In the lee of the land the wind died, and silence deafened their ears. The ship rose on a crest, then fell, swung hard to starboard, and smashed against a sharp shoal of rock. Timbers groaned and snapped. Men shouted, wailed, and wept. Through it all, the High King’s voice came calmly. “Brychan, open the hatches. Vorn, line up the men. We will go below before the ship breaks up and get the horses out.”

  Drenched and freezing, shaking so hard he could barely stand, Percival grabbed Galahad’s arm.

  “Galahad! I am lost! I cannot swim!”

  Galahad held him up. “Don’t worry, the horses can. Come on. Stay with me. I’ll get you ashore.”

  Like many of Arthur’s men, they were saved by the horses. Frozen and exhausted, they reached the stony beach clinging to a halter or a mane. By late afternoon two hundred men and thirty horses huddled shivering on the shingle.

  “If this is an omen,” Percival chattered, “I like it not!”

  Arthur and Gawaine organized the ragged army; they salvaged whatever floated ashore, took stock of what men and supplies remained, and filed slowly up the narrow track to the top of the low cliff. From the promontory they looked down upon another beach, where two more ships lay foundered, men and horses huddled in dejected groups or roaming aimlessly. But someone was organizing them and putting things in order. A small figure looked up, waved, and raised a shout.

  “Bedwyr!” cried Arthur in relief. “Thank God he was spared! Gawaine, move this group off the cliffs toward yonder woods. We’re too exposed here. Make camp and get fires going. I’m going down to Bedwyr to get his news and help them up here.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Gawaine spun
on his heel. “Galahad, you’re just the one I want; you’re a wizard with horses. Take charge of the cavalry and set some horse lines. Find them fodder and water, if you can. You, Percival, take a troop and get us firewood. Let’s go before we freeze to death in this cursed wind.”

  But the storm was spent, and passed away as quickly as it had arisen. By sunset they were camped, the horses dry and grazing, and had small fires going. Spirits everywhere were low. Such a homecoming was an inauspicious omen for men victorious in war. Arthur had not returned; they had found no fresh water; they had lost the ship and over fifty men to the cruel sea.

  And then Percival spoke. “Who are those people? What funny clothes they wear!”

  Galahad looked up. Gawaine shot to his feet. Away to the east a procession of small figures marched up another cliff from the shore below. They were not Britons. They wore skins and leggings crisscrossed with thongs and carried packs upon their backs. To Galahad they looked like peasant farmers trudging home from the fields. But the sea lay behind them. Suddenly the strangers saw their campfires. For a moment, everyone froze. Then the new-comers began to scurry about in panic until a tall man ran up the cliff and stilled them. Bronze-skinned and golden-haired, with a magnificent yellow mustache and a leather helmet adorned with gold, he strode among the farmers like a god among mortals, and soon had them organized into a small circle. Then he turned and faced the Britons, alone, hands on hips.

  “By the Goddess Herself!” Gawaine spluttered. “Saxons!”

  “Saxons!” Men leaped to their feet at the ancient battle cry and grabbed their swords.

  “Are you sure, my lord?” Percival ventured.

  “You ignorant puppy,” Gawaine snapped. “I know a Saxon when I see one. They will regret the day they broke the treaty and ventured onto Briton soil! Galahad! It’s time to put that bloodthirsty sword of yours to Britain’s defense. To horse! We’ll take them before they’re all up from the beach!”

  Percival grabbed Galahad’s sleeve and held him. “Wait for Arthur, I pray you! What can we lose? We outnumber them; few of them look armed— stay his hand!”

  Galahad looked back at the Saxons. They were aligning themselves in some formation; the leader shouted orders; more warriors ran up from the beach.

  “Let go, Percival! We cannot wait for Arthur! In a moment they will be ready for us!” He jerked his arm from Percival’s grasp. “There are few things left I’m certain of, cousin, but I’m sure of this: Arthur is good, Mordred is evil, and the Saxons are our enemies.”

  He ran to the horse lines where the grooms were throwing saddles on the backs of weary animals, and leaped bareback onto his stallion. Already the men were falling into formation as Gawaine exhorted them, igniting their fighting spirit and calling upon their pride as Britons to defend their homeland. Galahad cantered up and saluted. Gawaine flashed him a fierce look. “Bareback, eh? Even in battle? A real son of Lancelot, a show-off! Show me your skill, then, princeling, and guard my flank!”

  In tight formation they wheeled toward the waiting Saxons. There were a hundred of them now, armed and ready, and everyone could see the weapons they carried. They swung their bright, two-headed axes over their heads in great, glittering arcs. But although they threatened, they did not advance. They waited.

  The earth trembled to the thunder of galloping horses.

  “Arthur!” the soldiers cried. “King Arthur is here!”

  Arthur’s great white stallion slid to a stop next to Gawaine, followed at a distance by Bedwyr and Gereint. The King’s face was pinched with anger. “What’s the meaning of this, Gawaine? Who gave the orders?”

  “I did, my lord. Look yonder! Saxons!”

  In the failing light they saw the bright ax heads twirling. Arthur looked startled. “By God, that looks like Cynewulf himself! What’s he doing here?”

  “Just what I intend to find out, my lord.”

  “Who’s with him?”

  “Two hundred warriors. Five hundred others. Farmers, by the look of them. They came from the beach.”

  “Longboats! But what are they doing here? No. I don’t believe it. We have a treaty. They wouldn’t dare.”

  “My lord!” Gawaine cried, losing patience, “they think you are dead! This is the invasion you feared!”

  “Nonsense. And there are not so many of them. Cynewulf has been to the homeland to bring in more settlers, that’s all. But the treaty forbids them to land in Britain.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “No, Gawaine. That old fox Cerdic is cleverer than this. If he wants to test the treaty he will do it where Mordred can see him. No one could know we would be shipwrecked here.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder— perhaps we were blown too far east. These might be Saxon lands.”

  “My lord!” Gawaine shouted, trembling. “It is impossible! Do not delay! Look—they advance!”

  Arthur squinted. “They have not moved—it’s a trick of the light. We will attempt a parley. Wait here, Gawaine. I would speak with Bedwyr.”

  He wheeled his horse and cantered away. The troops Bedwyr led were running up from the beach. Someone had raised the Red Dragon, limp with seawater but still recognizable.

  The Saxon leader pointed to it, and his men lowered their weapons. Gawaine pummeled his saddlebow in frustration. “He’s getting old!” he wailed. “He’s past his best! Time was, the mere sight of a Saxon savage would rouse him to a fury. Nowadays, it’s talk, talk, talk!” He leaned over his horse’s withers and spat. “That’s the Queen’s doing, Galahad. The bitch has made him soft. Before he married he was the deadliest warrior in the kingdoms. He’d never have let a chance like this go by!”

  Galahad looked at him in amazement. It was the first time in his memory Gawaine had spoken sense. “Women are cowards, my lord.”

  Gawaine laughed. “If Ragnall could hear you she’d have your balls on a platter! Some women, Galahad. Not all.” He stiffened, staring hard at the Saxons. “Look! The traitorous dogs are advancing! Where is Arthur? Still talking! By God, I’ll not wait upon a lily-livered king!” He turned in the saddle. “I say we kill the heathen savages! Who is with me?” He raised his sword high overhead and the men behind him raised a shout. “Kill the bastards!” Gawaine bellowed, and set spurs to his horse. The soldiers broke into a victory paean. The whole line moved forward. Galahad followed without a moment’s hesitation, riding hard on Gawaine’s flank. There was no time for thought. They charged headlong into the Saxons, swords drawn, screaming.

  He had never lived such a moment. Time slowed down and all his wits grew sharp. He saw every sweating brow and flying wisp of yellow hair, heard every shout, every snarl, every anguished cry, felt the press of bodies, the slither of sweat on his horse’s sides, the jarring of his arm as the sword went home. It was slow and silent and easy. His legs felt warm and strong against the horse’s body, his grip upon the sword hilt cold and hard. Axes whirled and swung about his head. He kept his eyes on them and let his body guide the horse and sword where it would. Tall blond giants fell before him like sheaves of grain at harvest time; blood splattered everywhere. A great, hot excitement swept him, a glorious rage, an ecstasy. This he was born for. None of them could touch him.

  Too soon for him, it was over. The farmers knelt, crouching in submission, while the few warriors left living raced for the shelter of the wood.

  “Enough!” roared a commanding voice. Galahad, breathing heavily but alive in every sinew, looked up to see the pale, glowing blade of the King’s sword, Excalibur, raised high in the air. “Sound the retreat, Pelles. We are not here to murder unarmed peasants. Fall in, men. Has anyone seen my madman nephew?”

  No one answered. Galahad stared in amazement at his own sword, glistening with bright blood right up to the hilt. He had killed today—his first battle! He had killed for Britain. He had denied Mordred’s prophecy and fought in Arthur’s army! He had slaughtered heathen savages and acquitted himself with honor before God. He crossed himself solemnly. “For the glory
of God, for the glory of Britain, for the glory of Arthur.”

  “Galahad!” The King’s voice came sharply at his elbow. He looked up as Arthur thrust his own sword, shining and unblooded, home to its scabbard. “Where is Gawaine?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, my lord. He was . . . off to my left somewhere. I was guarding his flank.”

  “And how do you guard his flank when you don’t know where he is!” Arthur snapped, wheeling his horse. “An army of children! All of them blind!”

  “King Arthur! King Arthur!” Behind them in the field of fallen bodies Percival knelt, waving frantically.

  “By God!” Arthur muttered. “There’s at least one man who’s kept his head!”

  Bedwyr ran to Percival, raised a hand, and signaled Arthur.

  “ ’Strewth!” the King cried. “Gawaine!”

  Galahad watched him race away, unable to believe his ears. He looked again at his bloody sword. He had killed Saxons, forty of them at least! Whatever ailed the High King, that he did not rejoice? He dismounted and carefully cleaned the blade on the trampled grass. Nearby Gereint regrouped the foot soldiers and led them back to camp. He did not look in Galahad’s direction. Alone, Galahad gathered his reins and walked to where Percival and Bedwyr stood in the deepening dark, looking down upon Arthur.

  Arthur knelt at Gawaine’s side, gray-faced. Gawaine lay still, looking up, his left arm severed at the shoulder by a Saxon ax, blood still pumping feebly from the wound.

  “Gawaine,” Arthur whispered, gently raising his head and putting his own waterskin to the dying lips, “my sister’s son. I have enemies to face and you will not be with me.”

  Gawaine choked, swallowed, and gripped the King’s hand. “My lord. Uncle. Listen to me. I’ve not much time.”

  “Speak, then.”

  “Tell Lancelot—”

  “Yes?”

  “I forgive him.”

  “Ahhh.” Arthur bowed his head. “Thank you.”