Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Send for him, Arthur. You need him. Promise me—you will send for Lancelot. Make haste. The time is near.” He stopped, gasping, and his head rolled back on the King’s arm, his eyes empty below their lids. “Enemy. Mordred. Traitor.” He sank back and Arthur, in silence, laid his hand upon his face and closed his eyes. Above the unmoving breast he made the sign of the cross. Then he rose and addressed them.

  “You heard his last words. Before his death, my nephew Gawaine of Lothian and Orkney forgave Lancelot the killing of Gareth. You heard this from his own lips. Now go and make it known.” He turned on his heel and strode off into the night. Bedwyr looked down at Gawaine’s body and sighed.

  “I’ll organize the burial parties,” he said under his breath. “May Mithra forgive him, if he doesn’t do more good dead than he ever did alive.” He shrugged and looked at the staring boys. “What a crossing, eh? And they say disasters come in threes. Come on, lads, one of you get the High King’s horse and let’s get started. It’s going to be a long night.”

  All evening Galahad and Percival worked side by side with the soldiers digging graves, while Arthur sat before his tent, dry-eyed and fierce, hacking a cross from two pine boughs with a Saxon ax. When he had finished he bound the two arms of the cross together with thongs from his own tunic and locks of his own hair. Late into the night, as they worked to bury all the bodies and say prayers over all the dead, every man in the camp could hear, monotonous and unending, the heavy thwonk! thwonk! as Arthur pounded the rough cross into his pagan nephew’s grave.

  40

  CERDIC’S FIELD

  By dawn they had finished. Arthur stood for a long moment above the naked earth that clothed Gawaine. Bitterness and fatigue etched his face; his broad shoulders slumped forward; the sigh he sighed seemed to come from his very soul.

  “Earth to earth,” he muttered, “and dust to dust. Go to your gods, Gawaine. May you at last find peace.” Wearily he turned away, saw Galahad, and paused. “I’m surprised you obeyed him. You are not in my army; you did not have to. What did he say that made you do such a foolish thing?”

  Galahad gulped. “He said the Saxons were our enemies, my lord.”

  “Enemies with whom we have treaties for peace. You have made a mistake we will all live to regret.”

  Exhausted as the army was, they got no rest. The King ordered camp struck and led the march from the cliffs into the thick woods, north and west.

  “We need water more than rest,” he observed aloud to the men, and then, under his breath to his companions, “Give the Saxons time to collect their dead and send them to their gods. If we linger, we keep them from it. And if through us their gods are dishonored, we shall be sorry for it later.”

  “My lord,” Gereint ventured, “do you really think we are in Saxon lands?”

  Arthur shrugged. “We will know tomorrow.”

  Toward sunset they found a shallow valley with a slow stream running through it. Here they camped, watered the horses, set the watch, and finally slept.

  Galahad took his former place outside the High King’s tent, now that the treasure he had guarded lay on the bottom of the Narrow Sea. No one stopped him. The new night watch, a pair of Cornishmen, were strangers to him. They saluted him and bowed when he passed, but they did not speak. He missed Percival’s company. But Percival slept now in his father’s tent with the remaining men from Gwynedd. They had elected him, an eleven-year-old boy, to lead them in Maelgon’s stead.

  By dawn they were on the move again. The King quick-marched them up the valley, then cut through the forest, heading northwest. In late afternoon they came suddenly out of the deep woods into an open land, tilled and rich with harvest. Cattle grazed in meadows by the banks of a lazy stream, low huts with thatched roofs clustered behind a wooden palisade. Naked towheaded children played in the mud of the sties, and plump, round-faced women with bright, braided hair looked up from their labors in the fields, and gaped. Arthur brought the army to a halt. Screaming, the women ran for their little ones, snatched them up, and raced for the huts. Men began to appear, old and young, some with clubs, a few with axes.

  “Well,” Arthur said grimly, “now we know. We are on Saxon land.” He raised his hand in greeting and spoke a few halting words. The Saxons stared at one another. The King took a silver armband from his own wrist and tossed it to them. There was a scramble for it, but it was handed with ceremony to the village headman, who examined it carefully, grinned, and bowed, stretching out his arm to encompass the whole fertile valley.

  “Success,” Arthur muttered. “Safe passage granted. Pass the word through the lines, Gereint. No bloodshed. No booty. No women. Not even a hostile word. We are guests here. This is not Britain.”

  They were not always so lucky. In their headlong race toward home they were set upon more than once by young, outraged Saxons tired of peace and eager for glory. When they were offered fight, they fought; and when they fought, they won. The weary troops expected nothing less: The magic of Excalibur defended Arthur still. In these skirmishes Galahad began to learn the art of war from its master. As he grew more disciplined, his skill drew praise from the commanders and he began to feel that the High King, who had been decidedly cool toward him since Gawaine’s death, might warm toward him once more.

  As Galahad waxed in pride and confidence, the High King’s spirits waned. Daily he grew more bitter and more angry. If a day passed without Saxon opposition, he smiled at dinner. But after every deadly skirmish he grew somber and quick-tempered. “Dear God!” he was heard to exhort the heavens, “get me to Britain before Cerdic gets Cynewulf ’s news!” North and west they marched as fast as they could travel, a war-weary army, hungry, ill-shod, with no desire for battle and all their thoughts upon home and peace and rest.

  Every night the High King called his commanders to council. They had shrunk to a mere handful: Galyn, Bedwyr, Gereint, Meliodas of Cornwall, Percival, and Galahad: three men near forty, three boys not yet twenty.

  “We are not far from Britain now,” Bedwyr offered as they settled in a circle and Varric lit the small fire in the center of the High King’s tent. “A day’s ride, no more, should bring us to the Great Plain.”

  “Then we are closer to Cerdic’s stronghold than we have yet been.” Arthur looked at his men. The flames shed dim light and sent their giant shadows shivering against the tent cloth. “We’ll send scouts ahead and go prepared for battle.”

  Young Meliodas spoke hopefully. “Perhaps he hasn’t learned about us yet. Perhaps he is afraid to break the treaty.”

  The King’s lips thinned. “It is we who broke the treaty. We are here without his leave; we attacked without provocation; we have killed his people. What would you do, Meliodas, if you were Cerdic and your people cried out to you for vengeance?”

  Meliodas dropped his eyes. “I’d come after you, my lord. I’d have to.”

  Arthur nodded. The men looked at their King. In the week since Gawaine’s death he had grown old. The lines from nose to mouth, and from mouth to chin, spoke of deep grief and wretched weariness. The ready laugh had vanished from his voice and the spring of youth from his step.

  “There has been plenty of time for a courier, my lord,” Bedwyr observed. “But as yet, he has held his hand. Perhaps he understands what happened.”

  Arthur’s face, half in shadow, looked carved in stone. “Even if he understands it, he cannot stay his hand. He dare not do it. He is beset by warriors who thirst for Briton blood and would be glad to replace him with his own son Cynewulf at the first sign of weakness.” There was a long moment of silence as they each envisioned what a future without Cerdic might mean. Britain had been at peace for twenty years; they had long ceased to regard the Saxons as a serious threat.

  The King rose and began to pace. “Here is how the matter stands. If he has time, Cerdic will gather an army and come against us. It hardly matters whether or not we are on Saxon soil. Before we get home we will have to face him. But what I wish to know is, what
will Mordred do?”

  At the mention of Mordred’s name the men went still. Bedwyr looked quickly at Gereint. Percival stole a glance at Galahad. Arthur stopped his pacing and looked down upon them. “You are my council. Tell me what you think.”

  Bedwyr cleared his throat. “He must know by now, my lord, that you live. If he is ruling as High King, as Gawaine believed, he knows he must yield the title back to you once you confront him. He loves you dearly. I don’t think Mordred is a threat to any Briton, least of all to you.”

  Gereint straightened. “There is not a man in Britain who would follow him if he tried to stand against you.” Arthur’s eyes slid to young Meliodas and back again. Gereint followed his thought. “That includes Constantine.”

  Meliodas gasped. “My lord, my father would never side with Mordred! Why, just his very presence on a field of battle would be enough to make him take the other side!”

  The older men smiled to hear a naked truth so boldly stated. Arthur took another turn about the room. When he stopped before them, his face was grave.

  “None of you has considered this from Mordred’s point of view. He is in a difficult position.” He paused, and they watched him, waiting. “Let us assume he has been acting as High King in my absence. The first thing he would do, after assuring Constantine of his ability to rule”—he arched an eyebrow at Meliodas—“would be to gather an army about him that stood a chance of defeating a Saxon attack.”

  “But every man of fighting age came with us!” protested Gereint. “Who is left to form an army?”

  “Young men. Second sons with little hope of glory without battle. All those who have grown dissatisfied with peace.” He gestured in Galahad’s direction. “Let no one say a youth not yet fifteen cannot acquit himself with skill and honor on a battlefield.” Galahad flushed and Percival squeezed his arm. “Next, he would renew our treaties with Cerdic, to safeguard Britain’s borders. Mordred values our treaties with the Saxons as much as I do. He has done this. I am sure of it.” He looked around the circle into every face. “He is Cerdic’s ally.”

  The men glanced nervously at one another. “Perhaps he is,” Bedwyr admitted. “That does not mean he would join forces with Cerdic against you!”

  Arthur looked at him in silence a long time. “Cerdic will go carefully. I know the man. His hand is forced, but he is a cautious old fox. He will not believe the first reports brought to him. Once he has spoken to Cynewulf himself, he will protest formally to Mordred. Mordred will not know if it is truth or trap. But he is bound by the treaty. He is bound to keep Cerdic sweet while he finds out.” He paused to let the implications sink in. “I have kept a steady course northwest to make our route predictable, in case either he or Cerdic wished to send us a message. But as you see, no one has come. Tell me, my lords, what this means.”

  They all looked at one another. No one spoke.

  Meliodas broke the silence. “I suppose that Mordred’s loyalty is without question, my lord?”

  Everyone’s gaze dropped but Arthur’s.

  “Yes.”

  No one breathed. Arthur’s eyes flicked from face to face, hard with anger. He turned and paced back and forth, hands clasped behind him, mouth set in a grim line. Finally he stopped. “All right. You are my council. I will listen. Tell me about Mordred.”

  None of them met his eyes. He stood over them, waiting.

  “Bedwyr? You know him best. Speak.”

  Bedwyr rose and faced his friend. “My lord, I do not doubt that Mordred loves you as much as he loves Britain. He is a good man, quick-witted and careful, a brilliant administrator, a fine commander. But—”

  “But?”

  Bedwyr drew a deep breath. “He is your son, my lord. Ambition runs in his veins. He must be first and best in everything he does. Any prize, once gained, will not be yielded lightly. Gawaine saw this in him and feared it— so did Lancelot. I would be less than honest if I told you I did not fear it also.”

  “For this reason, I have secured him Brittany. What do you think he will do?”

  Bedwyr shook his head. “I don’t know. But I don’t think he could ever raise a sword against you. My guess is, he will fortify Camelot and wait to see what action Cerdic takes.”

  Arthur turned from him abruptly. “Galyn?”

  “My lord knows well there was never any love lost between me and Mordred. I am not so certain that he would not stand against you.” His voice began to quaver at the look in Arthur’s eye. “He has followers, I know—mostly wild, pagan youths from outland kingdoms, those who found themselves leaderless when Lancelot killed Agravaine and Gaheris—and I do not think that if he has indeed had the effrontery to assume the kingship, he will be able to give it up. To anyone.” On his shoulder badge the hawk trembled, wings outspread, as if it would take flight. “Cerdic’s anger may serve Mordred well. He can join Cerdic’s cause, giving out that he is bound by treaty, and come against us. If he loses, he has lost his crown, which he must have relinquished in any case. But if he wins”—he gulped— “if he wins, his future is secure. My lord, I grieve to wound you, but it would not surprise me to see him riding side by side with Cerdic on the field of battle.”

  Arthur’s nostrils flared, but he stood very still. “Thank you, Galyn,” he said quietly. “That took courage. You think him a traitor, then?”

  “Not yet, my lord. But I think it may be in him, whether he knows it or not. And if it is true that he has taken your Queen—”

  “It is not true!” The King passed a hand over his face. “Even this? Must I consider even this?” He sighed and dropped his hand. “If Constantine’s vicious slander is the truth, then my son is indeed a traitor. If he has married Guinevere he has no choice but to destroy me.” His voice trailed off to nothingness. No one dared move. Slowly, the King turned toward Gereint. “Come, Gereint. Let me have truth. Galyn is witness I do not kill the messenger who tells me what I like least to hear.”

  “My lord King, it will not happen. Mordred is too good a soldier to risk what such a battle would mean. It would tear the very heart out of Britain, whoever won. He loves Britain. He would not do it.”

  Warmth returned slowly to Arthur’s eyes. “Thank you, Gereint. Now, Meliodas of Cornwall. You do not know Mordred, but tell me what you think your father will do.”

  Meliodas colored. “My lord, my father thinks Mordred is born of the devil. He would never join him.”

  “Would he join me against him?”

  The youth paused, then shook his head. “Probably not. If Prince Mordred were to come against you, my father would probably stay fast in Cornwall and wait it out. He would lose nothing, and might gain much.”

  Arthur’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “You are an intelligent young man, Meliodas, to see your father so clearly. That is exactly what he would do. Indeed, it is what he aims at. Well, and Percival, King of Gwynedd, young as you are, you have sense. What is your opinion?”

  Percival blushed and struggled to still the tremor in his voice. “My lord, I don’t know Prince Mordred, but from what I have seen, I think he is a loyal son. It will be all right, my lord,” he added earnestly, “once you see him face-to-face.”

  At this Arthur’s features softened, and he smiled. “The voice of youth, untouched by the seductiveness of power. It is refreshing!”

  Finally he stood before Galahad, who rose. “Galahad, Prince of Lanascol. Son of my right hand. The finest swordsman in the King’s service, after your father. You have lived nine years in Camelot. Tell me what you think of Mordred.”

  Percival jabbed Galahad hard in the legs with his elbow. Galahad passed a tongue over dry lips. “My lord.” His voice came out in the barest whisper. He squared his shoulders. “My lord. It is not his fault, perhaps, but Mordred is—” Percival jabbed him again and Galahad staggered.

  “Let him be, Percival,” the King said icily. “Go on.”

  “Mordred is abomination.”

  Everyone froze.

  Arthur drew a long breat
h. “How do you dare?”

  “The bishop says he was damned from birth. He was conceived in sin.”

  “That is my fault, not his.”

  “Nevertheless, he is corrupt.”

  “Do you condemn him so swiftly? He has battled all his life to prove worthy of my trust, that I might forgive myself for the night that I begot him. It was I who wronged him. He is innocent.”

  “The bishop says we are none of us innocent.”

  “He will not betray me.”

  “If he yields back the throne of Britain, I will . . . I will bend my knee to him. But if he tries to keep your crown—”

  “Galahad, please!” Percival gasped, tugging at his leggings.

  “He loves the Queen, my lord. I have heard him say so. If he has gained her bed—”

  Arthur raised a hand. “That’s enough.” His breath came fast and his color was high. No one dared breathe. For a long moment the King searched Galahad’s face; then his mouth set in a thin line and he spun on his heel.

  “Ungrateful whelp!” Bedwyr spat. “After all the King has done for you, to reward him so! Where is your charity? Where are your manners?”

  “Silence!” Arthur strode out of the shadows and pointed to the dirt floor at his feet. “Get down on your knees, Galahad.” Instantly, the boy obeyed. “Bedwyr, be still. I asked for his opinion. And I knew what it would be.” He looked down at Galahad’s dark head. “Do you hear me, Galahad?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I knew what you would say. I had hoped that bringing you to Brittany, letting you live among men and be treated like one—I had hoped it might open your eyes. Do you know why you are on your knees?”

  “I have offended my sovereign lord.”

  “Oh, God!” Arthur cried, raising his arms skyward. “I am lord of nothing beyond this limping army! No, Galahad. You kneel because I want you to thank God with all your heart that your father did not hear your words to me.” He ran a desperate hand through his hair. “For the first time since I have known him, I am glad he is not with me. And that is your doing.”