Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “You are not sorry. You believed what you said.”

  “Then forgive me, my lord.”

  “God grant me strength, I will try. Better you should appeal to your Creator—I have no time. He has eternity.” He spoke bitterly and looked at his men. “We approach our destiny. And we come to it, not a victorious army crowned with the glory of defeating Rome, but a hungry, home-sick herd of shipwrecked soldiers who have lost our way and attacked our allies—we are a shadow of what we were—and now we must face an angry Saxon force. How I miss those men who lie buried beneath the earth of Autun!”

  Bedwyr slowly approached the King, laying a hand upon his shoulder.

  “My lord, you know it was necessary. Had we not stopped the Romans they’d be in Britain now. And our best chance of stopping them lay in joining forces at Autun. You had to go. And stop them we did. Arthur, you have done what no Briton has ever done, not even Maximus! You have defeated Rome! And as for the Saxons, Cerdic knows he can never take you. All his men know it and so do ours. While you are King we do not fear the Saxons.”

  Arthur’s hand slid unthinkingly to Excalibur’s hilt. “But at what cost?” he whispered. He looked into their faces but no one answered. Turning away, he nearly stumbled over Galahad, who still knelt at his feet.

  “Get up, Galahad. You will fight beside me when we go into battle, you and Percival—yes, you, Percival—I will need every sword at my command. But afterward”—he paused, and straightened—“afterward, our ways must part. I am out of patience; you cannot insult my wife and son and serve me.”

  With that, he strode out of the tent.

  “Sir Bedwyr,” Galahad whispered, “I have put the High King out of temper—I apologize, my lords. I did not mean to.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Bedwyr snapped, “it isn’t you.” Then he shrugged. “He is angry with you, but that is a small thing compared to this black grief that hangs upon him after every battle.”

  “Grief for Gawaine, my lord?”

  “Not exactly.” Bedwyr sighed. “I suppose you are too young to understand it. It is the burden a king bears, this King more than any other. He grieves for all those who fell in battle, who gave their lives for Britain and for him. They are his responsibility. Give it a little time and it will pass. But just now he feels like their executioner.” He shook his head at the boy’s bewilderment. “Lucky indeed is the soldier who fights under such a commander. There is not another like Arthur.”

  In the morning the High King addressed his troops and told them what they faced. To a man, they cheered him and cried out for Saxon blood. The younger men had grown up on tales of the glorious Saxon wars and were eager to fight where victory was assured. They sang as they marched and boasted of the great deeds they would do. Bedwyr smiled to hear them, but nothing could lighten the High King’s countenance.

  Near noon the King’s scouts returned with the news of an approaching Saxon army led by a graybeard.

  Arthur nodded curtly. “Cerdic.”

  “Aye, my lord. That’s my belief, though I’ve never seen him.”

  “How many?”

  “Three thousand at a guess, from the dust they raise.”

  “Horses?”

  “Sixty. Most are small, puny things better suited to plowing, but a group of them have handsome mounts.”

  The second scout saluted. His face was white. He licked his dry lips and glanced nervously at the first scout. Arthur saw the look.

  “What else? Out with it, man! This is not the time to spare my feelings!”

  “There are . . . two armies, my lord. Saxon and Briton. Riding together.”

  Silence fell upon the commanders, while Arthur’s face grew slowly hard and cold.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “M-m-my lord, I saw the standard. The Red Dragon, raised beside the Saxon white.”

  Behind his back, Bedwyr made the sign against evil. “Are you certain, man? How close were you?”

  “Close enough to see them riding side by side. Cerdic the Saxon king and Mordred the Usurper!”

  All eyes turned toward Arthur. Slowly, he gathered up his reins.

  “Gereint, give the orders. Quick-march up the ridge. Once we are in position . . . then we shall see.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  “My God,” Percival whispered, as the King moved off, “you and your uncle Galyn were right, and I was wrong. Oh, Galahad, what will come of it? Briton against Briton, with the Saxons watching?”

  “Son against father,” Galahad said slowly, “with the whole world watching.”

  They were in position in plenty of time to see the Saxon force come across the plain. Horsehair plumes danced on their helmets while ax heads and spear tips caught the sun. Hidden in the thin woods along the ridge, the waiting Britons watched them silently. The Saxon force exceeded their own in number, but as the scout had reported, they were not alone. Side by side with Cerdic’s massed foot soldiers marched a small but orderly British force led by a cavalry as fine as Arthur’s own. At its head, under the Red Dragon of Britain, and nearly knee-to-knee with Cerdic himself, rode Mordred. From his position on Arthur’s right flank, Galahad could see the High King’s face. Not a muscle in it moved; not an eyelash blinked. Closer they came, and closer, until the flank of Cerdic’s force rode hard by the ridge where the Cornishmen under Meliodas lay in wait.

  “Raise the standard,” Arthur said in a deadly voice. “Then wait for my command.”

  The standard-bearer rode forward through the sparse trees. One among Mordred’s cavalry called out, pointing. Mordred lifted his head and raised his hand to halt the march. His own troops obeyed him, but the Saxons kept coming. Mordred shouted. Cerdic turned and gestured, raising an angry fist. Mordred spurred his horse to the Saxon king and grabbed his arm, talking swiftly. But the Saxons had seen their enemy and begun their war chant. Cerdic shook off Mordred’s arm, glanced up into the trees, and spat upon the shoulder of Mordred’s horse. Mordred reined back.

  A great bellow burst from Arthur. “What! Are you coward as well as traitor? Ye gods bear witness—he is no son of mine!” He raised his arm, tears flowing unchecked into his beard, and brought it down. With one voice they raised the victory paean and charged down the slope. Galahad saw Mordred whirl, gather his men, and quick-march them back across the plain as fast as they could go.

  The Saxons fought viciously and well, but they were no match for such a seasoned army, better mounted, better led. After two hours of bloody battle, Cerdic was forced to withdraw to save his men from slaughter. Angrily, he turned in his saddle and shook his ax at Arthur. The High King lifted Excalibur into the air and with a long look at Cerdic, spat upon the ground. The old Saxon grinned suddenly, gestured a mock salute, and galloped away.

  Again they spent a long autumn afternoon burying the dead. The High King sat on a tree stump at the edge of the woods, motionless, silent, staring at the ground. Percival worked side by side with Galahad, too excited to feel his own exhaustion.

  “You saved my life again, cousin! God bless you for it! I never knew the man was behind me, only at the last minute did I see the ax descending— you must have eyes in the back of your head, I swear it!”

  Galahad smiled. “No, but I see more clearly in a battle. Everything is sharper—hearing, seeing, the sense of danger—it’s so clear and real, yet so slow and silent, like a dream.”

  “Slow! Are you jesting? It went at lightning speed!”

  “Not for me. I can’t explain how it feels. Slow, and . . . and somehow easy. My sword leaps forward of its own will, and men go down before it.”

  “Dear God!” Percival stopped his digging and stared in admiration. “To everyone else it’s hot, hard work, and to you it’s easy! And you looked like it, too, you and Arthur, never a wrong step or a missed stroke—isn’t he wonderful to see? So cool, so calm, when everything is mayhem—”

  “Not so cool today,” Galahad murmured. “L
ook at him yonder. The heart’s gone out of him.”

  Percival lowered his voice. “He thinks his son has betrayed him.”

  “And so he has.”

  “But Mordred didn’t stand against him after all.”

  “No, he turned tail and ran like the coward he is!”

  “But if Cerdic is his ally Mordred had to come along, at least to find out if it was really Arthur. But we attacked before he had the chance to parley.”

  “Parley!” Galahad snorted. “He could have come alone if he’d wanted words. But he brought an army.”

  At sunset Bedwyr brought Arthur the news that all their dead were buried. Only the Saxon dead and dying still lay upon the field. The King sat motionless, as if he had not heard. Bedwyr repeated his report. Arthur’s cold eyes flicked upward to his face and stopped Bedwyr in midsentence.

  “What is the name of this place?”

  “I don’t know, my lord.”

  “Find out.”

  Bedwyr bit his lip, watching the King with anxious eyes. Then he shrugged. “Yes, my lord.”

  When he returned soon after, Arthur had not moved. “My lord, the name of this place is Cerdices Leaga.”

  “Cerdices Leaga,” Arthur repeated slowly. “Cerdic’s Field.” He rose suddenly and drew a long breath. “Burn it.”

  41

  ON THE PLAIN OF CAMLANN

  Hands shook Galahad awake out of a deep sleep. He looked up into Varric’s face.

  “My lord Galahad, the King would see you.”

  Galahad blinked. Above him the black night blazed with stars. “Now?”

  “Aye, my lord. Now.”

  The camp lay sleeping around him. He smelled the acrid scent of charred stubble, where the grass fires had swept Cerdic’s Field in violent fury. In the distance he could still see the line of flames driving inexorably eastward toward Saxon lands.

  Inside the tent Arthur was alone. A wineskin warmed above a low fire and two animal skins lay flat on the floor on either side of it. Arthur came forward from the shadows. “Sit down,” he said quietly. Galahad bent his knee. With his own hands the King poured wine into a horn cup and offered it to Galahad. He took nothing himself but sat down and waited. Gone was his vibrant energy, the familiar pacing, the warm speech of welcome. This was a silent man, still to his very soul, with eyes that burned with a consuming anger.

  “I need a courier, Galahad. A discreet one.”

  “My lord, I am at your service.”

  “This needs courage. And stealth.”

  “My lord, I will do it.”

  The King drew a scroll from his tunic, sealed with candle wax and imprinted with the royal ring itself. “I want you to take a message to the Queen.”

  Galahad met his eyes. A protest formed on his lips and died unspoken. He nodded.

  “Secretly. Travel by night and ride in daylight only if you are hidden. You must get around Mordred’s army and into Camelot without being seen. And you must get out again.”

  “But I thought Camelot was built to be impregnable.”

  “So it is, except to stealth. Merlin built me a bolt-hole, just in case. I will tell you the secret of it. But you must get into the Queen’s garden yourself. I do not have the key.”

  A sudden vision flashed before Galahad of a thong Lancelot had once worn around his neck. On the end of it had hung a small bronze key. He had bragged to someone, laughing, that it was the key to Paradise.

  Galahad’s cheeks burned. “I will manage it, my lord.”

  “You must swear an oath before me that you will be as gracious to the Queen as if she were your own mother come to life. Put aside your judgment and be polite. I require this of you.”

  The angry eyes bored into his soul, forcing his will. Galahad drew a deep breath. “I swear it upon the Word of God.”

  Arthur handed him the scroll. Galahad saw that his fingers trembled.

  “Do you require an answer, my lord?”

  “No.” He sat very still. “After you have seen the Queen, ride on to Avalon. Get an audience with Niniane. Tell her I must see her. I must, do you understand? This is a command.” He reached up and unclipped the dragon cipher from his shoulder. “Give her this as a token. I am in dire need of her advice.”

  Galahad’s hand shook as he took the badge. “Yes, my lord.”

  Arthur exhaled and sat back. “I am grateful for your service to me, Galahad. You fought well today. You have grown into a soldier of the first order.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “But your service has come to an end. In the battle that lies ahead your sword will not matter. It is in God’s hands.” The King paused. “This is a moment for plain speaking. When I told you, Galahad, a lifetime ago, before Autun, when I told you about the Grail and Spear—”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I confess I don’t know the truth of the matter. I fear that any quest I might send you on would be a waste of your time.” He stopped, staring into the distance. “The things themselves are real enough, if Merlin is to be believed, but what I said about their power to preserve Britain is fabrication . . . myth . . . legend.” He passed a weary hand across his face. “I would give my right arm if it were so. But Britain’s fate is in the hands of men.”

  “And of God, my lord.”

  Arthur smiled wearily. “I must be getting old, Galahad. I used to have your faith. I used to love riding out to battle. Now I dread it.”

  “But,” Galahad whispered, “the battle is over.”

  “Oh, yes. The Romans are defeated. The Saxons are conquered. All that remains are the Britons.”

  “But you are King of the Britons!”

  The ghost of a smile touched Arthur’s lips. “Am I? I was .”

  “And will be again, when we get to Camelot!”

  “The once and future King,” Arthur muttered, gazing into the distance. “So Merlin called me once, long ago. But that’s not what he meant by it.”

  “You shall take back your crown from the traitor Mordred, and your name shall live forever as Britain’s King!”

  Arthur looked at him. “Is this a thing you must believe? Perhaps it is. We must all have dreams. But my dreams came to an end on Cerdic’s Field.” He rose. His voice was tired. “Well, Galahad, we come to our parting. When you have delivered your messages, seek what fortune you will. Promise me only to keep Britain’s honor bright.”

  Galahad knelt before the King. “My lord, I will find the Grail and Spear for you. I believe the legends. I will find them for you and you will be King forever.”

  Arthur’s voice softened. “Find them quickly, then, for I am running out of time.”

  Under the trees at the edge of the plain of Camlann it was pitch black. In the distance Galahad could see the campfires of Mordred’s army, glowing in orderly formation around the central cluster of tents. Beneath him his stallion pulled at the bit, eager to be going. He could smell home. But Galahad held him back a moment more. He knew Mordred would have scouts out and he needed to know where they were.

  Suddenly the stallion’s ears pricked forward and his head lifted. Galahad drew his sword. Nothing moved. He waited with held breath, but nothing happened. The night waited with him, dark and still. Somewhere an owl called softly, and was answered. The horse relaxed and went back to playing with his bit. Galahad exhaled.

  North and west beyond the River Camel he fancied he could just see the foothills of Caer Camel, where beyond the rising ground the fortress of Camelot grew straight from the living rock. There the High Queen waited, secure in her citadel, while both her champions led their armies toward one another. He shuddered. The horse shied. A fist gripped his wrist and wrenched his sword free. Hands grabbed him, pulled him to the ground, forcing his face into dirt. A knee dug into his back; his arms were wrenched behind him and bound tight—all before he could manage to draw a second breath.

  They pulled him roughly to his feet. There were three of them, he saw, all wearing the shoulder badge of Camelot tro
ops. Two stood before him and one rode up through the trees, leading horses.

  “Give us your name and family,” growled the nearest of his captors, a thickly built young man with a fringe of beard. “Where are you bound for, and who sent you?”

  Galahad ignored him. His eyes were on the slender youth who brought the horses forward. “Rhys!” he whispered.

  A thick hand slapped his face. “Shut up! Answer us or we’ll run you through! If you’re not with us, you’re against us! Who are you?”

  “Go to hell,” Galahad snapped.

  The second soldier laughed and drew Galahad’s dagger from his belt. “Let’s kill him, Orrin.”

  “Wait!” The rider slid off his horse and came forward, peering at Galahad. “Don’t kill him. I know him. He’s Galahad. Lancelot’s son.”

  Both soldiers straightened. “Lancelot’s son! I’ll be damned.”

  “We’d better take him to the King.”

  Rhys came closer, searching Galahad’s face. “Hello, Galahad. I’ve not seen you since you left the bishop’s schoolroom to go to Brittany with Arthur. This is a strange meeting, eh?” He spread out his hands. “Look at me. I’m a soldier after all.”

  “What happened? I was sure by now you’d be in a monastery.”

  “My father went with Arthur. I was forced to take his place. It was the only honorable thing to do. When he returns I’ll be able to go back to my books.”

  Galahad shook his head slowly. Sir Caradoc, commander of Caerleon, who had publicly denounced his only son for his desire to be a priest and not a warrior, had gotten his way in the end. “I’m sorry, Rhys. I’m afraid your father won’t be coming home. He died at Autun.”

  Rhys drew a trembling breath and crossed himself. “May God bless his embattled soul. I feared it. Was it quick?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Orrin demanded. “This isn’t a council meeting. We’ve work to do. What are you doing here, son of Lancelot, on the plain of Camlann an hour before midnight? Spying?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  Galahad was silent. The third soldier raised the dagger again.