Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Will I see you in the morning?”

  She shook her head. He tried to school his face, but something must have shown upon it, for she came near to him again and with a gentle finger traced the sign of the cross upon his brow. Then she was gone.

  When he rose at last from his prayers he ate the apple. Sweet and juicy, it satisfied both his hunger and his thirst. He lay on the soft bed, feeling oddly free and light, and let his thoughts drift. The dark walls dissolved into the darker night, and he slipped silently on magic wings into the beyond. He rode out of a dark forest by the banks of a flowing river. In the middle of the river stood a castle on an island. . . .

  44

  DAY OF DESTINY

  "Our Father, which art in Heaven, preserve this youth and heal him. Bless this young prince— Hell’s bells, I’ve spilled the gruel! Oh my, I’m sorry, Lord, take no offense! Bless the boy, if he isn’t waking, and I’ve got this goo all over his fine clothes. Where is Brother Gervase when I need him? Oh, Lord, grant me patience!”

  Galahad heard these words dimly in a deep sleep and struggled to awaken. He was lost in a leaden fog which weighed him down and clogged his throat.

  “There now, this rag’ll do. P’rhaps he’ll be too sick to notice. Lord, I warned You I was not the man for nursing. You never listen to me. Ha ha! And a good thing, too, I can hear You saying. Well, he’ll recover, I’ll be bound, but it’ll be no thanks to me. I’m better in the garden than the sick-room. Although— Confound it! Be gone, little vermin! Out, out! I told Gervase weeks ago to get us a cat that made itself useful, and what does he do? A litter of kittens good only for cuddling and more afraid of a mouse than I am of a woman! Ha ha! I’m sorry, Lord, take no offense, but I believe You’ve made a mistake with Gervase. He means well, there’s no denying that, but he never gets things right.”

  Galahad opened his eyes. He lay on a bed of bracken over a hard dirt floor. The room was small and mean and bare of furniture. In the hard, gray light that spilled in from a single window he saw his companion, a short, heavy monk in a filthy robe who busily wiped and straightened Galahad’s tunic, chattering steadily.

  “Brother, who are you?” His lips moved but no sound came out, and he found to his dismay that he could not raise his head.

  “Well, well, that will just have to do. P’rhaps by the time he wakens, he’ll be dry. Gervase will have to fetch him another bowl of gruel. Oh!” The monk looked up and saw blue eyes watching him. “You’re awake at last, my son. May the Lord be praised, we thought perhaps you’d sleep forever. Here, rest against me; I’ll raise you up a bit so you can drink.”

  With surprising skill the monk maneuvered him to a sitting position and deftly spooned what was left of the thin gruel into his mouth. It tasted foul, more like medicine than food. Had he been ill?

  “Can you take more?” the monk inquired earnestly when he was finished. “I’ll call Brother Gervase to mix another batch. It won’t take but a moment.”

  “No,” Galahad whispered, pleased to find he could speak a little. “But some plain broth, perhaps? I . . . I feel so weak.”

  “And no wonder!” the monk exclaimed. “You’ve been here the best part of a week with only water for sustenance—all we could get down you in your waking moments.”

  “Waking?” Galahad stared. “A week? But the last I knew I was abed at the Lady’s shrine!”

  “You remember nothing of it? Well, it takes some that way. You’re not the first young man who’s come to us in sorry shape from the gates of Avalon. They must have sent you a dream.”

  “A dream?” Galahad frowned. He could remember nothing but the thick fog of sleep that had nearly drowned him, yet the words struck a sharp, familiar chord. Had the witch cursed him with a dream and stolen a week of his life? He recalled only a vague sense of joy, of overmastering awe and excitement, but he could not remember why.

  “Oh, yes,” the monk went on, “they’re great dreamers down at the Lady’s shrine. Sees visions day and night does the Lady Niniane. Don’t worry, son; it will pass.”

  “I remember nothing. Where am I now?”

  “Why, you’re at the House of God on Ynys Witrin. My name is Ignacius. And yours is Galahad—oh, my, forgive me, my lord; I forgot to address you proper—it slipped my mind when you awakened.”

  “Never mind. But tell me, Ignacius, how did I get here?”

  “On horseback, of course. A young lord like yourself need not walk. And a fine steed he is, too.”

  “Ignacius!” Galahad gripped his sleeve. “Are you telling me I rode here?”

  “Settle down, there’s a lad, it’s all right now. Your recollection will return to you anon. It always does. Rest now and I’ll send Gervase for some broth.”

  Galahad forced his voice stronger. “Did you say a week? I rode here and have been asleep a week?”

  Ignacius’s strong, capable hands held him still, and he had not the strength to struggle.

  “Yes, my lord, that’s what I said. Usually they don’t sleep for so long. You must have brought the Lady Niniane bad news.”

  Memory crept slowly back. “I brought her news that the High King would speak with her.” And he remembered how still she had gone when he told her.

  “Well, my lord, she rode out this very morning to greet him. He and his army sit camped out yonder on the plain of Camlann.”

  On the plain of Camlann I will see him again. And as she spoke, a tear had fallen from her eye. Why should such a message be bad news?

  “They say there’ll be a battle soon. Perhaps today. No doubt she rode out to warn the King.”

  “Mordred!” Galahad cried, struggling to arise. “Is Mordred there?”

  “Aye, my lord, but—”

  “I must get up! I must avert the battle! I must go to the High King and tell him about Mordred!”

  But his efforts cost him his strength and he fell back against the bracken as Ignacius clucked worriedly and the darkness overtook him once again.

  He awoke late in the afternoon. Through his window the mid-September light shone golden and the air bore the first cool hint of coming evening. He rose and found his legs unsteady, but serviceable. A heel of bread and a jar of water lay by his bed. He ate the bread eagerly. His window looked out on a verdant meadow bordered by woodland. The trees threw long shadows eastward. Feeling better for the bread, he looked around for his sword and his dagger. It was time to be going to Arthur, if he could sit his horse. He found the weapons stacked neatly in the corner by his pallet, along with his cloak and badge. He checked the badge and was relieved to see the Hawk of Lanascol and not a cross of red. He stopped suddenly. Why on earth should he expect his badge to change? His hand began to shake. In his mind’s eye he saw clearly the red cross on the white field, and knew it was his.

  “Never mind,” he muttered, donning his cloak and fastening the Hawk to his shoulder. “I want no more dreams or visions. I must find Arthur.”

  He opened the door onto an empty hallway. Not a soul was about. An unearthly silence made everything about him seem unreal. He jumped as a flight of ravens went overhead, cawing, and a frisson of horror slid up his spine.

  “Galahad the Brave!” he sniggered, adjusting his swordbelt. “Afraid of ravens!” Nevertheless, he crossed himself for protection. It was well known ravens could scent a battlefield fifty leagues away.

  He walked down the corridor and passed more cells, all as mean and dirty as his own. Vermin scurried from sight as he approached and he shuddered. He had lain a week on the floor of that horrible cell and he would wager his birthright he had not been attended every minute. At the end of the corridor a piece of half-rotted canvas hung across the doorway. Lifting it with care and holding it away from his cloak, Galahad stepped outside.

  He stood near the edge of a steep slope with a view of the winding road down the Tor. To his right he saw a chapel with a wooden cross nailed above the lintel. It was a primitive structure built of roughly cut timber, patched with wattle, and roofed with
thatch. Low outbuildings hunched behind the chapel, and near the meadow, under a branching oak, a cluster of small wooden crosses marked the burial ground. Nowhere did he see a living soul.

  All around him the golden daylight deepened and cooled in utter silence. Even the birds were still. Beyond the bend in the road the Lake of Avalon glistened blue, distant and serene. Beyond that lay the marshes, and the causeway to the mainland. And beyond the low rise at the end of the causeway the river Camel ran through the plain of Camlann.

  Galahad shivered in the unnatural quiet. The hairs on his neck and arms bristled like a dog’s who senses the storm’s approach. Suddenly he heard chanting. Low and dolorous, it oppressed the very air. He walked to the chapel and poked his head in. Two candles burned upon the altar— thriftless extravagance for such a threadbare monastery! But perhaps the good brothers had been suddenly called away. By the dim candlelight Galahad saw the swept dirt floor, the tattered hangings, the crude but lovingly polished crucifix, the carved altar, but the place was empty of people.

  As he closed the door the chanting grew louder. He turned. A slow procession came into view up the roadway. Six monks carried a bier upon their shoulders, staggering slightly under its weight. Behind the bier limped a single soldier, weeping, followed by twelve monks chanting in two lines. Galahad frowned as they drew closer. The limping soldier looked familiar— tall, black-haired with graying temples, the sword, the badge . . . His mouth went dry. It couldn’t be Lancelot! He was home in Lanascol! But it was Lancelot, and he wept shamelessly, openly, tears coursing down his cheeks in a steady stream.

  Galahad’s eyes flew to the bier. The body was that of a tall man, washed and scented with sweet herbs, shrouded in fine white cloth. The right arm hung lifelessly over the bier, swinging in slow, dreadful time to the monks’ steps. On the hand was a golden ring with a great red stone. Galahad’s chest tightened and his throat closed. He fumbled with the latch of the chapel door and flung it open. The procession passed slowly by him. He saw the High King’s face, gray and shuttered, eyes closed, mouth grimly set, his spirit long departed. Above his ear the side of his head had been opened by a sword blow.

  Galahad tasted the salt of his own tears. Lancelot’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, drawing him forward into the chapel, leaning on him.

  “Thank God in Heaven you are here. We two alone are left to bury Arthur.”

  In the long, dying twilight they gave the dead King what honor they could. The abbott spoke the sacred blessings in the rich, calm voice of one who is certain of Heaven’s reward. Galahad and Lancelot mumbled their responses, half weeping, holding on to each other. And together, as night descended, they dug his grave with their own hands under the chapel altar, while the monks chanted solemnly around them.

  “He must lie where the Saxons will never find him,” Lancelot muttered. Galahad avoided looking at the High King’s face. The head wound was ferocious. He felt his innards rise and worked furiously to keep those thoughts at bay. He said nothing, and Lancelot was most of the time beyond speech. The monks burned incense as the abbott intoned prayers of blessing and benediction. By candlelight they lowered Arthur’s body into its grave. Lancelot took his friend’s cold hand and kissed it.

  “I have done what you asked,” he whispered, pulling the ring of office from Arthur’s finger. “Rest in peace, my dear lord.” Grabbing Galahad’s arm, he drew him outside into the cool, clean evening.

  The first stars had risen in the east, while in the west a halo of deep blue ringed the horizon. Lancelot eased himself slowly onto a flat rock by the roadside, propping his injured leg out in front of him. Galahad stood beside him, too numb for thought.

  “He is gone,” Lancelot said gruffly. “The greatest man of our time, of any time. He is gone.”

  With an effort Galahad cleared his throat. “How did it happen? How did you come here, Father? When I left the High King a week ago all was well enough.”

  Lancelot shook his head. “He sent you away because his fate was upon him and he knew it. Oh, Arthur! Most merciful of men!” His voice cracked and he stopped.

  “When did you get here? Tell me, tell me what happened!”

  “I came as soon as I could walk. Something told me Arthur needed me. Urgently. Adele tried to stop me on account of Gawaine’s threats, but I came as soon as I could walk.”

  “Gawaine is dead. He died the day we landed back in Britain. Killed by a Saxon. Before he died he forgave you for Gareth and asked Arthur to send for you.”

  “Did he? God have mercy upon his pagan soul. His dying sight was truer than he knew. I headed straight for Camelot and found them, father and son, facing each other at its very door. As Merlin foretold it.”

  “But how did it happen? I spoke with Mordred. He swore he would yield to Arthur.”

  “He tried,” Lancelot whispered. “But it was not to be. Against his will, he carried out his fate.”

  “What do you mean, he tried?”

  “They parleyed. Niniane arranged it. They met in a tent upon the battlefield and talked it out. When they emerged, they embraced. Everyone could see that all was well. The High King wore his crown upon his helmet and Mordred was bareheaded. I don’t know what Arthur promised him—”

  “I do. Brittany. Hoel’s successor.”

  “Ah. Well. It was enough. They made amends.”

  “Then however did the fighting start?”

  Lancelot sighed wearily. “I don’t know how it began—an exchange of insults between foot soldiers, most likely, a sword raised without thought— but the battle began of its own will. Men started fighting without waiting for a signal from either commander. Arthur and Mordred’s arms were still around each other’s shoulders when they found they were at war.”

  Galahad remembered Cerdic. “They couldn’t stop it?”

  Lancelot shrugged. “How?” He moved his injured leg and winced. “Perhaps Arthur could have—Mordred tried—but I think . . . I think Arthur knew it was the end. He drew his sword, saluted Mordred, and joined the battle. He left Mordred no choice.”

  “Was it Mordred who . . . who—”

  “Yes,” Lancelot said slowly. “Mordred slew him at the last. A sword to the head. Arthur saw it coming. And he slew his own son in the same moment.” Lancelot passed a hand across his face. “Only twice in his whole life was he unworthy of himself. When he begot Mordred, and when he killed him. Now he has paid for those sins.”

  “At least,” Galahad said, “his death was quick.”

  But Lancelot shook his head. “Mordred’s was. A spear thrust through the heart. The King was a veteran. But Arthur suffered. I lifted him from the ground and he still breathed.” Galahad saw his father’s eyes brim with tears. “I carried him toward Avalon. There was no one left standing. I thought perhaps the Lady of the Lake could heal him, as she healed me long ago of a grievous wound. So I carried him there.”

  “On horseback, surely.”

  “There were no horses.”

  “You carried the King on foot all the way to Avalon? But it’s an hour’s ride and you are wounded!”

  Lancelot shrugged. “God gave me strength. I carried him, and he spoke to me.” Lancelot’s voice broke. Galahad looked up at the moon, rising white and shining in the east. His cheeks were wet. He stood in the still beauty of the night and listened to the tale of Arthur’s death.

  “He bade me take Excalibur from his hand and throw it into the Lake of Avalon. I refused at first. But he pleaded with me. He said it must be done, and there was little time. He said his head hurt him.” Lancelot’s voice quavered and he roughly cleared his throat. “I had gotten as far as the causeway across the marsh. I threw the sword as far as I could, so far that I lost it in the light and did not see it hit the water. But I heard it go in, as smoothly as a blade home to its scabbard. Soon after, a boat appeared, I suppose from the Lady’s shrine. I don’t know how they came there. They had no pole. There was no wind. I wasn’t watching. I was with Arthur. He could no longer see,
but he told me to wait, that they would come.”

  “That who would come?”

  “Three queens to fetch him.” Lancelot glanced up. “I thought he was wandering, but I was tired, so I pleased him and waited. In the boat were three women dressed in mourning, white-robed, white-veiled. One was Morgan, the King’s sister, Queen of Rheged. The other was Niniane, the Lady herself, Queen of the River Isles. The third I did not know. Young, frail, rather pretty. Something familiar about her.”

  “Morgaine,” Galahad supplied. “Queen of Avalon. The next Lady.”

  Lancelot grunted and shifted his leg again. “Three queens. They had prepared the craft to receive him, lining it with cushions and velvets and rich trimmings. I carried him into the boat and laid him down upon the cushions. He was covered with blood and grimed with dust. They said they would take him to Avalon and tend him. The youngest took his poor bleeding head and cradled it in her lap. What an angel of healing she must be, for when she stroked his head he opened his eyes and saw me again. He spoke to me one last time as the boat pulled away from shore. He . . . he called me a true friend.” Lancelot covered his face with his hands. “Oh, my King, my King, let me follow where you have gone!”

  Galahad swallowed hard. “But they could not heal him.”

  “No. They bade me send for the monks and await them at the gates of Avalon. They cleaned him and dressed him as you have seen, and they sent him here for the rites, but they could not give him life.”

  Galahad sat down beside his father.

  “You said . . . you said there were none left standing? Was everyone killed but you? What about Percival?”

  “I’m sorry, son. I do not know. Galyn, my poor brother, Bedwyr, Kay, Gereint—all are dead. No one answered when I called out. If any lived, I did not know it. And the ravens . . . ” He shuddered. “Ravens came from all over Britain. The ground was black with them.”

  Galahad crossed himself. “Dear God,” he whispered, “protect Percival if he lives, and preserve his soul if he does not.”