Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  Lancelot’s hand came down gently on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I did not look harder. All I could think of was Arthur.”

  Galahad nodded. “What happens now?”

  Lancelot drew a long breath. “I am going home. I will not serve Constantine. He did not lift a hand for either side, but waited in safety while they destroyed each other. He’s a traitor to Britain.”

  “Is he King now?”

  Lancelot shrugged. “Who else? There is no one left. Pendragon is no more.” He paused and looked at Galahad. “And you, son? Have you had enough of war? Will you come home to Lanascol with me and learn what I can teach you of the craft of kingship? Or”—Lancelot’s voice went suddenly gentle as he watched Galahad’s eyes—“or will you kill me? You have wanted to, off and on, since you were five years old. Or don’t you remember?”

  Galahad drew breath sharply. “I remember.”

  “If you think my blood will assuage your poor mother’s troubled spirit or avenge you for Gareth, then kill me now. I will not stop you. It’s as good a time as any—I’ve little left to live for. Bury me here, beside Arthur. Then perhaps my soul can rest.”

  Neither of them moved. Galahad’s throat was dry and his blood hammered in his head. Once, everything had been so clear, so clean, so well defined. But now . . . the world was a place of shadow and disguise. Nothing was as it seemed to be. Men were slippery creatures; they grew, turned, changed before one’s very eyes, and were no longer the people they had been. Galahad looked into his father’s eyes, as cool and gray as a sword blade, and remembered the night Lancelot had returned to Lanascol, remembered sitting on his father’s hard bed, watching him as he prayed, hour upon endless hour, for the forgiveness of his sins.

  Galahad exhaled and shut his eyes. “I cannot kill you. I never could have. And it has been a long while since I have wanted to.”

  Lancelot raised his head and looked up at the stars. “It’s my fault you ever felt so. It’s my fault Aidan thought he could use you as a weapon. I injured him when I was young, although I did not know it then, and he spent his whole life consumed with the desire for revenge. You and your mother were his tools.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He confessed it when I finally found him.”

  Galahad stared. “You found Aidan? When?”

  “About a year after I brought you to Camelot. My men discovered him hiding in an old, dilapidated mill in a hamlet on the edge of the Wild Forest, starving and half-mad. He still had his golden cross and silver goblets. Stolen from a Breton church. The bishop of Kerrec was delighted to have them back.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Lancelot’s hard gray eyes glittered. “Of course. But his death was swift. A kinder fate than he deserved after the agony he inflicted on Elaine and the unborn babe. He poisoned them. And he killed your dog. He confessed that, too.”

  “He killed Valiant?” Galahad repeated blankly. “Why?”

  “To spur you on to kill me.” He smiled ruefully at Galahad’s expression and then sobered. “Had I stayed in Lanascol instead of Britain, so many, many things might have turned out differently. And I went to Britain not only to serve Arthur but to be near Guinevere. Can you forgive me for this, son?”

  Galahad’s chest tightened. “Tell me . . . first, tell me why . . . why did you marry my mother? Is it true you lay with her because you thought she was Guinevere?”

  Lancelot shook his head. His voice was heavy with fatigue. “Galahad, the sad truth is, I was so drunk I could hardly see my hand before my face. Arthur and Guinevere held a feast on the night of the summer solstice to celebrate the fifth year of their marriage. She was twenty, and so beautiful— so beautiful she set every man alight. I wanted her more than I wanted life. But she had eyes only for Arthur. There was something between them that night, something wild and vivid and true . . . I got drunk because I could take no part in it. She never once looked at me, but I could not take my eyes off her. I don’t know what I wanted of her; she owed me nothing, but I burned for her that night with a fire I couldn’t control. So I went out walking to cool my ardor—and found Elaine.” He bent his head. “It is true she looked like Guinevere. They were cousins, after all, and much alike. And part of me tried to pretend she was Gwen. I won’t deny it. That is my sin. But in my heart I knew it was Elaine. How not? I had known her for seven years. And I was content that it should be so. I betrothed her that night, and I spoke to her father, Pellinore, in the morning. You were never bastard bred, son; you were trueborn. And that is the whole truth of it, although God knows the gossips would have it otherwise.”

  Galahad took a deep breath of cool air, the first breath of a new life. “I forgive you, Father. I’ve been so wrong about so many things . . . you, Gawaine, Mordred, even Guinevere . . . I don’t know who I am, anymore.”

  Lancelot smiled briefly. “That is life’s great adventure. Finding out. You stand at the edge of a mystery it will take your lifetime to solve. I almost envy you. But I have not the energy for it anymore.” He sighed. “What will you do? Serve Constantine?”

  “I don’t know. I must find Percival. If he lives, I will travel home with him to Gwynedd. If not, I will bear his body there.”

  Lancelot nodded. “As good a plan as any. My time is past, Galahad. My days near their end. Do what you wish, but make ready to be king.”

  Galahad looked up at the rising moon sailing high and clear among the stars. Time is turning, Niniane had told him. Everything would change. Arthur no longer had need of the Grail and Spear. On the thought, the memory of his dream returned to him, complete in every detail, and he gasped aloud.

  “What’s the matter, son? What is it?”

  He had seen the Grail and Spear! He had seen them with a force and clarity that belied the dream itself. His heart began to pound as he recalled the flashing pictures in the Cross of Visions—the gleaming spear, the dazzling krater—it was a true vision, after all!

  “What is it, Galahad?”

  “My lord—Father—I’ve seen a vision of . . . a vision of something I must find.”

  Lancelot frowned. “What sort of vision?”

  “I don’t know. I saw it in Aidan’s stone when he thought he was showing me something else. A grail—so full of light! I saw it in the dream Niniane sent me. Even Arthur told me of it, although he had doubts about its power.”

  Lancelot shrugged. “Arthur was only a man. But he believed, as I believe, that men can work miracles themselves, if they only believe they can. If you want badly enough to find what you have dreamed of, then search for it. You will find it.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “Perhaps in the last place you expect.”

  “But that means I must stay in Britain.”

  Lancelot struggled painfully to his feet. “In that case, I will knight you, that you may face Constantine, or any other lord, with the honor due you. You are young for it, but you are worthy and there is no time. Kneel at my feet and repeat these words.”

  Solemnly by starlight Lancelot spoke the ritual words that bound a warrior to his sovereign lord, and Galahad repeated them. When it was over, Lancelot gave his son his formal blessing.

  “And this shall be your token, for we have no witness.” He handed Galahad his own sword, with the cross of rubies in the hilt. Awed, Galahad took it.

  “Your own sword that Arthur gave you?”

  “It has served Britain faithfully these many years, and now will again. Arthur would want it so. I don’t need it. I will face no more Saxons now. Let me have Gareth’s weapon in exchange. It is only fitting. He lives, day and night, in my heart.”

  “Thank you, Father. It is a gift beyond price.”

  Lancelot smiled sadly. “With Arthur gone, little is precious to me any longer. Will you lend me your arm as far as the Lady’s shrine? I would speak a word with Niniane, but I fear my leg will not carry me that far.”

  “I will do better than that. I will bring you my horse.”

  As night deepened Galahad
led Lancelot down the long winding road, past the mean dwellings of the poor Christian brothers, past the mighty portals of Melwas’s empty castle, past the orchards heavy with ripening fruit, to the door of the shrine itself. The same old portress opened the gates.

  “Welcome, Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad. You are both expected.”

  “We would see the Lady Niniane, good sister,” Lancelot said.

  “Ah, sir, alas, this very day she is gone from Avalon. She has left the Mother’s service. But the new Lady expects you and will heal your leg besides, before you go on your way.”

  Lancelot winced as he slid from the horse. “If she can do that, she will have my thanks indeed. Where did Niniane go, do you know?”

  The old woman nodded uncertainly. “Home to tend her husband, King Pelleas, who was wounded in the battle.”

  “Well, I am glad to know someone else survived it.”

  “We have several wounded men in our House of Healing.” She turned to Galahad. “One of them has been calling out your name, my lord. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Percival?” Galahad cried. “Percival of Gwynedd? Does he live? He is here?”

  The old woman smiled and rang a bell. “I think that is the name. Petra will know. She will take you to him.”

  Lancelot turned to his son and embraced him. “If this should be our parting, Galahad, I thank you for your service to Arthur, even unto the last. Such sorrow as I feel can hardly be borne, but seeing you today has made it bearable. There may still be a future for Britain while you raise a sword in her defense. Let us part as friends and forget those things which have been between us.”

  Galahad returned his embrace. “I owe you much, my lord, and I wish with all my being I had been a better son.”

  “And I a better father.”

  “After you have seen Morgaine, will you be off to Lanascol?”

  “To tell poor, sweet Adele my brother is dead.” Lancelot looked down and opened his hand. By the light of a torch Galahad saw the golden glitter of the High King’s ring. “Before I go home,” Lancelot said slowly, “I must take his ring to Guinevere.”

  Galahad stiffened. “Leave it here. The sisters will see it gets to Camelot.”

  “She is not in Camelot. She fled to the monastery at Amesbury.”

  “She was in Camelot a week ago. I saw her.”

  “Did you?” Lancelot looked up. To Galahad, the tenderness in his eyes was a blow to an old bruise. “But she is not there now. Arthur sent her a message, secretly, to fly from Mordred and seek shelter at Amesbury. He told me this himself as I bore him in my arms. He bade me see her.”

  So that was the message he had carried! Galahad found his voice suddenly unsteady. “It was unfair of him to ask you. Father, whatever was once between you and . . . the Queen, surely it is time to give it honorable burial.”

  “I will not refuse Arthur his dying wish.”

  “But if you go . . . now that she is no longer his wife, you will sully your name . . . and hers—” Galahad’s voice shook and a bud of anger, hot as an ember, began to blossom and burn within his breast. Desperately he fought to regain the calm, the peace they had so newly built between them. “Besides, you’re in no condition to ride to Amesbury. You’ll inflame your leg.”

  Lancelot smiled sadly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Father!” Galahad reached out to touch him. “Promise me you will leave her in the convent. You will not take her to Lanascol.”

  “I will ask her, certainly. But I don’t know if she will consent to come.”

  “Oh, please!” Galahad whispered fiercely, gripping Lancelot’s arms. “Please don’t! Be strong, Father! Bypass Amesbury! Throw the ring in the lake, after the sword! Let the woman be!”

  Lancelot looked down at his hand. Arthur’s ring shone upon his finger, gold and bloodred in the torchlight. He drew a trembling breath. “He asked me to see her. He sent me with words to say.”

  “He is dead.”

  “She does not know it. I should be the one to tell her.”

  “She will learn of it in time. This is certain.”

  “She will not learn it from the lips of a stranger! You are cruel to wish such a thing upon her.”

  “Father! Listen. She lives in a house of God. She is not alone. Come away from her now and let her be.”

  Lancelot slowly shook his head. “I will see her. I promised it. And I owe it to them both.”

  Galahad dropped his hands. “If you wed her and take her to Lanascol, I will not come home. Ever. This is the end between us.”

  Lancelot’s shoulders sagged. “Be merciful, Galahad. Forgive us if you can.”

  “I have forgiven you! But you will not let her be!”

  Lancelot put a hand on his arm. “You have your destiny, son. And I have mine. Guinevere is part of it.”

  The page arrived and beckoned them inside. “The Lady will see you now, Sir Lancelot. And I will take you to the House of Healing, my lord prince. Follow me.”

  “No,” Lancelot said suddenly. “I have changed my mind. I will not stay. If you can loan me a horse for a silver coin, I’ll be on my way.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Of course, my lord! We’ve been collecting them from all over the plain and the marsh. Take your pick of whatever’s in the stable.”

  Galahad watched Lancelot search in his pouch for a coin. “Then go,” he said roughly, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “Go if you must. I am not your son any longer.” He spun on his heel and followed the page inside.

  Lancelot turned, the coin in his hand, as the gate closed behind his son. He gazed at the retreating figure with sorrow upon sorrows, sketched a salute, and whispered, “Go with God.”

  BOOK THREE

  PART I

  Three Women

  In the seventh through tenth years of the reign of Constantine

  45

  THE GIANTS’ DANCE

  A storm rolled over the Great Plain, where the armies of Constantine and his allies gathered before the Giants’ Dance to plan their defense and wait nervously for dawn. Five leagues east a sprawling Saxon host hunched by their campfires in the blowing rain and practiced their victory paeans.

  In an upper room of a roadside tavern just over the northern rise, Galahad knelt at a window and crossed himself. He could hear Talorc of Elmet pacing the room next door, and he wondered whether Talorc, alone of all the men of the north whom he had brought south to Constantine’s defense, had foresworn the wineskin in order to go to bed early and sober. Most likely the rest of them would be drinking all night. He hoped the landlord had locked up his daughters.

  Bowing his head, he thanked God the men of the north had honored their pledges and come. Without them Constantine had little hope. The Saxon force comprised five federations, while Constantine had been able to raise less than three thousand men. But this time the Welsh were there. The courier had been specific: all the Welsh had come in a single federation, all five kingdoms led by Gwynedd. But whether he had Peredur or Percival to thank for that, he did not know. The courier had not reported. In Camelot they’d had no news from Wales in years. And for the last six months he himself had been in the north twisting the arms of kings who needed persuasion, even at sword point, to keep their pledge.

  He might, of course, have gone to Wales himself to seek out Percival, if Constantine could have spared him. But he had not even sought permission. He did not know exactly why. Did he wish to avoid a meeting that would be awkward, even tragic, if Percival had not succeeded in claiming his birthright? Did he prefer to remember the adventures they had shared as boys and not risk confrontation with a different Percival, a man of eighteen who might not be a friend? Did he wish to avoid being questioned about the Grail? He would have to admit that nothing—absolutely nothing—had happened in the last three years that could be taken as a sign. Or did he merely wish to keep his distance from Percival’s meddling sister, Dane?

  Galahad shook his head in vexation. He could not pray. His mind woul
d not stay on anything, but roamed his memory, sifting through dross for gold. He recalled the day when, outside the gates of Avalon, he first learned that Percival had survived Camlann. When he had turned his back on Lancelot and followed the acolyte down the whitewashed corridors of the Lady’s House of Healing. She had shown him to a small bedchamber, spotlessly clean and herb-scented, warmed and lit by an applewood fire. The body on the pallet, still as a corpse and bereft of color, had looked more like a beggar than a prince, something hard used and then discarded when its essence was exhausted. For a frantic moment he had thought they had made a mistake, or that death had sneaked into the room before him. Then he saw the fresh red stain in the shoulder bandage, and exhaled. He was on his knees at the bedside when dark eyes opened in that stretched, white face— and Percival smiled.

  Galahad pushed open the shutter and gazed out at the lashing rain. Somewhere out there, perhaps camped in the shadows of the standing stones, his cousin might even now be meeting with his captains, sharing wine around a fire, or readying for bed. Tomorrow he might find him, must find him. If they both survived.

  At dawn the Saxons swept across the Great Plain. The Britons waited in the shadow of the great stone ring they called the Giants’ Dance. Each man on the field that day prayed fervently to whatever god he held holy for victory, life, or quick death, and Constantine, watching the road north, prayed he would see Galahad’s red-crossed shield and the banners of the promised northern armies behind him. But time was running out.

  Cynewulf, knowing Constantine awaited reinforcements, attacked him on both flanks as soon as he had light enough to see. Within an hour he pushed the Britons back until they were nearly surrounded. In desperation they withdrew to a defensive formation around the Dance, when at last the men of the north appeared on the horizon, galloped hard into the Saxon flank, and, after long hours of bloody fighting, drove the invaders from the field. The day was Britain’s, but the cost was high. Cynewulf himself survived to lead his ragged army back to his own land, to regroup and plan the next attack. But Constantine’s army was cut to half its size.