Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  Constantine greeted the northern lords with words of praise and welcome, smiled into their faces, and toasted them at the victory feast, but his heart was filled with bitterness. So many of his own lay dead, while so many of theirs still lived, all because they had not answered his call until Galahad had forced them. Had they come last year, or the year before, a pitched battle might have been avoided.

  “Couldn’t you get them here any sooner?” he grumbled to Galahad as they parted after the victory celebration. “Those pagan dogs nearly had us. At least they all came—Elmet, Lothian, Gorre, Rheged, Strathclyde. Without them we’d not have had a chance. Thanks are due you, boy, for that service.”

  Galahad stiffened at the condescension, familiar though it was. “Our cavalry is inept and slow. Victory should not have taken so long. And you should have been able to keep them longer at bay. My lord.”

  “We’ve not the horses Arthur had,” Constantine snapped. “And I hope you’re not going to tell me, as everyone else does, to send across the Narrow Sea for Lancelot! Let him keep his precious steeds, much good they do him. I will ride a mountain pony into battle before I’ll send for help to that Breton bitch’s whelp!”

  Galahad schooled his face. “My lord knows best.”

  “Don’t sneer at me, princeling! I’m not in the mood for your high-and-mighty ways. You’ve only been back six hours and already I’ve had more of you than I can stomach. Who do you think you are, to stand there and recite to me my shortcomings? If you’d found the Treasure of Maximus for me, there needn’t have been a battle at all!”

  A whiplash of anger flickered in Galahad’s eyes. “Who am I? I am the Knight of the Seat Perilous. You made me so yourself. As for the Treasure of Maximus, you’re not worthy of it.” He drew his sword from its scabbard and offered it to Constantine in the gesture of surrender, the flat of the blade lying across his palms. “I have done all you asked and more, for three long years. Britain is safer and stronger than it has been since Arthur died. But now we are finished with one another. I beg leave to go.”

  Constantine froze. Color drained from his face. He made no move to take the sword. “Now, now, Galahad, easy does it. I meant no offense. I’m just on edge. My son Markion was nearly killed today. Put that away. I’ve . . . I’ve got business to attend to just now. Sleep on it, why don’t you, and come to my tent in the morning. We’ll discuss these matters then.”

  Galahad sheathed the weapon. “As the king commands.”

  “That’s my boy. Good night, then, Galahad.”

  Galahad turned and walked alone down the lanes of tents, past campfires redolent with the scents of roasting fowl and thick, bubbling stews, past the pleasant sound of voices talking eagerly together, sharing the warm companionship of soldiers who have faced death and come away. No one called out to him to join them. For three long years no one but Constantine had willingly sought his company. Whether they believed the miracle of the Seat Perilous or whether they had been part of its staging, did not matter. They all kept him at arm’s length.

  Out on the battlefield work parties were busy digging trenches for the dead. Their rhythmic dirges floated on the night air, dolorous and slow. He found himself walking to the beat of their music as he headed toward the Welsh encampment beyond the Dance. Night drew down and the black sky burst into stars, filling the heavens with a light more welcoming than campfires. Ahead of him, darker shadows in a dark night, marched the timeless megaliths of the Giants’ Dance. He walked toward them.

  No one knew who had built the Dance. For eons men had revered it as a sacred place, gathering around it at solstice and equinox with their chants, spells, and sacred fires. Christians left it alone, believing it haunted by the spirits of Uther and Ambrosius, who lay beneath the kingstone at its center. But it did not frighten Galahad. The great giants, marching in pairs and topped by capstones the size of Saxon ships, spoke to him of high endeavor, of courage and faith, of the dauntless pursuit of dreams. He had sat alone near the kingstone twice before, ringed by the awful giants of an unknown past, and felt their power round about him. Though built by men at the dawn of time and raised again by Merlin the Enchanter, the stones held the spirit of the living deity. Galahad had worshiped there in the open air and felt the free flowing of his soul, the release of confession, the joy of granted grace. He remembered well the blessed peace that followed, bathing his soul in light. This was what he needed after the filth of battle, after years of compromise and loyal service to a cruel and greedy king. Somehow, somewhere, he had lost his bearings. His old dreams of glory were as dead and difficult to remember as last year’s May Day ribbons, discarded in some long-forgotten corner to gather dust. How slowly and inexorably it had come upon him, the stiff boredom of political life, the constant scheming for gold, men, and power. It had deadened his senses and sullied his soul. He had lost something precious at the center of his being and did not know how to get it back.

  He quickened his pace toward the outer ring of stones, when suddenly, out of the dark, he heard his name.

  “Galahad!”

  He knew the voice, and turned. “Percival?”

  Out of the shadows stepped a soldier with a bandaged head, taller and broader in the shoulders than Galahad remembered, but still the eager companion of his youth.

  “Galahad! Cousin! It’s really you! After all these years!” Percival embraced him and thumped him on the back. “My God, I wondered if I’d ever see you again! I heard you were here. Were you at the feast? I didn’t see you. How well you look—and without a scratch! Where are you camped? Let me send a servant for your bedroll—you must stay with me. I’ve a million things to tell you—and a million to hear as well, I’ll be bound. Why haven’t you ever come to see us?”

  “I should have, cousin.” He glanced sidelong at Percival. “Why haven’t you ever come to fight for Constantine before this?”

  Percival smiled. “So that’s it. It’s easily explained—if you’d ever come to ask us, you’d have known. Come with me and I’ll tell you all about it. Don’t look so stern; I’m here now. And I got here before you did, this time!”

  “And were wounded for your efforts. Is it bad?”

  “Little more than a scratch, but you know physicians. The more bandages they apply, the bigger their glory. Come, you look famished. Follow me.”

  Percival’s tent lay in a place of honor at the center of the Welsh encampment. His own standard hung on a pole outside the entrance, the Gray Wolf of Gwynedd on a field of blue. Percival himself seemed unchanged in all but stature and attire, with jewels at shoulder and waist, and wristbands of silver. But leadership changed men and brought boys to manhood. Would this new Percival be his friend?

  “I suppose,” Galahad ventured, “you are now King of Gwynedd in more than name.”

  To his surprise, Percival laughed. “Indeed, cousin, that is why I’m here. Come, come, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Drachan, we’ll have the wineskin.” He winked at Galahad. “That stuff Constantine served at the feast was little more than flavored water, but I think you’ll appreciate this.”

  The wine was neat, mellow, and better than Galahad had expected. He leaned back against a cushion and began to relax. “How is your family? Your gracious mother, Queen Anet, and Peredur, your uncle?”

  Percival raised an eyebrow. “My mother’s well enough. You have not heard about my uncle?”

  “I have heard nothing. What happened when you went home?”

  Percival smiled. “You were right, you know. I suppose it’s really a common sort of tale until it happens to oneself. He’d held power since my father sailed to Gaul with Arthur, and no one could blame him if he didn’t want to give it up. I’ll say this for him: although he didn’t give two pins about Constantine, he had Gwynedd’s best interest at heart. Even I could see the strength of his arguments. A grown man of five-and-thirty with experience behind him could rule the kingdom much better than a lad of fifteen.”

  “Your experience—at Autun, at C
amlann—outshines anything he has ever done.”

  “Yes and no. Don’t forget, the only army I ever commanded vanished, died, down to the last man. That’s not a record of great leadership.”

  “No one can blame you for Camlann. That was the devil’s day. All of Arthur’s army died as well, and no one can contest his leadership.”

  “Ah, but Arthur died with them. I did not.” He paused. “When I went home at fifteen and demanded my crown, my mother and sister supported me and he yielded. But as soon as I was crowned King of Gwynedd, I began to see that I was king in name only. Peredur’s commands were the ones that were obeyed, not mine. He led the men, not I. He seldom even asked for my opinion, but just went about his business the way he had been used to doing. He was always polite, always reasonable, always able to show that everything he did was for the welfare of Gwynedd, and therefore for me.”

  “Yes,” said Galahad slowly, “he always had a fluid tongue. I remember him well.”

  Percival grinned. “And he remembers you.”

  “But tell me how you came into your own. Is he dead, then?”

  “Oh, no.” Percival smiled and refilled their winecups. “No, he rules as regent while I am away. I gave him leave.” He smiled at Galahad’s surprise. “There is more than one way to skin a cat. I’ll tell you all about it, but first . . .” He hesitated, watching Galahad’s face. “There is a member of my family you neglect to ask about. It was her doing I finally took power. It was all due to Dane.”

  Galahad grunted and downed his wine. “I beg your pardon. I meant no offense. How does your sister?”

  Percival laughed. “Well, very well. I’ll wager you a gold coin you’d not know her. I’m sure she’d love to see you, if only to ease her conscience. Poor Dane is convinced she is the reason you left Gwynedd. She has never forgiven herself.”

  Galahad shrugged. “Let that pass. Tell me how a mere girl brought you into kingship—that should be a good tale.”

  “I swear upon the Book of God it’s true! And you know well Dane is no mere girl. She persuaded me that the only way was to win the men’s respect and diminish Peredur’s—against his will he would find himself without power. That meant a swordfight.”

  “You challenged him?” Galahad’s interest awakened. “Good man. Tell me about it.”

  “I followed Dane’s plan. Last year on my seventeenth birthday I stood up at council and read him a list of grievances and challenged him to settle the dispute with swords. He smiled at first, and gave me every sort of reason why I should not risk myself and the future of Gwynedd against him. But in the end he had to consent, or the men would think him the coward I had called him.”

  “Since you bested him, why did you not kill him and have done?”

  “Kill him! What need was there to kill him? He is my kin, our kin, and besides, he is useful.” Percival frowned at Galahad. “You have been too long at court, I think. In any event, that is not my way. But let me tell you how we did it. Dane had planned it since the summer. All the long winter she engaged Peredur in games whenever she could. He loves games almost as much as hunting, and when she let him win at chess he grew merry and boastful, and wanted more. So he hunted less, and drilled less, and put on weight. Ennyde smoked out that plan, and began to badger Peredur to keep fit. To silence Ennyde, Dane found the miller’s daughter—a pretty lass, golden-haired and plump. She employed her in the castle. Peredur went for her like a pike for a minnow. He hardly stirred from his chamber for days at a time, and Ennyde was so furious she refused to speak to him. It took him only three months to get the girl with child and send her packing with a dowry, to her father’s great delight—and by that time he was positively sagging around the middle. But I went four hours every day to the swordmaster—not Maldryn; he died of flux the year after we left. This was a new man—and practiced until my sword arm turned to iron and I beat the swordmaster himself nine times out of ten. The soldiers watched—the wagering was fast and heavy, I can tell you! And Dane even taught me a move she had seen you do, one you never showed me, a neat escape done with a twist of wrist and hip.”

  Galahad’s face flamed. “I remember.”

  “And one or two she had thought up herself and said would take him by surprise in a pinch, they were so unorthodox.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “When the day came, I bested him fairly in front of all his men. I spared his life and he had to pledge me his allegiance. With their own ears the soldiers heard him swear loyalty to me. I have had no trouble since.”

  “He has never tried to take back any power?”

  “No.” Percival paused and then smiled. “Perhaps I should mention that I sliced his sword arm in the fight, and that although he has recovered the use of it, it’s not as strong as it used to be. It’s good for hunting, but not much else.”

  Galahad smiled and toasted him with his winecup. “I congratulate you, Percival, on a job well done.”

  “And well conceived and planned.”

  “Yes, I congratulate your sister, too.”

  “She would be happy to hear you say that. Where are you headed now? Why don’t you come back to Gwynedd with me? We are hosting a convocation of northern kings this winter—actually, since they have come south to fight, I hope to persuade them to travel to Gwynedd on their way home.”

  “Why? To form a new alliance? To widen the reaches of your power?” Percival grinned. “Only in a manner of speaking. They come as suitors. I intend to get Dane a husband.”

  Galahad choked back laughter. “I wish you luck.”

  “It’s her own idea. Wales is strong enough, and now, under my leadership, fights for Constantine. As you well know, the north is a fairly solid coalition, and it takes all your own powers of, um, persuasion, to convince them to lift a hand for the rest of Britain.”

  “One thing I promised them was help against the Anglii. Elmet is beset by them again. Would you travel so far to fight that battle, Percival?”

  “Of course I would. I did once, didn’t I? And I am here, am I not? Dane thinks we need to help Constantine win over the northern lords. If she can be queen in one such realm, it is a start. I wager none of those boneheaded kings could withstand her logic or her energy for long.”

  Galahad did laugh. “I’ve no doubt of that. You know, Percival, it’s not a bad plan. And you say it is Dane’s idea? Is she so eager to leave Gwynedd?”

  “No, but she is eighteen and ready for marriage. I’d trust her with the reins of power in Strathclyde, Gorre, or Lothian before I’d trust the kings who rule there now.”

  “Who are her suitors?”

  “Owaine is foremost among them. His first two wives died in childbed and he is looking for another. Alliance with Gwynedd would please him greatly. He is past forty, but still has life left in him. Valvan of Lothian is interested, unfortunately. I loathe him. My cousin Kastor is still unwed. He’s said he’ll come and take a look. Rydor of Rheged is my best hope. That’s a handsome match to my mind. Rheged’s not so far; we could still see each other from time to time. Rydor’s still a young man and looking for a bride who can bring him something.”

  “I know one you have left out. Talorc of Elmet. A good man and a fine soldier.”

  “But he has a wife.”

  “No longer. He put her away when he discovered his sons had been fathered by the captain of his guard. He tells me now he believes she bedded half his army behind his back. He’s still bitter about it and in no hurry to remarry, but he is a good man and a friend. Ask him to come along.”

  “Indeed? Then I will. It’s my hope I can persuade them to return to Gwynedd with me and we can get this settled before the snow flies. They can make their offers, she will choose which suits her best, and in the spring she will be married.” He gulped. “It’s going to be awfully hard parting from Dane, but we’ve always known it had to happen. I’d be grateful for your company, Galahad. Stay the winter with us, if you can, but at least come back with me.”

  Galahad
hesitated. “I will not be as welcome there as you expect.”

  “Dane has not forgiven herself for what she said to you that day and would give anything in her power to make amends. Please at least give her the chance to apologize. Once she leaves Gwynedd, who knows where she’ll be?”

  “Well, cousin, it has lately been in my mind to break with Constantine. I shall come. But not for the winter. I have stayed in one place too long. I prefer to be on the move.”

  Percival leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I ought to have asked before, but I was so full of my own news—did you see the sign?”

  “What sign?”

  Percival stared at him. “Have you given up the quest, then?”

  Galahad felt heat rush to his face. “No . . . I don’t know. Nothing’s happened in the three years I’ve served Constantine. I’ve seen no sign.”

  “No tests?”

  “Nothing.”

  Percival clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then it’s time to leave. The Saxons should be quiet for a few years after this defeat. Come to Gwynedd. We’d both be glad to have you for however long you can stay.”

  Galahad put down his winecup and rose. “It is for you alone that I go to Gwynedd again. And if I were not persuaded your sister’s attention will be elsewhere, I would not go, even for you.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Galahad, whatever happened between you?”

  Galahad shrugged his cloak into place and faced his friend. “Let it be. I would rather forget it. Now let me pass, cousin. I have a longing to be out in the night air.”

  Out in the dark he breathed deeply and looked across the black expanse of emptiness toward the Giants’ Dance. Too late now to seek that refuge. Talorc would be waiting at the inn, anxious at his absence. The others would be wondering, perhaps with lifting hopes, if he had left them for good. He realized suddenly that he had come to a fork in the road. One path led to Gwynedd, to the renewal of Percival’s friendship, to the warmth and friction of social intercourse, and to the roiling stew of political alliance, the grubbing for land and power. The other path, the nearer path, led to the Giants’ Dance, to solitude, to prayer and peace, and perhaps a return to his quest. He gazed at the Dance with an ache in his throat, but he had made Percival a promise. Slowly he turned and started on the long road back to the inn.