Without another word she turned, soundlessly, and accompanied her husband inside.
Galahad stood by the pool for a long time after they had gone, staring into the shadowy depths. At dusk he turned away. His head ached and his joints had stiffened in the cool damp until he moved like an old man. Since Niniane’s departure all he had seen in the pool was a deep, slow swirl of cold green water, with nothing at the bottom but hope.
47
THE BRIDE OF GWYNEDD
Galahad stood by the narrow window and stared sullenly out at the darkening hills of Gwynedd. Behind him the murmur of voices engaged in casual talk washed back and forth, constant and repetitive, meaningless and dull. They had lit the torches but it was not really dark. The hills still burned gold in the failing light, aglow in their autumn glory; the evening mists had yet to creep up from the sea; the stars were not yet out. He wished he were out fishing in the hill ponds, not milling around in aimless waiting. At this time of day the trout were just rising for flies.
Somewhere a shepherd’s pipe played off-key. Queen Anet’s voice sounded suddenly behind him. “Where is Sir Galahad? Have you seen him, Percival?” He hunched closer to the window, wishing suddenly he were anywhere else in the known world but Gwynedd. It was all right for the host of kings who waited for the appearance of Percival’s sister—they had come for a purpose and had a prospect to amuse them—but what was he doing here? He ought to be long away. Since he had seen in Niniane’s pool the sign he had so long awaited, he was eager to be off on the last stretch of his quest. The end was near, Niniane had said, and there was not much time. However, he owed Percival obedience to his promise. Without Percival he would never have found Corbenic. Or a future.
He stood with his back to the room, watching the night draw down, and thought again about Niniane’s words. In the years he had fought for Constantine, run his errands, led his troops, won skirmish after skirmish, and saved Britain herself in battle after battle, he had learned firsthand about the Saxon strength. He knew that Britons fought in a losing cause. Every year the Saxons grew stronger and more numerous. Every year the strength of Britons waned. Unless they united as they had under Arthur, defeat was inevitable. It was only a matter of time unless—and here his spirit stirred and lifted—unless Arthur himself should truly come again. He tried to still the eager beating of his heart. It was hard not to be impatient. He was oppressed by the need for hurry.
“Well, well, what a brown study, my lord Galahad!” a voice said at his shoulder. He turned to find Owaine, King of Gorre, standing beside him, his breath already sour with mead. “What do you see out there in the dark?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“This wench we come to inspect is your cousin, is she not?”
“If by that you mean the Princess of Gwynedd, she is.”
“Come now, no offense. You will learn in time all women are wenches. Do you have a high opinion of her? What is she like?”
“My lord, I knew her only in childhood. I have no idea what she is like now.”
“Is she greedy? Does she hunger for a man’s power? Your grandmother Alyse was such a one. I’m not looking to marry a rival for my throne.”
“Queen Alyse was a wise woman.”
“And raised two bold, headstrong females—your mother and the High Queen Guinevere. I do not want another such.”
“If my lord wants a sheep for a wife”—Galahad bristled—“you should look outside in the pens.”
But Owaine only laughed and slapped him on the back. “You endorse her, I see. Good, that is all I wished to know. I assure you, if the wench is ripe for bedding I am content. I am past forty with three daughters. It is time to get myself an heir.”
Galahad wrinkled his nose as Owaine moved off. Dane would get what she deserved if she chose him.
“Something smell bad?” Talorc asked, coming up. “Why do you hide here by the window when the girl is due down any minute? It won’t save you from Owaine’s attentions.”
“Or yours,” Galahad replied with a light smile.
Talorc grinned. “As you see. You’ve been so solemn ever since we came down from the mountains. Did Percival twist your arm to get you here?”
“I came of my will. His family are my kin.”
Talorc grunted. “You don’t act like it. You behave as if they all were poisonous vipers. Tell me the truth about this woman, your cousin. Has she a head on her shoulders? Can she think for herself? Has she courage?”
Galahad raised an eyebrow. “Yes on all counts, if she is as she was. You are truly interested, Talorc? Or just curious? I thought you had had enough of women.”
“That was my pride speaking. I have not your joy in abstinence, Galahad. I need a wife, but I do not want a vain or silly one. I want a companion. And a queen.”
“Well,” Galahad said slowly, “you have come to the right place.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Remember that Percival has foolishly placed the choice in her own hands. It will not be as simple as you think.”
Talorc smiled. “Oh, I don’t mind courtship. I may not be as rich as Owaine, or be able to offer a kingdom as large as Rydor’s or Kastor’s or Valvan’s, but I have something none of the rest of them has—respect for the
“I wish you well, then.”
Talorc turned away as a group of women appeared on the landing, and the men crowded around the bottom of the stairs. Galahad returned to the window. Dusk had fallen and the sea mist had begun to weave its way through the woods and meadows. In the deepening sky the first stars blazed overhead.
He wondered if he had told Talorc the truth. He had not seen the girl in seven years, and girls at eleven bore little resemblance to what they would become at eighteen. Perhaps she had grown meek and silly; perhaps her bold nature had turned domineering. Most likely she had turned into a proper harpy, but it was also possible her tongue had lost its sting. He grimaced. He would never forget the words that had driven him out of Gwynedd: What would you call a woman who conspired to have her cousin raped? What would you call a woman who tried to trick the High King to her bed? She was false! He shuddered. Nor would he forget her parting curses: May your arrogance consume you, may your road meander! May you follow in your father’s footsteps and love a woman you cannot in honor have! It had been a mistake to come. He never should have promised Percival. He should have turned the other way when he heard his cousin’s voice, and spent the night under the Giants’ Dance.
Laughter and the sound of voices raised in celebration interrupted his thoughts and he turned. Dane must have made her entrance at last. All the lords clustered about Percival and Peredur, bowing low as they were introduced. Galahad glanced toward the great hall, where candles blazed and servants busily piled food upon the tables. No doubt the feast would last all night, with more eating and drinking and noise than he could stomach. At least Percival had hired an excellent bard. He had heard Hawath before at Camelot; the man knew every tale ever told in Britain, and everyone’s lineage back to Druid days. He would end, as he always did, with the Lay of Arthur, and bring tears to everyone’s eyes. It would be worth whatever else was ahead to hear him.
The press of people swept forward and engulfed him. “Galahad! There you are!” Someone grabbed his arm and swung him around. Without warning he found himself face-to-face with the glowing girl on Percival’s arm. Around him the light and bustle faded into haze; in utter silence time paused. And stopped.
She was a beauty. She had skin like new cream, warm chestnut curls that strayed from their pins like a living thing resisting capture, and large gray eyes flecked with devilish green. As she stared up at him her lips parted, she caught her breath, and a slow blush rose from her throat to grace her cheeks.
“Can it be . . . Galahad? Cousin, is it really you?” She made him a low reverence; another of her chestnut curls came loose, and fell in a graceful curve across the breast of her gown. “My lord, I am honored by your coming.”
Awkwar
dly, he put out a hand and raised her, but the words of greeting dried upon his tongue. She rescued him. “I have so much to say to you, cousin, now that you are here. But you . . . I’d not have known you, but for your badge.”
“Nor I you.”
She smiled. “Girls change more with time. I don’t know why. Sit near me at dinner, Galahad, if you will. I would be honored.”
He could not take his eyes from her. “Well, I . . .” The heat rose to his face and he bowed to hide it. “As you will.”
Percival led her away. Galahad drew breath and the noise and light suddenly returned. The lords swept by him in her wake, following her into the feasting hall. Galahad stood rooted to the floor. His legs would not obey him and his brow was damp with sweat. He looked around swiftly and found Talorc smiling at him.
“Come, Galahad. Hold hard. We must go into dinner.”
“No, I . . . I think I’d better not—”
Talorc laughed softly and took his arm. “You must, you know. You can’t insult these good people. They’re your kin. Besides, the lady has reserved you a seat at her side. Be brave, lad. Pretend you are facing Saxons.”
Percival raised a toast and all the kings in their turn raised others, each one praising the charms of the princess Dandrane, each one waxing more eloquent than his neighbor on her eyes, her hair, her figure, her lovely smile. Galahad, seated at her side, did not detect a single blush. He was relieved to see she recognized this praise as the opening gambit in the courtship competition and did not attach truth to the words, although to himself he admitted that their praise hardly did her justice.
Throughout the long feast that followed, the lords vied for her attention, each one working to outdo his neighbor in the size of his boast, the cleverness of his jest, the magnitude of his compliments. Only Galahad sat silent, his eyes on his plate, unable to eat a mouthful, unable to speak a word. Across the table, Talorc watched him and secretly smiled.
Dane shone as the center of attention. She could match any man wit for wit and wasted no time in letting her suitors see what manner of woman she was. And as far as Galahad could tell, they relished the challenge. Even Valvan, the weasel-faced king of Lothian, could not help smirking whenever he looked at Dane. And Percival, a victorious king on his first night home, who was, after all, the host of this celebration, was dimmed to nothingness beside her brilliance. He seemed content to listen as the kings praised her beauty and toasted her good fortune. Like his guests, he sat filled with admiration and basked in the glow of excitement she shed around her.
Once or twice she found a moment to speak to Galahad. “I have heard much of your doings, cousin. They call you the Savior of Britain, which is a title only Arthur himself used to bear.”
Galahad flushed and looked away. “I was a cavalry commander under Constantine, no more. I’ve done what I promised him I would do. I have finished with him now. He is weak and corrupt. There is no honor in serving him. He can do nothing for Britain but postpone her death.”
“Well, I am all for that postponement. But what is our future then?”
“Our future blows in the wind, as the bards say. There is a hope—a small hope—we may regain what we had under Arthur.”
Dane’s eyes shone. “That is what I wanted to hear you say! How will we achieve this, except through unity?”
Galahad met her eyes. “Yes. Unity is the only way.”
Dane regarded him closely. “And now that you have left Constantine’s service, how will you work toward unity? By going home to enlist Lancelot’s support?”
Galahad looked away. “Certainly not.”
Dane hesitated. “Are you still at odds with him?”
“We have little to say to each other.”
She reached out and covered his hand with hers. “Cousin, I beg you will let me apologize for my behavior the last time we met. I am aghast at the things I said. I was a very young and very stupid girl. That is all I can say in my defense. It was unpardonable.”
Galahad gazed at her. In the lamplight her eyes shone as green as the sea. “You were never stupid.”
“I was forward and spoke of things that were none of my concern, and of which I’d heard only rumors. I don’t blame you for being offended. I beg your forgiveness.”
“I forgive you. What you said about my mother was . . . not without foundation.”
She exhaled in relief and let go of his hand. “Thank you. You are very gracious to say so. Time has improved us both, I think. But if you do not serve Constantine or Lancelot, whom do you serve?”
Galahad paused. He longed to tell her about the Grail, about Niniane’s promise that Arthur would return, about how the future of Britain lay in his own hands. But his lips would barely move. “I serve no one now.”
Her eyes narrowed in laughter. “Still looking for Macsen’s Treasure?” He frowned at her and she colored charmingly. “There are stories about you and your quest all over Britain. You will be a legend soon.”
“Not if I don’t find it.”
“Galahad . . .” He looked up and found her clear eyes searching his. A wayward strand of hair curled softly against her cheek. To his own astonishment his hand had actually lifted to brush it away, when the hall erupted in cheering. Hawath had arrived.
Percival rose. “My ladies and my lords! We are here to celebrate the coming nuptials of my sister, the consolidation of all Wales with your northern federation, and the crowning of a new queen among the men of the north. Within the month, I promise you, my sister, Dandrane, shall choose a husband from the host here assembled.” The kings rose and bowed, their companions cheered and stomped their boots upon the floor, crying, “Dandrane! Dandrane! Long live Gwynedd!” Percival bowed. “I thank you. I thank you all,” he shouted above the din. “In honor of the event, let us hear again the songs we heard in our youth, when Britain was united under one, strong king. I give you Hawath.”
Not until Hawath took his seat and bent his ear to tune his harp did the noise die down. The bard waited until all eyes were upon him, bent his head toward Dane, and, with a knowing smile, gave them the old tale about an ancient beauty men had died for: a queen who was abducted by a love-struck foreign prince and whose countrymen put to sea in a thousand ships to get her back, waging a war that lasted a decade and decimated both royal houses.
Fighting Saxons was a noble calling, but Galahad could not imagine waging war over a woman. Agamemnon could not have been a very good king. Arthur would never have done such a foolish thing, even for Guinevere. He looked sidelong at Dane and was surprised to find her smooth forehead puckered in a frown. But Percival sat dreamy-eyed, stirred to his soul, and the other lords listened with rapt attention.
Dane glanced his way suddenly, caught him watching her, and wrinkled her nose. When the bard’s last note faded and the men called out their acclamations and stomped their feet, she leaned toward him and whispered, “Arthur was worth a thousand Agamemnons, don’t you think? To destroy your royal house and all the noble youth! And for what? A woman who had lived ten years with a foreign prince? If she’d had any sense of honor, she’d have killed herself. I’d never have gone after her if I were king!”
“That is just what I was thinking. But Percival would. Look at his face.”
The smile she flashed at him seemed to strike him in the center of his chest and stop his breathing. “Ah, but the young fool’s in love. And I hear you have met her, Blodwyn the beautiful, Blodwyn the innocent, Blodwyn the flower of earthly delight. Quick, while the bard takes his refreshment, tell me, did you like her?”
“Not much.”
Although nothing in her expression changed, he sensed that she was pleased. “Pray tell me why not. Come, I will keep every word a secret, but tell me.”
Galahad shrugged. “She was young and foolish. You know. The way girls are.”
This time he had pleased her greatly. “Thank you. I have thought it must be so, from things Val has told me. But he is so smitten he does not see it. Don’t worry,
I would never try to come between them. But it helps me to know this—she will be queen here within the year, and I must do what I can to organize things so she can run them, so Val can think her brilliant and the scales will never fall from his eyes.”
“That is not what I thought you were going to say.”
Her eyes mocked him gently. “You thought I would behave like a jealous fishwife and wish her to fail? Galahad, you have a low opinion of women.”
“But she will replace you in your brother’s eyes.”
“Never. You don’t understand. He is more than my brother; he is my other half. How could I treat him so and live with myself?”
The bard struck a new chord and Dane sat up straighter. “I hope he gives us one of Merlin’s tales,” she whispered. “My favorite is ‘The Once and Future King.’ ”
Galahad caught his breath. There it was again, as clear as a clarion call: the beckoning of his destiny. He seemed to see the Grail already in his mind’s eye, shining like a sacred relic, a treasure more precious than all the gold in Rome, for it would summon Arthur from his sleep and return the King to Britain in the hour of her need. As the liquid notes filled the hall and the bard’s clear voice rolled past his ears in flowing phrases, Galahad’s heart filled with longing. It was time to seek what only he could find. He could not break his promise to Percival to stay for Dane’s betrothal, but at month’s end he would leave Gwynedd and all his obligations. He would set out and find the Grail and Spear that, with the Sword, would bring Arthur back to Britain.
The month passed slowly. He tried as best he could to stay out of everyone’s way. When they went hunting, he went fishing; when they competed in swordplay in the castle courtyard, he rode out. He came always last to dinner so he could take the farthest seat. He was always first up in the morning and gone while they were still at breakfast. Talorc of Elmet took note and laughed. Percival, however, was annoyed. He complained to Galahad that his behavior bore the marks of rudeness. Did he intend to make Dane weep at night, thinking she had offended him again? With an air of resignation, Galahad joined the others in their daily games, hunts, and feasting, but he began to detest the suitors’ company. Even Dane seemed to enjoy their attention less and less as time passed. Gradually she grew pale and silent, her buoyant humor fading into melancholy smiles. The few times Galahad came upon her unawares she flushed to the roots of her hair, lowered her eyes, and could hardly speak a coherent sentence. He wondered at the change in her—she had never been at a loss for words before. He put this down to her suffering at the thought of leaving Gwynedd, but when he voiced this observation to Talorc, the King of Elmet hooted. “Think that if you like, my lord. She is suffering, certainly. But I wager it has nothing to do with Gwynedd.”
Grail Prince Page 52
