Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  A slow blush crept over Germaine’s pinched face. She was the eldest of the sisters and already past her best years. She knew more about the wrenching longing for a husband than any of them, but thus far her longing had brought her nothing.

  “Very well,” she said at last, “we’ll go down to the river. Just to look.”

  On the far side of the woods the land fell sharply away to the rocky riverbed. They heard the roar of wild water long before they came upon the river, but when they saw it they pulled up in astonishment. The storm had swelled the river to full spate and it thundered down from the distant mountains in a rage of froth and noise, bursting its banks here and there and flooding the lowlands with new lakes. At the edge of a swirling pool nearby they saw a fine black horse, fetlock-deep in water, standing over a lump of dark cloth half-in, half-out of the water.

  “Someone’s fallen!” Megan gasped. “He’ll drown! Come on!”

  “Slowly,” Germaine warned, “or you’ll frighten the horse.”

  They trotted up as swiftly as they dared. The black stallion’s ears flicked forward and he screamed a challenge, but did not move away. At his feet lay the inert body of a tall man, facedown in the mud, his fingers dug into the earth as though he had tried in vain to pull himself from the water. The girls slid off their horses and together pulled the body clear of the rising pool. With an effort they turned him over on his back and Lilia wiped the mud from his face with her kerchief. Germaine lifted his wrist and felt for the beat of life.

  “Ah, thank God, he lives,” she said.

  “Look at him!” Megan stared down like one entranced. “Just look at him!”

  The man was young, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, long-legged, and beautiful. They stared in silence, not quite able to believe their eyes.

  “Is he a gift from Heaven?” Germaine whispered.

  “His clothes are the finest quality,” Lilia added. “Just like his horse. He must be a prince. Or a king.”

  “Or a god,” Megan said, crossing herself. “He’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen!”

  “Which isn’t many,” Germaine pointed out. Few people ever crossed the badlands to their tower on the edge of the moor, and their father employed only two men in his service, a guard who had lost a leg in battle and could no longer serve in an army, and an elderly stablemaster too old to ride away. The three girls looked at one another, suddenly smiled, and then laughed aloud. “Let’s take him home.”

  “What do you mean ‘a man’?” Ariane demanded, setting down her winecup. “What man?”

  Germaine sat at the head of the dinner table with Lilia and Megan, her two youngest sisters, on her left, and on her right Bella and Ariane, who were nineteen and twenty and even hungrier than she was for a husband. They had not yet despaired of finding one.

  “Indeed, it is true. We rescued a man this morning from certain death. But only one man.”

  “Where is he, then?” Bella spoke with the casual authority of the acknowledged beauty. Alone of them all she had honey-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Her skin was as fair as Megan’s, but without freckles, and her countenance was admired by all her sisters. And by Hugh, the one-legged guard, who was experienced enough to know a handsome woman from a plain one.

  “He’s in the storeroom,” Germaine said quietly. “In the back. Hugh moved his own bed in there, bless his generous soul.” She looked at her sisters meaningly. “We thought it best that Father not stumble across him, should he come downstairs.”

  The girls nodded. They all remembered the last time a stranger had landed on their doorstep seeking shelter. Two full years ago a wandering bard, thirty years old, penniless and bedraggled, had begged for a meal and place to sleep out of the wet. Gladly, they had obliged him with a hot meal, a hot bath and shave, a soft pallet, and plenty of wine. To thank them, he had taken up his lap harp and begun to sing of Arthur Pendragon and the glory days of Britain. Suddenly the door had opened to reveal Sir Fortas on the threshold, sword in hand. The bard was halfway to the riverbank in ten minutes’ time. Fortas had restricted his daughters to bread and water for twenty days afterward and warned them against ever letting another stranger in. The girls had considered it a great disaster for Bella, for the bard had not been bad-looking and had admired her.

  “Who is he?” asked Ariane. “What’s his name?”

  Germaine shook her head. “We’ll have to wait until he awakens to find out. He was senseless when we found him. But he’s not lowborn.”

  “You should see his sword!” cried Lilia.

  Megan grinned. “You should see his face!”

  “And his dagger.” Lilia was not to be outdone. “It has a hawk carved in the handle.”

  “Then he is a knight.” Bella toyed with a strand of her golden hair. “What device is on his badge? That would tell us whom he serves.”

  “Alas, ” Germaine replied, “he does not have one. We could find nothing of the sort in his belongings. Strange, isn’t it? No badge or token, but wonderful weapons, a shield and an ancient drinking cup, and the finest horse I’ve ever seen. Long-legged and swift, like the ones in the legends.”

  “My goodness, Germaine,” Bella drawled. “You’ve already gone through his belongings? Without a word to me or Ariane?”

  “We didn’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep,” Megan retorted.

  “Hush, Megan,” chided Germaine. “This doesn’t help us discover who he is.”

  “A knight in disgrace, perhaps,” Ariane suggested. “He may be hiding from pursuit. If so, he may not tell us who he is.”

  “Perhaps.” Germaine paused. “But his biggest problem at the moment is his fever. We think he tried to cross the ford and was swept away. We found him senseless in the flood. He could have been there half the night.”

  “You’ve been to the river?” Ariane stared. “Whatever possessed you, Germaine? You know Father will have your hide when he finds out.”

  “He will have all our hides,” Germaine said smoothly, “if he discovers there is a man in the house.” She looked around the table and gathered all their eyes. “But perhaps he need not know.”

  “Unless one of us tells him,” Bella suggested slyly.

  Megan and Lilia burst into vehement protest, but Germaine succeeded at last in hushing them. “Finish your dinners,” she said to Bella and Ariane, “and we will take you to him. After you’ve seen him, if you still feel you must tell Father, we will not stand in your way.”

  “There’s always the chance the servants will tell him even if we do not,” Ariane offered.

  Germaine shook her head. “Gillie would never. Nor Hugh, who helped us carry him in. Nor Old Cam, who took charge of the stallion. They have no reason to betray us.” She looked at them each in turn. “It is as clear to them as it is to all of us that this man, whoever he is, may be a means of escape into the world for at least one of us. If any one of us is lucky enough to accompany this soldier out of the valley, she takes at least one servant with her. That is the bargain we have struck. Are you all agreed?”

  Bella and Ariane glanced uneasily at each other, the fretful look of competitors nearing the starting pole. “Agreed.”

  The storeroom was a small, rounded room at the rear of the tower with one poorly shuttered window looking out on the desolate moor. None of the girls had been in it for years, as it was used only for storage of Sir Fortas’s supplies of pens, inks, and parchments, and of broken furniture and the discarded belongings of their long-dead mother. Now, as they entered, they found the floor swept clean and strewn with rushes, a hastily beaten carpet hung against the wall to cover the crumbling stone, and a fresh set of hangings around Hugh’s bed to keep the drafts out. A low table near the bed held a candle, a water jar, a bowl, and a cloth. As the girls entered, a stout, capable woman of middle years rose from a bedside chair and curtsied.

  “Goodness, Gillie!” Bella exclaimed. “When did you do all this? The last time I saw this room, it was full of junk with a pile of snow agains
t the wall.”

  “We’ve been busy, Mistress and I.” She nodded to Germaine. “I’ve washed his tunic and his leggings and hung them out to dry. Old Cam is rubbing oil into his boots. And Hugh is searching the hayloft for that old brazier. It’ll be chill again tonight.”

  Bella turned to Germaine. “You undressed him, then? Yourself?”

  Germaine flushed. “Gillie helped. We had to bathe him. He was filthy from the muddy water.”

  “That was bold of you, for a spinster.”

  “I am not a spinster yet!” Germaine cried, feeling the heat in her face. “I am four-and-twenty, and as desirous of a man—of a husband—as you are!”

  “But not as likely to get one.”

  “Come, come,” Ariane chided. “Argue later. Let’s have a look at him now.” She stepped toward the bed and drew back the hangings. Her sisters crowded behind her.

  “My God,” Bella said under her breath.

  The fevered man lay cocooned in blankets with only his head and one shoulder free. His eyes were closed; a lock of black hair shaded his forehead.

  “Is he real?” Ariane whispered. She put out a finger and touched his hot cheek.

  “You never told us he was beautiful, Germaine.” Bella sounded stunned.

  “There was no way to describe him,” Germaine said simply.

  They all stared in silence.

  “Well?” Germaine asked softly. “Are you going to tell Father?”

  “No,” Bella said. “Not on my life. He is my pass to freedom.”

  Ariane nudged her aside. “Unless he chooses me instead.”

  “That’s enough,” Germaine said sharply. “Gillie and I have worked out a schedule for tending him. We will all take turns.” She frowned at Bella and Ariane. “Short turns. Gillie and I will fix his meals. You are all still responsible for your daily chores, even when your turn at nursing comes at night. Is that agreed?”

  All of them spoke with their eyes on the senseless man in the bed. “Agreed.”

  Upstairs in her chamber Germaine fell on her knees at her bedside and crossed herself. “Holy Mary, Mother of men,” she whispered fervently. “I have ever been your servant. I have never asked for much. Please, Mother, let this man be the one I’ve been waiting for. He has the face of an angel, and I have already lost my heart.”

  After breakfast Bella met Megan on the stairs.

  “Why, Meg, you little fox. If that isn’t your best gown!”

  “And that’s yours,” Megan retorted. “And your hair ribbons!”

  Bella smiled indulgently. “Why would he look at you twice? You’re barely sixteen.”

  “That’s old enough to wed. Mother was sixteen when she married. Besides, I’m the one who found him. I suggested going out. You had nothing to do with it.”

  Bella patted her hair, which was perfectly in place. “Thank you for the gift.”

  Ariane’s first turn at nursing came at midday. Gillie showed her how to sponge the patient’s brow with cool water and taught her to hold the water-cup to his lips and make him drink during the few moments he rose to semi-consciousness. Ariane sat expectantly for the first quarter of an hour but nothing happened. The man did not rouse; he did not even move. Ariane’s fingers drummed on the table. She took a sip of water herself, then rose and stretched. It was a fine day out, she knew, but only ragged shafts of light filtered through the patched shutters, and no warmth at all. She unlatched the shutters and threw them open, filling the small space with brilliant light and a soft breeze redolent of blooming heather. Nearby, stuffed in the corner among the remnants of a broken couch, lay a long scabbard wrapped in a blanket. These must be his weapons, she thought, hastily bundled aside when the soldier himself had been brought in. She lifted the blanket and gazed at the plain swordbelt and ancient scabbard. Her heart sank. They were not so very fine. They were not even as good as her father’s. The scabbard had been marred and nicked in a dozen places and looked on the verge of crumbling into dust. She picked up the dagger and drew it from its sheath. Now here was a lovely weapon! It lay in her hand, cold and bright, like a heavy jewel. Surely the man who owned this could not be base. But perhaps it was booty, plunder stolen from some worthy prince in the dead of night. As she put the dagger down, the swordbelt slipped and the hilt of the sword turned toward her. She gasped. The scabbard might be plain but here was a king’s ransom in the hilt of his sword! Nine rubies burned in the sun; the flash of silver chasing hurt her eyes. No one could steal this sword and wear it openly. He would be instantly known.

  She covered the weapons carefully and returned to the man in the bed. The flush had receded from his face and he looked, for a moment, as if he slept a natural sleep. Ariane leaned over him and brushed his hair from his eyes. Whoever he was, he was someone who mattered in the world, someone important, someone commanding. But just now he was helpless and in her power. She touched her lips to his in an exploratory kiss, the very first of her life. Was it her imagination or did he sigh? She took his head between her hands, her heart pounding, and kissed him again.

  At dusk Bella entered the storeroom. Reluctantly, Germaine yielded her place at the bedside.

  “No improvement,” she said in a low voice. “In fact, he’s worsened. His fever’s raging again and at times his breathing is a little rough. Ariane opened the shutters this morning. I thought Gillie would strangle her!”

  “Ariane’s a fool,” Bella said calmly. “She ought not to be allowed near him.”

  “It may be the death of him, yet. He was in a cold sweat all afternoon, but now he’s on fire. If you need help, Bella, if he should start to toss or struggle, call me or Gillie.”

  Bella nodded absently, all her concentration on the flushed face against the pillow. When her sister had gone, she raised the candle high and observed her patient. He was nearly too tall for the bed. The one arm flung against the pillow was long, well muscled, and shapely, the shoulder curved and hard as rock. She put the candle on the table and bathed his brow with a cool cloth. He groaned, turned away, and mumbled unintelligibly. She pressed the compress against his neck, marveling at how quickly his hot flesh heated the cloth. Sitting on the bed and pulling the blanket down, she exposed his chest and, after a moment’s admiration, picked up the bowl and with her fingers rubbed cool water into his skin. The beating of her heart filled her ears. The man, too, responded to her touch. He groaned again and moved, his limp hand falling against her thigh. Bella stared down at his long fingers, then covered his hand with hers and pressed it against her flesh. She caught her breath at the thrill of excitement that raced through her. What was happening to her? She had never felt like this, even when that poor bard had kissed her.

  She pulled the blanket away from the burning body and stared at him. She had never seen the whole of a man before. She had seen Hugh swimming in a loincloth, but only at a distance. Her only experience of the sexual act had been watching the barn cats mating. Where, then, did the knowledge come from? She was not afraid to touch him—blazing excitement urged her on—and she was not surprised when his body responded to her caresses. His head tossed on the pillow and he called out a word, a senseless word, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing as rough as hers.

  “Who are you?” she whispered into his ear. “I love you. I want you. Oh, sir, wake up, won’t you, and show me how?”

  But there was no response to her question, and eventually he began to shiver. She tucked the blanket around him again and, armed with her new knowledge, smiled down at him. “Tomorrow then. If you can’t teach me, perhaps I can teach myself.”

  For six days Galahad lay in a fever, alternating bouts of icy chills with raging heat. In his dreams he wandered through burning landscapes, peopled with demons, followed by tracts of frozen wastelands where every step could plunge him deep into bottomless crevasses. Now and then a woman’s face came near. The sweetness of her breath overwhelmed him and he seemed to wait, hanging on a thread above the abyss, for the warm pressure of her lips. Then wo
uld he float heavenward, light as a feather, flooding with joy at the touch of hands on skin, until the pounding in his temples made the very air throb with beating fire and he sought, vainly, to encompass the flames that devoured him, to master the powerful, overwhelming drive toward union.

  On the morning of the seventh day he opened exhausted eyes. All he saw, above him and around him, was white. For an instant he wondered if this was Heaven.

  “Water,” he whispered.

  The wall of Heaven rent and a fair female face surrounded by a halo of golden hair looked down on him. He could not quite bring the face into focus. He was more than half certain she must be an angel. “Water.”

  She reached out her arms and lifted up his head, pillowing his cheek against her breast. A cool clay cup was placed against his lips and delicious, sweet water poured down his throat. He looked up into wide, pale blue eyes. “Who are you? Where am I?”

  The vision did not speak, but bent down and pressed her lips to his, a kiss of possession. A spark of fear ignited within his heart, but his fatigue overpowered him and he slipped back into the vale of sleep.

  The next time he awoke the room was dark. The curtain at his side had been pulled back. By the light of the brazier and the candle on the table near his head he saw two young women sitting in wavering, golden shadows. One of them had auburn curls that strayed from their pins. The sight moved him deeply.

  “Please,” he began, but his voice was a shadow of itself. The other woman, plain-faced but kindly, spoke to him gently and gave him broth that smelled of healing herbs and spices. He drank it gratefully. “Where am I?”

  “Sir Fortas’s tower.” She saw his confusion and smiled. It was a comforting, peaceful smile and held no torments for him. Relief washed through him like a shower of rain. Perhaps the rest had all been dreaming.

  “Sir Fortas is lord of this land. He is our father.”

  “Do I know him? I don’t remember. . . . How did I get here?”