Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  He was sure to find a smith if he followed the road downhill. Mastering the art of shaping iron with fire was nearly as old as civilization, and for as long as men had lived together they had needed tools, and revered the men who made them. In Arthur’s Britain nearly every crossroads, ford, or watersmeet boasted a smithy. Wherever two paths met the old, simple magic of the Ancients still hovered, hallowing the meeting of men, joining the ways of going. There smiths built their forges. They did not forget their roots, nor change with the changing times. They remained as they had always been, as solid and reliable as the earth herself, needing no protection beyond the awe they inspired. They served low folk as they served kings; they bowed to no man.

  A thin stream of smoke rising against the far hill roused Galahad from his thoughts. “Come, Rouk. I was right—that’s bound to be a forge. Bear that cracked hoof a little longer and we’ll soon have it put right. If it’s a comely place, we’ll stay the night to give you rest.”

  Obediently the stallion followed him back into the road. They had just reached the stand of pines when they heard a woman’s scream. The horse’s ears shot forward. A man bellowed; a ruckus followed with shouting, thudding, the clash of swords. Galahad leaped upon the horse’s back and the stallion sprang forward. Together they thundered down to the riverbank, splashed across the ford, and bounded up the other side. Horses scattered as they charged into a clearing. Two men were battling the smith outside his forge, one with a broadsword, one with a club. Galahad thrust his sword into one man as the smith dropped with a groan in a pool of blood. He pulled the weapon free, spun, and took off the other’s head before he could raise his club to block the blow.

  “Ai-eee! Ai-eee! Flee!” The cry came from behind him. Horse and rider whirled as one. Behind the hut at the clearing’s edge four men ran headlong for their ponies. Galahad cut them down, one by one, and left them to bleed. He jumped off the horse and approached the hut cautiously. Somewhere he heard moaning. He pushed open the door and edged inside, but the hut was empty.

  “Father!” The piteous cry came from the back of the hut. He ran toward the voice and found that what he had at first taken for a pile of soiled washing was in fact a woman, thrown on a waste heap, her clothes torn to rags.

  He took off his cloak and knelt at her side to cover her. Large brown eyes looked up at him in a face twisted by pain. “Father!” she whispered. “Get Father! I will live—but see to him!”

  The smith lay senseless and covered in so much blood it was difficult to see where he was injured. He was a huge man with the chest and shoulders of a giant. His right arm had three times the breadth of his left. Small cuts bled all over his body—his attackers had been cowards, indeed!—and a gash in his side, a dangerous wound, seeped steadily. Galahad searched the hut for a piece of sheeting he could tear into strips, and bound the wound as best he could. The man was too heavy to carry to the hut or lift onto a pallet. In the end he took logs from the stack against the forge wall and rolled the smith into the forge itself. There was a half-made pallet in the corner. Apparently he had slept in here before. With the rest of the sheeting and the barrel of water near the door he washed the smith of blood, then covered him with his own blanket to keep off the flies.

  When he returned to the woman at the back of the hut he found her standing, leaning against the wall, shaking uncontrollably. She had covered herself as best she could, but he could see teeth marks, scratches, and bruises over her breasts and hips. She cowered when she saw him.

  “I will not harm you. Will you come inside where I can tend you?”

  She shrank back, her eyes glazed and unknowing. In one swift movement he stepped forward and gathered her in his arms, ignoring her protestations, and carried her inside the hut. She was calmer once she lay on her own pallet, and while he cleaned her wounds she closed her eyes and made no sound.

  Not so long ago, a mere three years before, when he been a battle commander in Constantine’s service, he had feared even to look on a woman’s body, had feared to touch it, had feared the very thought of intimacy. Now his fear had left him, and without the hindrance of fear he could do what needed to be done. He marveled at the change, but he knew well he had achieved it at a cost. He was like everyone else now. He had joined that fellowship of men who knew that a woman’s body could be a source of pleasure, a well of joy. He wondered if this was how Adam had felt at the first bite of the apple.

  “Father!” the girl said suddenly.

  “Your father is alive. For the moment.”

  She closed her eyes and let him finish his ministrations. When he had covered her with his cloak she looked up at him. “Whoever you are, I bless your coming. They tried to kill him.”

  “Why would they attack a smith?”

  Her face tightened. “Why, indeed, but to get at his daughter.” She was not a pretty girl but her skin was unblemished, her eyes clear, and her rich brown hair long and thick. Galahad said nothing and in a moment she went on. “We’ve nothing worth stealing. As you can see.” A tear slid down her cheek. “They raped me.”

  “Yes.”

  “It hurts . . . it hurts.”

  “Can I get you water? Or wine, if you have it?”

  She shook her head. Tears squeezed past her lids.

  With a gentle hand Galahad pushed her tangled hair back from her face. “Rest here for a while. Sleep if you can. You’ll feel better later.”

  She controlled her tears and nodded. “You’ll tend Father?”

  “I will do my best, but I’m not a healer. Is there anyone about who can help?”

  The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “I can. Did they cut him?”

  “Only once badly, but I’m not sure how bad it is. It may be mortal, or it may heal.”

  “Where is the wound?”

  “Here. Across his side.”

  She blanched. “Bind it and keep it covered. Keep him warm. Keep the forge fire going. I will go to him when I can stand.”

  Galahad rose. “Is there no one I can send for?”

  “You’re not leaving?” She reached out a hand toward him. “Oh, don’t leave us! We are at your mercy.”

  Galahad took her hand and held it. “I won’t leave. I promise. I’ll do what I can. I just hope it’s enough.” He smiled briefly. “I can’t leave. My horse threw a shoe.”

  The smith was still senseless when Galahad returned to the forge. Finding him pale and cool, Galahad picked up the bellows and stoked the fire. It was hard work and his arms ached before he was satisfied with the blaze. He set some water to heat and then went outside, sweating. Rouk was grazing contentedly along the riverbank. Galahad slipped off the bridle, drew off his tunic, soaked it in the river, and cooled the stallion’s sweated neck and back. He washed the tunic out, splashed his face, chest, and arms with the cold water, and hung the garment to dry on a willow branch.

  Then he set about dragging the dead men into the clearing. All six of them were the type of rugged outlaws who lived hand-to-mouth among the hills, killing as they chose, stealing what they needed to stay alive. Like the men who had killed Sir Ulfin. When Arthur was alive he had cleaned the land of vermin such as these. In those days men had been glad to live under the High King’s laws because they were fair laws, and the lowborn got the same justice as lords and princes. But nowadays the whims of petty kings ruled the country and no one without gold could expect a hearing, much less a redress of his wrongs.

  Galahad inspected the bodies. Their rags were worthless, little more than ill-dressed skins. Two had leather boots worth having, probably stolen from someone else. All of them, even the youngest, had jewelry. Between them he collected four copper armbands, a silver wristband, three tin badges, an amulet made of shell, two copper earrings, and a woman’s necklace strung with glass beads. A little distance into the surrounding forest he found a patch of pliable earth free of rocks and oak roots, and in the forge he found a digging spade. Burying the ruffians took most of the afternoon.

  When he had fi
lled in the pit, fashioned a crude cross to mark the place, said a prayer over the grave, and washed his hands in the river, the sun lay low in the west, painting the water gold. He collected his tunic and the bridle from the tree, slung an arm around the stallion’s neck, and led the animal into the horse shed hard by the forge. The only other animal in the shed was an old, gray gelding with a broad, sunken back. Galahad guessed he belonged to the smith. He divided a bale of meadow hay between them, brought them water from the river, and slid the bar across the opening.

  Then he went into the forge to see the smith. To his surprise the girl was already there, bending over the wounded man with a jar of thick salve in her hand. He watched her quietly. Her hands moved with the quick, efficient skill of a practiced healer; only the tears on her cheeks gave her away.

  “Can I help? Is there anything else you need?”

  “Hot water. Hot enough to burn.”

  He watched as she flushed and cleaned the gash in her father’s side. It was deep and still seeping. She filled the gap between the edges of the skin with the thick, brown salve she had brought with her, then rebound the wound with Galahad’s help.

  “Do you want me to try to lift him onto the pallet?” he offered.

  She wiped away a tear and shook her head. “No. Not yet. He can’t be moved until that heals enough to stiffen. It will be days yet . . . if he lives.”

  “Do you think the wound is mortal?” Galahad asked softly.

  She shrugged. “In a man half his size it would be. If something vital had been cut he would be dead already. All we can do now is wait and hope the fever does not kill him.”

  “Fever? He’s cold. That’s why I’ve been stoking the fire.”

  She smiled sadly. “Oh, it will come. It always comes after a deep cut. A hard, sweating fever can draw the poison out, but it can also kill.”

  Galahad nodded, remembering Lancelot’s leg wound at Autun, and the following fever which had nearly taken his life. He knelt down beside her and saw her shrink away. He backed up a little. “I’ve fed your father’s horse and my own. I wondered . . . I wondered if you had anything put by for dinner. Bread or meat or gruel.”

  Eyes averted, she shook her head. “No, I’m sorry . . . I was . . . it’s baking day and I was fetching the flour jar when the . . . when they came at me out of the woods.”

  “That’s all right,” Galahad said quickly. “I’ll take care of it. Where do you usually build your cooking fire?”

  “Out there, in summer. Do you have anything to cook?”

  “I can set a rabbit snare. This time of day it should not take long. But”—he paused uncomfortably—“I can’t bake bread.”

  He was rewarded by a small smile. “The kiln’s in here. Father built it into the forge, so one blaze feeds them both. If I could walk, I could—”

  “Are you still bleeding? What . . . what can be done?”

  She looked away. “I ought to sit in a tub of hot water.”

  “I saw such a tub out back by the horse shed. You tend your father. Leave the rest to me.”

  He set his snares at the edges of the clearing, then stoked the forge to raging heat, filled buckets and jars with water from the river, and set them to boil. He brought the tub into the forge, rinsed it out, and, bucket by bucket, filled it with steaming water. Then he reached a hand down to the girl.

  “Let me help you.” But she recoiled from his touch and began to tremble. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

  “I can’t help it!” she cried, hiding her face in her hands. “Go away, please, go away! I’ll be all right, but you must leave me alone!”

  Galahad turned and walked out into the night. It was rapidly growing cool as darkness filtered through the forest, blinding as a sea fog after the brilliance of the forge. He gathered firewood and built a cooking fire outside the forge in an old pit surrounded by firestones. His snares yielded a pair of rabbits. By the light of the fire he skinned them, whittled sticks, and roasted them over the open flame. When he peered into the forge to see if the girl was ready, he found her bathed, dressed, and curled at her father’s side, asleep. He retrieved a blanket from the hut, half-cured animal skins crudely stitched together, and covered them both. He stoked the forge fire again before he tossed his bedroll on the ground outside the doorway, and, after a quick meal, fell asleep.

  The next few days followed the same pattern. He rose at dawn and fished for breakfast in the river, cooking what he caught and sharing the meal with the girl. She seldom spoke to him and seemed to fear his presence as much as his touch. All her concentration was on her father, who roused now and then to his senses, drank the water she pressed against his lips, and then lapsed into senselessness once more.

  Galahad took the smith’s ax and cut wood for the forge, for the girl seemed panicked at the thought the fire should go out. If she had lived here all her life no doubt she had never known a day without the forge furnace. She appeared to heal quickly, for she was soon able to walk about, to bake bread, to wash her father’s bloodied clothes and arrange a more comfortable sickbed for him. Galahad contented himself with hauling water, chopping wood, hunting for game, and tending the horses, all at a distance from her.

  On the fifth day the fever began. It also began to rain. Galahad sat just inside the forge doorway and watched the girl mop her father’s brow, croon to him the old hill-songs of his youth, stroke his stiff and graying hair with her tender hand. She was afraid and used songs, balms, and healing herbs to keep her fear at bay.

  In his mind’s eye he saw another woman, ill-used and full of grief, alone with her pain and her fear. Did she shy at the touch of every man who came near her? Did she weep at night for the irretrievable past? Did she curse his name when she knelt at prayer? Did she cry out to her brother for vengeance on her betrayer? Or did she call upon some inner strength to put his memory behind her, and go on? In three years’ time had the knife edge of hatred dulled? Or did she carry scars from her ordeal that would harden her heart in bitterness all the days of her life?

  He passed a hand across his brow and bowed his head. There was sweat on his face. For so long he had struggled to ignore the shadows that trailed him, the unutterable sadness that fit him like a glove. But, like the repeated, resounding strike of a hammer on an anvil, the truth beat down the walls of his defense and forced itself upon him. He closed his eyes to shut out these thoughts—he was practiced at it—but they haunted him day and night, always springing forward in an unguarded moment, always demanding recognition. More than once he tried to pray—just for the blacksmith and his daughter—but although his lips spoke the words he meant to say, his heart stayed dumb. There was no release now in confession, no liberating sense of cleanliness in prayer. The weight he carried was too heavy to be lifted. He could only go on from day to day pushing it to the back of his awareness, hoping without hope that with time it would dissipate, dissolve, and fade away.

  By day the smith slept, but at night he worsened. Then would he rant in his fever, call out to his long-dead wife, laugh with vanished drinking companions, sing snatches of old doggerel, instruct his daughter on the shaping of a plow as though she were his apprentice, call upon long-forgotten gods for ease of his pain. The girl wept to hear him. For days the fever raged, steady and fierce; his daughter began to pray aloud to the Great Goddess to let it break. Once, near panic, she urged Galahad to fan the forge fire to blasting heat, that she might heat her father’s poker and reopen the wound, cleansing it by burning. But she collapsed in tears long before it could be accomplished.

  On the night of the new moon the smith died in her arms. Galahad heard his death sigh, whispered a silent benediction, and rose from his place at the door.

  “No-o-o!” the daughter shrieked, and threw herself across her father’s body, clinging to his senseless form. “Get you gone! Get out with your filthy Christian magic, and let him live!”

  Outside the night was cold and clear; the stars sailed overhead like firebright ships on a dar
k sea. He knelt in the shadow of a pine and bowed his head. His throat tightened. His mind closed and he strained to form the words. They would not come. Help for the woman’s grief, strength for her suffering—that was all he wanted to ask. But the thoughts that hammered at his mind struck a darker note. My shame is of my own making and cannot be forgotten or forgiven. Ah, God! Better I should never have drawn breath! He buried his face in his hands. In all the years Lancelot had worshiped Guinevere, he had never publicly dishonored her. He had always put her good before his own. And he, Galahad, had considered this passion contemptible. What an utter fool he had always been! What he had done to Dane was so far beneath him, Lancelot himself would never believe it possible of his own son. Tears splashed down Galahad’s cheeks and he fell to the forest floor, covering his face to hide from the gleaming stars.

  At dawn the girl emerged from the forge, her eyes red, her hair in tangles, and her face puffed from weeping. She looked down at Galahad in his bedroll.

  “I have strewn his body with herbs. Three days he must rest there. On the third day he must go into the ground. I have no right to ask it of you, but will you dig him a grave?”

  Galahad sat up. “Yes. Where?”

  She shrugged. “As hard by the ford as possible.” Then she turned and walked toward the hut. At the door she looked back. “Don’t let the fire go out. Please.”

  She must have slept, for when she appeared again that evening to take up her vigil at her father’s side, she looked much better. She had combed her dark hair and bound it neatly behind her head. The gown she wore was her best one; it was not much stained and bore no patches or signs of repair. She walked past the cooking fire, where a pair of river trout roasted on their spits, and past the long, shallow ditch where Galahad stood with his spade, straight into the forge without so much as a glance to the side. For three days she sat beside the body, moaning and chanting, cutting off her hair with her father’s dagger, neither sleeping nor resting nor taking food. Galahad came in from time to time to work the bellows and bring her water; she ignored him and he left without speaking to her.