Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “He hardly kills anyone anymore!” exclaimed the third guard, pushing forward, “except for hill bandits and common ruffians. Once he upheld the honor of Lanascol to all the Britons.”

  “They say he betrayed the King of Gwynedd and will not lift a sword to fight for him or any other of Britain’s kings.”

  “Perhaps they will not have him,” Galahad said slowly.

  “Then let him come home and defend Lanascol!”

  He looked into their young faces and saw there the fear, the longing, and the hope of leaderless men. “I tell you now, that is what I have come home to do.”

  In the silence that followed, Merron’s sword point wavered, and fell. The guards stood staring and uncertain until a voice behind them called out,

  “Well, and it’s about time! Welcome home, my brother!”

  Galahodyn strode out through the gate and Galahad took him in his arms. Behind them, the guards saluted. “Hodyn! How good to see you!”

  Hodyn grinned and pounded his brother’s back. “I’m happier than I can say to see you. Why haven’t you been home before, and what brings you here now? Never mind, there’s plenty of time to talk. Come, let’s get inside before the storm breaks. Aunt Adele will be so delighted! Ah, you’ve still got Farouk—he’s keeping well, I see—and you yourself, brother, you’re looking fit. Bring me up-to-date on all your doings.”

  By this time they were well within the fortress walls and the gate had closed solidly behind them. There was no one near and Galahad stopped. “What’s the matter, Hodyn? You’ve not paused for breath while we were in the guards’ hearing. What’s happening here?”

  The smile faded from Galahodyn’s face. “It’s not a grave situation yet, or I’d have sent for you. But the Franks are acting up. The Burgundians are led by a new king and they are pushing the Franks westward, eager to revenge themselves for the defeat at Autun. As the Burgundians push the Franks, the Franks push us.”

  “We have a treaty with them.”

  “Childebert died last year, you know.”

  Galahad had not known, but he kept the admission from his face. “Does that mean the treaty is annulled? Didn’t Lancelot renew the treaty with the new king?”

  Pain crossed Galahodyn’s face and Galahad knew his answer before he spoke. “It was bad timing. Father wasn’t able . . . I mean, he couldn’t . . . he wasn’t administering matters then.”

  “Who was?”

  Galahodyn gulped. “I was. But they wouldn’t treat with me. I didn’t think they wanted peace, frankly, even at the price of help against the Burgundians. Aunt Adele agreed. But . . . the excuse they gave was that they would deal only with the king.”

  Galahad stood very still. His gaze traveled over the ordered houses, the garden plots and workshops, the fields and meadows of Benoic, his home, and up the winding roadway to the king’s house upon the hill. “How long have you had to act as king in our father’s place?”

  “Eighteen months. More or less.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the chapel. It’s where he lives.”

  “Is he ill?”

  “His body is healthy enough. It’s his spirit that torments him.”

  “Why?”

  Hodyn shrugged. “He’s a hermit, Galahad, a hermit in his own home. No one talks about it, but of course everyone knows.”

  “You should have taken the title, too.”

  “Me? King? I couldn’t—it’s not mine to take. It’s yours. And until he dies, it’s his.”

  “He has abdicated power. You should have taken it. Men need to be led.”

  “Well, then, lead them.” Galahodyn’s voice was near the point of breaking, and Galahad saw how deeply pained he was.

  “Come,” he said, more gently, “take me to Adele. Between us, we can bring him round. I must take him back to Britain before the storms close the seas.”

  Adele had grown old in his absence. He remembered her as a lovely, dark-haired girl with a brilliant smile and laughing eyes. Now, gray and faded, she seemed less than a shadow of her former self. She still grieved for Galyn, Hodyn warned him under his breath, still missed him after ten long years. Remembering Guinevere, Galahad believed it.

  He found her dozing in the garden sunlight, swathed in shawls, while her attendant sang softly over her stitching. Galahad dismissed the girl, who stared at him, and sat down by Adele. She was overjoyed to see him and demanded to know what had kept him away so long. He told her something of his travels around Britain and about the state of things in general. “Cynewulf has yet to prove himself the man his father was, but as long as he holds power he’ll keep trying. I see no end to it, Aunt Adele. The Saxon kingdoms grow bigger and stronger and Britain’s defenses grow weaker and more scattered. There can be only one ending.”

  “Nonsense. That’s just what everyone said in Uther’s last years. And then came Arthur. All it needs is a leader of men.”

  “There will never be another like Arthur.”

  “Well, well, let be. It’s good to see you again, Galahad. I hope you have come home to stay.”

  “I must return to Britain with Lancelot. After that, I will be back to stay.”

  Adele looked up at him sharply, and placed a bony hand on his arm. “Lancelot is going to Britain? You haven’t seen him lately. He has changed, I am afraid.”

  “How?”

  She closed her eyes and the life faded from her face. “Ah, Galahad, it is not an easy question to answer. Part of it is that being a man of honor and being a Christian, he has committed sins he would now expiate by prayer and by fasting, if he could. Part of it is that being a man of courage and high ideals, he feels he has fallen short, has failed . . . people. Part of it is that he can barely tolerate life without his dearest companions, Arthur and Guinevere. He is aging, his time is past, and he knows it; he is alone.”

  Galahad took Adele’s frail hand and raised it to his lips. “I will do what I can, Adele. The times are certainly changing, but he may yet have a role to play. I have seen the High Queen. She is dying and has sent for him.”

  Adele gasped. “Dying? You are certain? Oh, Galahad, what fearful news!”

  “He would return to give her comfort, would he not? He wouldn’t refuse her call.”

  Adele exhaled slowly, and nodded. “If anyone can save him from his self-recriminations, it is Guinevere. Go to him, Galahad. Go and take him out of himself.”

  The chapel in Benoic was the only building made entirely of stone in all of Lanascol. It stood on a shoulder of the hill, a good way from the king’s house, on what had been holy ground for generations. Lancelot’s father, Galaban, had quarried the chapel stone in the Roman manner and built a Christian house of worship above the ruins of a pagan shrine older than his ancestors. The ancient sacred spring was well tended, although the marks of older deities had been replaced by carved crosses. The half circle of ancient standing stones in the surrounding birch grove was now mostly hidden by choking underbrush.

  Galahad approached the chapel by the side path through the herb garden. He stood a moment in the shade of the marble porch, out of the hot sun, and listened. Nothing stirred but the late bees, busy among the berries. Turning, he went through the arched doorway into the cool dark of the chapel. It was deserted. He dipped his knee and crossed himself before the altar. The whisper of cloth, the scrape of boots on stone were the only sounds he heard, and they were his.

  Light from the south door threw the altar half in shadow. Here, twenty years ago, Aidan and his mother had dedicated him to God’s service. And how had he served God? First he had served Arthur, God’s beloved. After Camlann he had done what he could to restore Britain to her former glory, but Britain would never be the same without those same brave men to defend her. Perhaps he should have stayed longer with Constantine, but for all his show of Christian faith, Constantine was not a good man. Three years in his service had brought Galahad the taste of dust in his mouth and blood on his sword, but little else.

  He had
thought he served both God and Britain in seeking the Grail, but what had he really been after? Personal glory? Fulfillment of a prophecy? Expiation of his sins? He had achieved nothing, and it was even possible he had been the willing tool of a misguided sorceress. Arthur would not return. He could not undo what he had done in Wales. And he had wasted years, vital years, while Arthur’s Britain slowly vanished before his very eyes.

  He had failed. So far from serving God, he had done disservice to everyone he loved. He, who had always thought himself destined for greatness, he had behaved meanly, selfishly, and had done things no honest man could countenance. His eyes had been too long raised to the pursuit of impossible dreams. The Good Sister knew, as he had never known, that his fellow men were more important.

  With an aching throat he knelt on the cool stone. Was there still time to make amends? If Guinevere was right and there could be virtue and honor in loving a woman, surely it was through the faithful service of a lifetime, not in a night’s carnal pleasure, and never, never in the cruel abandonment and shame he had brought upon the deepest love of his heart.

  “O merciful Lord,” he whispered, crossing himself slowly, “let me be forgiven.”

  From the altar came a sound, a movement. Galahad looked up to see a man standing in the shadows, a tall, gaunt man in a monk’s sackcloth. He came forward, white-haired, gray-bearded, and gripped Galahad’s shoulder with a gnarled hand. Galahad looked away as the old man knelt stiffly beside him and took him firmly in his arms.

  “God forgives you all your sins, my son, once you ask.”

  He recognized Lancelot by his voice. His black hair had gone completely white, he had let his beard grow, and his bones had lost flesh, but, as the shaft of sunlight in which he knelt revealed, he was not yet old. There was still strength in his body and living determination in his face. But the gray eyes were sad with longing and regret.

  “Father.”

  “Galahad. My dear son. What burden is this you bear? Lay it before the Lord and be relieved of it.”

  Galahad shook his head. “It is not that simple. If there is a remedy for the sin I have committed, only I can make it. But let that be. The answer to that trouble lies in Britain. I have come home for you, Father.”

  “For me?”

  “To take you back to Britain.”

  Slowly, Lancelot rose and Galahad rose with him. “I am retired from life, son. Hodyn runs things now. I have tried so hard, prayed so long, to put all that behind me. . . . I cannot go back.” A ghost of a smile softened his expression. “You yourself are the answer to a prayer. Galahad, I thought I had lost you.”

  “I was lost for a time. For a long time. But I’ve returned. I . . . I met someone who showed me the way.”

  Lancelot hesitated. Galahad noticed his hands trembling; he braced himself for what might be coming. “Galahad. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  For answer, Galahad embraced him and kissed both his cheeks. “Father, I forgave you a long, long time ago. When I committed a sin more grievous than any which ever tempted you. You have done what honor demanded your entire life. I, who have dishonored what I love best, I cannot judge you.”

  Lancelot turned away, too moved for speech. Galahad followed him out through the herb garden and down the path to the spring. There, Lancelot lifted a silver cup from its niche in a small altar, filled it from the clear pool, poured a libation on the ground at the altar’s feet, and drank deeply. He offered the cup to Galahad, who did the same. Then Lancelot sat heavily on a stone bench and regarded his son.

  “You have given me what I have prayed for these ten years past.”

  Galahad colored lightly under his scrutiny. “It is no more than I owe you, sir. I have behaved badly toward you, and for that I beg your pardon. I was blinded by my own ambitions—blind to your virtues, blind to my faults. But the scales have fallen. We can, I hope, deal together now as men.”

  Lancelot nodded. “Have you come home to stay? To take up your rightful place?”

  “In time.”

  “Why not now? It is time. I will abdicate.”

  “Father, I come from the Queen, bearing a message.”

  Lancelot froze. “From Guinevere?”

  “I have been with her in Amesbury since midsummer.”

  Lancelot shot to his feet and began to pace around the spring. “ You have been with the Queen? How so, when you despise her?”

  “You misunderstand me, my lord. I do not despise her. I think she is the kindest woman, the sweetest soul I have ever known.”

  This brought Lancelot up short and he stared openly at his son. Amusement and relief swept his face. “And she can charm the spots off a dog. I see you’ve learned that.”

  Galahad smiled. “She charmed all of Amesbury long ago. They call her the Good Sister. There is something about true goodness, true, open-hearted, all-forgiving love that engenders a like response.”

  Lancelot stood very still. There were tears in his eyes. “You understand,” he said softly. “At last, you understand.”

  “I understand. I had to come and tell you so.”

  Lancelot drew a long, tremulous breath. “Thank you.”

  “But that’s not the only reason I have come. She is dying, Father, and wants to see you. I promised her I would bring you back with me. And we have not much time.”

  Lancelot sank down upon the bench. For a long time he was silent. “You have seen her? She is truly . . . ill?”

  “Very ill. The abbott says she is dying. I believe him. She said something about a promise to Arthur you had made. That I must let you know ‘the time has come.’ If you have some duty to perform, I will do it with you.”

  Tears slid silently down Lancelot’s lined cheeks and into his beard. “My sweet Gwen,” he said, then bowed his head. “I thought it was behind me, dead and buried with Arthur,” he said stiffly, as he gave his hand to Galahad and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. “I thought it all belonged to another life. And I thought she would feel the same. As if time and distance could ever touch what was between us. But I see now I have only fooled myself.”

  Galahad took his arm and they started back up the path. “I made the same mistake,” he said softly. “I did not reckon with the power of love.”

  54

  THE ISLE OF GLASS

  All the way back to Britain, Lancelot talked. It reminded Galahad of their first trip to Camelot together, when his father’s rising excitement at returning had made him garrulous. But now Lancelot rattled on feverishly, disjointedly, saying anything that came into his head, anything to keep his thoughts from what lay before him. Galahad recognized his terror for what it was, and let him talk. They had a smooth crossing and good horses, and came to Amesbury just two weeks after the autumn equinox.

  “My God,” Lancelot said as they trotted into the empty square beyond the well. “It hasn’t changed a hairbreadth in eleven years.”

  “I have always wondered why the Saxons do not take it. It lies so close to their lands, and it’s good, fertile farming.”

  Lancelot shrugged. “They can take it anytime they like and they know it. But they will not while Guinevere lives. They revere her. For her beauty and her bravery and her horsemanship. Cerdic once compared her to one of their goddesses, I forget the name, a warrior woman with a great and shining sword.” Galahad, who had heard the tale a hundred times, let him tell it once more. He only half listened; he was wondering why there was no one about in the village, no children playing in the dust, no women at the well. As soon as they came in sight of the monastery walls, he knew the answer. The whole town was clustered at the gate, sitting in the bleached grass, waiting.

  “My God, I am too late!” Lancelot reined in his horse and stared at the crowd, but Galahad beckoned him on.

  “Hurry, Father. Abbott Martin will be waiting.”

  “It is a deathwatch,” Lancelot croaked. “May the Lord give me strength to do what I must do.” Galahad saw that he was sweating.

/>   The villagers made way for them, bowing low and staring. The gatekeeper let them in without a word.

  “Timon, what news?” Galahad whispered, but the hooded youth shrugged, turned away, and closed the gate behind them.

  Galahad walked swiftly through the familiar halls, Lancelot close at his heels. As he passed the chapel he heard low chanting, but shut his ears to the sound. They could not be too late. God would not let that happen. At the entrance to the women’s quarters he nearly collided with Abbott Martin. Behind the abbott, Anna was weeping pitifully, supported by a group of sisters.

  “Father!” Galahad whispered breathlessly, grabbing his arm. “Tell me she still lives! I have brought Lancelot!”

  Abbott Martin looked at them both with great compassion. “My lords, may God bless you both for making your long journey. Truly, it is an act of love. But an hour past, the Good Sister was called to her eternal rest.”

  “No!” Galahad cried. “No, it cannot be so!”

  “Be easy, my son,” the abbott said gently. “She resides in Heaven with the angels, and is at peace.”

  Lancelot’s reassuring hand fell on his shoulder. “It’s just as well,” he said in a low voice. “She did not want to speak to me again. We said our farewells long ago, in this very place. But I promised Arthur I would bury her.”

  Fighting tears, Galahad wondered at his father’s sudden calm. Through blurred eyes he watched Lancelot bend down and speak a word of comfort to Anna, then walk past her and into the Good Sister’s room. He closed the door behind him.

  “No, no, no,” Galahad whispered frantically. “She must yet live! I promised her she would see his face again!”

  Gently the abbott took his arm and guided him away. “Come with me into the chapel. We will pray for the salvation of her soul. But do not distress yourself, my son. Sir Lancelot is right. She wanted him here, but not to speak with. All her thoughts were with King Arthur at the end.”

  “How do you know? Were you with her?”

  “Indeed I was. I seldom see a soul so ready to go home. She was free from pain at the end, and possessed of a serene calm that lit her lovely face. She told me that her beloved husband had come to get her.”