Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  Suddenly from beyond the walls rose the shrill, keening wail of the village women. Galahad shuddered and followed the abbott into the chapel.

  Guinevere’s body lay scented with spices and shrouded in fine silk on a bier before the altar for three long days. Galahad knelt beside her, refusing all refreshment, praying earnestly that he might be forgiven for the years of ill will he had borne her. Lancelot joined him only in the dark hours of the night. He spent his days making preparations for the long journey to her resting place, for he had promised Arthur, as the great King lay dying, that he would bury his beloved wife beside him when the time came. Now, dry-eyed and calm, he set about fulfilling his promise.

  On a cool, fair day in October the small procession set forth from Amesbury. Galahad rode at the head, leading the two horses who pulled the wagon with the open bier. Two servants walked on either side, to tend the bed of ice she lay on, and Lancelot walked behind. His own horse carried saddlebags of spices, and they stopped at every town they came to for a replenishment of ice, for Lancelot was determined that she should suffer no change until she was in the ground with Arthur. The wagon carried a canopy of gilded cloth to shield her from the sun, with a layer of tenting underneath in case of rain. Sheaves of golden chrysanthemums lay in profusion all around her, so that she looked, Galahad thought, almost like a maiden asleep in an autumn bower.

  As they passed slowly through the small villages of southern Britain, humble folk came out to greet them, to say prayers and pay homage to their well-remembered, well-loved Queen. Word spread throughout the land and as they passed, people joined in the procession, sometimes for a league or two, sometimes for days, sometimes in twos or threes, sometimes whole villages. And everyone, young or old, however poor, brought a gift. Some brought no more than fresh herbs or flowers or sweet straw for her bed; some brought trinkets of bronze or copper, or wooden carvings, or painted beads, or ribbons or rings or swan feathers tied with colored string—anything at all that they valued, they brought and laid reverently on her bier.

  Unbelievably, the Queen lay unchanging in her serene repose. Whether it was due to Lancelot’s precautions, or to the cool, dry weather, or to some old spell of Merlin’s, Galahad did not know, but her face, which was all that was visible outside her shroud, remained as beautiful in death as it had been in life, the bloom of youth lingering on her cheeks. All who came to see her marveled, and crossed themselves if they were Christian, or made the sign against enchantment if they were not. She gathered the faithful of Arthur’s Britain around her as she traveled, and as they walked beside her they told stories of the great days that were past, when Arthur and Guinevere were High King and Queen in Camelot. It astonished Galahad that this woman had touched so many lives. He was ashamed anew that he had lived beside her for nine years and had not known her.

  Throughout the journey Lancelot said nothing, but walked behind her during the day, and slept beside her at night. He ate little, and grew thinner, paler, older every day. He walked as if in a daze; he seemed unaware of the crowds of common folk around him, and they, to do him honor, left him alone. Sometimes at night Galahad fancied he could hear his father’s muffled weeping, but in the morning his gaunt face never showed any trace of tears.

  In the third week the procession reached the Summer Country. If Constantine and his army were at Camelot, they gave no sign of it. By this time the procession numbered more than six hundred. They crossed the plain of Camlann within sight of the towers of Camelot, but no one from the High King’s fortress rode out to meet them.

  At last they came to the causeway across the marshes at the eastern end of the Lake of Avalon. Ahead in the distance rose the hill island, Ynys Witrin, the Isle of Glass, with the Lady’s shrine at the foot and the Christian monastery atop the Tor. At the entrance to the causeway stood a group of women, robed in white, blocking their way. The smallest of them stepped forward and raised her hand. Galahad reined in. He recognized that small, dark face with the warm brown eyes: Morgaine, Lady of the Lake.

  He slid off the horse and bent his knee as she approached him. Behind him the crowds fell silent. “My lady Morgaine, we bear the body of Queen Guinevere to her resting place. I pray you, give us passage to the Tor.”

  She placed her little hands on either side of his face, cool and soft against his skin. He remembered that she did not speak, but no one of her women stepped forward to speak for her. There are too many. Remember, it is a sacred place. The words flashed unbidden across his mind, and with them, a picture of the bier with only himself and Lancelot in attendance, the horses struggling uphill, a squat, brown-robed monk walking behind. I will bless her. Then you must go on alone.

  The cool hands withdrew. Slowly Morgaine approached the bier. The people drew back, bowing their heads. Morgaine made the sign of blessing over the Queen’s body, and anointed the pale, cold brow with oil. Facing the bier, she closed her eyes and stretched her arms skyward, lifting her face to the afternoon sun. Go to your God, my sister. May the hopes and prayers of all those who have loved you bear you across the dark river and into the Otherworld where your beloved awaits. She lowered her arms. Galahad found that he was sweating. He had heard the words as clearly as though they had been spoken aloud. He glanced swiftly back at Lancelot and saw tears on his face.

  Turning away, Morgaine flashed a look at Galahad, and he suddenly found himself addressing the crowd of mourners.

  “Good Britons, attend me. This is the end of your journey. I thank you on the Queen’s behalf for your service and the marks of love you have brought her. As King Arthur will be long remembered, so too will Britons remember Queen Guinevere, for the love she bore him, for the love she bore us all. Let her go to her rest in secret, and lie once more with the King in his eternal fastness.”

  The crowd dispersed with very little grumbling. Some came forward to kiss the bier one last time; some whispered a few last prayers of blessing. The holy women returned to Avalon. Soon he and Lancelot were alone under the wide sky. But Lancelot was as a man in sleep; he followed blindly after Galahad and the bier, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, unresponsive. Galahad led the horses up the winding path, past the gates of Avalon, past the deserted fortress that once belonged to King Melwas of the Summer Country; up and up toward the ramshackle houses of the Christian brothers and the primitive sanctuary where Arthur lay waiting.

  A fat monk sat upon a boulder by the path, dabbing at his moist face with his sleeve and mumbling to himself. Galahad halted the horses.

  “Brother Ignacius, is that you?”

  The monk looked up. “Eh? Eh? What’s that? How do you do, my lord? Oh, dear, I see you have lost a loved one. Allow me to offer condolences, oh, yes, indeed. My, my, what a lovely face. Your sister, my lord? Er—I beg your pardon, but how do you come to know my name?”

  Galahad smiled. “You did me a service years ago, when I needed help the most. Never mind, I expect you don’t remember.” He slid off the horse and helped the monk to his feet. “If you are headed up the hill, let me offer you my horse.”

  Ignacius grinned at him. “A kind offer, my lord, for which I thank you, to be sure, but my days of riding horseback are behind me. And even when I could get a leg up unassisted, I needed a saddle to stay there. No, thank you all the same, but I’ll walk.”

  “Very well, I’ll walk with you.”

  During the next half hour Ignacius, in an unbroken stream of commentary, gave a thorough account of all that had happened at the monastery in the last eleven years, “since the Blessing.” He never used one word when three would serve, but his tales were full of warmth and a heartfelt delight in the simple joys of life, and Galahad listened with pleasure. It had been a long time since the rescue of a kitten, or the antics of a child, or the tale of a too-well-fermented cider drunk on Christmas Eve, had brought a smile to his face.

  The monastery had grown and prospered, it seemed, since the event Ignacius referred to as “the Blessing.” The mention of this event was accompanied by winks
and nods, so that Galahad understood it was a secret thing, not to be asked into, but one which brought great honor and good luck to the Christian brothers. Before this great occasion, they had barely held their own against the pagans; since then, they had thrived.

  “We are growing, we are growing,” Ignacius said, puffing steadily uphill. “We may never have orchards to rival the good ladies of Avalon, but we will outnumber them in a year or two. Folk are giving up the old ways, the myriad spirits, the sorceries, the blood sacrifice, and the cold standing stones, and are turning to the True Christ. You wait and see, my lord, in thirty years Avalon will fade into the mists and a fine church will stand there in her place. Er, hem, I don’t like to say anything, my lord, but is that fellow following us all right?”

  Galahad glanced back at his father. “That’s the chief mourner. Let him be.”

  “He don’t look well, and that’s a fact. How far’s he come?”

  “A long way, but we are almost there. Tell me, Brother Ignacius, what I must do to get this lady buried beneath the chapel altar.”

  Ignacius gaped at him. “Beneath the altar! But, my lord! That’s impossible! That’s where . . . you cannot . . . the abbott will never allow it!” His round eyes narrowed and he gasped. “Wait a bit! Wait a bit! Don’t I know your face? Aren’t you the boy? Aren’t you the boy who helped Sir Lancelot that night? The night of our great Blessing?”

  “I am.”

  “God bless my soul! It’s been so long, I did not know you!”

  “Neither did you know Sir Lancelot.”

  Following his glance, Ignacius turned around and stared. “May the angels in Heaven preserve his soul!” He groaned. “I’d not have known him. He’s not in this world, my lord; he’s already in the next.” He looked anxiously at Galahad. “But you’ll never get the permission that you seek. Who is this lady you ask it for?”

  “Queen Guinevere. Arthur’s wife.”

  Ignacius groaned again. “Oh, dear, I see. Died last night, did she? I didn’t think she was living in these parts.”

  “She died three weeks ago at Amesbury.”

  Ignacius stopped, and began to shake. “Three weeks? My lord, that cannot be!”

  “I promise you, it is. We have brought her to lie in peace with her husband. It was the High King’s dying wish.”

  Ignacius turned and stared at the still body, the sweet face with its flesh still full and curved, hiding its bones. Trembling, he crossed himself and mumbled a quick prayer. “What power is this?” he whispered. “The Lord Himself is with her! His hand lies over her and guides her home. I see, I see. It must be so. But my lord, the new abbott is a cold man, if I may be forgiven for saying so. He will never allow a woman to lie beneath the altar.”

  Galahad frowned. Here was a stumbling block he had not foreseen. “Is there no way around him, then? May it not be done in secret?”

  Poor Ignacius began to sweat. “I suppose it might. I suppose it will have to. But I don’t see quite how. It’s hard to put one past Father John. He sees everything. And he doesn’t like me much. That’s why he’s made me a message boy, at my age! Why just this morning I’ve come all the way from Glaston, thanks to a boy with a donkey cart, with a message for him.”

  Galahad shrugged. “Well, I will have to think of something. Meanwhile, surely she can lie in the chapel and receive his blessing. We will have to tell him who she is. But do not tell him where she will lie. Perhaps he will think of it himself.”

  Abbott John was a tall, dry stick of a man with bright, suspicious eyes. He welcomed them formally to the small, Christian community of Ynys Witrin and arranged to have the Queen’s body lie all night within the chapel. But in the morning she would be buried in the graveyard, albeit in a place of honor high on the Tor. Galahad said nothing. Lancelot seemed not to have heard. Ignacius chattered and fussed under his breath and Father John lifted a disdainful eyebrow at him.

  But when Ignacius delivered the scroll he carried, the abbott’s expression lightened and he almost smiled.

  “I am sorry, my lords, that I will be unable to perform the services myself. I am called away to conference with the bishop at Caerleon. Brother Ralf, or even Brother Ignacius, will have to serve in my place.”

  In the dark of night, when all the monks had gone to bed, Galahad and Lancelot met Ignacius in the chapel. He had brought with him the digging tools, fresh earth still clinging to them from the grave already dug up on the hill.

  “The abbott’s a prompt man,” he whispered nervously. “What a stroke of fortune, that message!”

  Galahad grunted as he put his shoulder to the carved altar. “Fortune, indeed! Hadn’t you just been talking about the Hand of God?”

  Ignacius smiled. “All fortune is the Hand of God, my lord. But I still don’t think we dare more than one light.”

  The single candle was barely enough to discern the shadows in the gloom, but by its low and secret light they moved the altar, and began to dig in the hard-packed earth below. Galahad would not let Ignacius help, but set him to reciting Scripture as he and Lancelot worked.

  Since they had crossed the causeway to Ynys Witrin, Galahad had not heard his father speak. More than once that night, as they bent and straightened, he stole a glance at Lancelot’s face. His features were set in a kind of stolid calm, alight with peace, as though he neared a long-sought goal. And he worked with a controlled frenzy, a wiry strength that Galahad had not suspected was left in him. He did not sweat; he did not gasp; he did not pause for rest. He was driven by an overriding purpose. Even Galahad felt its pull.

  The iron shovel struck wood with a resounding, hollow thunk! Lancelot stopped. Ignacius stopped. Around them the sanctuary grew quiet, its secret dark drawing into a tight, encircling cloak, weighting their shoulders, sweating their brows. Galahad climbed out of the grave while Lancelot swept the dirt off the planking that covered Arthur. A superstitious fear caught at Galahad’s heart, an ancient terror he did not understand. He clutched Ignacius and the old monk clung to his side. Together, they watched Lancelot struggle with the planking, lift it, and sadly sigh. Galahad leaned forward and peered into the crypt. All that was left of Britain’s greatest King was a bare skeleton of yellowed bone and some shreds of colored cloth. The left side of the skull had been smashed; dark eyeholes glared up at them accusingly. Ignacius mumbled frantically under his breath, his eyes squeezed shut, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. . . .”

  “My dear friend.” Lancelot’s warm, kind voice rang out in the hallowed dark and pushed the shadows back. “My dear lord, I have brought you your heart’s desire. I give her to you with my blessing, as a token of the love I bear you both. Take back your death gift, and be free forever.” He reached into his pouch and withdrew a heavy gold ring set with a dark red stone. Galahad recognized Pendragon’s ring of office—the great ruby with the Dragon of Britain carved small—he had kissed it on Arthur’s hand a hundred times. Lancelot knelt and slid the ring over the bare bone of a long finger. Shivers ran up Galahad’s spine. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Lancelot hoisted himself up onto the chapel floor and went to the Queen’s bier. He lifted her gently, bent over, and whispered to her as tenderly as if she were his lover asleep in his arms. He brought her to the edge of the opened grave, laid her carefully down, lowered himself in, lifted her, held her a long moment against his breast, and finally laid her down next to Arthur’s bones. Galahad watched, unable to move or breathe. Before his eyes her flesh began to age, wrinkle, shrink from the bones of her face; her eyelids sank, the white line of her teeth began to show between her flattening lips.

  “Quickly!” Lancelot cried, his calm composure beginning to crack. “Galahad, attend me!”

  Together, they replaced the planking and shoveled dirt over the bodies. Ignacius, eyes shut tight, rocked back and forth, hugging his wide girth. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is— O God protect us! Blessed are thou am
ong— O Lord, keep the devil at bay!”

  In silence father and son filled in the grave, stamped upon the earth, moved the altar back into place. Lancelot took the herbs and flowers and trinkets from the bier and strewed them around the altar’s feet to hide the signs of disturbance they had made. Then he knelt before the altar and prayed.

  “Thank God it’s done!” Ignacius whispered, sweating freely. “Poor lady, may she rest in peace. But whatever shall I tell the abbott when he returns? What shall we do with the grave upon the hill? Fill it in?”

  Wearily, Lancelot turned. “We are in God’s hands. He will provide an answer. Wait until morning.”

  Taking this as dismissal, Ignacius nodded and backed away. “Very well, my lord, I will get me to my bed. And I suggest you do the same. I have shown young—Galahad, is it?—where the guesthouse is. Get yourself rest, and I shall wake you at dawning.”

  Galahad clasped his hands and shook them. “Thank you, my good brother, for your aid. You have done Britain a fine service tonight. Trust God to keep us safe from discovery.”

  “You may count upon my prayers!” Ignacius returned fervently, and let himself out the chapel door.

  Galahad turned back to his father. Lancelot knelt before the altar, the candlelight pooling in a dim halo around his head.

  “Father,” he called softly. “Father, it is done. Will you come away now? In the morning we can start back for Lanascol.”

  Lancelot looked up. His gray eyes were black pits in the shadows. “Not yet,” he said slowly. “I will spend the night here. With her. With them both. You go on.”

  “I do not like to leave you. You don’t look well. You need food, some hot broth, and a warm blanket.”

  A ghostly smile touched Lancelot’s lips. “There is nothing you can do for me, son. You have already given me the greatest gift within your power. You came back to Lanascol. Don’t you yet see? My life is past. I belong with Guinevere and Arthur. Without them I am nothing. We three—” His voice broke and he stopped to steady himself. Galahad stood above him, looking down. “A man who does not love a woman is but half a man,” Lancelot said slowly. “She made us both what we were. We are bound forever, beyond death, by that love.”