Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “It was a good speech.”

  “I meant every word of it.”

  “Indeed? But perhaps you have grown clever with your tongue.” He waited. He could feel her rage clear across the room, like a wave of heat. He braced himself to bear whatever she threw at him. Of course she will be angry, but you can change that. He alone was responsible for all this pain. “Why did you come back, Galahad? To claim your daughter? You cannot have her.” He said nothing, only watched her patiently. “Did you really think you could walk in here, fling yourself before my brother, mouth an apology, and be forgiven? Think again. I will not be bargained for like a cow in the marketplace.” Her hands were tightly clasped before her, and they trembled. “You owe me more than it will ever be in your power to repay.”

  “I know.”

  “You have destroyed Percival’s marriage. Being heavy with child, I could not leave Gwynedd when he brought her here. She was a sweet girl, and left to themselves, there might have been something for them. But I was between them. While I am here, he loves me more, you see. It is the way with twins; he cannot help it. Now she is a bitter woman and they have little to say to each other, except in bed. I tell you”—her voice began to shake—“I tell you I carry this guilt upon my soul, and it is your fault!”

  “If they share a true love, they will recover it.”

  “How dare you speak to me of love!” she cried, her eyes flashing green and filling with tears. “How dare you!”

  He strode across the room and took her hands, holding them firmly to his chest as she struggled to break free. “I was selfish, stupid, blind, a boor, an arrogant fool, and I deserve your wrath. But I love you, Dane, with a love that will not die. I have tried everything to kill it, to spare myself the shame. I have gone half-crazy with regret. But every day and every night you are there, in my very soul. You are more a part of me than the air I breathe. You can deny me—I wouldn’t blame you. I deserve it. But let me give you Lanascol, let me make what reparation is within my power. Let me give Lancelot’s granddaughter his name.”

  Her eyes widened and the tears spilled from them.

  “You have forgiven Lancelot?” she whispered.

  Slowly he lifted her fingers to his lips. “All he did was love a woman unto death.” Unable to contain himself a moment longer, he took her shoulders in his hands and kissed her. All her young passion, held in for so long and at such cost, burst its bonds in an instant and she wept wildly upon his shoulder, hugging him tightly while he rocked her gently and caressed her hair.

  So Percival found them at the end of the hour, in each other’s arms, deep in whispers, oblivious to the outside world.

  56

  THE SAXONS

  Horns sounded from the ramparts and the door burst open. Percival leaned in and tossed Galahad his swords. “Saxons! No time for words—take charge of the south wall; I’ll take the west.”

  “Longboats?”

  “Worse—they’re at the very gates! Word had spread of your coming, and the sentries gathered at the guardhouse to hear the gossip. They’ll pay for their inattention now!”

  He was gone in an instant. Galahad strapped on his swordbelt and turned to Dane. In the face of fear she was cool and still.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  He handed her Galahantyn’s sword. “Take this, and the child, and whatever else you might need for an escape. Take both horses—mine and Lancelot’s—to the cave and there await me. But be quick, Dane, or you won’t make it. Go on foot if you must. My darling.” He kissed her fiercely. “Be prepared to use the sword. Don’t let them take you. Death is better.”

  “I will wait for you until tomorrow dark.”

  “If I’m not there I am dead or taken. Go south to Caerleon as soon as you are able.”

  “My love, I will. But—live!”

  She turned and was gone. Galahad drew a deep breath and raced to the south wall.

  Percival’s soldiers were well disciplined and trained, but the attack had been a complete surprise and they were shaken. Irish raiders were expected from time to time, but they had never thought to see Saxons on their coasts. Galahad organized a defense of archers and swordsmen, and had the pages running for buckets of water, in case of fire. As far as he could see, the Saxons swarmed over the grounds in a disorganized scramble, running madly from the woods, scaling the palisade, setting fire to the outbuildings, wreaking general havoc, and making only intermittent dashes at the doors. He could see no one in charge. In spite of their fearsome aspect—they were blond giants wrapped in skins, whirling axes and screaming uncouth paeans—he was sure that Percival’s men could hold them.

  “Sir Mabrig!” he called to the ranking Welshman. “Take charge here. See the archers keep them off the walls. They can’t be this few, so far from home, and this poorly led. I expect a major attack within the hour, but I hope to be back by then. Lend me a man who’s quiet and surefooted for a mission behind their lines.”

  A youth of seventeen named Erec volunteered. Together they made their way through the castle, alive with voices all calling at once and ablaze with torches. It was but the work of a moment to lift a torch from a hall sconce and escape unnoticed into the stableyard. With a sigh of relief Galahad saw the stables stood intact.

  “Erec, find me two horses which are not afraid of smoke.” A quick survey of the stalls showed him his own two beasts were missing. Bless coolheaded Dane, she had not panicked, but had obeyed him and escaped.

  “Where are we going, my lord?”

  “To the shore. You know the road—find me the quickest route.”

  “But won’t the Saxons be on the road?”

  “I doubt it. They haven’t horses and they need cover. Courage, Erec. Saxons disdain roads. If they can’t travel by water, they’d as soon make a straight line through field or forest. They’re a direct race.”

  The boy, who was in awe of him, mounted his horse obediently and, carrying the torch, circled around the castle gardens, cut through the woods, and slipped quietly out onto the shore road. Galahad rode with his sword drawn. In spite of his assurances he half expected a good skirmish before they made the sea, but they met no one. When they came in sight of the ocean, Galahad pulled up and signaled Erec to dismount.

  “Stay here and hold the horses. Cover their nostrils with your cloak. You must be perfectly silent. Give me the torch. If all goes well I’ll whistle for you; if I’m taken, get out quickly; don’t look back. Do you understand?”

  Erec nodded, eyes wide. Silent as a cat and as stealthy, Galahad crept toward the thin line of trees that marked the edge of the woods. Five minutes behind a gorse bush showed him where the lookouts were posted. The first he beheaded; the second, who heard him at the last second, he gutted. The third he had to fight, but it was quickly over—he sliced off the man’s wrist and killed him with his own two-headed ax. Sweating lightly despite the sea breeze, he turned to survey the beachhead and was staggered by the sight before him. Thirty longboats lay drawn up on the shore! Thirty! This was an invasion! What they had taken for attack could only be diversion. He looked up the wooded slope toward the castle and caught his breath. A full attack was under way—the early darkening sky glowed dully red and he could see the flicker of flames against the treetops. Gwynedd was burning, and he was not there!

  Angrily, he whistled for the boy and fanned the torch into a greedy blaze. They secured the horses, fashioned a handful of crude torches from driftwood and beach grasses, and set about firing the Saxon ships. The craft were well made with closely fitted timbers sealed with pitch, an enemy to water but a friend to flame. They lit like tinder. The stiff shore breeze did the rest. The sails, once unfurled, burned easily enough, and they used them as giant torches, dragging them from one boat to the next.

  “Keep your eyes open!” Galahad gasped as they paused for rest. “Sooner or later they’ll see the smoke and know what we’re about. If we’re caught on the beach, we’re dead men.”

  More than half the bo
ats lay burning before they heard the cries of Saxons coming down the hill. Galahad signaled Erec and they ran to the horses.

  “Thank God they have no subtlety about them!” he muttered. “Now, trot around the beach, tear up the sand, let them think the whole cavalry is behind them. Then take cover in the wood and we’ll pick them off.”

  No sooner had they galloped into the trees than forty Saxons ran onto the beach. They stared stunned at their burning boats, shouted to one another, pointed frantically to the sand, and tried without success to douse the flames. At last, one of them took charge of the others, posted a guard apiece at the remaining boats, sent a runner up the hill for reinforcements, and began, with a dozen men, to track the horses.

  Galahad grunted in satisfaction. “Take the runner, Erec. Then cut through the trees and get behind them. They’re afoot. Between us, we can take them all.” Eyes wide with excitement, doubt, and hope, Erec rode off, and Galahad hunted for a good place to ambush.

  The Saxons came up through the trees in no good order, but spread out, each man looking to fight his own battle. Galahad gave them what they sought. The first men passed within yards of his hiding place; his dagger flew at the foremost and caught him in the throat. The man fell choking on his own blood. Before his startled follower could react, Galahad’s sword was in his side, twisting. Galahad slipped from the horse to retrieve his dagger and take the Saxon’s ax from his dying hand. He heard a shout, and looked up to see a third running at him, swinging an ax. But they were in a thick wood; the ax caught a branch and stuck. Galahad’s dagger flew free and found its mark. Hurrying, he collected his dagger and jumped upon the horse. By the time the rest of the company arrived in answer to the shout, he was gone. The Saxon warriors stared about them but kept their wits. They closed ranks and advanced uphill together. Relying on the nimbleness of his sturdy Welsh mount, Galahad wove through the trees, before them and behind them, striking with dagger, sword, and ax, retreating out of range after each attack, returning to take another man unawares. He had killed six more when he saw two others fall, struck from behind. Through the shadows he caught Erec’s grinning salute.

  The doubling in strength of their half-seen enemy was too much for the Saxons—they took to their heels, even the leader among them, and ran. They soon lay dying on the forest floor, for men in retreat were easy targets. Galahad congratulated Erec, whose awe had only increased now that they two had defeated so many Saxons without a scratch. They robbed the bodies of their weapons and divided them in haste.

  “My lord, should we fire the rest of the boats, or go to defend the castle?”

  “Defend the castle! I’m happy to leave them some means of escape, if we can drive them to it. The last thing we want are stranded Saxons in Gwynedd. But we are only two and don’t know how big their force is. Thirty boats—they might be six hundred strong.”

  “Two against six hundred?” Awed though he was, the boy paled.

  “Not only two. Trust Percival to fight to the bitter end. This is his homeland. We must provide him a diversion. We’ll make the Saxons think they are surrounded. Confuse them. Take them singly or in twos, whatever you are able. But cover is essential. Stay in the woods and keep moving, astride or afoot. See if you can’t drive them toward the western wall, where Percival’s archers have a better shot at them. And Erec—” Galahad gripped the young man’s arm in the soldier’s embrace. “Good luck.”

  The boy bent his knee to the ground. “My lord Sir Galahad.”

  They fought half the night. At first Galahad despaired of victory—they were so many, and the larger force was well organized and bravely led. Their archers were doing the most damage, sending flaming pitch-soaked arrows high over the walls, scattering Percival’s men, so many that the fire buckets could not keep up. Galahad began by picking off the archers’ guards. Five had died before the captain knew anything was amiss. He led them a merry chase through the woods and killed them, one by one. The last one to die was the captain himself, a huge, dirty, blue-eyed man who spat in Galahad’s face even with a sword at his throat. Galahad slid the blade partway into his neck and then withdrew it.

  “Die fast?” he demanded, “or die slow?” He pointed toward the Saxon forces. “Cynewulf?” He laid the blade against the Saxon’s ear. “Who’s the thegn? Cynewulf?”

  The warrior, dazed and dull-witted, consumed with the effort of hiding his pain, struggled to speak. “Cynric,” he muttered thickly. “Aelfric. Cynric.”

  “You have earned your quick death, my friend. May God have mercy on your blighted pagan soul.” And he slit his throat.

  After that, it was a game of strike-and-run, the game he and Gareth had played in Camelot the long, sleek summers of his boyhood. He would throw three daggers and take three archers. A handful of men would pursue him into the forest, and he would dodge and hide and pick them off. Then he would strip the bodies of daggers and axes, and with their own weapons start again. It took them a long time to realize it was safer not to chase him, but to keep a sharp lookout and try to defend the blows. Soon Galahad was out of daggers and his horse was tiring. But by that time the loss of archers had been felt, and the Saxons were moving toward the main gate in the west wall to launch a full-scale attack. Galahad was content to see them attempt it, for it was against that sort of attack that old King Pellinore had built the castle, and outnumbered though Percival’s forces were, this gave them their best chance.

  Staying well out of the torchlight, Galahad skulked on foot among the shadows and the charred ruins of the outbuildings, gathering weapons from among the fallen Saxon, dispatching silently those who still lived. He selected a hiding place at the edge of the forest, between the main gate and the sea, and waited. When the attack came, Percival’s men were ready for it. Archers rained down arrows dipped in poison, soldiers poured vats of boiling pitch onto the swarm of blond heads below. Those who managed to scale the walls met the clean, cold steel of Roman swords. An hour before daylight, with the burning fortress still untaken, the Saxons turned. But they were hindered in their retreat by what they took for evil spirits in the forest, who struck them down, unseen, unheard, and just as they gained the beach, split Prince Cynric’s skull with a two-headed ax. The survivors could not get away fast enough, muttering under their breaths as they strained at the oars, about the ill-fated, god-cursed, dark-haunted land of Gwynedd.

  Dawn broke red in the east when Galahad stumbled wearily through the west gate.

  “My lord Galahad!” the sentries cried gleefully. “You live! You’ve been taken for dead these past six hours!”

  “I am well enough, and whole. Have you seen young Erec, who went with me?”

  “No, my lord, no one’s come this way all night. King Percival is within, counting his losses. He’ll be overjoyed to see you, my lord!”

  He found Percival just emerging from the guardroom, drawn and bleary-eyed, his face smudged with soot.

  “Galahad! Praise God!” He flung himself into his cousin’s arms and pounded his back. “You are unharmed? Thank God! I took you for dead— Mabrig said you went behind the lines, and we heard nothing after!”

  He was all weary muscle, bone, and sinew; Galahad could feel his exhaustion through his tunic as clearly as he heard it in his voice. “Erec and I went down to burn their boats. He’s a brave lad; I’ve not seen him since we split up—have you found him?”

  Percival made the effort to collect himself. “Erec? Laymon’s son? Why, yes, I believe the physician’s with him now. A sliced arm, I think, but not deep. He’ll be all right.”

  “Then my prayers are answered. Now tell me, how do we stand?”

  The lines deepened in Percival’s drawn face. “It was close to disaster, Galahad,” he said. “As close as I ever hope to come. I’ve just taken report. We’ve lost half the barracks, the hall of meeting, all the living quarters on the north wall. Only the women’s rooms and the gardens at the back are untouched. Everywhere else, the fire has gutted. And I tell you, Galahad, if the Sax
ons hadn’t left off their fire arrows and gathered for attack on the west wall when they did, I don’t know where we’d be. That’s the miracle that saved us.”

  Galahad laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “Bless the foresight of your grandfather, King Pellinore, who built the place of stone. The king’s house in Benoic is made of wood.”

  Percival attempted a smile, but only the corners of his mouth twitched. “He was wealthier than I am, and had more men. Those were the great days of Britain, when Arthur was King. Ahhh, God, Galahad, we shall not see those days again.”

  “Courage, Percival. We two, at least, are keeping faith with Arthur. If it is God’s will that Britain should go down into the pagan dark, Gwynedd and Lanascol will be the last to linger in the light.”

  A shout brought their heads up. A sentry hurried toward them, saluted Galahad, and fell on his knee before Percival.

  “My lord! A soldier has this moment stumbled into the yard, bleeding from an ax wound. He says a band of Saxons were left stranded on the beach—they fought like madmen! A handful got through our lines and have headed up into the hills behind us. Shall we pursue them?”

  Galahad, white-faced, gripped his arm. “How many? How long ago?”

  “Six or seven, my lord. They have an hour’s start.”

  “They are on foot, though. Be easy, Galahad. The dogs will track them.”

  Galahad was already leaving. He turned back a moment. “Dane is up there. With the child and two horses. And one sword.”

  Percival stared at him, thunderstruck. “Dane is in the hills? Are you mad? She’s in the cellars with the rest of the women!”

  “No, Percival, she’s not.” They both whirled at the sound of a woman’s voice. Anet came toward them with Guinblodwyn behind her, holding the hand of a blond toddler. A nurse followed with Percival’s infant son. “This is what I came forth to tell you. She never came down with us, nor little Elen neither. She kissed me at the door. It felt like farewell.”