Percival turned angrily upon Galahad. “If this is your doing, cousin—”
The look on Galahad’s face stopped his words. “She’s in a cave in the low hills. It’s an old hiding place of hers. I know it well. If she hasn’t lit a fire they may not find her. Come on, follow me.”
Galahad, Percival, and a dozen others who were still able to take to horse mounted and headed up the track into the eastern hills behind the fortress. Galahad led Percival straight up toward the cave. The others fanned out in twos and threes and searched the surrounding woods.
They came quietly into the clearing that gave onto the lip of the cave. Galahad slid off his horse and signaled Percival to dismount. Silently he drew his sword. He crept forward, careful of his footing, feeling rather than hearing Percival’s quick breathing behind his back. There was no fire. The hearth lay cold and filled with earth. She had tried to hide it—why? Galahad saw his own blade trembling before him and found he could not hold it still. He had opened his mouth to call softly for her when he caught sight of the thing that lay in shadow beyond the entrance, and he froze, every muscle in his body straining against his will. He put out an arm to keep Percival back.
“Cousin!” Percival said softly. “What is it?”
He pushed past Galahad’s arm and stopped abruptly. The body before them wore thick leather boots, filthy leggings, and a torn tunic of poorly cured skins. The man lay on his stomach, his long, straw-colored hair bound in thongs and flung across his livid face. Protruding skyward from his back rose the gleaming blood-encrusted blade of Galahantyn’s sword.
“Dead!” Percival whispered. “My God, she must have killed him!”
Galahad barely trusted himself to speak. He was staring at the second set of footprints beyond the body. They had been made by boots.
“There were two of them.” He pointed. His limbs sagged cold and heavy. He did not want to know what lay ahead inside the cave. He listened, and heard a soft rustling, only a breath of sound. He could not tell where it came from, but it could come from only one direction. As soon as he moved forward, it stopped. Slowly they crept into the center of the cave, past woven baskets knocked on their sides with their contents spilling out, past the chest of scrolls, still closed and locked, although the lock had been tried with a dagger, judging from the scratches and gouges in the wood; past the empty bed—thank God!—although someone had lain there; the blankets were tumbled and the bracken broken—and on into the dark. Galahad paused. The candleholder was missing. The old sword was gone. He had no light, nor means of getting one.
Suddenly the toe of his boot stubbed against something soft and heavy. The breath left his body. He knelt quickly and put out a shaking hand. His fingers found flesh, cold flesh and—a coarse beard and long mustache! He nearly wept. In the dark he bowed his head and said a quick prayer of thanksgiving.
“Galahad!” Percival’s voice, above him, trembled at the edge of control. “Who is it?”
“The second Saxon, cousin. Your admirable sister has killed them both.”
He rose slowly. “Dane!” he called softly, cupping his hands around his lips. “Make a noise if you can!”
They held their breaths in the damp dark, the brightening day behind them only deepening the shadow in the cave. Gradually, a dim light crept through a crevice up ahead, a feeble flicker, but by it they felt their way along the sweating walls to the narrow split in the rock that gave onto the smaller cave Dane used as a stable. Galahad slithered through, heart pounding. If it was a trap, death lay beyond. He pushed out into the light, the sweet smell of hay and horses heavy in his nostrils. There was no one there. The candle in its holder lay on a ledge of rock; Rouk and Priam munched lazily, barely interested in his presence, rustling the straw as they moved. Sword at the ready, he looked carefully about him. Beyond the second horse the extra straw was oddly piled; if his eyes did not deceive him, a sliver of silver blade stuck out from it, trembling lightly and catching the candlelight.
Galahad sheathed his sword and ducked around the horses. “Dane,” he said gently. “It’s over. My brave woman, come on out.” The straw parted and she rose, her eyes wide with fear barely held in, barely controlled breathing fast and shallow. Her white fist clutched a bloody sword.
“Galahad!”
He took the weapon from her and held her in his arms. She began to shake violently and clung to him. He kissed her hard, willing his passion to pierce her terror. “My wonderful warrior,” he whispered, smiling down into her ashen face, “how did you ever do it with this old sword?”
She tried to smile. Her strained look lightened. “There never was a better weapon than a Celtic blade.”
“Nor a more difficult enemy than a woman. Is the ch—our daughter— with you?”
The horror receded from her eyes at last. “Elen, come forth.” The straw rustled; the child looked up at them, calm and trusting, her fear already behind her. Dane bent and lifted her, kissing her round cheek. “You’re a brave girl, my lady Elen. Galahad, she never uttered so much as a squeak.”
“Well, may the good Lord bless us all. You look like a family.” Percival stood smiling behind them, the joy on his face at odds with the sweat on his brow.
“Come,” Galahad said gently, slipping an arm around Dane, “let’s go out into the sweet air. We’ll get those two out of the cave, and you can tell us what happened.”
The story was simple enough. They had hidden all night in the cave, huddling together on the bed under the blankets. Dane had rigged an alarm with a length of string strung across the mouth, fastened to a pewter cup full of pebbles and metal spoons. Early in the morning the Saxons tripped it. In the case of such an event, Elen had been instructed to slip into the inner cave and hide in the horses’ hay. Alone, hiding in the shadows, Dane had run Galyn’s sword through the first man and retreated to the back of the cave. She knew the cave well and went silently, hiding behind a small ledge of rock. She knew the second Saxon had not heard her. He was a superstitious man who shook badly, his breath wheezing in his chest and his fingers tightly crossed against enchantment. Yet he had stopped when he saw the chest and pulled out his dagger to break the lock.
“He probably thought it full of treasures,” Dane said. “And so it is, but none that he could spend. But I was terrified he might break the lock and spill the scrolls, so I made a noise, just a tiny noise, and he whipped around and came at me.” She drew a long, trembling breath and looked up at Galahad. “He almost caught me. It was perfectly black, but his night sight was good and he had the sixth sense of a cat. All I had was this old sword you’d made such fun of—I knew the tip was broken, but the length of the blade was sharp. In the end—he was right in front of me, but had turned—in the end I cut his throat.”
She gestured toward the dark stains on her clothing, and shuddered. Galahad reached for her and Percival politely looked away. “What a magnificent hideaway this is! Galahad tells me you’ve been coming here since childhood. This explains all your mysterious absences—she used to be scolded constantly for disappearing whenever she was wanted—but why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Dane smiled, her head on Galahad’s shoulder. “I don’t know. We shared so much, Val, I just wanted to have something private. And if I had told you, why then, you’d have known where to find me that night I disappeared.”
Percival frowned. “So this is where you were! Galahad knew it and I didn’t.”
“I didn’t tell him. I never told anyone. He found it for himself. Don’t look so hurt, Val. I never kept anything from you but this.”
Percival forced a smile. “And Galahad. I own you surprised me there. I suppose, cousin, you will want to take her away to Lanascol. And little Elen too, who is such a friend to my Essylte.”
Dane reached out and took her brother’s hand. “We are past the time we should have parted, you and I. I will miss you awfully—you are a part of me, a second skin. But Galahad is”—she colored prettily—“he is the breath of life to me, as B
lodwyn was, and will be again, to you. Let me get out of Wales; she will be again the girl you married. Give her some time; she will grow into a queen.”
Percival looked unhappily away. “More like, I shall lose you both, you to Galahad, and her to her children.”
“She has more thoughts in her head than children. You haven’t heard them because you haven’t asked. You’ve had me to ask instead. I promise you, in six months you will be glad I’ve gone.”
“Huh!” Percival snorted.
“Galahad.” She laid a hand on his arm. “How quickly can we get going? I have provisions; I had them here, and stuffed the saddlebags.”
“You’re never thinking of going now!” Percival cried.
“I saw the fires burning, Val. I know you were victorious, but I know my home is gone. I really . . . I really don’t want to go back and say a hundred sad farewells. Let me remember it as it was.”
“But . . . but what about the wedding? And all the preparations! You have no clothes, no fodder for the horses, no nurse for the child—you must stay until spring, at least, and not risk a sea journey in winter—Dane, what can you be thinking?”
“I have a change of clothing here in the cave, and warm cloaks aplenty. Now that Elen has us both, she needs no other.”
“We’ll go inland as far as Caerleon,” Galahad spoke up, seeing the desperation on Dane’s face. “I don’t trust the coasts with longboats about. There is a priest at Ynys Witrin who will marry us. We’ll leave coins there for the tending of Lancelot’s grave. The Lady Morgaine will give us housing until the weather clears and we’ll take ship from Avalon. We’re sure to find a trading vessel headed for Less Britain.”
“But—” Percival gulped, his face reddening. “How can you . . . you cannot go . . . to leave in such haste—again!”
“No, cousin, not haste. This is a moment four years overdue.”
Percival wiped his eyes. “Then let me leave you to it.” He extended his hand. “Galahad, my dear friend, my cousin, my sister’s husband, all is forgiven. Never was life so hard to bear as when I thought you my enemy. Take her with my blessing. I would rather see her wed to you than to anyone else I know.”
He embraced Dane and hid his face in her flowing hair. “God has granted you your heart’s desire, my dearest sister. I know you will do him honor; I pray he will make you happy. The Narrow Sea shall not keep us apart. If the wars allow, I shall visit you next summer in Lanascol.”
“You are more than welcome, brother. Remember this: I am Welsh and part of me will never leave Gwynedd. And Percival,” she whispered in his ear, “attend to Blodwyn. She loves you dearly, and you are breaking her heart.”
He managed a smile, kissed little Elen, saluted them both, and left.
Galahad took Dane in his arms and kissed the tears from her face. “Come,” he whispered, “it’s time to go home.”
57
THE GRAIL
On a cold morning ten days later, when frost had furred the late leaves and silvered the bare branches, when ice lay in a thickening skin across the hill ponds and at the edges of streams, when the warm breath of the horses froze into twin clouds at every step, the solitary trio came slowly down out of the stony hills of South Wales and into the valley of the Tywy. Dane rode first, her hood drawn close, the soft fall of her hair matching the thick chestnut coat of Lancelot’s stallion. Behind her Elen rode bareback on her father’s horse, his strong arm about her waist, the cold stinging her round cheeks with red. They seemed, Galahad thought, caught in a timeless bubble, slipping through the winter world without a sound, across mountains, across rivers, through dales and fields and fens, along woodland tracks within a silent cocoon of contentment. Nothing disturbed them—no hill bandits, no Saxons, no beggars, no wandering holy men. When they spoke no one heard them. When they slept the stars sang.
Toward noon they came to the outskirts of the little harbor town of Maridunum, huddling on the west bank of the Tywy a league inland from the tidal flats at the river’s mouth. Here the old Roman road crossed the river and ran east to the fortress of Caerleon and the mouth of the Severn.
“Galahad, may we stop here to buy some bread and wine, and to give the horses fodder and rest? A harbor town is sure to have a tavern.”
But Galahad was frowning as he scanned the distant buildings. “There’s no one about. No one anywhere.”
“There’s smoke rising from beyond that hill. Perhaps they are all within, to escape the cold.”
But Galahad shook his head. “It’s not that cold.” Handing Elen into her mother’s care, he pushed his horse into the lead and drew his sword. A bend in the track brought them around the shoulder of the hill. Maridunum lay spread out below them, smoke rising lazily in thin columns here and there, and nearby from the charred timbers of a farm dwelling. The fields around were burned to stubble, and a lone cow, heavy with milk, lowed in discontent at the gate where her shed once stood.
“A sack!” Galahad breathed, reining in. “The Saxons were here last night!”
“My God!” Dane gasped. “So near! Should we head back up into the hills?”
“No. They’ve gone. They’ll not be back. There’s nothing left here for them. By the look of it, everyone’s fled into the hills. The King of Dyfed had a garrison here—those must have been the barracks, that column of smoke at the river’s edge. Let’s go down to see if there’s anything we can do.”
“Mama.” Elen plucked at her sleeve. “Can I have some milk?”
Dane glanced quickly at Galahad. “Can you give us twenty minutes? I can take two skins of milk from the cow, and it would ease her pain.”
Galahad nodded. From what he could see of the little town—houses without roofs, boats smashed and sunk along the river, the acrid smell of cinders hanging heavy in the frosted air—there was no need for haste. Indeed, when they rode down to the Roman road they found the place deserted. The tavern at the quayside had been leveled to the ground; every house along the street showed signs of violence. The few boats still at anchor in the river had charred masts or splintered hulls. Not a living soul stirred within the town.
“Where have they all gone?” Dane asked with a shudder, gathering Elen closer in her arms.
“Scattered into the hills, like deer. Before Arthur, it was a common enough occurrence. Give them a few days; they’ll come back. And rebuild.”
“To think— Galahad, to think this might have been Gwynedd!”
“Without Pellinore, without Maelgon, without Percival it might. Gwynedd has been luckier in her kings than Dyfed.”
“What shall we do? Dare we try the road? The light is already failing, and we can do nothing here.”
“The bridge across the Tywy is undamaged. Thank God for good Roman stone. Let’s get across to the other side and put this town well behind us before we head into the hills.”
As dusk drew down they crossed the river and followed the road straight east between the foothills and the shore. They came to an old mill that sat back from the road, the miller’s house half-burned and deserted, the mill itself still standing, but the grindstone wrenched from its moorings and smashed into one wall.
“This might do for shelter,” Galahad suggested, examining the remaining timbers.
“No,” Dane objected, “it’s too close to the road and the sea. I’d rather do as we’ve been doing and trust to the hills.”
Galahad nodded at the shepherd’s track that wound past the millhouse. “Let’s try that.”
Up through sheep meadows and hardwood copses they rode, the path twisting around the hill, rising upward snakelike, growing narrower but not quite disappearing. They came to a fork in the track. To the right the thin woods opened onto grassland studded with gorse; to the left the trees thickened beyond a tangle of blackthorn, where a pair of ravens rose screaming at their approach. Without hesitation Galahad went left into the shadows.
Before he had gone twenty paces, he pulled up.
“Dane, look yonder. Do my eyes dece
ive me or is that a shelter of some sort?”
They dismounted and crept forward. Behind a hawthorn brake someone had built a rough lean-to with branches and thatch for a roof, a wide manger and a trough for water, and, unbelievably, fresh hay stacked in a corner.
“Why, it’s a stable!” Dane whispered in amazement. “And fodder, too! Whose can it be? Do you think it might be safe to leave the horses here?”
Galahad looked up at the new stars springing to life in the twilight sky. He could not explain the sudden peace he felt, but he was certain beyond a doubt that they were safe. They filled the manger with hay and the trough with water from their skins. With a sigh, the horses settled down to eat.
“But, Galahad, now we have no water for ourselves.”
Unperturbed, Galahad shook his head. “There’s bound to be a spring about somewhere.”
A narrow track, much overgrown, led away from the lean-to, up a cleft of rock and onto a grassy verge before the high, rounded entrance to a cave. Dane gasped in astonishment, but Galahad seemed unsurprised to see it.
“Did you know this was here?” Dane began, then stopped short as a deep sigh issued from the hill itself, breathing out a dark, smokelike plume that raced by above their heads. Elen cried out and clutched her mother’s tunic; the plume swerved, rose, and fluttered past, a whisper on the very edge of sound.
“Bats!” Dane exhaled in relief, stroking her daughter’s hair. “What a delightful cave this is; it even has bats. See, Elen, they have left on their nightly hunt so that we may have the place to ourselves.”
“And look. Here is water.”
Galahad pointed to a small stone basin fashioned out of the living rock to one side of the cave. Water seeped out of a narrow cleft above it and formed a clear, still pool in the basin below.
“A spring?” In awe, Dane ventured closer. “Galahad, where are we?”
Grail Prince Page 68
