Grail pc-5

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  'Forever!' put in another.

  'The work has begun already?'

  'It has that,' confirmed Cador. 'The site has been chosen and the ground has been cleared. We have been cutting trees all day, and pulling up stumps. I tell you the truth, Gwalchavad, you have had the easier time of it. I was never born to drive oxen.'

  When talk turned again to how I had fared on my journey, I made the excuse that I was starving and suggested we join those at the board, where the food was now arriving. I looked for Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, but did not see them anywhere among the throng – made up of Cymbrogi, for the most part, with a few monks and a smattering of Fair Folk as well. Neither did I see Myrddin, and held the absence of these three together as yet one more misfortune to be borne along with all the rest.

  I might have wallowed in my melancholy, but then, overcome by the aroma of roast meat and warm bread, and by the sight of bubbling cauldrons being carried from the kitchens on wooden poles, I devoted myself to eating instead. When the rough edges had been smoothed from my hunger, I gazed along the benches, down the length of the board to see who my supper companions might be. I saw, farther along, Tallaght and Peredur, and many others I knew, heads down over their platters as if nothing in all the world could trouble them. I saw this, and I wished I could discard my unpleasant memories so easily.

  And then it came again into my mind – the unwanted intrusion of my waking dfeam – as if Morgian herself had burst boldly into the room to taunt me with fresh terrors.

  Suddenly too upset to eat any more, I pushed my bowl from me, stood, made some excuse to my companions, and started towards the entrance of the hall. I had walked but halfway across the great room when the doors swung open and Arthur and Gwenhwyvar entered. Myrddin swept in behind them, saw me, and beckoned me to him.

  At my approach, the king smiled and held out his arms for me to embrace him. 'Gwalchavad!' he cried. 'Here you are!'

  'God be good to you, my king,' I said, gripping his arm.

  'Myrddin told us you had returned safely.'

  'That I have, lord.'

  'Welcome, Gwalchavad,' said Gwenhwyvar, her voice soft and low. 'I was hoping you would be here. Is Llenlleawg with you?' She looked quickly past me into the hall for sign of her kinsman.

  'No, my lady, but I have no doubt he will join us as soon as he is rested.'

  'Come, now, Gwalchavad,' said Arthur happily, 'sit with me at table. Much has happened while you were away, and I have much to tell you.'

  'Nothing would give me greater pleasure, lord,' I replied, nor was I disappointed. Truly, his zeal was irresistible as he described the great work he had undertaken. A few moments in Arthur's company and I had all but forgotten the harrows of my journey, and the queer menace of the dream.

  See, now! This is the mark of the Pendragon of Britain: a man whose ardour for life is so compelling that others find their lives in him, a man whose natural nobility extends to everyone he sees, so that all others are ennobled in his sight. Truly, he is one of the Great King's sons and wears his sovereignty with such easy grace that all who will bend the knee to his authority are raised up and exalted by it.

  Know you, I have lived alongside Arthur for many years, and have served him and followed him into battle more times than bear remembering, so believe me when I say that I have rarely seen Arthur in such joyous good spirits. It was as if all the hurt and pain of the past troubled years had been wiped away and his spirit restored to its true and natural state – fine and unblemished by the harsh tolls of kingcraft and war. That night he was more himself than even the day of his marriage to Gwenhwyvar, and that is saying something.

  We talked and laughed together, and I felt my own heart rise to bask in the warmth of his friendship. When at last we parted for the night, I found the vision of the Kingdom of Summer burning in my heart, although the name never passed his lips. Ah, but that was not necessary. Arthur was aflame with it!

  Like a Beltain fire, he scattered sparks in all directions and set the night alight. Anyone who spoke to him would have been likewise dazzled, and I count myself blessed to have sat at his right hand and listened to him describe his plans for the Grail Shrine. It was no rude hut he meant to build, but a perpetual beacon of goodness to all who walked in darkness, a wellspring of blessing to all who thirsted for righteousness, an endless feast to all who hungered for truth and justice. The completion of the Grail Shrine would commence a season of peace and plenty which would last a thousand generations.

  How all this would come about was still somewhat vague. Indeed, the means by which Arthur would come into possession of the Holy Cup was not, as I recall, ever mentioned. But one thing was very clear in the Pendragon's mind: the deeds we performed now would become a song which would endure so long as men had tongues to speak and ears to hear.

  Oh, and when we rose from the table at last, the night was far spent and the dawn, gleaming like red-gold on the eastern horizon, seemed not the beginning of a day only – no, it was nothing less than the inauguration of a magnificent Golden Age.

  FIFTEEN

  The first of the stoneworkers' tribe appeared three days later -eight or so men with huge ox-drawn wagons full of tools and provisions. They did not come to the Tor, but went straightaway to the site and occupied themselves with establishing their camp in the valley at the foot of the hill where the new shrine would be built.

  Arthur, eager to see the work begun, rode out to greet them, and some of the Cymbrogi went with him. We watched as they went about their chores, and by day's end five large leather tents of the kind the Romans used to make occupied the little plain; five more were raised the next day. These, they said, were to house their fellows and families, who arrived in four days' time. The numbers at the site swelled to perhaps forty in all, though that included the children, who seemed always to be everywhere at once.

  Over those first few days, I had ample opportunity to observe the masons as they went about the chores of ordering their camp. They were odd men: small of stature, with broad backs and tough, sinewy arms and short, thick, muscular legs. They were a hard-handed, ready-tempered crew, and loud with it -when they were not shouting at one another, they were singing to make the valley ring – much like seamen in their ways. I would be surprised if a single one of them had ever sat a horse or gripped a sword, much less thrown a spear.

  The next days were given, with considerable pointed discussion, to the preparation of the site. The stonemen grumbled endlessly at how poorly the land had been cleared, and they complained about the chosen placement and the disgraceful paucity of suitable stone in the region. Nothing was good enough for them, and they spared no breath letting the whole realm know it.

  'God's truth, Arthur,' muttered Cai, quickly tiring of their surly opinions, 'if complaints were stones, the shrine would be raised by now -'

  'And a cathedral besides,' added Bedwyr tartly.

  'Pack the lot of them back to Londinium and be done with it, I say,' put in Rhys. 'We were doing well enough before they came.'

  But Arthur took the carping and complaining in his stride. 'They are hounds without a handler,' he said. 'When their chieftain arrives, he will bring them to heel.'

  The chieftain he meant was a bandy-legged, bald man with a beard like a bearskin. His skin, blasted by years of toil in sun and rain and wind, was as thick as the leather of his tent and just as brown. His name was Gall, and he walked with a limp and chewed hazel twigs, which he kept in ready supply in a leather pouch at his side. Tough as an old stump, he had but to speak a single word and his men leapt to obey.

  Arthur liked him instantly.

  Once Gall and his small brown wife arrived, the complaining subsided to a tolerable level and the work began in earnest -despite the appalling stone and lamentable situation. Again we were favoured with occasions aplenty to observe them, for the Cymbrogi were put to work cutting trees to supply the timber they needed. I never imagined masons required so much wood for their curious craft.

 
'That which you would build in stone,' Gall informed us, 'you must build first in wood.'

  Nor could I help noticing that Myrddin seized every opportunity to go alongside the master mason, questioning his every move and thought in order to learn all he could of the stoneworker's craft.

  When we were not fetching logs to the site, we were occupied supplying water for their camp. Though the drought continued as the long, dry summer wound slowly to its close, the spring below the Tor remained as sweet and cool and plentiful as ever, unaffected by the lack of rain. We filled empty ale vats and trundled them back and forth to the stonemasons' camp using their oxen and wagons. Were we ever thanked for this singular service? Ha!

  In the midst of this turmoil, a strange and unsettling event occurred which should have served as a warning to us all. It was a Sabbath day, when the monks perform their holy offices and many of the Christian folk in the realm come to the chapel to observe these services and worship with the clerics. The masons, as it happens, do no work whatsoever this one day in every seven, and so they were free to join in the worship, which they did – singing out the hymns and psalms with unrestrained vigour.

  Arthur so enjoyed this display of religious fervour that he went along to observe the vespers in the evening, and then invited everyone – monks and masons together – to the Tor to sup with him in Avallach's hall. Thus, we were all there together and enjoying the mood of festive cheer when I felt a queer sensation course through the hall. Beginning at one end of the great room and sweeping through to the other, I could see it ripple through the crowd as it passed, and felt a fluttery queasiness in the pit of my stomach. This was instantly followed by a peculiar numbing tingle like that of a winter chill on cheeks and nose and fingertips.

  The hall fell silent with the kind of queasy anticipation that follows a sudden change in the wind just before the storm breaks. Illumined by the subtly shifting radiance of torchlight and hearthglow, the entire company stood motionless and staring, some with mouths open as if to speak, some with bowls halfway to lips as if to drink. I saw Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, half turned towards the doorway with laughter still on their faces, but frozen now. In everyone's expression and demeanour were the fast-fading remnants of a last, interrupted happiness.

  I looked again and saw the cause of this interruption: a few paces inside the doorway stood a young woman; tall and slender, her long hair a mass of fiery curls flowing over her shapely shoulders like glistening water, her willowy form clothed in a deep green robe over a hooded mantle of shining gold, she stood imperious and erect – a monarch receiving the homage of her people.

  For a long, frozen moment, silence reigned in the hall; suspended between one breath and the next, no one moved or spoke. And then I heard footsteps outside the hall. The approach must have surprised her, for she turned her head towards the sound, and in that instant the hall sprang to life once more as if on command and Myrddin appeared in the doorway behind her.

  She faced Myrddin, and he halted – stricken in mid-step. I saw the smile of welcome freeze even as the words of greeting died on his lips.

  The green-robed lady moved swiftly to his side and laid her hand gently on his arm. Then she turned and, together, beaming their good pleasure, they crossed the threshold into the hall – for all the world a regal couple entering their marriage feast.

  My amazement at Myrddin's curious behaviour was immediately swallowed by an even greater astonishment, for, as she drew nearer, I realized that this lady was the woman I myself had discovered wandering barefoot in the forest. It was she whose pursuit had almost killed Llenlleawg – and three more besides. Gone were the rags, gone the fearful expression; gone, too, the bare feet, dirty hands, and unkempt hair. She appeared in every way the very likeness of a queen, from the hem of her robe to her curled and henna'd hair.

  I stood rooted in surprise, but the crowd surged forward, exclaiming all at once. Myrddin, with a single word, silenced the tumult. 'Peace!' he said, his voice filling the hall from hearthstone to rooftree. He stood with upraised hand and halted the commotion as quickly as it had begun.

  Then, turning to the young woman, he said, 'So! You favour us with your presence once more. I would know who it is that we would welcome. Lady, I command you, tell me your name.'

  His tone was firm but gentle, and there are few indeed able to defy his commands. Still, I knew full well the young woman lacked the power of speech… and therefore was my astonishment compounded when she answered, 'Forgive me, Lord Emrys, I am called Morgaws.'

  Excitement rippled through the gathering: 'She speaks!' some exclaimed. 'What does it mean?' asked others.

  Arthur pushed through the throng to join them, Gwenhwyvar at his heel. 'It is a wonder!' he proclaimed, beaming his pleasure at this unexpected turn. 'How has this transformation come about?'

  Myrddin, still watching the young woman narrowly, made no move as Morgaws stepped before the king. 'Thank you, Lord Arthur,' she said, inclining her head prettily. 'I am beholden to your kindness.' She spoke in a voice both hoarse and low, as if rusty from disuse. 'A year ago a curse was laid on me by a woman of our holding and I lost the power of reason and speech. Since then, I have wandered where I would, a captive within myself, neither knowing who I was nor where I belonged.'

  'Yet you appear to have recovered yourself most remarkably well,' Gwenhwyvar observed, pushing in beside her husband. 'I would hear how that came about.'

  The two women eyed each other with cool appraisal. Morgaws put her hands together neatly and said, 'I have indeed, noble queen. Yet I am at a loss to explain it. All I know is that, upon coming in sight of the Tor, I felt a great confusion overwhelm me. I knew nothing but that I must get away.'

  'You left us all too suddenly,' Gwenhwyvar pointed out crisply. 'We worried for your safety, and sent good men in search of you. They faced dangers and endured severe hardships for your sake – one is suffering still. It would have saved us great pain and no little trouble if you had but given us some small sign. We might have helped you.'

  Morgaws lowered her eyes demurely. 'Alas, I can but beg your forgiveness, my queen. My imprudence was poor reply to the great benevolence you had shown me. I was not in my right mind, I confess. I fled into the wood nearby, and rode until I could ride no more. Then I slept, and when I awoke, the confusion had left me and I was myself again. After so long a time, I could not rest until I returned home and restored my fortunes.' She smiled prettily. 'I have come to thank those who cared for me in my affliction.'

  A doubtful frown played on Gwenhwyvar's lips. 'And where is your home?'

  'Not far from here,' Morgaws answered. 'My home is near Caer Uintan – and…' She paused, as if reflecting unhappily, but then resumed: 'Upon restoring myself, I could not rest until I had returned here to thank you for the kindness you have shown me.' Although she answered the queen, I noticed her eyes never left Arthur; and when she finished, she smiled at him.

  'You returned to us alone?' said Myrddin. 'After all that has happened to you, I would have expected your people to take better care of you than that. Certainly, it is unwise for a young woman to travel unaccompanied.'

  The question appeared to unnerve Morgaws somewhat. Her glance shifted away from Arthur, and she bent her head, hesitating – as if searching for a suitable answer. The king saved her from her predicament, however. Arthur, expansive and generous, said, 'I, too, am interested to hear your tale, but there is plenty of time for explanations later. You are healed now, and that is cause enough to be thankful. Come, let us sit down together and celebrate your safe return.'

  With that the king then led his elegant guest to the table, where he seated her near him. Gwenhwyvar, catlike in her wariness, stayed close and nothing passed that she did not see or hear. As ever, the Wise Emrys kept his own thoughts to himself; but I could not help noticing he did not join them at table that night.

  For the next few days, talk of Morgaws' unexpected return was exceeded only by discussions about the Grail Shrine. Though I li
stened to all that was said, further enlightenment was not forthcoming. Regarding the lady, some said one thing, and some another. Various speculations about her plight and marvellous restoration became hopelessly tangled, and genuine facts seemed difficult to come by. She was a noblewoman, some said, whose settlement was destroyed and her people slaughtered by the Vandali. Others had it that she was the daughter of a Belgae tribe whose people had fled to Armorica because of the plague, leaving her behind. Still others held other ideas, but no one seemed at all certain which of the various stories were true.

  All the while, work on the shrine continued apace, and the days settled into a peaceable rhythm. Safely back at Ynys Avallach among friends and swordbrothers once more, I considered the fearful events in Llyonesse increasingly trivial; with each passing day the memory faded, growing more and more distant and insignificant. I even convinced myself that my dream of Morgian was the result of light-headedness brought on by fatigue, worry, and too much time in a too hot bath.

  It is, I suppose, only human to put aside fear and pain, to move away from all unpleasantness as quickly as possible. I was no different from anyone else in this respect. Even Morgaws' return failed to kindle any lasting suspicion. After all, Gwenhwyvar and Arthur accepted her; the queen's wariness having given way to genuine welcome and affection, they all but doted on her. Who was I to question their sentiments?

  I told myself: the lady has obviously suffered greatly, and her release from her affliction is cause for celebration. I told myself: we have no proof she has done anything wrong. I told myself: she has every right to enjoy the attentions of Arthur's court. These things I told myself repeatedly, and half believed them. Still, from time to time, doubt crept up on me – little more than vague twinges of misgiving – so, despite my repeated self-assurances and the excitement and gaiety bubbling around me, I could not make myself feel glad for her. Nor was I the only one to take a sour view of the matter. Peredur, too, held himself distinctly apart from the merrymaking.