Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  But Arthur would not listen. Thanking the Emrys for his advice, he proceeded to do the opposite, and the plan quickly grew to include not merely a simple service of homage, but a perpetual choir, too, and a church in which to house them all. “A seemly structure,” Arthur said, “where any who are weary and oppressed can come and see the cup blessed of the Savior King himself.” He was convinced that just beholding the sacred vessel would work wonders for those who made pilgrimage to view it.

  This, he said, would be the first of many marvelous undertakings with which he would commence his reign. More and greater ventures would follow as bright dawn follows storm-torn night.

  Nevertheless, Bedwyr had summoned the lords and petty kings of the region in the king’s name, and much as Arthur desired to hasten south to Ynys Avallach, he must abide until the council finished and the Vandal problem was laid to rest for once and all. The necessity rubbed him raw, but he endured, filling the time with schemes and dreams which he elaborated at great length to any who happened near. Oh, it was a wonderful sight to see, and one which I thought had passed forever: Arthur, in the blazing vigor of untempered youth, inflamed by his vision of a Holy Britain even now entering the harmony and prosperity of the Summer Kingdom.

  Myrddin held himself apart, viewing this turn of circumstance with a sour expression. Although he appeared ill-disposed towards Arthur’s schemes, he yet seemed loath to quench the fire that kindled them. Like everyone else, I suppose, he was only too happy to have Arthur hale and whole once more, and could not bring himself to steal even the smallest mote of the king’s joy, or dampen the Pendragon’s ardor—not that anything could.

  When I asked him what he thought of Arthur’s plans, the Wise Emrys merely shrugged. “It matters not a whit what I think,” he intoned somberly. “The High King will have his way in this, come what may.”

  I thought this strange, or at least unusual. Myrddin’s behavior was often inexplicable, but rarely proud, and never mean-spirited. No one else seemed to notice Myrddin’s gloomy indifference, and this concerned me, too. I began to meditate on what Myrddin had said about the Grail, and weighed his words against Arthur’s zeal, but arrived at no firm conclusion.

  Still, as I looked around me, I saw that at least one other held some portion of Myrddin’s reserve. Gwenhwyvar, who had at first matched Arthur’s fervor with her own, now appeared to be waning in her enthusiasm. As the others were all too caught up in the golden glow of important doings, I decided to discover Gwenhwyvar’s heart in the matter.

  “It is not lack of faith that has brought me to this pass, but lack of strength,” she confided. “That man wears me out. He has ten new plans before sunrise, and those ten have each spawned ten more before dusk. He hardly sleeps, and all the scheming makes him amorous. I get no rest, Gwalchavad. Truly, it is like sleeping with a whirlwind.” When Gwenhwyvar realized what she had said, the color rose to her slender throat. “Do not tell him I said that.”

  “Never, my lady,” I assured her. “But do you think he is right?”

  “I want to believe him,” she insisted, adding, “And certainly he speaks like no other man. If the Summer Realm can be brought into existence by dint of zeal alone, Arthur will succeed handsomely. And if we are able to accomplish even so much as a tenth part of all he has planned, I have no doubt our deeds will live forever.”

  Her words were noble, to be sure, but I could not help noticing an edge to her voice, whether of doubt or of uncertainty, I could not say. Perhaps it was merely the fatigue she had mentioned. Still, I marked it and remembered, thinking to myself that the two people closest to Arthur—Myrddin and Gwenhwyvar—were not wholly with him.

  The next day, the first of the region’s lords began arriving for the council. As I think of it now, that was when the trouble started.

  Chapter Seven

  Hwyl of Rheged was among the first of the noblemen to appear; he arrived at the lake camp with chieftains from the three holdings he protected. He also brought the young woman we had found in the forest and left in his care. Truth to tell, what with Arthur’s unexpected return, I had not spared a single thought for the stranger until the moment I set eyes on her once again.

  If she remembered me, she gave no sign, for as she passed, her face remained impassive and her gaze moved over me without the slightest recognition as she regarded the Pendragon’s camp. She appeared slightly the better for her sojourn among Hwyl and his people—her long hair was neatly braided, and her clothes were clean—and since she appeared well treated and content, I turned away and thought no more about her.

  Others arrived from surrounding lands: Arawn, Gryffyd, and Euan, who held settlements east of the Treont; Rhun, Hasner, Ensyth, and Gwrgan Ffrych, from the hill country to the west. Each came in the company of such chieftains and headmen as were deemed appropriate to attend the council in the absence of their respective kings. We welcomed them and bade them assemble before the Pendragon’s tent, where the High King waited. Arthur’s camp chair, which he used as a throne when on the move, had been set up outside the tent, on a red oxhide on the ground. Four spears—two upright and two crossed—were established behind the chair, and the Pendragon’s shield hung from the crossed spears. The High King received the homage of his noblemen with good grace and an easy manner, speaking warmly to each one as he came before Arthur.

  In all, I believe there were upwards of fifty noblemen who answered the summons, along with many warriors and women. Of those, two of them—Cyllin ap Caradoc and Cynfarch—had ridden with Arthur during the Saecsen War, and were happy to see him once more. Had they known barbarians were soon to be thrust into their midst, they might not have embraced their Pendragon so warmly.

  So far as I knew, only Hwyl—the chieftain I had personally alerted—came prepared to deal with the matter at hand. I dreaded thinking what would happen when the others learned of Arthur’s judgment.

  Strife was the last thing on Arthur’s mind, however, and though he had not forgotten his decree and its inevitable upheaval, I believe he misjudged the intensity of the feelings so provoked. In his present humor, he could not conceive of the difficulty others would have swallowing the bitter cup he offered. So full of peace and goodwill himself, I think he really imagined all men readily and eagerly sharing his joy. Certainly his radiant and extravagant manner smoothed the way. Even so, it was a rough ride over rugged ground.

  As anyone save Arthur might have expected, the sudden announcement that their lands had fallen forfeit to barbarians did not sit well with the noblemen of the region. Stunned by the High King’s declaration, they sat glaring in icy silence while Arthur explained the nature of the rebellion against him and its unfortunate consequences. Then, much as I had done with Hwyl, he held out their only hope.

  “This is what I have decreed, and this is how it will be,” he said solemnly. “Treachery has reaped its reward; however, it has pleased God to temper justice with mercy so that the innocent do not suffer unduly for their ignoble lords’ disloyalty. Before me this day, Mercia, Lord of the Vandali, has vowed to uphold and protect those who remain on their lands within the realm he has been granted. You may keep your settlements and holding, your fields, flocks, and cattle. He has undertaken the oath of Christ and forsworn all other gods. Added to this, he has given me his solemn pledge that he will take nothing from you that is not freely given.”

  Intended to soothe, these words kindled instead. Indeed, it was as if Arthur had thrown oil onto a sputtering flame. The anger of the noblemen’s responses singed the very air.

  “Swear faith to a barbarian!” roared Lord Ensyth. “I never will! I am a Briton, and abide none but a trueborn Briton over me! Neither will I see my lands given over to foreigners.”

  “Nor I!” shouted Arawn, his neighbor to the north.

  As if this were the signal they had all been waiting for, the whole assembly leapt up as one. Shouting, thrusting fists of defiance in the air, each striving to be heard above the others, the council quickly lost all
semblance of order. The Cymbrogi instinctively closed ranks around the Pendragon, put their hands to their sword hilts, and looked to return force with force. Llenlleawg, Cai, Bedwyr, Rhys, and I took up our places and stood to face the uproar.

  Arthur, having caused the commotion, yet appeared surprised at the vehemence with which the noblemen expressed their views. He sat gazing in mild amazement as the council collapsed around him. Myrddin, frowning, hovered at Arthur’s right shoulder, bent, and spoke a word into the king’s ear. Arthur merely raised his hand and dismissed the suggestion, allowing the tumult to continue.

  I suppose he thought such an overheated blaze would quickly burn itself out and he could more easily persuade the dissenters once their tempers had cooled. This, I fear, was too generous a reading of the situation. For the more they clamored, the hotter and more angry they grew.

  Truly, I believe it would have ended in blows and bloodshed if not for the abrupt appearance of the mute young woman. Because of the confusion, I do not know how she came to be there; it seemed to me that she simply emerged in the midst of the chaos to stand among the angry lords.

  For my own part, I had been looking at Arthur, should any command be forthcoming, and when I glanced back, there she was—standing as placidly as a maid in a meadow, hands folded in front of her, cool and chaste, dressed in a simple white mantle tied at her slender waist with a bit of blue, her fair hair glowing in the sun: a vision, as I thought, could not appear more lovely in my eyes.

  Her unexpected presence unsettled the council. The shouting continued for a moment and then ceased as, one by one, the irate lords fell silent and an uneasy hush passed over the assembly. The girl herself seemed not to know or mind the effect of her arrival; indeed, she seemed oblivious to all save the Cymbrogi ranged before her; these she regarded with the innocent interest of a child beholding a new and fascinating game.

  She took a hesitant step forward, and then another, pausing demurely, her green eyes wide and glowing with delight. The rapt look on her face was enchantment itself.

  As I say, a moment or two passed before the council recovered its voice, and when it did, the fury that had formerly threatened Arthur now demanded to know who was this woman, and what she meant by invading the proceedings and interrupting their deliberations.

  Well, Arthur was at a loss; he looked around him for anyone who might offer an explanation. I hastened to his side, saying, “I know this woman, lord—rather, she is known to me.”

  “Who is she?” he asked, glancing at her once more. Bedwyr leaned close to hear what I had to say.

  “I cannot say, but—”

  “Why is she here?”

  “Again, I cannot say,” I replied.

  Turning to me, Arthur grinned. “If this passes for acquaintance with you, Gwalchavad, I wonder that you ever meet a stranger.”

  “Arthur, please,” I begged. “I only meant that I have seen her but once before—when I rode to Urien’s stronghold to summon Hwyl to the council.”

  “She is Hwyl’s kinswoman, then?” wondered Arthur, stealing another glance at her.

  “No, lord,” I answered, and quickly explained how I had come upon her in the forest. “She seemed in distress from the sun and hunger,” I said, “so I left her in Hwyl’s care. At my suggestion, he has brought her to the council to see if anyone knows who she might be.”

  “Why?” asked Bedwyr. “Can she not speak for herself?”

  “That is the problem,” I told them. “She is mute. She cannot speak a word.”

  Arthur nodded, and then stood, raising his hands to quiet the complaint that was threatening to overtake us once more. “Friends!” he called. “Calm yourselves. There is no cause for concern here. I have it that this young woman is a mute who has lost her way. I ask you now if anyone among you knows who she may be, or where her people might be found.”

  There followed a short interval wherein the noblemen and chieftains discussed the matter among themselves, and when they had done so, it emerged that no one knew her, nor did anyone know whether any clan might be missing one of its members.

  Not satisfied with this reply, Arthur appealed to them once more, asking them to search their memories. The council resented the suggestion and reacted swiftly and angrily. It was quickly established that no one, save Hwyl and his folk, had so much as set eyes on her before this day. On this, at least, they all agreed—almost as vehement in their agreement as they had been in their contention with Arthur.

  Curious, I thought, that the mere presence of the young woman should arouse such passionate denial. The assembled noblemen were fervent in their protests of ignorance. Shouts of “She’s not of our kin!” and “Never seen the like of her!” formed the general opinion, and I was put in mind of Hwyl’s brusque rejection when he had first set eyes to her.

  Looking on the maid, fair as she was and not at all displeasing in any aspect, I wondered what could provoke such ardent animosity. This, and she had not so much as breathed a word. What was it that men saw in her that frightened them so?

  Turning to Myrddin, Arthur shrugged. “I think she is not known in these lands. What should be done with her?”

  Upon hearing the question, I glanced at the Wise Emrys, expecting his answer, and was startled by what I saw. Myrddin’s countenance, formerly flintlike in the heat of the opposition against Arthur, was now transformed. Eyes wide, he stared openly, with an expression of such melancholy tenderness that I was embarrassed to see it. What is more, he seemed not to have heard Arthur speak, but continued gazing in this foolish, love-struck fashion until the Pendragon nudged him and asked again for his advice. Only then did the Emrys come to himself.

  “Do with her?” he asked, regarding Arthur with mild distaste—as if the king had blurted a stupidity. “Let her remain with us until we find her kinsfolk, of course.”

  Arthur ordered Rhys to take the girl and deliver her into the care of some of the women. Rhys, unaccountably, grew discomfited by this simple command; he blushed crimson to the tops of his ears, and stuttered a hasty reply under his breath, begging to be spared this duty. Though he fumbled for words, his eyes pleaded most eloquently, and he even began to sweat as he stammered out his excuse. So distracted was he that Gwenhwyvar stepped in for him and said that perhaps it would be best for all if she made provision for the young woman instead.

  The Pendragon, anxious to get on with the council, readily agreed with his queen, and Gwenhwyvar stepped forth to take the girl aside. But the young woman had other ideas, for even as the queen moved from the throne, the girl started forward; she took three steps towards us. Gwenhwyvar hesitated, allowing her to approach.

  The fair stranger came nearer, but it became apparent that she was not looking at Arthur, nor the queen, nor any one of us. Her bright green eyes were firmly fastened on another. I looked around me to see who it might be. Myrddin? Bedwyr? No, neither of these. Rhys? Cai? Cador? No.

  The young woman moved nearer, and I saw that she stopped before Llenlleawg, who stood at rigid attention, spear at his shoulder, gazing into the distance above her head, as if trying mightily to ignore her. But she would not be ignored, for she put out her hand and took him boldly by the arm, as if claiming him for her own. Only then did he lower his gaze to regard her with an expression devoid of any warmth or welcome.

  “It appears she has chosen her champion,” Arthur observed dryly, “and I cannot fault the choice.” He then called to the Irishman to lead the young woman away. Gwenhwyvar went with them, and as soon as they had gone, the council began to grind ahead once more, but more slowly this time and with less roaring and breast-beating—as if all their anger had been expended and their passions leeched away by the curious interruption.

  In the end, the noblemen were persuaded to the virtue of accepting Arthur’s terms. Any lingering resistance melted away at Mercia’s arrival. The Vandal prince strode at once to where Arthur sat on his camp chair, and prostrated himself at the High King’s feet, stretching himself full length upon
the ground, his face in the dust. The barbarian then took hold of the Pendragon’s foot and placed it on his neck and lay as dead before his sovereign lord.

  Arthur then raised the barbarian to his feet and allowed him to embrace the High King like a brother. This unabashed display of submission and acceptance went some distance towards convincing the yet reluctant nobles that the Vandali were earnest in their regard for Arthur. Unwilling to be bested by barbarians in displaying loyalty to the High King, the Britons made a point of renewing their vows of allegiance, placing themselves likewise beneath the Pendragon’s sovereignty.

  Arthur acclaimed them one and all. “Rejoice, mighty chieftains,” he told them, bestowing the favor of his winning smile, “for a great good has been born in Britain today. You have put battle and bloodshed behind you and welcomed the stranger in your midst in order that peace should obtain throughout the land. For this I commend you, and I make bold to prophesy that from this day, as the Realm of Mercia prospers, so Britain will prosper.”

  He then declared a feast in honor of the new accord, and even made a joke at his own expense, saying that any king who feasted his lords on bread and water, instead of meat and ale, was a king who risked his life in a lion’s den.

  A small jest, but the noblemen laughed heartily, for by this they understood that the drought was just as hard, if not harder, on the High King as it was for them, and that he had allowed himself no greater luxury and largesse than the least of them possessed. Truly, I believe this endeared Arthur to them and bound them to him far more tightly than anything else he could have said or done. They loved him for it, and the mistrust and hurt feelings of the day dwindled to insignificance.

  Thus, the council ended, and the noblemen departed, hailing one another loudly, and talking together as they made their way to the place of feasting. “That was well done, Bear,” Bedwyr said, watching them go. “You have carried the battle.”