Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  With great misgiving and greater dread, Peredur set about building up the fire and together we stood watch for the rest of the night, weapons in hand, our backs to the flames as we searched the darkness, talking to one another to keep fear at bay.

  Dawn seemed a long time coming. When the sun finally rose, it cast but a wan gray light over us—as on those days in the north when the mist comes down and lingers on the heathered hills, but there was no cooling mist, and the hills hereabouts held only dry scrub and thorns.

  As soon as it grew light enough to see the path, we broke camp. Peredur retraced his steps to the blighted wood, returning quickly with his boots, anxious to get away from the ruined caer as soon as possible. We turned to the sleepers and tried again to wake them. Tallaght had finally lost the unnatural rigidity of his limbs, and now lay peacefully asleep. I bent to remove the strip of cloth from his eyes and the young man came awake at my first touch. Up he charged, as if from a bed of live coals. He flew into me, fists flying, kicking, biting, shouting incoherently.

  “Here! Here, now!” I cried, fending off the blows as well as I could.

  Peredur leapt to my aid and pulled him off me. “Peace!” he bellowed. “Peace, brother!” Wrapping his arms around Tallaght’s torso, he threw him to the ground and fell on top of him to hold him down, all the time shouting, “Peace! We are your friends.”

  Kneeling beside him, I struck the struggling warrior sharply on the cheek. “Tallaght, wake!”

  At the sound of his name, the fight went out of him. He looked from one to the other of us with frightened eyes as recognition slowly came to him. “Oh!” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

  “Let him up, Peredur,” I said, and we raised him between us, where he stood wobbling on his feet like a man with a headful of ale.

  “It is over, Tallaght. You are back among the living,” I told him.

  He lurched towards me and seized my arm with both hands. “Lord Gwalchavad, forgive me. I thought…I thought you were—” He released my arm and clutched his head as if it hurt him. “Oh, Jesu save me, I had the strangest dream.”

  “It is over, lad,” I said. “Are you well?”

  “I feel as if I have slept a thousand years,” he answered dreamily, “and yet, as if I had closed my eyes but a moment ago.” He then began babbling about his curious dream, but I brought him to a halt before he could gallop any futher. “Plenty of time to talk once we are on the trail,” I told him sharply. “The horses are ready; we are leaving at once.”

  I left him to Peredur and turned to Llenlleawg, who, though stiff and aching from his beating, at least had his natural wits about him. He roused himself slowly when I woke him, and made to sit up, wincing with pain at the effort. I put my arm beneath his shoulders and raised him. “How do you feel, brother?”

  “Never better,” he rasped, his voice raw as a wound. He then hacked up a gob of blackened gall and spat it on the ground. “Have I been long asleep?”

  “Not long,” I allowed. “Only all night and half the day besides.”

  “I see.” He licked his dry lips. “How did you find me?”

  “We saw the smoke. Can you sit a horse?”

  “I will sit a goat if it bears me from this place,” he answered. “Bring it on, brother, and the sooner we quit this accursed ruin, the better I will be. Have you seen the girl?”

  “We have seen no one here but you,” I told him. “Was she with you?”

  When he made no reply to this, I said, “Llenlleawg, was she with you? Did she have a hand in this?”

  Llenlleawg attempted to sit up again; his face contorted against the pain. “Wait a moment,” I told him. “Let me help you.” So saying, I retrieved a spear and put it in Llenlleawg’s right hand. Then, squatting behind him, I took him under the left arm; the Irish champion gripped the spear shaft and pulled himself up as I lifted, and with much groaning and clenching of teeth we got him standing—shakily, and swaying like a wind-tossed sapling, but standing all the same. Then he was racked with coughing; I steadied him as he cleared his lungs of yet more black muck.

  “It is not as bad as I thought,” Llenlleawg gasped, squinting and pressing his left hand to his side as he leaned on the spear. “At least,” he wheezed, “…there is no blood.”

  “The young woman, Llenlleawg—was she here?” I asked again.

  “I cannot remember.”

  “But you were following her,” I insisted. “You must have followed her into Llyonesse. She must have led you here.”

  Llenlleawg regarded me dully, then turned his face away. “As I said, I do not remember.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Nothing much,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I remember following the trail and crossing into Llyonesse. There was a beacon, and I went to see what it meant, and”—he paused abruptly—“…and I cannot remember anything after that.”

  Obviously, there was more he would not say, but I did not know how to make him tell me. “Well,” I conceded, “you are safe now, and we are returning to Ynys Avallach. No doubt you will remember more later.” He nodded grimly, and I shouted for Peredur to bring one of the horses. “Come,” I said, taking Llenlleawg by the arm, “lean on me; I will bear you up.”

  Together, Peredur and I lifted the tall Irishman between us, boosted him to the saddle, and put the reins into his hands. “Let us be gone from here,” I said, leading the horse forward.

  We quit the ruined fortress, passing once more beneath the crumbling tower and out through the gate. We crossed the ditches and headed north, hastening back along the trail that had brought us, traveling quickly and quietly—at least as quietly as four men might, and as quickly as possible when two of the four must go afoot. Peredur and I walked beside our two ailing companions to help steady them in the saddle and keep them from falling. We allowed ourselves but little rest, so, despite the footling pace, we made good distance on the day.

  Indeed, by the time the gloomy twilight gathered round us, we were well on our way home. We camped in the dry streambed of a little cramped glen, and ate from our dwindling store of provisions, took turns at the watch through the night, and pushed on at first light next morning. No further disasters befell us, nor did anything out of the ordinary give cause for alarm. However, when we came in sight of the estuary where I had lost my horse to the quicksand some days before, a sense of dire foreboding came upon me.

  There was, of course, no visible reminder of that terrible event, but the place seemed steeped in dolor and gloom. I could almost feel its spirit, restless with anguish, sad and hungry and forlorn. I felt cold and unhappy, and thoughts of death and desolation swarmed in my head.

  There was nothing for it but to continue on, and to put as much distance as we could between us and the sinister place before turning aside to make camp for the night. The rest of the journey to Ynys Avallach proved uneventful, and Tallaght so improved that, though we traveled no more swiftly, at least we were able to share the horse between us. Thus, on the evening of the sixth day, we came in sight of the Fisher King’s stronghold—glinting like white gold in the dusky light, its fine walls and towers reflected in the reed-fringed pool below. Weary, and more than a little footsore—I suppose I have spent too much time in the saddle these past years—we paused to gaze upon that tranquil sight and let it fill our souls with the pleasure of its serenity.

  Then, our hearts lifted, and the vision of our destination lending speed to weary feet, we hastened on, arriving just as the abbey bell tolled for evening prayers. I know the good monks have a word for this, as they have a word for everything else in their peculiar world, but I know not what it is; or if I have been told, I remain ignorant of it. No matter what its name, this prayer at the closing of the day has always seemed to me one of the finer things of their occupation. Perhaps one day, when sword and spear no longer rule my days, I may give myself to such pleasant contemplation as those good brothers now enjoy.

  As the slow-tolling bell rang out over the Sum
mer Realm, we passed the silent shrine and put our feet to the upward-winding path leading to the Tor, pausing at the top to look out upon the land below, softly fading into the pale blue shadows. Then, as we turned to enter the yard, I heard a cry of welcome. Rhys came running, bursting with questions I had no wish to answer more than once.

  “Peace, brother,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “All will be told—and there is much to tell—only let us get a drink down our throats first.”

  “Leave the horses,” Rhys said. “I will send someone to attend them.” Turning to the others, he called, “Come inside. The Pendragon has been waiting for you, he has given—” It was then that he caught sight of Llenlleawg—head down, slumped in the saddle, almost fainting with exhaustion—and Peredur holding the reins and walking beside him. “What is this?” Rhys exclaimed, dashing to his side. “Is he wounded?”

  “Help us get him down,” I said, and explained that we had found him beaten and left for dead. “He will recover, never fear. However, a few days’ food and rest would not be wasted on him, I think.”

  We hauled the unresisting Irishman down from the saddle, whereupon he seemed to come to himself once more, insisting that he could walk and would not be lugged into the hall like a sack of grain. He grew so adamant that we let him have his way. Truly, I think he had been nursing his strength for this moment; he was that proud he did not wish to be seen in his weakness by his swordbrothers, nor could he bear causing his beloved queen even a moment’s worry.

  As it happened, he need not have concerned himself. The hall was empty: no Cymbrogi to be seen, and few of Avallach’s folk, either. Rhys, to all appearances, was king of the rock, and held dominion over the few who came and went. He called a command to one of the young Fair Folk lads I saw hurrying away on some errand; the fellow spun on his heel and raced to obey.

  Had I given the matter more than a fleeting thought, I would have expected our arrival to occasion greater interest than we had so far received. “Where is everyone?” I asked as we stepped into the empty hall.

  “The plague has worsened in the southlands,” Rhys replied. “Charis and most of the monks have gone to Londinium to join Paulus in the fight. Lord Avallach is at his prayers. As for the others, they will return when it gets dark.”

  “Well and good,” I told him. “But where are they now?”

  Rhys called for the welcome cup, and then turned to look at me. “I thought you knew.”

  “How should I know?” I countered sourly. “And unless someone tells me, I fear I shall die in ignorance.”

  “They are at the shrine,” Rhys replied, as if we should have known.

  “We saw no one at the shrine,” I told him bluntly, “or I would not have asked.”

  “Not that shrine,” Rhys said, “the new one—Arthur’s shrine. The king is building a shrine to the cup.”

  Llenlleawg, flanked by the two young warriors, drew up beside us. “What cup would that be?”

  “The Holy Cup.” Rhys paused and regarded us dubiously. “Do none of you know any of this?”

  I reminded him that we had journeyed all the way from Llyonesse—on foot most of the way—and were not of a mood to appreciate riddles.

  “It is to be the Grail Shrine,” Rhys announced tersely. “The Pendragon has decreed a shrine to be built to house the Holy Cup, which he has taken as the sign and emblem of his reign. Arthur believes a great blessing will flow from this Grail to the benefit of Britain, and of all the world.”

  “Is this the same cup that healed Arthur?” asked Peredur.

  “One and the same,” confirmed Rhys.

  “I know the cup you mean,” I said, as the memory came winging back to me as from a great distance. “You mean to say that you have seen it?”

  “No one has seen it,” Rhys replied, “save Avallach, Myrddin, and, now, Arthur. Avallach knows where it is—he keeps it hidden somewhere, I think. Now you know as much as anyone else about it.”

  The boy appeared bearing the requested welcome bowl. Rhys took it, raised it, spoke a word of greeting, and delivered the bowl into my hands. I passed it at once to Llenlleawg, and waited for the others to finish before taking it up once more. The ale was cool, dark, and frothy, soothing my parched tongue and throat like milk mixed with honey. I drank a long draught and, with great reluctance, passed it along once more. The bowl made the round again, and Rhys said he would have food brought so that we might refresh ourselves while we waited for the others.

  “Now I must send for Myrddin,” he told us, preparing to dash away once more. “He has spent the last three days telling everyone to bring word the moment you returned.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “No doubt this new shrine has everyone occupied,” Tallaght mumbled, staring into the empty cup as into a fresh grave.

  Alone with a dry bowl in a deserted hall, we sat glumly considering our sorry homecoming. Haggard and harried, gray with dust, bone weary, we wore every step of our peculiar journey on our clothes and on our faces.

  “Well,” remarked Peredur, “it is not as if anyone knew we would be returning just now. Even so…”

  Llenlleawg, above remarking on his disappointment, said nothing, but closed his eyes and bowed his head, fatigued and dispirited. The one welcome he sought above all others—that of his king—and for which he had rallied his dwindling strength, was denied him, and exhaustion was rapidly overtaking him.

  “There will be time enough for glad greetings,” I told them, trying to put a more favorable face on the thing. “As for me, I can think of nothing better than a bite to eat and a quiet drink before meeting the others.”

  The food arrived a few moments later, and upon sending the serving boy back to refill the bowl, we fell to eating, content with a little peaceful quiet to soothe our wearied souls. We ate in silence, and I was just reaching for a second barley loaf when I heard quick, purposeful footsteps enter the hall. I knew before raising my eyes to his greeting that Myrddin had found me.

  “At last!” he said, gliding to the table in a single swift motion—like a hawk falling upon its unsuspecting prey. “You have returned at last. Is the woman with you?”

  “And it is Earth and Sky to see you, too, Wise Emrys,” I replied. “I do hope you have fared well while we were away.”

  He regarded me sharply, and dismissed my lackluster attempt at scorn with an impatient flick of his hand. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I will, and gladly,” I replied. “But it may be best if we permit my companions to leave now—I know they are anxious to wash and rest.”

  Myrddin’s quick golden eyes turned to Llenlleawg, and he perceived in an instant what I meant. “Forgive me,” he said, stepping smoothly to the Irishman’s side. “I have been too distracted to notice your distress. How can I help you, Llenlleawg?”

  The champion raised his head and forced a waxy smile. “I am well, Emrys. Only let me rest a little and I will greet my king and queen in a better humor.” He made to rise, but lacked the strength and fell back in his chair.

  “Here!” said Peredur, jumping up. “If you will excuse us, Lord Emrys, Tallaght and I will see to Llenlleawg.”

  The two of them raised Llenlleawg between them. Too tired to pretend otherwise any longer, the proud Irishman allowed himself to be helped to his feet. Once steadied, however, he pushed away their offered hands and moved from the hall with a slow, sore gait. The young warriors respectfully took their leave and hurried off to the warriors’ quarters to find a bath and change of clothes.

  When they had gone, I returned to the table. Myrddin seated himself on the bench opposite me, folded his arms on the board, and leaned close. “Now, then, there is no one to overhear,” he said, leveling his keen hawklike gaze upon me. “Your confessor waits before you. Tell me everything.”

  “There is trouble,” I told him bluntly. “I cannot say what it is, but, Myrddin, I deeply fear it.”

  I then began to relate all that had happened during our sojourn in Llyonesse, and
it did me good, for I felt the burden lift from my soul as I told him about the strange trials we had endured in that godforsaken realm—from losing my horse in the false sands to our encounter with the beast in the night. Myrddin listened all the while, nodding to himself from time to time, as if the incidents I relayed confirmed something he already knew or suspected. At last I concluded, saying, “That we escaped with only the loss of one horse is a wonder. Indeed, we were beset from the moment we entered Llyonesse. God save me, Myrddin, it is a desolate region—with but one settlement that I could see, and that a ruin.”

  “Llyonesse….” He muttered the word as if it hurt his mouth to say it. “A wasteland by another name. The dead rest uneasy there.”

  “In truth,” I replied, and confessed to seeing the Mithrian lepers.

  “I have not heard of them for a long time,” Myrddin mused.

  “You know them?” I wondered.

  “When I was a boy, my grandfather Elphin used to tell me stories about the Lost Legion. I never thought to hear about them again.” He paused for a moment, reflecting unhappily. Then, glancing at me again, he said, “This fortress—how did you find it?”

  “From the smoke,” I replied, then described coming upon the ruin and finding Llenlleawg trapped in the ironwork house inside the caer. “Do you know the place?” I asked.

  “From what you tell me, I believe the stronghold you found was Belyn’s.”

  I had never heard the name before, and said so.

  “Belyn was Avallach’s brother,” Myrddin explained. “When the Fair Folk came to Ynys Prydain, they settled first in Llyonesse, but the land was not good to them, so Avallach and his people came here. Belyn, his brother king, would not leave the southlands, so he and his people stayed, and now they are no more.”

  “The place was more cairn than caer,” I pointed out. “Could this have happened so long ago?”