Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  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 vigor.

  Arthur so enjoyed this display of religious fervor 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 demeanor 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 behavior 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 favor 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 listened 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 marvelous 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.

  One night, some while after Morgaws’ return, I saw him sitting at the board, cup at his elbow, watching the king and queen with their enchanting guest. Sliding onto the bench beside him, I said, “Why the scowl, friend? I thought you would rejoice at the wanderer’s return like everyone else.”

  “I might,” he muttered darkly, “if everyone else was not smitten blind with adoration. I find little enough to admire in that woman.”

  “Morgaws?”

  He regarded me with suspicion, and slowly turned his scowl back to the crowded hall. “Morgaws,” he said, his voice so low I could hardly hear him.

  “You do not like her much, I see.”

  Peredur shrugged. “I do not think of her one way or another.” Reaching for his cup, he drained it in a draught. “Why should I?” he demanded. “She is nothing to me. I wish I had never laid eyes on the slut.”

  I wondered at this uncommon vehemence, but instead replied, “I know what you mean, brother. I, too, feel uneasy about our mysterious guest.”

  “You were the one who found her.” His tone suggested that every misfortune in the world flowed directly from my hand. “You did not seem uneasy about her then.”

  It was true, I suppose. When we first came upon her in the forest, I had felt nothing but sympathy for her plight. Peredur, as I recall, had been dismayed by her from the first moment he saw her.

  “Well,” I allowed, “it may be as you say. No doubt my view has been altered by our sojourn in Llyonesse. And I will tell you something else: we are not the only ones to harbor misgivings.”

  Peredur merely grunted at this.

  “Myrddin, too, withholds his blessing.”

  “Then perhaps Myrddin Emrys is as wise as men say.” With that the young warrior threw aside his empty cup; it struck the board with a thump, whereupon he stood abruptly. “You must forgive me, Lord Gwalchavad, I find myself out of temper tonight. I assure you I meant no offense. Please, take no notice.”

  He left me then, and stalked away. I saw him disappear into the throng gathered at the hearth, and so I determined to see who else might be less than complete in enthusiasm for the honored lady. After a time, I located the elusive Llenlleawg, who I expected would feel something akin to the distaste Peredur expressed. If anyone had reason to distrust Morgaws, Llenlleawg certainly did. Much to my amazement, however, I could not have been more wrong.

  “She is a wonder, is she not?” he said as I came to stand beside him. There was no question about whom he meant: he stood staring at her from a distance across the hall, where she, all smiles and demure replies, conversed nicely with Arthur, Gwenhwyvar, and Elfodd, who had joined us from the nearby abbey.

  “She is that, I suppose,” I answered, regarding him closely.

  Ignoring my ambivalence, Llenlleawg continued. “Truly, she is one of the Tuatha DeDannan.” Happy with his comparison, he said, “Indeed, she is a very Sidhe. How her face shines beneath her flaming locks! And her eyes…” His voice drifted off in tones of such rapture I turned and looked my friend full in the face. Had I ever known him to speak so? No. Never.

  “Can this be the same man,” I said, “who suffered so much in her pursuit?”

  “She had nothing to do with any of that,” he declared. “Nothing at all.”

  “Does that mean you have remembered something of your ordeal?”

  “No,” he said flatly, “I remember nothing about what happened. But she was not the cause of it—that much I know.”

  “If you cannot remember, how can you be certain?”

  The tall Irishman gave me a darkly disapproving look, and stalked away.

  Unable to make sense of his reaction, I took my search elsewhere. At the entrance to the hall, I found Myrddin, standing alone, watching the regal diners at the board. Seeing where his attention lay, I put my head close to his and said, somewhat carelessly, “Well, it seems Morgaws has won a place among us.”

  “Oh, she is adept at insinuating herself into men’s affections,” Myrddin replied, his mouth twisting wryly. “Mark me, Gwalchavad, there is no end to the question of Morgaws. I look at her and see only questions begging answers. Why did she leave us only to return like this? Her fine clothes—where did she get them? She speaks with the easy loftiness of a noblewoman—but who is her family? Why does everyone forget themselves whenever she is near?”

  “Llenlleawg has certainly forgotten himself,” I replied, intending to tell Myrddin of my conversation. “Did you know that he—” I began, but the Wise Emrys was no longer listening. He had turned and was gazing at Morgaws. The frown had vanished in a look of rapture.

  “Ah, but she is beautiful, there is no denying it,” he murmured. This simple remark filled me with greater anxiety than anything else he could have said. I stared at him, but, heedless of my presence, he moved away.

  I slept ill that night, and the next morning rode early to the site of the new shrine, hoping to take my mind from the problem of Morgaws. Once at the site, I was amazed to see how much had been accomplished since Gall’s arrival.

  As it happened, the hill chosen for the shrine was a low, humpbacked mound within sight of both Avallach’s Tor and the abbey, and roughly equal distance from each. Early as I was, as I came in sight of the place I could see the workers swarming over the hillside. Wagons trundled to and fro, some with stone for the shrine, some with stone for the path leading to the shrine; still others, having delivered their loads, were rumbling away for more.

  I dismounted, tied my horse on the picket line, and walked to the base of the hill, stopping now and then to talk to some of the Cymbrogi who were helping construct the path of stone cobbles. They all worked with cheerful vigor beside the masons, their banter high-flown and easy; the Cymbrogi fetched the stones, which the masons selected with deft efficiency, tapping them into place with wooden mallets. I greeted those I knew, commended their zeal, and walked on, slowly mounting to the top of the hill, which had been leveled to provide a precise, and striking, site for the shrine.

  Pits had been dug at the four corners and filled with rubble stone; then an extensive bed of small stones had been laid down on which the foundation would be placed—the first few stones had been placed t
he previous day. Now the laborers were busily erecting a rough timber support along the proposed line of the wall.

  I found the affable Gall blissfully employed shouting commands to a group of Cymbrogi endeavoring to drag a wagonload of stone up the hill. “Stop the wheels!” he was crying. “Use the timber to stop the wheels!” Turning to me, he said, “They fill them too full, you see. I tell them half loads are easier on the oxen. The shrine will not be raised in a day, I tell them, but they refuse to listen.” Then, regarding me more closely: “Do I know you, lord?”

  “I am Gwalchavad, and I am at your service,” I replied, warming to the man at once. Open-faced, his features glowing with health and good-natured exasperation, he looked out upon the world through a pair of mild brown eyes, the sun glinting off his rosy bald pate.

  For a moment he stood blinking at me, sturdy arms folded, mouth puckered in thought. And then: “Good lord! Gwalchavad, of course. Yes. One of the famed Dragon Flight. In the name of Christ, I give you good greeting.” He smiled, his agitation at the heedless volunteers already forgotten. “My name is Gall. If it were not for the fact that the High King of Britain presses me daily to know when the work will be completed, I would invite you to break fast with me. But there is no rest for the wicked!”

  Though his speech was couched in the form of a complaint, he seemed not to mind his hardship in the least. “You have no end of helpers,” I observed.

  He peered at me doubtfully. “Have you come to help me, too?”

  “Fear not,” I replied lightly, “for unless you discover some task requiring my particular attention, I will happily stand aside and watch from afar.”

  “Good man.”

  The overloaded wagon crested the hill just then and the master mason bustled off to order the deposition of the stone. I walked around the site, looking out at the surrounding fields, blasted by heat and drought. How much longer could the land survive without good, ground-soaking rain? I could not help thinking that, despite the late warmth, harvest time was soon upon us, and what a poor harvest it would be. At least the dry weather hastened the masons’ work. But would the people hereabouts view the king’s shrine in any kindly light when both grainstore and belly were empty?