Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “For the torches on the side of the shrine,” the young man explained. “We saw it all. He killed them, and then he comes running down here, running like his legs is afire. We see him waving that great sword in one hand, and carrying something under his other arm.”

  “What was he carrying?” demanded Bedwyr roughly.

  The youth shrugged. “A wooden box.”

  “Is that what you saw, too?” Bedwyr turned his withering gaze on the elder of the two.

  “Tell the truth, man,” Arthur cautioned, his voice tight.

  The man licked his lips and said, “Some of the people down here, they started shouting: ‘The Grail! The Grail! He has got the Grail!’ I do not know about that—all I saw was the box, and him running away with it.”

  “You said you saw the queen—where was she?” Cai asked.

  “Well, now, the tall one runs to where the horses is picketed over there.” He pointed to where the guards had tethered the animals. “The queen was waiting there—I never seen her at first for all the battle going on up the shrine. But I reckon she was waiting there all along.”

  “What happened then?” said Arthur softly, almost trembling with rage.

  “Well, they go to ride away. Some of those nearest by make bold to lay hold of the killer. Everyone is shouting, ‘He stole the Grail! He stole the Grail!’ and they try to stop him.”

  “And it is dead they are for their troubles,” asserted the older man.

  “That sword is up and he strikes them all down who lays hand to him. And then they both ride off that way.” The youth pointed to the east.

  “Is that all?” said Arthur.

  “That is the last I seen,” the youth answered. “We never seen anything after that until you all came.”

  The older man nodded and spat, adding, “We feared you was coming to kill us, too.”

  “There is nothing else—you are certain of that?” Bedwyr glared hard at both of them, daring them to add to or take away anything from what we had already heard.

  The two shook their heads and remained silent, whereupon Arthur dismissed them, charging them to say nothing of this to anyone else until more could be learned. As soon as they had gone, we all turned to one another. “It cannot be Llenlleawg has done this!” Cai insisted vehemently. “It was never Llenlleawg and Gwenhwyvar.”

  “Who, then?” snarled Bedwyr. “Llenlleawg is the only one of us missing now—why is that, do you think?”

  “It was someone else!” Cai maintained. “Someone who looked like him.”

  “Those two are confused,” I suggested quickly. “It is dark. They were asleep when it started. They could not possibly have seen everything that happened.”

  “Truly,” agreed Cai. “Maybe they caught sight of Llenlleawg riding off in pursuit of the attackers, and assumed he had done it.”

  “Aye, he rode off,” asserted Bedwyr, his voice an ugly sneer, “taking the Grail with him.”

  “What of Gwenhwyvar?” Cador wondered.

  “Gwenhwyvar was with me,” Arthur said bluntly.

  “Llenlleawg could not have done it,” Cai insisted. “Anyway, Llenlleawg was sworn to protect the Grail with his life. If he rode in pursuit of the killer, he could never leave it behind.”

  Bedwyr dispatched this lame suggestion without mercy. “Then why not ride to the Tor? He could bring the Grail for protection and raise the alarm. If word of the massacre had not been brought to us by those confused people down there, we still would not know of it.”

  “Since the queen was with Arthur,” Cador suggested, “it must have been Morgaws with him.”

  Arthur glared hard in the dim light. “Yes,” he agreed sourly. Turning to Cador, the king said, “Ride to the Tor and tell the queen what has happened; then find Morgaws—if she is there, bring her to me.”

  Cador leapt to the saddle at once and raced away into the darkness. Swinging towards Bedwyr, Arthur commanded, “You and Rhys take eight men and see if you can raise the trail.”

  Bedwyr made to protest, but the look on Arthur’s face warned him off and he departed, calling for men and torches.

  “Gwalchavad,” the king ordered, “you and Cai see what is to be done for those who have been wounded, then take word to Elfodd and remove the dead to the abbey.”

  “I do not like this, Arthur,” Cai muttered under his breath.

  Arthur ignored him, saying, “I will talk to the people here. Someone may have seen something more.”

  The king stalked off towards the distraught crowd. Cai made to follow, but I put a hand on his arm and said, “Come, there are injured needing help. If you would go to the monastery, I will see to matters here.”

  “You go to the monastery,” Cai said, staring at Arthur as he walked away. “I want to talk to some of the others and see if anyone saw anything different.”

  Thus, I found myself hurrying to the abbey to summon Bishop Elfodd. Owing to the fact that a few monks had been at the shrine tending folk through the night, word had reached the abbey before me. I rode into the yard to meet the bishop and five or six monks as they rushed from their lodging hall.

  “I pray there has been a wicked mistake,” Elfodd said.

  “It is no mistake,” I told him. “There are dead and wounded. The king wants you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Elfodd replied quickly. “We will do whatever we can. Are you returning to the shrine?”

  “At once.”

  “I will go with you.” Laying a hand on the shoulder of the nearest monk, he said, “Brother Hywel, I leave you in authority.” He then ordered the monks to fetch balms and bandages and hasten to the shrine.

  “Ride with me,” I said, putting down a hand for him. “The way is short and we are soon there.”

  Two monks hurried to the bishop’s aid, and we were soon hastening back across the night-dark valley. Upon dismounting, we proceeded directly to the shrine, where Arthur was holding council with Myrddin and Bors by fluttering torchlight.

  “As much as it pains us,” the Emrys was saying, “it may be the truth.”

  The High King stared at his Wise Counselor, his face grim in the fluttering light of hissing torches.

  “At least,” Bors said, softening Myrddin’s pronouncement, “what passes for the truth—until we find Llenlleawg and learn why he has behaved like this.”

  “Then it is true?” I asked. “Llenlleawg is gone?”

  Myrddin replied, “He is not at the Tor.”

  “It is a tragedy,” Bishop Elfodd said, breaking in. “I am shocked beyond reason. I thought the shrine well protected. I never imagined one of the Guardians—”

  “We are no less dismayed than you, bishop,” Myrddin said pointedly. “What this moment requires, however, is your sympathy and support, not your reproach.”

  The bishop accepted his reprimand with good grace. He inclined his head in acknowledgment of his error and said, “I am deeply sorry, Lord Arthur, and I want you to know that I am placing myself and my brothers under your command. We will do all in our power to assist you in any way we can.”

  Arthur thanked him and said, “Your skills would best be employed aiding the wounded and praying for Llenlleawg’s swift return.”

  “The wounded will be cared for, of course,” the cleric replied, “and I will immediately establish perpetual prayer for the recovery of the Holy Cup.” Glancing at Bors and Myrddin, he said, “Please, send word if you need anything.” With that he hurried off to direct the monks who were helping with the injured and dead.

  Cador returned from the Tor, lashing his horse up the hill at full gallop. Without even pausing to dismount, he leaned from the saddle, putting his head to Arthur’s ear. Even while he spoke, the Pendragon’s face changed. Now, I have seen the Bear of Britain in his rage before, but have never seen him like this: his face darkened, his jaw bulged, and the veins stood out on his neck and brow.

  Seizing Cador by the arm, the king almost hauled him bodily from the saddle. “My wife—gone?” he cried.

>   “She is nowhere to be found,” Cador replied, trying to keep his saddle. “I stopped at the stables—the queen’s horse is gone, along with Morgaws’ and another.” He hesitated. “The stablers were asleep, but one of them says he thinks he saw the queen take the horses. Mind, he was half asleep at the time.”

  Added to what Myrddin had already said, it seemed the two witnesses were right: the king’s champion had murdered his swordbrothers and stolen the Most Holy Grail. What is more, it appeared he had been aided in this atrocity by none other than the queen.

  That Llenlleawg could perform such a treacherous act was unthinkable; that Gwenhwyvar should be party to it was impossible. Yet there it was—a double betrayal of such abhorrence the mind shrank from contemplation of it. There must be some other explanation, I determined. Morgaws is involved somehow; find her, and no doubt all would be explained.

  I stepped quickly to join those at Arthur’s side and await his command. Cador was saying, “Avallach wanted to come here, but I persuaded him to remain at the palace. He instructed me to say that he will await the Pendragon’s return in his chamber. Charis has gone on to the abbey to help the monks.” Duty discharged, Cador continued. “It cannot be what it seems, Bear. We will find them, but until we do, we cannot know what really happened.”

  “He speaks my thoughts entirely,” I said, speaking up. “We should not judge by the appearance of the thing alone. It cannot be what it seems.”

  “I pray you are right,” said Bors. “God knows, I have trusted that man in the thick of the fight more times than I remember, and I cannot find it in my heart to doubt him now.”

  “Until we find Llenlleawg,” said Myrddin, “we will not discover what happened. Therefore, our best efforts are given to the search.”

  “Rhys and Bedwyr have already begun,” snapped Arthur angrily.

  “It will be daylight soon,” Bors observed, striving to sound brisk and confident. “They will raise the trail, never fear. We will learn the truth before the day is out.”

  Away in the east, the sky was graying with the dawn. “Come, Arthur,” said Myrddin, taking the king by the arm, “I want to see the shrine.” Together they started towards the shrine to examine the empty building and, I believe, to speak to each other alone.

  “What would you have us do now?” Cador called after them.

  “Bury the dead,” came Arthur’s terse reply.

  Silent with our own thoughts, we stood and watched the thin gray line turn to silver, and then blush bright red as the sun rose on the worst day I have known since Baedun Hill.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Now the battle begins. I have made the first strike. It is greatly to Morgaws’ credit that no one saw it coming. She chose her servant well, and bound him to her with strong enchantments. He is ours, and a more potent weapon would be difficult to find.

  Oh, it would have been pure joy to have seen their faces when they discovered the traitor in their midst. I wish I had been there to savor it to the full. But it is not time to reveal myself just yet. I must content myself with the knowledge that my glory will be all the greater for remaining so long undiscovered.

  Still, the shock of betrayal is an exquisite pleasure. And that it followed so quickly upon the birth of the Summer Kingdom is especially poignant. Simple treachery, when applied with such swift and thorough proficiency, can be simply devastating. Trust is, I think, the most fragile of the virtues; ever brittle, it shatters easily and, once broken, can never be completely repaired. In a single stroke, I have broken Arthur’s most deeply held trusts. There is no force on Earth that can compel a heart to continue trusting when cruel, hard facts fly in the face of faith.

  Doubt and fear are ever-faithful allies, I find, and, when joined with suspicion, can become wonderfully debilitating in an enemy. They are like twin hounds baying for blood. Relentless and merciless, they will chase and bite and howl, wearing down the prey until mind and heart and will are spent, and the helpless victim drops from exhaustion.

  I do not expect Arthur to surrender easily; nor less yet Myrddin. They will prove stalwart adversaries, I expect. Thus will my eventual triumph taste the sweeter.

  And what is this? Morgaws tells me she has come into possession of a certain talisman—a treasure of some kind, by which Arthur and Merlin set great store. An object of power—healing power, apparently, among other things—she used it to bait her trap. She does not tell me what it was, but I suspect the Grail.

  That would be a treasure indeed. There were rumors in the wind about this Grail years ago—the miraculous cup of such power, it is able to work wonders of its own accord. Well, these tales are always stirring up the poor folk. Superstition has its uses, I find. Still, I never would have thought Merlin would have anything to do with it; he fancies himself above the common herd and its bovine beliefs.

  Dear nephew has surprised me before, however. Therefore, I will make it my affair to find out more about this treasure Morgaws has discovered. In the meantime, I have a little talisman of my own to reveal. Come, enemy mine, the chase awaits you.

  “Is this the last one?” wondered Cai, shoveling dry earth onto the body in the grave.

  A bright, red-gold dawn had given way to a pale gray monk’s-mantle of a sky—a gloomy day to match the mood of death and doom. The dirt was hard-baked and the graves shallow. We worked away in silence, thinking about the horrific events of the previous night. Twelve had been buried, and three more bodies brought from the hillside to the little yard near the lake below the abbey. Cai and I, along with Cador, Bors, and some of the Cymbrogi, had buried our swordbrothers first, before turning to the pilgrims. Many of the dead had families with them, some of whom stood nearby, weeping quietly as their kinsmen were laid to rest.

  “One more,” I told him, indicating the last of the three.

  Together we dragged the last body to the newly dug grave, and rolled it into the narrow hole. I put my shovel into the mound of dirt and dragged part of the pile onto the body. Cai likewise bent his back to the task, then hesitated. “God bless him,” he muttered under his breath. “I know this one.” I glanced up, and he said, “Is this not the old man who raised the commotion when we closed the shrine?”

  I turned and looked into the bloodless face of the corpse in the grave. “So it is,” I confirmed. The last time I had seen him, he had been striding away with an expression of rapture on his battered old face.

  “He said he wanted to see the Grail before he died,” Cai remembered.

  “Then at least he died happy,” I replied, and began pulling dirt over him.

  A moment later, a rider came from the Tor. “Arthur wants you,” the warrior said. “Bedwyr has returned. You are to come at once.”

  Leaving the mourners to the care of Elfodd’s monks, we rode back to the Tor to face the king’s wrath. Arthur was standing behind his camp chair—the chair Uther had used as a throne—waiting for us in Avallach’s chamber at the Fisher King’s palace. Bedwyr and Rhys were standing before the chair, arms folded and unhappy.

  “He betrayed us!” Arthur said, his voice the growl of a wounded animal. “He has betrayed the Summer Kingdom, he has betrayed his king, and he has betrayed Britain.”

  “We do not know what happened,” Rhys pointed out.

  “Do we not?” demanded the High King, his voice hard and flat and cold. “Do we not? We know the Grail is gone, and Llenlleawg with it; we know eight Cymbrogi were slain by his hand and fifteen pilgrims as well; we know the Summer Realm lies in ruins; we know he has stolen, murdered, and destroyed. If that were not condemnation enough, he has taken the queen with him—whether by force or by deception, I know not—the queen he has vowed to protect through all things. He shall be hunted down like the treacherous dog that he is, and he shall be killed.”

  “Bear,” pleaded Bedwyr, “be reasonable. We will find him and then we will discover the truth.”

  “Let it not be said that Arthur Pendragon was ever less than reasonable,” replied the king i
cily. “We shall be a very paragon of reason. If a servant betrays his master, it is reasonable that he should expect to receive punishment. It is reasonable that the murderer should forfeit his life for his crime. It is reasonable to seek justice and demand retribution.”

  “Justice, yes, by all means,” agreed Bedwyr. “But what of mercy?”

  “Ah,” said Arthur, “you think us too harsh. Then let us temper our justice with mercy as you suggest. Know this: the same mercy granted those who were slain shall be granted the one who murdered them.”

  Bedwyr glanced at Rhys uneasily. Clearly, they wanted to say more, but, owing to Arthur’s poisonous mood, felt their intercessions were only making matters worse. In the strained silence, Cai and I took our places beside our swordbrothers and waited for the storm to break.

  “Twenty-three dead! The Grail gone!” the Pendragon roared suddenly, striking the back of the chair with his fist. “My sword taken, and my queen abducted!” That was the first time I heard that word uttered, but no doubt he was right. The king glared around him, defying anyone to dispute his reading of events. “Is that not the shape of things?”

  No one made bold to answer. Arthur glowered murderously at us; I had never seen him so angry. “You!” he shouted, pointing at Bedwyr. “Have you nothing to say?”

  “In truth,” intoned Bedwyr wearily, “I thought we could not fail. We raised the trail at first light, but—”

  Arthur cut him off. “Save me your excuses. You failed.”

  “Yes.” Bedwyr shut his mouth and stared ahead.

  “A short while ago,” Arthur continued, pacing behind his chair like a caged bear, “I told Avallach that his worst fears had been realized. He was against enshrining the Grail, but I persuaded him that it would be safe. I pledged my honor to it: ‘The best men of the Dragon Flight will protect it. Nothing will happen to it.’ But now—” He glared at us with true contempt and loathing, and I felt the depth of his anger, restrained now, but dangerously close to flaring. “Now it has been stolen by one of our own, and we are no closer to recovering it than we were when the alarm roused us from our beds. The blame will fall on me, and rightly so. But, God help me, I will not—”