Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  We journeyed an eternity, or so it seemed. With neither light nor shadow to mark the passing day, time dwindled and stretched, and then stood still. Once, my horse stumbled over a rock and I came awake with a cry. Glancing quickly around, I found everything as it was before: dense, cloying fog pressing in on every side. Nothing had changed; nevertheless, I felt vexed at having slept, for, try as I might, I could not remember falling asleep.

  “Gwalchavad?” said Rhys, his voice close.

  I could make out my companion as a disembodied head peering anxiously back at me as if through a depth of clouded water—the face of a drowned man, bloodless and cold, and pale as a fish. All at once it came into my mind to warn Arthur…

  “The river!” I shouted, surprising even myself with the sudden outcry. “Arthur! Stop! There is a river ahead!”

  Arthur’s reply was quick and decisive. “Rhys, the horn,” he said. “Sound the halt.”

  An instant later came the blast of the horn, signaling the column to stop. Arthur passed word back through the ranks to dismount and rest the horses. I slid from the saddle and walked a few paces ahead to where Myrddin and Arthur waited. “The river is treacherous with quicksand,” I told them. “I lost my horse to it last time.”

  Arthur regarded me with a bemused expression on his face. “We can see nothing of the trail ahead; how can you be certain we are anywhere near the river?”

  His question brought me up short. Before he asked, I had been sure we were ready to topple over the brink. But now, as I observed their expressions of perplexity and concern, the certainty, so solid and secure just a moment before, crumbled away to nothing. I looked to the track before us and saw only the dull blankness of the all-obscuring fog.

  I was saved from having to explain when Myrddin, calmly concerned, said, “Come, it will not hurt to walk ahead a little.” He and Arthur dismounted, and we proceeded up the trail.

  We had moved only a few paces, however, when my feet began sinking into soft mud. Arthur, beside me, took another step and his foot splashed into shallow water. He stopped at once, turned towards me, and opened his mouth to speak; but before he could say a word, his feet were sucked down into the quagmire. He threw out a hand, which I seized and pulled towards me. We stumbled backward together onto solid ground.

  “Well done, Gwalchavad,” he commended.

  “The first rider in would have been lost,” Myrddin observed.

  “That first rider would have been me,” Arthur declared, shaking cold mud from his feet. “And others would have followed me in.

  “Stay near,” said the king, gripping my shoulder. “I have need of your discernment.”

  That was all he said, but I sensed urgency in his touch. “What little I have is yours, lord,” I said lightly.

  “How do we get across?” wondered Cador, coming up behind us.

  “There is a fording place some way up the valley,” I told him.

  “Lead on, Gwalchavad,” the king commanded; “we will follow you.”

  As before, by the time we reached the fording, the day was spent. Rather than attempt the crossing in the dark, we made camp and waited to cross the river until morning—hoping against hope that the mist might lift during the night. There were thickets of bramble and furze abounding along the riverside, and the Cymbrogi set about hacking at the roots with their swords, quickly gathering whole bushes into a great heap which Myrddin promptly set alight. The resulting flame burned with a foul black smoke, but the heat and light were welcome nonetheless. We hung our wet clothes over the prickly branches of low-growing gorse and stood basking in the warmth, trying to drive the cold and damp from our bones. Some put their boots on sticks and held them near the flames to dry them.

  When the fire died down to a comfortable blaze, we prepared our supper, glad for a hot meal at last. We ate in small huddles of men, hunched over our bowls as if afraid the cold and darkness might try to steal away the little warmth and light we held. Still, it was good to get something hot inside us, and our spirits improved immeasurably—so much so, in fact, that Cai, having finished his meal, set aside his bowl, stood up, and called for a song.

  “Are we to allow the dolor of the day to gnaw at our souls until there is nothing left but a sour rind?” He raised his voice as if to challenge a foe. “Are we to sit shivering before the fire, muttering like old women taking fear at every shadow?”

  Several of the older warriors, knowing Cai, answered him in kind. “Never!” they shouted, rattling their knives against their bowls. “Never!”

  “Are we not the Dragon Flight of Arthur Pendragon?” cried Cai, his arm raised high in the air. “Are we not True Men of Ynys Prydain?”

  “We are!” called the Cymbrogi, more joining in with every shout. “We are!”

  “Well, then,” Cai declared, his broad face glowing with pleasure in the firelight, “let us defy this ill-favored night with a song!”

  “A song!” the Cymbrogi cried; every man was with him now, shouting for a song to roll aside the gloom and woe.

  With that, Cai flung out his arm towards Myrddin, sitting a few paces away. “Well, Myrddin Emrys? You hear the men. We would have a song to bind vigor to our souls and courage to our hearts.”

  “A song, Myrddin! A song!”

  To the hearty acclaim of all, the Emrys rose slowly, motioning to Rhys to fetch his harp. He took his place before the fire, and the Cymbrogi crowded in around him. “If you would hear a tale,” Myrddin began, “then listen well to what I say: the enemy encircles us and dogs our every step. Therefore, let us take up whatever weapon comes to hand. Tonight we raise a song, tomorrow a prayer—and one day soon a sword. In the darksome days to come, let each man resolve within himself to hold to the light that he has been given.”

  So saying, Myrddin reached for the harp Rhys had brought him, and began to pluck the strings. He bent his head and put his cheek against the smooth, polished wood of the instrument, and closed his eyes. In a moment, the seemingly idle strumming became purposeful. Everyone, Arthur included, leaned forward as the Bard of Britain opened his mouth and began to sing.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “When the dew of creation was still on the ground,” Myrddin sang, his voice rising like a graceful bird taking flight, “a great king arose in the Westerlands, and Manawyddan was his name. So mighty was this king, and of such renown, that all nations held him lord over them and sent their best warriors to his court to pledge their loyalty and serve him at arms. And this is the way of it:

  “Manawyddan, fair and true, received the warriors and bade them wait upon him in his hall. When all were gathered there and ready, the noble lord arrayed himself in his fine cloak, took up his rod of kingship, and mounted his throne. He gazed out upon the assembly and thought to himself: A thousand times blessed am I! No man ever wanted better companions. In truth, each man among them could have been king in his own realm had he not chosen to pledge faith with Manawyddan.

  “The great king’s heart was touched by the glory of his warhost, and so he bade them stay a while with him, that they all might enjoy a feast he would give in their honor. When the feast was prepared, the warriors, noblemen all, came and filled the benches at table, where they were provided with the best food that was ever placed before men of valor from that far-off time to this. What is more, whatever food any warrior preferred—whether the flesh of deer, or pigs, or beef; or the delicate meat of roast fowls, or succulent salmon—he had but to dip his knife into the bowl before him, and that food was provided.

  “The warriors were delighted with this wonder, and acclaimed their host with loud approval. So clamorous were they in their praise that Manawyddan was moved to decree another wonder. He ordered golden ale tubs to be set up in all four corners of the hall, and one beside his throne. He then summoned his serving boys to bring drinking bowls of silver and gold to his noble guests, and invited them to plunge their cups into the foaming brew. This they did, and when each man raised bowl to lips, he found the drink he
liked best—whether ale, or mead, or wine, or good dark beer.

  “When they had drunk the health of their sovereign host, the noble guests accorded such vaunted praise that Manawyddan’s great heart swelled to hear it. He pulled his golden torc from around his throat, put aside his fine cloak, and stepped down from his throne to join in the feast, moving from table to table and bench to bench, eating and drinking with his guests, sharing the feast as one of them.

  “When hunger’s keen edge had been dulled against the bounty of the groaning boards, King Manawyddan called for his bards to regale the company with tales of mighty deeds, songs of love and death, of courage and compassion, of faith and treachery. One after another, the bards appeared, providing a feast for the soul, each one finer and more accomplished than the last.

  “The last bard to sing was Kynwyl Truth-Sayer, Chief Bard of Manawyddan, who had just begun the Tale of the Three Prodigious Quaffings when there came a shout from outside the hall; the shout became a cry, and then a keening, beginning loud and growing louder and louder still until it shook the entire stronghold to its deep foundations, and every mortal creature within the stout walls covered his ears and trembled inwardly.

  “Then, when the bold company thought they must be undone by the terrible sound, it stopped. The warrior host looked at one another and saw that they were covered in the sweat of fear, for none of them had ever heard a cry like this: tortured beyond endurance, beyond hope.

  “Before they could wonder who might have made a cry of such wounding torment, the high-topped doors of the hall burst open and a tremendous wind swept through the hall—a fierce gale like those which rage in the wintry northern seas. The warrior band braved the icy blast and when it had abated at last, they looked and saw a lady standing in their midst. The stranger had the look of a queen, and she was dressed all in gray from crown to heel; her face was hidden beneath a hood of gray, and she had three gray hounds beside her.

  “Manawyddan was first to recover his wits. He approached the woman, his hands open and inviting. ‘I give you good greeting,’ he said, speaking in a kindly voice. ‘You are welcome here, though you may find the companionship of women more to your liking. If so, I will summon the maidens of my court, that you may be made comfortable in their presence.’

  “ ‘Think you I have come seeking comfort and pleasure?’ the Gray Lady snapped haughtily.

  “ ‘I was merely offering you the hospitality of my court,’ replied Manawyddan. ‘Unless you tell us, we will never know why you have burst in among us. Was it to put an end to our enjoyment?’

  “ ‘You may keep your hospitality!’ remarked the woman tartly. ‘I have done with all kindliness and generosity. The gentle pursuits I once enjoyed are more bitter to me now than death and ashes.’

  “ ‘Indeed, I am sorry to hear it,’ Manawyddan replied sadly. ‘Tell me what I may do to restore warmth and tenderness to your heart, and rest assured that before the sun has set on another day, I will have done all anyone can do. What is more, the men who even now fill this hall are no less ready to aid me in this endeavor.’

  “This handsome offer was thrown back in the king’s face, for the lady offered only a grim, mocking laugh in reply.

  “ ‘Lady,’ said Manawyddan, ‘why do you persist in this uncouth behavior? I have made a king’s vow to do all that can be done to aid you in any way you desire. I am certain that my men and I can meet and overcome any difficulty, end any oppression, right any wrong, and thus redress whatever hurt or harm has befallen you.’

  “This heart-stirring speech received the acclaim of all who heard it. The noblemen lauded their monarch and pledged themselves to the Gray Lady’s service.

  “But the strange woman scorned their pledges. ‘Can you raise the dead, O Great King?’ She laughed, and her laughter was bitterness itself. ‘Can you restore life to a corpse on which the carrion crows have feasted? Can you make the blood flow once more in the veins when that blood has soaked the earth, and the living heart is but a lump of cold meat in the breast? Can you, O Wondrous Manawyddan, return the warm gaze of love to an eye which has been cut out and thrown to the dogs?’

  “Hearing this, Manawyddan’s great heart surged with grief for the lady’s plight. ‘Lady, your sorrow has become my sorrow, and your woe my own. But know this: the full weight of the sadness you feel now, seven times that much will be visited upon the one who has caused your lament.’

  “At this, the mysterious lady bowed her head and professed herself well pleased, knowing Manawyddan would honor his vow to the last breath in his body. She then began to tell the king what had transpired to bring about her ruin. The warriors pressed close around to hear—and between the telling and the hearing, it was difficult to say which was the more distressing.

  “ ‘I was not always the gray hag you see before you now,’ the lady said. ‘Once I was beautiful, but mourning has made me old and dry before my time. Listen, then, if you would learn the reason for my travail.

  “ ‘I am the daughter of a mountain king called Rhongomynyad, a ruler both wise and good, who fell ill of a night and died not long after. I was left alone to rule in his place until I should marry and my husband relieve me of that tedious duty. As one might expect, from the moment my father’s demise was made known in the world, the path to my stronghold was crowded with suitors seeking to win my approval. Truth to tell, though I never found any of these hopeful young men remotely to my liking, still I did not grow weary of the chase.

  “ ‘One day, as the customarily disappointing flock of suitors ambled through the fortress gates, my eye chanced upon a tall young man fair in face and form: slender, but not too thin; handsome, but not vain; proud, but not arrogant; kind, but not simpering; generous, but not profligate; canny, but not conceited; friendly, but not flighty; trustworthy, but not dour. In short, my heart kindled with love for him the moment his eye met mine.

  “ ‘We spent the day, and all the days to follow, in close companionship, and my love grew greater each time we met. Before the summer was over, we were betrothed. Our wedding was to be held in the spring, and I could turn aside from the duties of sovereignty which weighed so heavily upon me. Like all betrothed couples, we made our plans and dreamed our dreams, and my love for my beloved was as all-consuming as the flame of an ever-burning fire.

  “ ‘Then one day, while my beloved was tending to affairs in his father’s realm, a dark-clothed man came striding into my court. Without so much as a tender glance in my direction, he declared himself king by virtue of his skill at arms and challenged any who would dispute him to draw sword or heft spear, and have at it. To my shame and outrage, no one would defend me. All the young men who stood in my court shrank away, shaking with fear.

  “ ‘For, like a man in most respects, in stature this dark foe was nothing less than a giant! Standing two men high, he was broad of shoulder and long of arm. His weapons were black iron, and his shield iron, too. It took two men just to heft his axe, and three to raise that weighty shield.

  “ ‘Nevertheless, my beloved soon heard what had happened. And up he jumped, calling for his sword belt and spear; he called for his horse to be saddled and his shield to be burnished. He mounted his horse and rode straightaway to take up the challenge. The two met on the path leading to my fortress, and the narrow valley between two mountains became the battleground.

  “ ‘Alas! They fought! The combat was fierce and, alas, my best beloved was killed!

  “ ‘The Black Oppressor fell upon the body of my beloved, plucked the eyes from his head, and threw them to the hounds. Then he hewed the eyeless head from those fair shoulders and stuck it upon his iron spear. He set the spear over the gate of my fortress as a reminder to all who passed beneath the bloodless head that he now ruled the realm. That same day, he claimed me for his wife, and had me bound and borne to my chamber, which he had taken for his own. He then demanded a meal to be prepared and served him in the hall; he said it was to be our marriage feast. The glutton devoured seven pi
gs, three oxen, nine lambs, and drank four vats of ale, while I touched not a morsel.

  “ ‘While the Black Giant feasted in my hall, I bound courage to my heart and determined that when he came for me, I would either be dead or gone. I struggled free of my bonds, and then sought my escape. Alas, the door was securely barred, and there was no other way out. I bade farewell to life. Taking up the ropes that had bound me, I knotted the lengths together to make a noose, which, with trembling hands, I placed around my neck.

  “ ‘I was even then tightening the noose when one of my serving maids entered the chamber. She had come to light the fire in the hearth so that the chamber would be warm for my hideous bridegroom and me. When she saw the killing ropes around her lady’s neck, she threw herself upon me and vowed to help me escape if I would only take her with me. I agreed at once, and we stole that instant from the chamber, pausing only to set fire to the bed.

  “ ‘From that dire day to this,’ the Gray Lady concluded, ‘I have wandered where I would, seeking justice and retribution. Most miserable of women am I! Never has any creature shown himself man enough to meet the Black Giant in combat and rescue my realm and my people.

  “ ‘Even so, to show you I am in earnest and virtue is with me wherever I go, I offer this promise: any man who slays the Black Oppressor shall that day have me for his bride—and my kingdom and all I possess. Fortunate is the man who takes me to wife,’ she added, ‘for I know well what I am worth.’

  “Great Manawyddan cast his gaze upon the gathered warriors, each one more accomplished and stalwart than the last. ‘You have heard the lady’s tale of woe,’ he said. ‘Who among you will take up the challenge? Who will slay this vile being and restore the lady’s kingdom? Who among you will cover himself in glory and bring honor to this court?’

  “At once there arose a tremendous outcry as the doughty warriors strove to make themselves heard each above the other. But the man who carried the day was the king’s own champion, a warrior of vast renown, and Llencellyn was his name. ‘My king and lord,’ said Llencellyn when he had gained his sovereign’s ear, ‘may I be bound in chains and hurled into the sea if I do not avenge this lady and restore her realm before three days have passed.’