Grail

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  We three came slowly to ourselves, like men waking from a dream we all had shared. I looked at Bors and Gereint, and my heart moved within me to see them. Good and faithful men, noble-hearted, loyal through all things—to death, and beyond. How was it possible that I should have gained a portion of such friendship?

  Gereint saw my look and said, “If that was a dream, never wake me.”

  “It was no dream,” Bors replied, stirring himself and looking around. “Did you not drink from the Holy Cup?”

  “What did it taste like to you?” asked Gereint.

  “It was the wine, of course,” I told him. “And fine wine, too.”

  “Wine!” roared Bors. “I wonder at you, Gwalchavad. It was never wine. Have I lived so long not to know mead when I taste it?” He looked to Gereint to support this assertion. “What say you, brother? Mead or wine?”

  “It was the sweetest, most pure water I have ever tasted,” replied Gereint, blissfully ignoring Bors’ lead. “Like water from a living spring.”

  “Wine and water!” scoffed Bors, shaking his head in mystified disbelief. “It was mead, I tell you. Mead! Sweet elixir of life, and libation of kings! How can anyone say otherwise?”

  I gazed longingly at the altar. The cup remained, but not a glimmer of that wild, exultant light persisted. “How strange,” I murmured to myself. “We held eternity in our hands, had we but known.”

  “Eh?” said Bors, glancing at me over his shoulder. “What was that?”

  “We have been given another chance,” I said. “Let us vow here and now to prove ourselves worthy of our charge this time.”

  “Aye,” Bors agreed solemnly. “She called us Guardians, and I will die before I leave this place undefended.”

  Gereint agreed, and we all pledged ourselves to stand guard over the Grail until Arthur returned, or death overtook us. “We had best look outside,” I said, starting for the door.

  “Lord Gwalchavad, your leg—” Gereint began.

  “There was healing in the cup,” I declared. “I tell you, Bors, I feel more refreshed and alive than I have in years.”

  His smile was ready and wide. “I believe you, brother. For my part, I do not believe I ever felt this good.” He gazed around him in expectant wonder, as if hoping to see something of the splendor that we had witnessed only moments before. “Truly, I begin to understand what Arthur must have felt when he was dragged from death’s door.”

  With the greatest reluctance, we left the altar and crossed the chapel to the door, where, one by one, we bowed low and passed through the narrow way. In recognition of my healing, I placed my rude staff just inside the door and stepped through. Once outside, the darkness struck us like the blow of a fist. Though the clearing still glimmered as if with pale moonlight, we reeled on our feet for a moment before finding our balance again.

  “All is quiet,” mused Bors, gazing around at the forest, dark and forbidding as it loomed over the small circle of the clearing. “As much as I wish it, I doubt it will remain so.”

  I was about to suggest that one of us should make a circuit of the chapel to ensure that the clearing remained secure, when Bors said, “Shh!” He stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the darkness.

  Gereint and I froze and waited for Bors to speak. “Someone is watching us,” Bors said after a moment, his voice low and tight. I heard Gereint ease his sword from the strap at his belt, and wished I had something better than a knife.

  “Where?” whispered Gereint, stepping closer. “I see no one.”

  “There,” Bors replied, indicating the place with the blade in his hand. “You there—waiting in the shadows. Come out!”

  “Careful, brother,” I warned. Taking my place behind his right shoulder, I motioned for Gereint to guard Bors’ left side. “There may be more lurking in the trees beyond.”

  We advanced halfway across the clearing and stopped. “You there!” called Bors sternly. “Come out and declare yourself.”

  From the deep-shadowed darkness a voice called out. “Bors! Gwalchavad!”

  “It is Peredur!” said Gereint, starting forward.

  Bors caught him by the arm and pulled him back with a warning look as a solitary figure stepped from the surrounding wood into the clearing. We waited. The young warrior stepped nearer and I recognized the familiar shape and stance at last.

  “It is Peredur,” Gereint insisted, and hastened to welcome his friend. “I feared you had been killed by the beast long since. Have you seen the others?”

  “Is there no one else here?” Peredur asked, looking past Gereint to Bors and myself. “Arthur and Myrddin—are they here?”

  “It is only the three of us,” Gereint told him. “We have seen no one else since coming to this part of the wood.” Raising a hand to the chapel behind us, he said, “We have seen the Grail. It was here.”

  “Truly?” wondered Peredur. “I would give much to have seen that.”

  The remark was innocence itself, but the way he said it made our holy experience seem a petty thing. If we had said we had seen a green dog, or a calf with two heads, it might have drawn the same remark.

  Bors scrutinized the young man closely. “Where is your horse?” he asked.

  “Oh, nearby,” answered Peredur indifferently. “I have ridden hard and the animal is tired. I found a trail—I think the others used it not long ago. Come, we can find them and—”

  “Did you come by way of the burning oak?” asked Bors abruptly. I noticed he had yet to put up his weapon.

  “No,” answered Peredur. “I came a different way.”

  The young warrior seemed disinclined to say more, but Bors pursued the matter. “Which way would that be, then?” he said, more in the way of a demand than a question.

  Peredur turned and looked Bors full in the face. “I came by another way,” the young man said, speaking plain and low. There was an edge to his voice I had never heard before.

  “Who can find their way in this wood?” said Gereint.

  “How long have you been waiting out there?” demanded Bors.

  Peredur’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at Bors, but he made no reply.

  Bors did not allow the query to go unanswered. “It is perfectly simple,” he said, bristling with animosity. “How long were you standing out there waiting for us?”

  Gereint, who had been eager to interpose himself between the two, looked to me for help. I warned him off with a motion of my hand and he stepped back. Peredur put out his empty hands in a show of goodwill. “Your suspicions are ill-placed, my friends,” he said with an awkward laugh. “Yet I bear no grudge. Indeed, I forgive you right readily. Come, now, let us put aside this contention and think what we must do to unite ourselves with our swordbrothers once again.”

  Peredur turned away and made to step around Bors. He had taken but one step when Bors seized him by the shoulder and yanked him back around. “Stay where you are!” he shouted. “Gwalchavad, relieve him of his sword.”

  Knife in hand, I stepped slowly towards the young warrior, saying, “Stand easy, brother. There is nothing to fear. We are your friends.”

  “You behave like enemies!” he snarled, backing away. The hate in his voice struck me like a balled fist.

  “Stand!” said Bors, repeating his command with a jerk of his sword.

  The man before us opened his mouth to protest, then hesitated—only for an instant, but when he spoke, his demeanor had altered completely. The hate and suspicion fell away from him and he became so mild and contrite I felt ashamed of myself for doubting him.

  “Cymbrogi,” he said, “it is me, Peredur. Why are you treating me so poorly?” Raising an inoffensive hand, he made to step by us. “I am so glad to see you. Truly, I thought I would never see any of you again. How long have you been here?”

  “Forgive us, brother,” Gereint said with a sigh of relief. “We did not mean to offend you.” He put up his sword and glanced at Bors expectantly. Bors, too, lowered his blade.

  “W
e should try to find Arthur and Myrddin,” Peredur said. “They cannot be far away. I will show you the trail. Come with me, it is not far.”

  Instantly, my senses pricked. I felt a thin thrill of fear ripple across my shoulders. Without a second thought, I stepped swiftly to Peredur. My knife flicked up in the same quick motion, and I pressed the keen edge hard against his throat.

  “Step away from us, Gereint,” I commanded. “Bors, take his weapon.”

  Peredur gaped in disbelief. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Perhaps,” I replied as Bors, sword upraised, quickly snatched the blade from the young man’s hand. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed the chapel, and it came into my mind how we might discern the truth. “But you will forgive us our madness, I think. We will not be deceived again.”

  I grasped him by the upper arm and, my knife still hard against his throat, I pulled him forward.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, growing frightened.

  “To the altar,” I answered, “where men’s hearts are tried and known.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Grail is gone.

  Morgaws tells me that it disappeared. The lying bitch insists she had it secured, and that from the moment Llenlleawg delivered it to her, the casket never left her sight. The casket she possesses still, but the cup is gone; what is more, she claims it vanished at the moment the king’s champion attacked his king.

  Morgaws will pay for this blunder. Oh, yes, she will pay dearly. I taught her better than this. Could she not see how much they valued the Grail—that alone should have warned her to be on her guard. How could she be so blind?

  The insolent cow insinuates that it is my fault for not warning her of the cup’s true power. I remind her that whatever else it may be, the cup is just bait in a trap so far as she is concerned, and that whatever powers it might possess, the gaudy trinket certainly did not divert the doom which even now crushes our enemies in its cold embrace.

  The disappearance of the cup makes not the slightest difference; it will not change anything. All is ordered as I have planned, and even now the end swiftly approaches. Already, events are hurtling towards the consummation of my plan: my crowntaking, and the reign of terror to follow. My triumph will be devastating.

  Some monarchs, upon accession to the throne, declare the pardon of their opponents, and the forgiveness of sins practiced against them. I shall do the opposite, however. The blood will flow from one end of Britain to the other! I think I shall begin with bishops, and then…well, all in good time.

  First, I must have that cup. Morgaws will devote her full attention to its recovery—before the fools somehow discover what it was they let slip away. The thought that they might get hold of it again does not sit well with me. It may be time for me to intervene.

  “Brother,” said Peredur, dragging his feet, “there is no need for this. You are anxious over nothing.”

  I drew the young warrior forward a few paces, whereupon he stopped. “Gereint,” he said, pleading, “you are my kinsman. Tell them—tell them.”

  Bors stepped behind us and prodded the reluctant warrior from behind with the sword point in the small of his back. “Move along, friend.”

  Peredur, outmanned and unarmed, seemed to accept his lot. He nodded and proceeded docilely. “You are wise to be suspicious,” he said after a few steps. “But you know me. What can you possibly hope to achieve? It is meaningless.”

  At this I began to doubt. What did I hope to prove by making him swear his faith and loyalty before the altar? It was, as he had said, a meaningless exercise and would prove nothing.

  I felt hard bone and muscle under my hand and doubt stole over me. Fool! What are you doing? Has the enemy so confused and deceived you that you can no longer tell the difference between friend and foe? Let him go!

  As if echoing my thoughts, Peredur said, “Let me go—I will not think the worse of you. Trust me; we can still find the others, but we must hurry.”

  If I had been alone, I believe I would have released him then and there. The urge to do so was stronger than my conviction to see the thing through. But Bors, when roused, is not easily put off. “Save your breath,” he told the young warrior flatly. “It is soon over, and no harm will come to you.”

  With that we marched to the chapel door, whereupon I removed the knife from his throat and, shifting my free hand to the back of his head, pushed Peredur down so he could navigate the low entrance. He stooped and bent his back as he entered the narrow opening. But as his foot touched the threshold, he suddenly froze.

  “No!” he shouted, and made to squirm away. I renewed my grip on his arm and held him tight. “It proves nothing. I will not do it.”

  Bors, close behind, put out a hand and pushed him further into the narrow opening. The young man arched his back and dug in his heels.

  “Get on with it, man,” Bors urged roughly. “There is nothing to fear.”

  “No!” he cried again, almost frantic this time, his fingers raking at the pillar stones of the entrance. “No!”

  Bors, larger and stronger, pushed him further through the doorway. Twisting and turning, Peredur fought, resisting with all his strength. He shouted to be released, his distress turning quickly to rage. Bors, however, was growing ever more determined and would not be moved. He stooped and, with a mighty heave, shoved the struggling warrior through the low entrance and into the chapel.

  Bors followed him through and I pushed quickly in behind them. Peredur had landed on hands and knees on the stone-flagged floor, and Bors stood over him, reaching down a hand to raise him up. I joined Bors and, taking hold of the young man’s arm, said, “Here, now—come stand before the altar.”

  As I took his arm, I felt a tremor pass through his body. His head whipped around, mouth open to bite my hand. With but a fleeting glimpse of his face, I released my hold and leapt aside. “Bors!” I cried. “Get back!”

  In the same instant, Peredur gave out a tremendous guttural growl and rose up, flinging Bors aside as if he were no more than a toddling child. Bors fell on his side, his head striking the stone floor. He made to rise and collapsed. I dove to his aid as Peredur, shaking in every limb, began howling like an animal.

  “Bors!” I cried, trying to shake him awake. “Can you hear me? Get up!”

  A ragged snarl of rage filled the chapel. I glanced over my shoulder to where Peredur stood. I no longer recognized him at all: his neck was bent, forcing his head down low onto his chest; his lower jaw jutted out and his mouth gaped, revealing teeth both sharp and oddly curved; his shoulders and arms were thicker, his back more broad, with humps of powerful muscle. But it was his eyes that startled me most—red-rimmed and wild, they bulged out of their sockets as if they would burst from within.

  Still howling, he turned and slowly stepped towards me, long hands with fingers like claws, twitching and reaching. Bors was still unconscious, and I could not leave him. I looked for his sword, but could not see it.

  “Gereint!” I shouted.

  He entered the chapel at a run. Without a quiver of hesitation, Gereint interposed himself between the monstrous Peredur and me, his blade drawn. Taking no heed, the thing lurched nearer, growling and slavering like a wolf for the kill.

  Gereint held his ground; the blade in his hand never wavered. Heedless of the sword, the brute lunged and made a raking swipe, which the young warrior deftly deflected. The howling thing received a quick slash on the arm. “In God’s name, stay back!” warned Gereint.

  At this the creature threw back its head and shrieked, gnashing its teeth and clawing at the air. Then, still shrieking, it started forth once more. Bors came awake at the sound. He pushed himself up from the floor and struggled to rise—only to slump back once more. “I am with you, brother,” I said, holding to him so as to protect him.

  On a sudden inspiration, Gereint grasped the naked blade and turned it in his hand, presenting the hilt upward in imitation of the Holy Cross—as Arthur had done at the consecrati
on of the Grail Shrine. Taking the blade in both hands, he held the sword hilt before him, thrusting it at arm’s length into the brute’s face.

  The creature roared, and staggered backward. Gereint advanced, holding the sword-cross and calling, “In Jesu’s holy name, be gone!”

  The brute loosed a mind-freezing scream and began clawing at itself, as if to tear the ears from its own hideous head. It sank to its knees, wailing, keening, gnashing its teeth. Dauntless Gereint bore down upon it, calling upon Christ to drive the thing away.

  The wicked thing shrieked and shrieked again to drown out all sound but that of its own torment. Then, even as we watched, the thing began to change again: its body stretched, growing thinner and taller, until its narrow head almost touched the rooftrees of the chapel—whereupon it could no longer support its height and fell, doubling over itself, to writhe and thrash, beating itself upon the floor.

  Gereint, unyielding, his face hard as flint, clutched his improvised cross and stood implacable. Wailing pitifully, the creature continued its hideous transformation, its thin body becoming small and scaly and its terrible voice waning away to a high, hissing scream. It rolled in its writhing coils and then slithered for the chapel door, where, with the speed of a fleeing serpent, it slipped over the threshold and disappeared into the night beyond.

  The young warrior, still clutching the sword-cross, hastened to where I knelt with Bors. “It has gone,” he said, his voice hollow, his face drained.

  “Well done, Gereint,” I told him, and noticed the blood dripping from his hands. He had gripped the sword blade so tightly, he had cut his palms and fingers. I reached for the hilt. “You can let go now, son. The fight is over.”

  Gereint released the sword, which I returned to its place at his side, then helped him cut strips from his cloak to bind his hands. I tied the strips in place, and we turned our attention to Bors. Between us, we rolled the big man onto his back, bunched up his cloak, and put it beneath his head to make him as comfortable as possible. Then Gereint and I sat down together; leaning against the stout wall, we rested and talked about what had happened.