Not much to say about how the rest of the day passed, as we spent it traveling as quickly as we could without taxing the donkey. We passed an Allied patrol or two that looked at us suspicious, but they let us by without much comment. Stopped a few times to let the donkey rest and graze and for us to eat our rations, but we noticed the donkey didn’t seem to need much, any more than we did. Mostly we rode in silence, Cap in one corner of the cart with his ankle resting on the top rail of the side, Lynch laying beside him, arm in a sling. “Shouldn’t this arm be healing if this Grail is so powerful?” he asked.
“Not if yer the one that unwrapped it uninvited,” Borland said.
“I think it heals only those who open their minds and souls to it,” I said. “Lynch, I hate to speak ill of an injured man, but I don’t think you’ve done either.”
For once, Lynch had nothing to say, and the same went for the rest of us. Considering what we had discovered in the mists of that morning, I don’t think anyone would blame us.
“So why are we hauling this?” I asked, simply needing to understand.
“Long story, but they’ve been trying to keep this from falling into the wrong hands,” Cap said.
“And what would the Huns want with a red brick trophy-cup?” Lynch asked, in a voice the fancy writers would probably call a sneer.
“Shut yer gob, Lynch, if ye can’t keep yer tongue half civil,” Borland growled.
“You’ve seen it, the way the land changes when we pass through, the fact that we haven’t had to eat or sleep as much as we usually would,” Cap said. “That level of power needs to be safeguarded.”
“Otherwise, the war’s for naught,” Borland said, gravely.
“I thought only the pure of heart could find the Grail?” Lynch said.
“There’s always some who’ve given themselves over to the darkness that it becomes a zero-sum game,” Cap said. “They might make a grab at it and they might succeed for a time, but in the end, it’ll backfire in their faces, if not here, then in the hereafter. Worse case, they destroy it when it fails to bend to their wishes, and then things get much worse.”
Couldn’t help imagining Hitler and his goons trying to use the thing in some weird black magic ceremony—we’ve heard rumors of dark doings going on in castles in Germany, of pacts made with dark forces, though with all the terrible things the Nazis done, would that kind of help be really necessary?— and wrecking the treasure when it refused to bend to his rotten will.
“So, it’s to keep evil from triumphing?” Lynch asked, at length. “That seems to fly in the face of your insistence that God will prevail.”
Piers spoke up then. “It might lengthen the time of sorrow before right triumphs, and then more people would be lost.”
That seemed to satisfy Lynch, as he made no reply to it. I suspected he wanted to say more, but felt too tired and pained to say much.
We drove well into the night, the donkey not seeming to tire. I thought of the donkey that carried Mary and the Christ Child to Egypt, Joseph guiding it, the little critter pressing on through the night and the desert sand, carrying the precious burden and not balking, though the beast barely knew why.
I feel like I stepped into a fairy tale crossed with a saint story, even while I crossed over some dark ground that I passed over just months ago during the landing in Normandy.
Dawn broke all pink and orange over the land as we reached the shore country. Haven’t seen a more beautiful sunrise ever, as if the Almighty had painted the sky just to greet us. We met a patrol to which Cap gave a password. They looked at our gear funny, then let us pass, even guiding us through what remained of the German fortifications and onto the beach itself.
Once we reached what Borland called the shingle, we didn’t see our pick up at first, but then through the morning mist, we saw a boat off shore, a two-masted sailboat with a rowboat pulling away from it, the people in the smaller boat paddling toward us. I raised our dark lantern in the signal that Cap had told me to give, three short blinks of the lantern and two longer ones, and someone in the rowboat signaled back in the counter sign, same flashes.
The rowboat, with an older man paddling it and a young woman who might have been his daughter standing in the middle, pulled into the shallows and the woman stepped out into the shallows. Not sure what I’d expected, maybe they’d be wearing medieval clothes, the man in armor or wearing a crown and fine robes and the woman in a long flowing gown with wide sleeves and a pointed hat like a dunce cap on her head, but somehow, beyond the signal, I knew these people in plain tweedy stuff were the ones we were supposed to meet.
“Do you bring the Grail?” the woman, a shade shorter than me with long red hair pulled back from her face, asked me in a soft voice with a wee bit of what sounded like an Irish accent.
“Yes, we do,” I said. Piers and Borland came forward with the box. “Someone broke the lid: we’re sorry about that,” Piers said. Borland shushed him, but the vinegar seemed to have gone out of him. The woman didn’t make much of that, even smiled at him.
“The Grail tends to its own,” she said, holding out her hands to take the box.
“We found that out,” I said, and wished I hadn’t opened my mouth: it felt like I’d just grumbled during a wedding or a First Holy Communion Mass.
The woman smiled on me and even the older man in the boat smiled into his beard. I’d even say she beamed on us, the smile somehow seemed as bright as the sunrise. She took the box from us and set it into the well of the boat.
In the next moment, she held the cup in her hands, the dawn’s light glowing on the golden frame that held it, the gems set into the gold, even glowing on the gloss of the cup itself, the mist around them catching the glow.
“It does not matter that your path was full of imperfections,” I heard her say. “What matters is that you stayed the course in spite of them. Go, my brethren, and may God’s love overflow the cup.” She raised the Cup, moving it in the Sign of the Cross. We sank down onto our knees on the wet sand, ignoring the damp. I made the Sign of the Cross, like I’d done a thousand times, but in that moment, it felt like the first time I’d ever made it. Piers knelt there agape, but the innocence in his face shone out like the sunlight. Borland bowed his head and clasped his hands, looking like a knight about to receive a blessing from his king.
Then the moment passed, the woman—no, the Grail Maiden—lowered the cup and laid it back into its box before sitting down in the boat beside it. The old man set to with the oars, paddling back to the waiting ship, taking the Grail with them into the mist. We got back into the cart and with our escort, rode back to the nearest command post. Cap had the report to file, the rest us (except Lynch, last time I saw him, an MP was standing over him, asking him Some Serious Questions) had reassignments ahead of us, and I had to get this all down on paper before it all faded from my head. Not sure if it will, but I want to make sure it’s there for you to see and read about.
Archivist’s Note: Captain Lance Duloc recovered from his injuries and would later give his life during the final attack on Berlin. After the war ended, Piers returned to his family and their farm in Wales, where the sheep flock he raised was known for its especially fine, strong wool. Borland later hung up his bow and entered the Anglican priesthood. Lynch was court martialed for insubordination and attempting to sabotage a sensitive mission. Maguire returned to his home in the north-eastern United States, where he later shared this story with his children and grandchildren; his granddaughter Allison would later research the facts behind it.
The present location of the Grail is undisclosed according to official sources, though it is believed to be held in a secure vault under a Catholic church in the hill country of rural Wales. Some locals have claimed to have seen it carried in a spectral procession through the hills at the feast of Corpus Christi, and other witnesses have claimed to have seen it carried through the ruins of Glastonbury at Easter.
Dedicated to the memories of Fortunata Caliri, English literature
professor and family friend, who gave me a copy of Mallory’s “Le Morte d’Arthur” when I was fifteen and started my own quest for the Grail, and of Leo F. Mulhare, Private First Class, 79th Infantry, Third Army, and my grandfather, who served in the second wave during the Allied landing at Normandy, June 6th, 1944.
CHAPTER 20
Fox let the last words of the story linger in the silence of the wagon for a moment; then it lurched to a stop.
“Clearing out the path again,” Lance said, standing up. “Give me an axe, I’ll help.”
Lance climbed out of the wagon to help clear the path; Maddie and Fox were the only ones that stayed inside.
“Not helping this time?” Maddie asked.
“I wasn’t very much help before,” Fox answered, “physical labor is... unfortunately not my strongest skill.”
Maddie looked down at her lap, playing with her fingers. Fox tilted his head curiously.
“Are you okay?”
Maddie didn’t answer.
“It’s okay to be frightened, you know,” Fox said, “it’s okay to say that you are.”
“I’m not frightened, I’m just…” She looked up again. “I’m nervous.”
The thought of dying didn’t bother Maddie; it hadn’t for a long time. If she died to save her father, she was okay with that possibility. But the idea of their plan failing? Because she couldn’t do her part? Maddie was definitely afraid of that.
And what if she died saving Brand’s life? What happened to her then?
“You’re not sure you’re pretty enough,” Fox stated. Maddie blinked.
“I... I never said that—”
“You shouldn’t worry, you are,” he continued earnestly. Maddie felt her face heat up.
“Uh... thank you, but you’re not the one I’m trying to seduce.”
They sat in awkward silence for a moment before Fox continued.
“You know, women did some great things for King Arthur,” he said, “you remind me of Queen Guinevere. Able to do whatever she had to for her people.”
“Didn’t Guinevere cause the fall of Camelot?”
“Guinevere’s sin was the most direct cause and effect, yes, but let us never forget that Arthur himself was a murderer. All sin and fall short before the glory of God.”
Maddie bit her lip. “I really remind you of Guinevere?”
“I had a vision once, of her,” he said, “would you like to hear it?”
Maddie peered out the window, at the men of Fox’s troupe trying to clear a path.
“Well, I suppose we have time.”
CHAPTER 21
The Knight of Crows, by Lela E. Buis
The day had dawned chill but clear, but now it darkened as clouds like the black wings of crows fled before the wind. The crowns of trees in the wood bowed before the sharp gusts, bright leaves torn from their boughs and flying. The drying grass of the meadow flattened, and the limbs of the crabapple tree clattered like bones knocking together.
The young Guinevere caught at the wind-blown strands of her fair hair.
“Godsblood,” she cried. “A storm! We have to get back to the keep!”
Her handmaids looked up, their baskets yet only half full with apples. The maids were near as fair as their queen, their faces youthful and sweet, as yet untouched by the sere fingers of time. Their gowns were fine brocade and samite, and they had been chattering and laughing like songbirds only a few moments before.
Now they grabbed their things, gathered them together while the wind gusted, billowing their skirts, and the sky turned an eerie yellow-gray. They had come a distance from the hold in search of the apples, crunching through the hoary frost of a sun-bright morning, and now they would have to retrace their steps back into the teeth of the gale.
“Oh, hurry!” cried Viola, the youngest, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. “We’re going to get wet!”
At that moment horsemen broke from the wood. The women had thought the rumble of hooves was only thunder, but now they scattered with sharp cries into the brush, leaving the baskets behind. Guinevere was as quick as any of them. Heart beating hard, she found refuge in a bramble of berry vines. She heard screams behind her, sank down and swung to look through the branches back into the glen.
Little Viola had fallen, and one of the armsmen had caught her up. Her pale skirts trailed down the withers of his heavy horse, and she writhed and fought in the man’s arms, struggled to free herself. He only laughed and threw her across his saddle. The knights wore the standards of Melwas, King of the Summer Country. They were Arthur’s enemies.
Guinevere gasped and half rose from the brambles. She wanted to fly to the rescue, but the men were beating the bushes for the women now. It was clear she would be a fool to show herself. She turned instead and started working her way up the hill through the cover of the brambles that tore at her hem and left bloody trails on her arms and sides, even through the weight of her clothing.
The men shouted, worked up the hill so they were between her and the hold. She then turned, made for the wood instead, and the sky opened like a well bucket, pouring cold rain on her head. At least it reduced visibility for all—it meant she safely crossed the open space and made it into the cover of the trees.
She huddled in the sheltering roots of an ancient oak, soaked through, her skirts sodden and clinging about her legs. She had been a noble and stately queen only a short while before, but now she was only a cold and frightened girl, brought low by the elements.
The rain finally slacked. Guinevere rose like a frightened doe from her burrow beneath the tree, shivering, and pulled her cloak tighter. A murder of crows settled into the tree above her, their harsh calls cutting through the quiet of the wood. They were ill enough harbingers, but she thought their presence meant King Melwas’ men had passed on.
This was a disaster. Viola was her cousin, and entrusted into her care. Arthur the King had taken his knights yesterday morn to see to raiders in the north, and there was only a skeleton of crew in the hold now for dealing with incursions. She needed to get back there right now.
Guinevere looked around, found her bearings, and began to walk under the roiling sky, soon finding a path in the right direction. She took care as she emerged from the wood, but there seemed to be no horsemen—they must have taken cover elsewhere from the storm. She ran along the path then, hurrying her steps, and came to the keep safely enough.
“Hie,” she called to the gate guard. He was nearly as young as Viola, and his eyes grew large under his leather helm when he saw her, soaked and with her hem weighted and filthy with mud.
“We were attacked in the glen,” she panted, “and Viola taken. Send someone to look for my handmaids.”
She stalked past him through the gate and into the muddy courtyard, stopped. Sir Mordred was there. He stood by a blaze-faced war horse, held by his squire, seemingly prepared to mount. Another bay horse stood by the side, untacked and favoring one hind leg.
“Sir Mordred!” she cried, and hurried forward.
He paused and turned to look at her, his gaunt face and hollow cheeks made even more saturnine by the wan light of the storm clouds still flying in the wind above the keep. He raised his eyebrows slightly at her bedraggled condition, but inclined his head regardless.
“My queen?” he said then. He drew himself up, whether from dignity or coldness, she couldn’t guess.
“I thought thee had gone with Arthur,” she said.
“My horse was taken with lameness,” he said. “I returned for another-I can catch up with the party within a span of days.”
“Please,” she said, still short of breath. “I have need of thine aid.”
He raised his dark brows again.
“Yes?” he said.
“King Melwas’ men have taken my cousin Viola. She’s only a child of twelve years, and I promised her father that I would care for her. I need a strong man-of-arms to rescue her from their clutches.”
He tightened his mouth, st
ared up at the clouded sky, out the gate and then back down at her. It would be a difficult task to brace Melwas’ men with only the crew left now at the hold.
“My queen,” he said, “I cannot. My allegiance belongs with the king.”
“Sir Mordred…” she said.
“My queen,” he said, “farewell, I must be gone.”
He mounted his horse, reined toward the gate.
The black murder of crows had followed her here, settled now along the keep’s south wall. Mordred’s squire picked up a chip of stone, aimed it at the dark flock, and they lifted into the air with harsh, raucous cries.
“Evil harpies,” he said. “Carrion birds!” He turned back then. “Your pardon, my queen. May I be excused?”
He was a child, too, perhaps fourteen. He had a round face and reddish hair. There was nothing he could do to help her against Melwas’ forces, who were mature and accomplished men-at-arms. She needed a strong arm, a powerful knight who would do her bidding.
“Yes,” she said. “Go on.”
He turned and headed back toward the stable, leading the limping horse.
Guinevere lifted her muddy hands then and pushed back her wet hair, rubbed at her face. It was still spitting rain, and as she dropped her hands, she thought a heavy fog was rising now from the wet earth, steaming into a mist as if from an ancient bog. The light darkened even more, becoming something cold and liquid that flowed across the ground and along the stone, dimming the curtain walls to obscurity.
She needed to get inside and get the wet clothes off, to pray for Viola’s succor. She took as step forward, stopped. There was someone emerging from the gloom.
It appeared to be a knight, her fondest hope and desire. He was tall and heavy thewed, his big shoulders rounded with muscle. His hair was dark as a crow’s wing, his face indistinct in the heavy, gathering darkness of the storm. He was leading a horse as black as coal, with eyes that caught the light strangely, and made no sound in the mud at all.
Tales of the Once and Future King Page 19
