by Unknown
“Leave me now and send to me Myrddin and Gwydre,” Arthwyr said. “Should Gwydre fail and I should die I must ensure that Cyngen might find the Gral when he is of age. My quest will be his quest.”
To Myrddin he said, “Send my sword to the smithy. I want him to engrave words on its guard.”
Myrddin furrowed his brow. “What words, sire?”
“These words: In the land of Euric in a sacred place on high lie before Christ and find the Gral.”
Gwydre asked, “What is the purpose?”
“So that your brother, Cyngen, might find it one day and resume the quest should our present efforts fail. Only you and I and Gwydre will know that place, Myrddin. If any of us should die the others will tell Cyngen where to look when he is older. Will you pledge that?”
Both Gwydre and Myrddin agreed.
“Father, where will you hide the sword?” Gwydre asked.
“In a place that is sacred to me. Though I was born across the sea in Gaul, my boyhood home was my father’s castle. It was there, listening to the sea, that I learned how to be a king and it is there where I will hide it.”
#
Weak and in pain, Arthwyr was determined to fulfill his own quest, though it was not as perilous as Gwydre’s. Soon after Sir Jowan lost his battle with gangrene and Sir Gwydre’s army departed for faraway Euric, Arthwyr’s personal guard and entourage left Gwynedd Castle for a three-day journey to Dumnonia. Though swaddled in hay and fur inside a covered wagon, Arthwyr remained dangerously feverish.
Nevertheless, when he arrived at the abandoned castle that had been the court of Uther Pendragon, his father, Arthwyr insisted on standing alone and walking to the edge of the cliff. There he filled his lungs with the briny sea air and felt for a moment like a boy again on the verge of a great adventure.
He squinted up into the cold bright sun. The castle had fallen to ruin only a few decades after it had been vacated. After Uther’s death, Arthwyr had no reason to keep it occupied. His realm had grown and Tintagel was too far to the west to be practical. Gwynedd Castle was a better place to rule the Britons and counter invaders from across the sea. Perhaps a quarter of the castle stones were gone, looted, he supposed, by local tribesmen. He hoped that some of the blocks had at least made their way into churches and chapels.
With strong young men ahead and behind to catch him if he fell, Arthwyr slowly made his way down the steep cliff. The weather here was milder: on the coast there was no snow. In his youth the path had been well-worn but it was overgrown now and at points only barely visible. A soldier hacked through thick tall grasses with a short sharp sword until the party reached the beach.
The tide was going out and the sand was wet and dark. Myrddin bore the king’s greatsword. He took the shovel from a squire and sent all the men back up the cliff to await his summons. Then he walked beside Arthwyr, ready to lend an arm, as the king trudged to the larger of the two sea caves.
At its mouth, Arthwyr said, “This was always a magical place. I heard voices inside, the voices of my ancestors. Here, my voice will call out to my descendants. Come, let us do the deed.”
The cave passed through one side of the cliffs to the other and received light from both mouths. At the halfway point, Arthwyr stopped and gestured.
“Dig there,” he commanded his seer. “Dig deep.”
When the hole was deep enough for water to just begin to rise, Arthwyr took his engraved sword, kissed it and wrapped it in his cloak. His knees indented the sand as he placed it lovingly into the trench. In short order Myrddin had filled the hole and stamped the sand firm.
Arthwyr pointed to a spot on the cave wall above the buried sword. “There,” he said, handing Myrddin a smooth hammerstone. “Take your dagger and chisel the sign of the cross on the rock. It will be a beacon to Cyngen, though I pray he never needs it, for I would dearly love to see the Gral myself in my own lifetime.”
#
The route Gwydre took to Barcino was the same that Gwalchavad had taken—but with three hundred men, a full hundred of them men of arms and knights, they had little trouble with brigands and local warlords. Instead, their enemy was the winter weather that plagued them until the end of the journey when spring began to warm the southern climes.
Myrddin had made sure that his man, Kilian, was part of the troop but Gwydre had no affinity for him or his advice and marginalized him on the march and at camp. Sir Morgant was his true friend and confidant and the two young knights led the column, inseparable.
Their only battle of significance was near Tolosa, the seat of King Alaric’s Visigoth kingdom. Gwydre gave the city a wide berth to avoid meeting a much larger army but about a hundred of Alaric’s soldiers came upon them on the old Roman road and a fierce skirmish ensued. Gwydre had been itching for a fight to relieve the months of tedium and the Britons fought with ferocity— not a single Visigoth survived the bloody day. Gwydre lost only thirty men and gave thanks to God for a great victory. Kilian was in his good graces that night, proclaiming that he had seen a celestial sign: the Gral, reflected in puddles of enemy blood.
In time, they reached their destination without further engagement by Alaric. To be safe they forewent the comforts and pleasures of Barcino and proceeded directly to the Mountain of Miracles. The mountain trail was just as Jowan and Wallia had described. Armed with the knowledge, Gwydre and Morgant conferred and decided it would be best to station the army at the trailhead to prevent a sneak attack by Alaric from the rear. A small party of the best knights would accompany them up the mountain.
Twenty men began their ascent in the early morning. First on horseback and then on foot, they encountered nary a soul; then, at the high clearing Jowan had described, Gwydre was overcome with joy.
“Go with care and secure the Gral,” Morgant told him, “while I seek out the monks.”
#
Spring turned to summer and summer gave way to autumn. Arthwyr had recovered his health after his surgeon removed an abscessed tooth. He took his recovery as an auspicious sign that Gwydre had been successful. Myrddin, for his part, kept analyzing the entrails of goats, though he did not require divination to have certain knowledge that Arthwyr would never see the Gral. He waited hopefully every day—not for Gwydre’s return, but for a messenger to tell him that the Gral was in Jerusalem and the Qem were awaiting his arrival there.
Finally, on a bright crisp day, men on the ramparts saw a column approaching and the king and Myrddin were notified.
Both men rushed to the inner courtyard of the castle, joined by the queen and all the nobles to await the entry of the column through the portcullis.
The first knight to appear was not Gwydre. Instead, Morgant rode into the courtyard slowly, his head bowed in despair.
Arthwyr ran to his horse and took its reins. “Where is my son?” he asked.
“He is dead, sire. It was a magnificent death from a wound sustained in battle. He fought like a lion and killed many men before he was dishonorably struck from behind.”
Hearing this, the queen began to wail and Arthwyr’s knees buckled.
“What of the Gral?”
“Treachery,” Morgant said, dismounting. He stared at Myrddin. “Gwydre succeeded! He had it in his hands! I saw it. Then there was a cowardly sneak attack. We were overwhelmed by men who lay in wait. They knew we were coming. Gwydre fought ferociously, like the son of a king. We smote them to a man but the Gral disappeared during the battle and to my everlasting lament I could not find it again. Monks were on the mountain. Perhaps they knew where it was—but even under the harshest treatment I might deliver unto them, they would not say.”
“Was it Alaric?” the king demanded. “Was he behind the cowardly adventure?”
“It was not Alaric, sire.”
“Who then?”
“Myrddin!” Morgant cried, pointing at the dumbstruck seer. “Kilian named him. This is what Kilian said to the attackers: ‘For the Qem! For Myrddin! Kill them all!’ I know no more, as I smote Kilian afte
r he uttered these foul words.”
“Wretched knave!” Myrddin screamed. “How dare you defame me?”
The king’s face turned hateful. “Silence!” he bellowed. “Where is my son’s body? What became of him?”
Morgant drew close to the king so he alone could hear his words. “I endeavored to bring him back to you alive, sire. We bore him on a litter across foreign lands for two full months until we could bear him no further, his condition so terrible. We made it to a safe haven in northern Gaul to Castle Maleoré where your mother, Queen Igraine, bore you while Uther Pendragon was warring in those lands and where Uther named you Arthwyr of Maleoré. The lord of the manor received us warmly and gave us food and shelter and his ladies attended to Gwydre. A Norman surgeon declared that his royal rib had saved him from instant death and opened the wound to allow foul humors to escape more easily. That act improved your son to the point where he was able to take some food and drink and regain a measure of strength. It was during this period that he was strong enough to ask for quill and parchment. I know not what he wrote though he was despairing most grievously at the loss of the Gral. His parchment was to be kept at the Castle Maleoré in case treachery or misfortune caused us to fail to return to your court. Alas his fever returned and he could not be saved. By his wish he was buried at the Castle Maleoré.” Morgant raised his voice now for all assembled to hear. “With a most heavy heart I rallied the men for the crossing and made way back to your court, driven by my desire to avenge Gwydre’s death and see the traitor Myrddin pay for it.”
Myrddin had been watching the two men whisper to each other with fear in his eyes. There was nowhere to run so he held his ground, trembling with rage. “Come here, Morgant,” Myrddin seethed, “and call me a traitor to my face.”
Morgant strode forward, his jaw thrust out in anger, until he was standing toe to toe with the Egyptian.
It happened so quickly Morgant was powerless to act.
Myrddin slashed at him with a concealed dagger and severed his throat, releasing a torrent of red.
As the knight dropped to his knees clutching at his gaping wound, Arthwyr raged, “A sword!” to no one in particular, to everyone.
A nearby knight drew his and gave it to his king.
“What say you, Myrddin, before I kill you?”
Myrddin looked like a trapped animal. As he backpedaled, men made a cordon to hem him in. He made quick little slashes with his knife to hold them at bay.
“The Gral is not for mere kings,” he railed, his voice dripping with poison. “It is for men such as I—who know what to do with it.”
Arthwyr advanced step by step. “And what would you do with it?”
Myrddin spit onto the dirt. “You are not meant to know these things. Though you may be a king, you are but a lowly creature.” Then he cried out, dropping his dagger, “You call this the land of chivalry! Will no man give me a sword?”
When none appeared, Arthwyr shouted, “A sword for this swine!”
One was thrown out, clattering at Myrddin’s feet. He picked it up and assumed a fighting stance.
Arthwyr charged with a bloodcurdling scream and Myrddin did the same. It was as if two bucks had rushed headlong and crashed antlers.
Both survived the vicious collision and each backed away to regain a good separation.
Then they rushed each other again but after this clash the fight was over.
Both men had succeeded in impaling the other through the chest.
Arthwyr’s sword punctured Myrddin’s great artery. He died without a word, staring wide-eyed at the sun.
Arthwyr lingered long enough to hear Gwenhwyfar’s sobs and feel her lips upon his.
He tried to speak but blood filled his lungs and bubbled out through his mouth.
He had to speak.
How else could he tell her where he had buried his sword?
How else could Cyngen undertake the quest when he was a man?
Yet he could not speak. As his life slipped away, the tide was high at Tintagel and the cold waves were lapping onto the sign of the cross over the burial place of a king’s great silver sword.
22
When they arrived in Barcelona, Arthur and Claire rented a car at the airport and drove directly toward Montserrat. Unlike the tentative weather in England the spring in Catalonia was full-throated, almost summerlike, and they peeled off their outer clothes and drove with the windows partly down.
It was not a long drive. The monastery was only thirty miles from the airport and as they passed through suburbs then countryside, the sprawling city receding behind them, the landscape took on a dramatic flair. At each leg of the journey, from their morning ride to Heathrow to the Spanish highway, Arthur scanned the environs for any signs of being followed and finally was beginning to relax.
At the first sight of the looming mountain Arthur took one hand off the wheel and touched Claire’s hand.
Arthur had spent the previous afternoon planning everything for Spain: flights, car hire, and gathering information about Montserrat. He had decided that a simple day trip to the monastery would be inadequate. The clue they possessed was only reed-thin so he imagined they’d need at least a few days on the mountain to explore the complex.
He learned there were three types of accommodation at the monastery: a three-star hotel, the Hotel Abat de Cisneros, adjacent to the religious buildings but technically outside the grounds; the Celdas Abat Marcet, a short-term-stay apartment complex, also outside the grounds; and forty-eight pilgrim’s rooms within the monastery itself.
The choice was clear.
He had called the monastery’s reservation center and was soon talking to a woman who spoke excellent English and who informed him that a single pilgrim room was available.
“I’m not at all sure of the protocol here, but I was rather hoping to stay with my fiancée. Are these rooms for men only?”
“No, we accept couples.”
“Even unmarried ones?”
“Yes, unmarried couples are okay. We only ask that all our visitors conduct themselves with modesty.”
“Think we can be modest for the next few days?” Arthur had asked Claire afterward.
“I’m not so sure,” she’d said with a laugh, “but we can try.”
At its peak the mountain stood 4,000 feet over the Plane of Bages, though it appeared higher and more imposing because it stood alone, rising almost vertically from the Llobregat River with no other mountains challenging it for attention. It was a vast labyrinth of pastel limestone with heaps of fairy-tale conical peaks, some with such fanciful names as The Mummy, The Cat, The Pipes, The Pharaoh, The Death Head.
There was a good paved road leading up the mountain and when Arthur rounded the last curved section the monastery revealed itself.
“Would you look at that?” he said quietly.
It seemed natural to keep one’s voice down for there was something ethereal about the sight of it, as though a loud noise or sharp movement might cause it to fly up and disappear. The basilica and surrounding structures seemed magical, built as they were on a narrow 2,500-foot plateau sandwiched between a sheer drop into the valley on one side and towering peaks on the other. The buildings were fashioned from the same pink limestone as the mountain, and though they owed their existence to the labor of men, they appeared to have arisen from the same forces that shaped the mountain.
Arthur parked the car in one of the designated areas and he and Claire made their way through the crowds of day trippers who had arrived on tour buses or the funicular railway. It was hot and sunny. The low-lying clouds had already burned away and the views into the valley seemed to stretch to infinity. They announced themselves at the visitor’s center and sat on a bench, their small bags at their feet, affixing guest badges to their chests and waiting for one of the monks.
Brother Oriol arrived quickly and in passable English apologized for whatever wait they had encountered. He was tall and youthful, no more than thirty, with a thick b
rown beard and glasses. He wore the black robe and black hooded scapular of the Benedictines, and treaded silently on crepe-soled shoes.
The monk asked where they were from and made small, friendly comments about England and France as he led them inside the complex. On learning this was their first visit he asked for their initial impression of the monastery. He seemed to like the way Claire gushed over the natural beauty of the place and launched into a discourse on the importance of Montserrat to the Catalan people.
“It is a deep part of our heritage. The people of Catalonia venerate Our Lady of Montserrat in a special way as their own mother and patroness. Yes, we have tourists and pilgrims from all over the world but the local people—well, many of them—regard at least one visit a year to the Shrine of the Black Madonna as an obligation not to be overlooked and one which they fulfill faithfully as a ritual.”
“The statue is in the basilica, yes?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, but right now the lines will be very long. Since you are staying you can visit at a quieter time in the late afternoon or early morning and spend more time seeing the Madonna.”
He led them through an arched passageway overlooking a lovely green cloistered garden and through the so-called Gothic Chamber, which had a fine corbelled ceiling and walls lined with medieval tapestries. Up a flight of stone stairs they entered a more modern building, which, the monk explained, housed the guest rooms for pilgrims, the monks’ quarters, dining facilities, the library, and the chapter house. The abbot had his apartment in the adjacent building. There were sixty-eight monks at the monastery, mostly Catalan men.
The guest room floor looked very much like a modest hotel. Brother Oriol unlocked the door to Room 13 and showed them in. The quarters were tiny and basic. A table with three Catalan books: the New Testament, the Bible, and the Rules of St. Benedict; a bed, a chair, and a lavatory with shower.
“The bed is quite small,” Brother Oriol apologized.
The window looked as though it hadn’t been washed in a long while but through streaks the tourist-filled courtyard of the basilica was visible.
