Grail Prince

“My lord is cold from the long ride?”

  “No, not for me. For Galahad. That cloak is stiff with mud and sea spray. The blanket’s warmer.” Jules tucked the blanket around Galahad and draped the cloak over his arm.

  “I will have it cleaned. Is there anything else you require, my lord?”

  “See that there’s bread and wine, and a jug of hot broth in my chamber. Light the brazier and bring an extra blanket for Galahad. I want him with me tonight.”

  Galahad looked up at him swiftly, but could read nothing in the king’s face. He drew the blanket tighter around him and shivered. The servants withdrew, leaving the two men and the boy alone.

  A heavy silence descended. Flames licked the logs, hissed and spat. Light and shadow played across the faces of the brothers, so alike in feature, so differently lined by experience. Finally Lancelot drew his eyes from the flames.

  “And the priest?”

  “You mean Aidan?”

  “Of course.”

  “Gone. Vanished. No one’s seen him since the night in the chapel. Black Lake’s deserted. The hut’s been burned. He must have done it himself, before he left. He’s probably in Brittany by now.”

  “Hoel won’t shelter him.”

  “Gaul, then. I’m sorry, Lancelot—I did my best to keep him out of Benoic. But I couldn’t keep her from going to him. And she insisted.”

  “Mmm.”

  It was a grunt of assent, and Galyn lightened a little. He drew a long breath. “He has some sort of treasure with him, apparently. He’ll be killed by outlaws for what he carries before he gets far; I’ll wager gold on it.”

  Galahad’s eyes flew to Lancelot’s face. Lancelot waved Galyn silent. “Or he’ll find another protectress. Let him go for the moment. He can do no more harm here.”

  Galyn fidgeted, looked swiftly at Galahad, then leaned forward in his chair. “But there was more to it than you suspected, brother. They had a plan, the two of them. You won’t believe it. Bors told me. She broached it to him and then, when he objected, tried to buy his silence. With gold, and . . . and with her charms.”

  Lancelot sighed wearily and shook his head. “It’s an old song, Elaine’s ambition. It doesn’t matter. Whatever she brought upon herself, it wasn’t death. I brought that upon her. No one else.”

  Galahad stared at his father, his mouth open, his throat dry.

  “Don’t, Lancelot,” Galyn whispered. “Don’t blame yourself. She took something, the physician said, some medicine or potion, she took it deliberately, she even told Adele she didn’t want to bear the—”

  “No.” The word fell flat and final into the stream of Galyn’s pleading, and stopped his tongue. “These are excuses. She died of the child. It was my child, begot on her against her will.” Lancelot paused. His eyes darkened. “Her death is mine to bear.” He rose slowly, lifting Galahad in his arms. “I owed her more than I ever gave her, and now the debt can never be repaid.” He turned and without another word strode out of the room.

  The king’s sleeping chamber was simply furnished. A big bed stood against one wall, a carved oak chest against another. Two double-flamed lamps shed a warm light on the bare plank floor. Near one of them a low table bore a basket of bread, a bowl of fruit, and a jug of broth. Between the narrow windows a brazier glowed, shedding gentle heat into the calm cool of the spacious room.

  Lancelot deposited Galahad on the bed, then turned to unbelt his sword as his chamberlain reached into the chest for a nightrobe. Galahad looked around the room with interest. He had never been in here before. The chest, carved with the Hawk of Lanascol, was very old—the oak had the silver sheen of great age and the carving was crudely done—perhaps it had belonged to his grandfather Galaban, or even to Gorlan before him. On the wall above the chest hung an embroidered hanger for the king’s sword. That was a recent gift, he knew. He remembered the day his mother had first seen it, and scoffed at it, belittling both its use and its necessity. It was certainly beautifully embroidered in neat, tiny stitches and vibrantly colored thread. A great silver hawk floated majestically against a dark blue sky, every feather somehow iridescent, as if lit by moonlight. His eye was red, his beak cruelly curved, and in his talons he clutched the king’s sword of Lanascol with the cross of rubies on the hilt. To either side of the great bird was an intricately worked “L” in tiny crimson stitches, ornate and convoluted in the style of the ancient Celts. No one in all Less Britain had the artistry or skill to make such a hanger. It must have come from Britain, from the heart of the High Kingdom, from fabled Camelot. The sword itself in its old leather scabbard rested comfortably in the hanger. The hawk seemed to be carrying them both, the real sword and the stitched one.

  Lancelot followed his son’s glance and smiled. “Amazing work, isn’t it?”

  Galahad nodded. “Where did it come from?”

  The chamberlain stood at Lancelot’s elbow with a ewer of hot water and a towel. Galahad waited while the king washed his face and hair and toweled them dry. “Thank you, Jules. I’ll need your skill with a razor in the morning. But that’s all for tonight.”

  “My lord.”

  The door shut behind the servant. Lancelot looked down at his son.

  “It was a gift from a dear friend of mine. Queen Guinevere of Britain made it herself.”

  Galahad stared up at him. How could such an evil woman make something so beautiful? He gulped. “But she’s wicked.”

  “Wicked! No better woman has ever drawn breath. Who has been telling you tales?” A bitter smile touched the king’s lips. “Never mind. I can guess. Well, my son, you will be able to decide for yourself one day which tale is true, mine or your mother’s.” He closed his eyes suddenly. “God rest her soul, I will not speak ill of the dead.”

  Lancelot sat heavily on the woolen coverlet and frowned. “Galahad, I have not asked you if you wished to stay the night with me or in your own chamber. There is a reason for that. I . . . you might well be able to do without me, but I . . . tonight, son, I cannot do without you.”

  Galahad looked into the lined face and hard gray eyes. “It’s all right with me.”

  “Thank you.” Lancelot hesitated. “Will you tell me what went on in the chapel?” Galahad shook his head solemnly. “Very well. But tell me this—you owe this truth to your mother, if to no one else—did Aidan do anything to harm her? While you were there, did you see anything that would give me, as king, a reason to seek him out for vengeance?”

  Galahad licked dry lips and swallowed. “Not while I was there.”

  Lancelot exhaled deeply. “I thought as much. It was in his interest to keep her alive and well. If she took a remedy for her condition, well, that may be laid to my account as much as to hers.” He rose. “Tomorrow, will you take me to her grave? We will say a prayer over her together.”

  Galahad nodded.

  “Now,” Lancelot said, “I will pray for her departed soul. Eat if you will, or blow the lamps out and sleep. Pay me no mind.”

  He knelt by the edge of the bed, crossed himself solemnly, bowed his head, and began to pray. Galahad sat still and watched the bent black head and the clasped, long-fingered hands, listened to the beautiful, flowing Latin of his prayers, delivered not in the nasal staccato of Father Patrik, but in the strong, resonant baritone of a warrior king. On and on they went, while the wind rose and cleared the clouds from the stars, while the pale moon lifted above the trees and swung past the window, while the lamps burned low, guttered, and went out. On they rolled, bearing Galahad with them as on a tide, lifting his terrible guilt from his small shoulders and sweeping it away, such a minuscule addition to such a powerful torrent of sin. Here was a penitent who understood sin, whose voice reached God, who took his son’s fearful secret and confessed it as his own, unlocked the gates of Hell and set his young soul free.

  Galahad slid softly out of bed and went to the table. Quite suddenly, he was hungrier than he had ever been in all his life. He devoured half a loaf, drank hot broth from the jug, and ate a
pear from the bowl. Satisfied at last, he crawled into the great bed, pulled the blanket around him, and yawned. The king had not stirred, although the chamber had darkened and grown chill. Still his black head was bent, his hands clasped, his clear voice steady and beseeching. Galahad laid his head down upon the pillow and slept a dreamless sleep.

  In the bright cool of early morning Galahad awoke. The chamber was empty, but a jug of fresh water had been left on the table and a new tunic laid across the foot of the bed. He dressed quickly and swilled water over his face and hair. A scratch came at the door and the king’s chamberlain entered with a tray of bread and honey, hot willow tea and porridge, and a bowl of fruit.

  “Well, my young lord, I see you slept well. You look twice the lad who went to bed last night.”

  Galahad grinned. “I feel better, too. I’m starving!” He helped himself to bread and honey as Jules set down the tray. “Did the king get any rest?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. He slept for about an hour. I wouldn’t call it rest.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “To the birch grove.”

  Galahad reached for another thick slice of bread and tucked it in his tunic. “I’m going to the kennels. I’ve got to show Valiant to my father. He’ll let me keep him, won’t he, Jules? When he sees all the things I’ve taught him?”

  “Aye, young master.” Jules smiled and tossed him a pear as he headed for the door. “I wager he’ll let you do about anything you want.”

  Valiant was not in the kennels. Ban greeted him warmly, but he shook his head in answer to Galahad’s query. “He’s not here, my lord. Didn’t he sleep in your room last night?”

  “I . . . I wasn’t there. And Renna doesn’t let him in. She doesn’t like his fleas.”

  Ban laughed. “Isn’t that just like a woman? Like as not he spent the night outside your chamber window, then.”

  Galahad walked back up the hill to the king’s house, whistling to himself, wondering what Lancelot would say when he saw the brown, spotted coat of Dia’s bastard. Would he laugh, as Galyn had? Or curse, like Ban? He turned the corner at the back of the house and stopped in his tracks. Four large ravens plucked at something hidden in the dying grass. Two of them screamed at him in their raucous voices. He forced himself forward, unable to take his eyes off the dark huddle they scavenged. The birds flapped their wings excitedly as he approached, screeching in their foul tongue, their beaks bright with blood. He picked up a stone and hurled it at them.

  “Be gone! Be gone! Get off him!” His own shriek resounded in his ears, wild and uncontrolled, a stranger’s voice.

  He looked down at the stiff carcass of his dog. Flies and ants were already at work. The eyes were gone. The head lolled sharply sideways, one ear flopped over, the pink, tender skin on the inner surface all that still reminded him of his dearest companion.

  “Valiant,” he whispered. He knelt down. He touched one of the big, lifeless paws, the pads still puppy-soft. A slow fire began to burn in his breast. Hot tears welled. With shaking fingers he pulled off his tunic and wrapped the pup’s body in it. He knelt for a moment, shutting his eyes tight, squeezing back the tears. “I’ll kill whoever did this! I’ll kill him!” A glint of color in the trampled grasses caught his eye. He bent down. His fingers closed upon something cold and rounded, a clip, a badge. He stood alone in the slowly warming sun and stared unseeing at the object in his hand: on a field of black enamel, the screaming silver hawk with a ruby eye.

  Lancelot stood in the birch grove gazing down at Elaine’s grave. Galahad walked up and faced him across the dark scar of earth. He waited, fists clenched at his sides, but Lancelot did not look up.

  “She was fourteen when I met her,” Lancelot murmured. “What is it now—eleven years ago? My God, it seems like yesterday. There in her father’s house, in Pellinore’s wild corner of Wales, I met them both. Elaine and Guinevere. When Arthur sent me to Gwynedd to fetch back his bride.” He paused. “She was a pretty girl. And a lovely woman. It was not her fault her cousin outshone her as the sun outshines a candle. But that, alas, she couldn’t bear. . . . Eight or nine of the Companions sought her hand. She’d have been better off with any one of them than with me. . . . What a future she might have had. . . . What a tragedy life can be.” He looked up and met the accusing glare of bright blue eyes. “She gave me many blessings, Galahad. You are the foremost. Here, I have something for you.”

  He reached inside his tunic and brought out a dagger with a horn handle, carved with the head of the hawk, and a slender blade tapered to a narrow point. The newly sharpened edge glinted silver in the sun. “I was about your age, I think, perhaps a trifle older, when my father gave it to me. But you’re ready for it. You’re a brave lad. It will serve you well.”

  Lancelot extended the dagger across the grave to Galahad. The boy stared at it, wide-eyed. Strike him with your dagger! You will get no peace until he’s dead! He shook his head vigorously. Lancelot blinked, and for the first time took note of the boy’s disheveled condition, the dirt on his hands and leggings, the naked torso, the rage on his face.

  “Galahad, what have you been doing? Where’s your tunic?”

  The boy gulped. “I buried my dog in it.”

  Lancelot frowned. “What dog?”

  “The dog you killed! Because he was a bastard!” Furiously Galahad blinked back tears. “He wasn’t like the others. I trained him—he was only a puppy—and he loved me.”

  “I?” Lancelot said blankly. “I would never harm your dog. I didn’t even know you had one.”

  Galahad thrust his hand out, palm upward, displaying the badge. “I found this next to his . . . him.”

  “Galahad. Son. I would never do such a thing. It’s mean-spirited and contemptible.”

  “It’s your badge!”

  “Yes,” Lancelot said unhappily, taking it from him. “It’s mine. You held it in your hand last night. And here are shreds of my cloak still attached. Someone has taken pains to lay a scent for you. Someone who knows his way around my house.” He tucked the badge away and looked down at the boy’s taut face. Great, wretched tears glistened on his cheeks. His jaw was clenched so tightly he could not speak. “Galahad,” Lancelot said gently, “tell me about this dog. He must have been a loyal beast to win your heart. Where did you get him?”

  “Uncle . . . Galyn . . . gave him to me. He was one of Dia’s bastards.”

  “Dia had bastards, did she? How many?”

  Galahad wiped away his tears with the back of his hand. “Seven. They drowned the others. Uncle Galyn said I could have this one.” A sob caught in his throat and he forced it down. “Until you came home. I was going to show him to you . . . to see if . . . you would . . . let me keep him.”

  Lancelot looked gravely at the ground. “I see. What was his name?” “Valiant.”

  “An excellent name. Had he a good nose?”

  “Yes! Especially for fowl.” Galahad’s voice steadied. “He loved ducks. He loved to swim.”

  Lancelot smiled briefly. “He must have gotten that from his father. Dia’s not fond of water. We will bury him with the other dogs of Lanascol. I will move the grave myself. You can lead the ceremony, if you like.” Galahad looked up at him. He knew Lancelot was paying Valiant a great honor to allow him burial near the king’s best hunting dogs, none of them bastards, but in his grief the honor brought him little joy.

  “In order to find out who did this, Galahad, I must ask you some questions about what you saw. How do you know the dog was killed?”

  “His neck was broken. Last night. Outside my chamber window.”

  Lancelot frowned. “What was the ground like? Are there boot marks?”

  “It’s grass. It’s all trampled.”

  “By one man or two?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell.”

  “I’ll come and look at it later, as soon as we’re finished here.” Galahad started. Until that moment he had forgotten that they stood beside hi
s mother’s grave. “It takes a strong man to do it alone,” his father was saying, “even to a puppy. Did he leave no other sign behind him?”

  “I . . . I didn’t see. I only saw the badge.”

  Lancelot nodded. “Our best hope is that the dog marked him. A man with a dog bite shouldn’t be hard to find. They always fester.”

  Galahad looked down at the mounded earth. Golden birch leaves had already fallen in a light blanket over the new grass. The shape of the long, curved mound terrified him. It looked so solid, so cold, so permanent. And already it looked forgotten. He wished suddenly that he were anywhere else on earth.

  “ ‘The Lord giveth,’ ” Lancelot said quietly, “ ‘and the Lord taketh away.’ ”

  “I’m sorry I thought it was you,” Galahad whispered, staring hard at a golden leaf. A voice brushed against his ear like a cold wind: Avenge me! I will not rest easy, in Heaven or in Hell, until he is dead. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I know it wasn’t you.”

  “You had cause.” His father’s gentle voice, light as a caress, stilled his trembling. Galahad looked up into warm gray eyes. “You had the badge. You don’t know I’m not the kind of man who would do such a thing. You don’t know me, son, and that is my fault. I’ve been away too long.” He paused. “I’m going back to Britain, Galahad. I’d like you to come with me. We will put all this behind us and start over.”

  Lancelot offered him the dagger, but still Galahad did not take it.

  “But Lanascol is home. Can’t we stay here?”

  “The time will come when I come home to rule. But just now, we are building such a kingdom in Britain as the world has never seen. Arthur and I and all the Companions. Britain’s a big place, and no one man can hold it by himself. We work together. You will see how it is. Come with me to Arthur’s court, and I will show you how the young men of Britain are growing up in the High King’s city, how the future of Britain—your future, Galahad—is taking shape under the High King’s hand. You are not too young to serve Arthur, and it’s time you took your place there. It’s time you learned the principles we live by.” He paused, watching the child’s face. “I know it’s hard to leave the only home you know. But Camelot will soon be another home. You’ll like it better than staying here with Renna and your baby brothers, watching your aunt Adele take your mother’s place. Your brothers are too young to go, but you’ve lived long enough beneath women’s skirts.”