Grail Prince

  “An enchanter?” Galahad said under his breath.

  Marrah nodded but Ulfin shrugged. “It’s a matter of opinion. He’s feared by many, and I’ve heard him cursed as a devil, although I know him to be a Christian. If he has power, he keeps it to himself. He’s a peaceful man and wants no part of any fighting. A man like that, so odd, so full of mystery, is bound to stir up interest. He has his hands full keeping thieves and bandits out of Castle Noir. He needs a house guard of trained men but dislikes the company of soldiers, so he must defend himself with what skills he has. Thus far, no one has gotten in who did not come in peace.”

  “What is this . . . this Cup of Maximus that Marrah says he keeps? Is that what the thieves are after?”

  Percival and Garfalon turned excited faces to Ulfin, but the old soldier laughed. “Hardly. It’s a drinking cup like any other of its time, I imagine. But because the place itself is so mysterious, and Brastias so private, rumors have swept like wildfire across Rheged that he is guarding some great treasure from Roman times. Thus the constant attacks by bandits, groups of errant soldiers, any greedy soul with a blade on his hip and time on his hands.”

  “You imagine?” Galahad repeated. “You haven’t seen the cup yourself?”

  Ulfin shot him a swift look under lowering brows. “No. And you won’t, either, even if you manage to get inside the gates, which I doubt you can. He doesn’t let strangers in.” Ulfin rose suddenly and gazed fiercely at his guests. “I hope you didn’t come all this way just to lay your hands on a treasure that’s none of your concern. As soon as I saw you, I thought more of you than that.”

  Galahad stiffened, but Percival went on one knee and raised supplicating hands to the angry soldier. “Oh, no, Sir Ulfin, you mistake us, indeed you do! We bear no ill feeling toward Sir Brastias—quite the contrary, I promise you! We are on a quest, that much is true, but it is not for ourselves. King Arthur himself set Sir Galahad the task of finding the Treasure of Maximus, that Britain might be saved from barbarians forever.”

  Ulfin frowned, watching their faces. “But King Arthur is dead.”

  “What these noble lords seek,” Garfalon said quickly, “they do not seek for their own enrichment. Why, I bade them leave their quest and take up the hunt for the missing Rheged princess—King Rydor is offering a fortune to the man who finds her—but they refused. They wish to restore the emperor’s treasure to its rightful place, that Britain may be preserved forever, no matter who sits in Camelot.”

  Ulfin turned to Galahad. “Did Arthur tell you this himself?”

  “Yes.” Galahad got slowly to his feet. “I know what I am looking for. I have seen these things in a dream. That is why I wish to see the cup at Castle Noir.”

  Ulfin’s eyes widened. “A dream?” Awe crept into his voice. “You could be the one, my lord. The one I have waited for.”

  Marrah shook her head quickly. “He has been inside the chapel, Father. The shields meant nothing to him.”

  “That does not matter,” Ulfin whispered. “He who is to come will choose it, all unknowing.”

  Galahad looked at them both in growing consternation. “Listen, Sir Ulfin, I beg you to believe me. I am not the Knight of the Shield. I don’t know what ancient legend the hillmen told you, but it does not refer to me. My companions and I will travel to Castle Noir tomorrow, but today we would spend in your service, to repay you for your generous hospitality, and to prove to you that we are men of goodwill and not bandits greedy for gain.”

  Ulfin hesitated and then shrugged. He smiled at them. “Ah, well, I suppose my hope ran away with my sense. Old dreams die hard. If you will forgive me, I will accept your help, my lords. I was going into the forest today to cut wood for winter.”

  “We will do it for you,” Percival cried. “Spend the day with your daughter and let us fell trees and chop them for you. It’s the least we can do.” He grinned at Marrah. “And maybe pretty Marrah can send us on our way with more of those wonderful mealcakes!”

  The woods grew quickly cool when the sun went down. Marrah checked the new bread in the oven, then walked around the outbuildings into the clearing to add wood to the cooking fire. An old iron stewpot hung on its stand above the flames. She stirred it absently, staring down into swirling chunks of rabbit, wild onions, garlic, pine nuts, carrots, and sage, but seeing instead a pair of brilliant blue eyes and straight black brows. Behind her a raven rasped loudly, settling on its branch with much commotion and fixing her with a beady stare.

  She scowled. “Bad luck, ravens.” She let the cover fall on the stewpot. Something moved in the woods beyond. “Father?” she called, straining to see through the deepening dusk. “Is that you? How many did you catch tonight?”

  The yellow dog trotted to her side, nose twitching, head lowered. A low growl issued from his throat and his hair stood up along his spine from ruff to tail. Marrah’s heart began to pound.

  “What is it, Red?” she asked softly. “Bear? Boar?”

  The dog stepped forward, stiff-legged, his eyes fixed on something she could not see, his lips curling back around long, curved fangs. Marrah backed closer to the fire. Shapes appeared out of the dusk, six men, raggedly dressed, holding weapons and glaring at her with wild eyes.

  “Father!” she cried. One of the men carried a drawn sword. He took no notice of the dog, but looked around the clearing in swift assessment, and then smiled at her, showing a line of broken teeth.

  “Where’s the man of this place?”

  “Man?” Marrah repeated dumbly. Red’s growl escalated to an open snarl. His whole body vibrated with promised violence.

  The man stood still. “Your father. Your husband. You called out for someone just now. Who was it? Who protects you?”

  Marrah drew a deep breath and clutched the stick she had used to stir the stew. Behind her back she lowered it into the coals. “My . . . my brothers. Giants. Great warriors. They protect me. They . . . they’re just coming up from the stream.”

  “Of course they are,” the leader sneered. “I can hear the army thundering at their backs. Come on, men, it’s ours for the taking.”

  “Who are you?” Marrah cried. “And why do you come with weapons against a woman? What do you want?”

  The leader laughed, and so did his companions. The dog went stiff with fury.

  “These weapons are not for you, lass!” He clapped a hand over his groin and thrust his hips forward. “This is the only weapon we need against you. And I promise you, you shall get the feel of it later, when we’ve time. You’ll get to burnish all our spears, again and again, until morning. Ha ha!”

  “No!” Marrah hiccuped, blinking at them, unable to comprehend the enormity of the threat, thinking only of her father, due any minute to return from his evening fishing.

  The leader came toward her and reached out for her arm. She whipped the burning stick from behind her back and lunged for his throat. At the same moment the dog launched himself at the man’s arm. The flying body of fur knocked Marrah sideways; she fell to the ground, narrowly missing the fire. Gasping, she rolled quickly into the shadows, picked herself up and half ran, half crawled toward the chapel. From the corner of her eye she saw Red hanging from her attacker’s arm, still snarling. The bandit swore viciously and struggled for a moment with his sword; then the blade swung in a glittering arc through the firesmoke and the dog fell dead in a heap of fur and innards.

  “Get her!” the leader cried, hugging his bleeding arm against his side. “Don’t let her get away! Hold her for me!”

  His five companions howled excitedly and ran toward Marrah. They caught her halfway to the chapel door, grabbed her arms and legs, and pinned her to the turf.

  “Father!” Marrah screamed. “Help me!”

  “Father, eh?” the leader snarled, walking over to her. “What happened to your brothers? Gorn, Lemas, keep an eye out for the old man. That’ll be the keeper of the chapel we heard about. And this will be his virgin daughter.” He laughed aloud as Marrah strugg
led, sobbing, in the cruel grasp of his men. “We’ve heard that you keep a treasure hidden in this chapel. Tell us where it is.”

  “What treasure?” Marrah cried. “There are only shields! My father’s shields! There’s no treasure!”

  The leader leaned down until the stench of his breath made her retch. “There is a treasure. Where is it?”

  “Sir!” Marrah quavered. “I beg you! Go into the chapel and look! There is one shield more valuable than all the others, but I . . . I . . . I don’t know its worth!”

  “Liar!” He grabbed her shoulders and wrenched her bodice open. “Sweet little liar. I’ll enjoy taking you almost as much as I’ll enjoy killing you. Tell me which one it is, maiden, or you’ll feel the prick of my spear right now!”

  “Take your hands off my daughter!”

  The leader straightened. His men whipped around. There on the chapel steps stood Sir Ulfin, the old sword in his hand wavering in the trembling light.

  “Father!” Marrah sobbed, pulling herself to her knees and holding her gown closed. “Oh, Father! Let them have the shield! They will kill you else!”

  Ulfin’s sword steadied. “These men did not come here for a shield. Not vermin like these. They’ll want everything we have.”

  The leader grinned his broken smile. “You’re right about that, old man. I’ll start with your daughter.”

  “Never!” Ulfin said, the sword lifting. “Let her go, you heathen swine!”

  “Ah, that’s good! Heathen swine! Did you hear that, men? Listen, you old, dried-up fool, put down that sword or I’ll slit her throat!” He swung around and laid the edge of his blade against Marrah’s neck.

  “Damn you!” Ulfin shouted. In the next instant he staggered, a dagger deep in his chest, as two of the ruffians swarmed up the steps, grabbed the sword, and knocked him down.

  One of Marrah’s captors cried, “Look out behind you!”

  Horses thundered into the clearing. Marrah looked up in time to see a great shadow swoop over them, a blade like a flash of starlight arc down across the leader’s neck, and the headless body sway, buckle, and topple to the grass, spraying blood everywhere. She screamed as the head rolled toward her, its dead eyes frozen in surprise. She jumped up. Her captors had gone, running into the woods, howling like mad dogs.

  “Father!” She staggered toward the chapel, aware of commotion behind her, unable to see clearly through her tears. She found her father’s body just inside the chapel door. He lived, but barely, his breaths coming quick and shallow, bubbles frothing pink on his lips. “Father! Dear Father!” She gathered his head in her arms and kissed his brow.

  “Does he live?”

  She looked up. Galahad stood above her, his eyes blazing. The sword at his side dripped blood. “Only . . . only just. The . . . the dagger—”

  “Don’t touch it!” He bent down closer.

  Ulfin’s eyes glistened gray. His lips moved. “The Shield.”

  “Tell him we’re off to get the others. They’ve not gone far. Garfalon will stay and guard you until we get back.”

  “Wait!” Marrah looked up beseechingly. “Take a shield with you. He wants you to take a shield.”

  “What for? I’ve no need, and there’s no time—”

  Ulfin struggled for breath, his blind eyes searching the dark. “No time. Dying now. Take the Shield from the wall.”

  “Please,” Marrah begged, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Please. Just do it. It doesn’t matter which one. Just take a shield. It is his dying wish.”

  “Very well.” In the dimness the round shields all looked the same. Galahad reached up for the nearest one, behind the door above Ulfin’s body, and ran his arm through the straps. “I’ve taken one, Sir Ulfin. May God bless your eternal soul.” He made a sign of the cross in the air, turned, and was gone.

  Marrah sat on the rushes of the chapel floor and held her father’s head in her lap. Outside the window a nightingale began to sing. Behind the music she heard the rustle of mice somewhere in the straw and then the steady thud, thud of Garfalon stacking the wood the knights had brought into the clearing. He had built up the fire and a soft, golden glow shone through the chapel door and washed Ulfin’s pale, cold face with a last touch of color.

  “Marrah . . . did he—”

  “Hush, dear Father. Yes, he did. He took the Shield. Just as you said he would.”

  An expression of peace, of satisfaction, of serene joy settled over Ulfin’s features. He almost smiled. “I knew he was the one.”

  “Yes, Father,” Marrah whispered. “You knew as soon as he rode in this morning. Just as you knew it would be a glorious day.” She bent her head over his body and wept.

  19

  THE MASTER OF CASTLE NOIR

  The road through the mountain pass to Castle Noir, once paved with neatly fitted, broad-cut stones, was now slashed by gullies and buried in debris, all the work of rushing torrents in the spring snowmelt. What track there was dipped steeply down from the ridge crest to a narrow valley ringed by towering pines. The stronghold of Castle Noir nestled at the head of the valley, and before it, covering the valley floor, stretched a long, glittering lake.

  At the top of the pass Galahad paused and narrowed his eyes to see the fortress better. From this distance outbuildings were just visible at the back of a sprawling wooden structure punctuated at uneven intervals by three stone towers. He wondered why anyone called such a place a castle. It looked more like a rebuilt Roman villa fortified for defense. Greenery showed—trees or meadow or both, he could not be sure—between the buildings and the encircling wall. Strange as the castle was, the wall looked even stranger. From this distance it glittered silver, protruding here and there in its meander about the grounds—never Roman built, that was sure—a bent but shining crown around an odd, misshapen brow. For all its oddity, Castle Noir was excellently placed. There was only one road in and only one road out. At its back ranged the steep hills and before it lay the water. Even for a small company it would be easy to defend.

  Behind him Percival and Marrah rode together on the old gray, followed by Garfalon on his sturdy mountain pony and the mule. Thank heaven the girl had not balked at leaving the Chapel in the Green. They had buried Ulfin as soon as it was light enough to see. She had wept, of course, but said very little. She had done as he asked and gathered her meager belongings and slung them on the mule. Even more surprising, she had kept her eyes lowered and her thoughts to herself. He had not expected such meekness from her. The only time life showed in her features was when they passed a cloud of ravens, circling and screaming above the trees a short way off the path, and he had told her that that was where he and Percival had caught the ruffians and killed them by the light of the waning moon. Marrah blessed him then, but otherwise stayed silent. He glanced down at the shield. Perhaps it was a lucky token after all.

  As the pine woods thinned toward the lake verge, Galahad raised a hand and halted. “We’ll stop here and water the horses if the shore road is not patrolled. What do you know about Brastias’s defenses, Marrah?”

  She shrugged apologetically. “Not a thing, my lord.”

  “What did you see the last time you were here?”

  “I’ve never been to Castle Noir, my lord. Father came here for supplies twice yearly, but he never brought me. Sir Brastias lives there with his son. My . . . my father met Kynor on his last trip there at winter’s end. He had been away at the wars but came home to heal his wounds.”

  “A warrior, then. Does he command the troops?”

  Marrah looked at him blankly. “I never heard Father say anything about troops. Except for Kynor and a couple of servants, Sir Brastias lives alone.”

  “Alone! That’s impossible!” Percival cried. “How does he eat? Or keep himself warm in winter? Or keep out the thieves?”

  Marrah’s eyes widened. “With magic, of course.”

  Silence fell. Garfalon cast a worried glance at Galahad, who scowled. “We will see about that. But if there a
re no troops to patrol the shore road, we can safely take the horses down to drink. Follow me.”

  Running straight along the edge of the valley floor toward the castle, the shore road looked as though it had once felt the touch of Roman hands. But time, decay, and overgrowth had narrowed and bent it until in some places it was little more than a winding track, squeezed between the encroaching forest and the lake. Six mountain streams slashed their way across the road. Once culverts had contained them but now they ate freely away at the road’s foundations, creating steep-banked gullies too broad to jump. In late summer the streambeds were nearly dry and easy to ford, but Galahad imagined that for six months out of the year such hazards would slow an enemy’s approach. He wondered if the road’s neglect was intentional.

  The sun was fast disappearing behind the western ridge when at last they neared the castle. The treetops, catching the last rays, burned gold, but the lake glimmered cold and green in shadow. They stopped in the weedy, level yard before the gate-place and stared. There was no gate. The sinuous wall glittered unbroken before them, an impossible thing, but true.

  “Perhaps it’s around back,” Garfalon ventured at length. “I’ll go see.” Galahad nodded and Garfalon kicked his pony into a trot. Galahad himself went up to inspect the wall. Its smooth surface puzzled him. It was white as lime-washed plaster but had the feel of rock. Thousands and thousands of glittering, hard flecks were embedded in the whiteness, so that it caught and reflected light from the sky and the lake. It was both beautiful and mysterious, wonderful and very cleverly functional. His opinion of Sir Brastias began to rise.