“Tell him the truth, the whole truth,” Galahad muttered under his breath for the twentieth time, “and all will go well.”
Varric took a clean cloth from the traveling chest and toweled the High King dry.
“Well, Galahad, what is it? Don’t bring me bad news, I pray you, for this has all the earmarks of a fine spring day and I intend to enjoy it. How did you pass the night? Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you. Passing well.”
All traces of last night’s fatigue had left the King; he looked strong and fit and eager, the warrior King of Britain. He had not looked so for years. He drew on his tunic as Varric toweled his hair. The beard he had grown on shipboard was newly shaved away. He looked nearer thirty than forty, which was his age. He looked, Galahad thought suddenly, like Mordred.
“Sir, I have brought someone to meet you.”
Arthur pushed the towel aside, saw Percival, and waved Varric away.
“So you have. Come forward, young man.”
“King Arthur!” Percival whispered, falling to his knees and kissing the great Pendragon ruby. Arthur raised him and looked him over well.
“That is my name, sir, but you have the better of me there.”
“Oh!” Percival blushed to the roots of his hair. “I’m so sorry! I mean . . . I . . . my name is Percival, my lord. Son of Maelgon of Gwynedd.”
“Maelgon!” Arthur looked at him again sharply, and then began to laugh. “I’ll wager a talent of silver your father does not know you are here.”
“No, he does not! I stowed away secretly and last night Galahad found me. I would have stayed hidden, but he said I must come to you.”
Arthur grinned. “Stowed away to war? Brave lad. I’d have done the same myself in your place. You’re old enough to join us, by the look of you. You must be twelve.”
Percival looked pleased. “Nearly, my lord.” Galahad prodded him gently in the ribs. “Er, I mean, eleven at the equinox just past. But even so, my lord, I am old enough to serve. Many of your pages are even younger.”
“Why did your father leave you home?”
The King stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, looking calmly down upon him and awaiting his reply. It dawned on Percival that he was being questioned—alone and man-to-man—by the High King of all Britain, the man of a thousand legends, the Saxon-Slayer, the Dragon himself, who bathed in ice water before breakfast and who glowed with vigor, strength, and health. He shifted from foot to foot and stared nervously at his toes. Galahad poked him fiercely in the back.
Then the King reached out a hand and gently raised his chin until he looked into the boy’s face. Percival met his eyes, warm and brown and kind, and his fear slid away. He took a deep breath. He could tell this man anything.
“I know you asked him,” Arthur said gently. “Tell me, what was his reply?”
“Sir, he said I should stay home and protect my mother.”
“Ah. Do you think that an unreasonable request?”
“No, my lord. Only, she is well protected. My uncle Peredur was left in charge. He is a good fighter and a skilled hunter. He can keep my mother and sister safer than I could.”
Arthur nodded gravely. “No doubt. But is that what your father meant?”
Percival stared. “What else could he mean?”
Arthur shrugged lightly. “Only that your uncle has a wife and children of his own. It is only natural that their interests will be foremost in his thoughts. However loyal he is to Maelgon—don’t misunderstand me, Percival. I know Peredur. He has not the makings of a traitor in him. Your lady mother will be safe enough. But safety is not all, especially to women. Will she be first in any man’s thoughts while you and your father are both away?”
Percival swallowed hard. “I did not think of that, my lord.”
The King placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What’s done is done. It is hard, after all, for a youth your age to understand what a soldier feels when he must leave the ones he loves so completely in the hands of others.” His voice trailed off and for a moment he stood lost in thought. Percival and Galahad exchanged quick glances. “But you have made the effort,” he said briskly, coming back to himself, “and will be the wiser for it. There is no going back now.”
“Oh, my lord! Then you will not send me home? You will allow me to stay and take service with Galahad?”
Arthur looked amused. “So that was the plan. No, I don’t think I can allow that. Varric!”
“My lord?”
“We will be three at breakfast. That is, if my young lords will do me the honor?”
Percival and Galahad gaped, then spluttered eager acceptance. Varric spread a carpet on the ground and the King bade them sit down beside him. Within minutes Varric brought them wooden bowls of steaming porridge studded with raisins, a plate of new bread, sliced thick, a comb dripping with honey, strips of jerky, and a flagon of milk still warm from the goat. The boys ate like young wolves; Percival had a second helping of everything and licked the honey from his fingers. The King ate sparingly and drank only water.
“My lord.” Varric poked his head through the curtain. “Prince Mordred is here.”
“Bid him go ask Maelgon to attend me here as soon as he has broken his fast. Then tell Mordred I will meet him by the horse lines. Keep everyone away, Varric, until Maelgon leaves.”
“My lord King,” Galahad ventured when Varric had withdrawn, “must you send for King Maelgon? I persuaded Percival to come out of hiding and place himself in your hands. Must you . . . must you give him to his father? Percival will think I have betrayed him and regret the day he met me. And . . . and he is my kin, besides.”
“Oh, no!” Percival cried. “I would never think so, Galahad—you saved my life!”
Arthur looked gravely at them both. “What would you have me do?”
“Let him serve you, my lord, if he cannot serve me. He could be a page, perhaps, if . . . unless . . . maybe you need another guard?”
Arthur smiled. “So short a time you have known one another, and already friendship has taken root and grows.” He pushed his plate aside and leaned forward, chin on fist, watching their faces. “King Maelgon is a staunch ally. He commands a strong force of fighting men. I need them. I cannot afford to dishonor him before this gathering of kings. And I would not do it if he commanded no one. He is the Queen’s cousin, and thus kin to me. If I dishonor him, I insult her. And I would not do it even if we had no ties of kinship. For he is a man, and deserving of honor, until he betrays my trust.” He paused. “What say you to this?”
The boys glanced swiftly at each other. It was Galahad who spoke.
“Certainly you are right, my lord. King Maelgon must not be dishonored.”
“Young Percival has disobeyed his father’s command. He admits himself that it was not an unreasonable command to obey. If I take him into my service without Maelgon’s permission, what is that but a slap in the face to his authority?”
Percival flushed and lowered his eyes. “You are right, my lord.”
“So,” Arthur continued calmly, “we will ask his permission.”
“But he will never grant it,” Percival whispered. “You do not know him.”
At this the King laughed outright. “Not know him? I daresay I know him well enough. I would make you a wager, my dagger against yours, that he will give you permission to stay. But I will not make it, because I know that I will win and that looks to be a weapon much beloved.”
“Indeed, my lord, it is,” Percival replied, brightening as he drew it forth. “It belonged to my grandfather King Pellinore. My grandmother Alyse gave it to me on my birthday. I think she foresaw I would have need of it.”
“It would not surprise me. She is a shrewd woman.” Arthur turned the sheath in his hands and drew the blade. “So this was Pellinore’s, was it? It’s a fine example of Celtic craft; the art of its making is known to few.”
They heard raised voices in the distance. Arthur handed Perciv
al back his dagger and said swiftly, “Be penitent, boy. Bend yourself to the strong wind, and you will still be standing when the storm is past.”
“My lord King Maelgon!” Varric announced. No sooner were the words out of his mouth when Maelgon strode into the tent. He bowed low.
“My lord Arthur . . . Percival! By God, how came you here?” His face darkened and the very bristles of his beard seemed to stand out straighter from his face. Arthur motioned him to sit.
“Come join us, Maelgon. Sit here at my right hand, and you will learn how it came about.”
“I told you to stay and protect your mother!” Maelgon shouted. In the corner, Varric coughed warningly. Maelgon saw suddenly that he was standing while the High King sat. Angrily, he seated himself across from his son.
“Varric, a pitcher of ale for the king,” Arthur called. What followed was a lesson in diplomacy Galahad never forgot. Arthur toasted Maelgon’s health and the success of their joint venture against the Romans, forcing Maelgon to drink of the ale for courtesy’s sake. When, scenting delay, Maelgon demanded to know how his son came to be there, Arthur calmly related how Galahad had found him and brought him to the King. “We are all family here,” he said, thereby reminding Maelgon he was Galahad’s uncle, and that anything said in that small circle was between kin. Maelgon grunted, but acknowledged it. He was clearly furious, but since the High King was so pleasant and courteous, his righteous indignation was out of place. At Arthur’s signal, Percival went on his knees before his father and confessed every detail of his disobedience, justifying nothing, bowing his head in submission and letting his father’s rage wash over him in waves. He offered no resistance, accepting scorn and insults without batting an eye, agreeing to whatever punishment Maelgon threatened to give him. Gradually, Maelgon’s anger abated. No one offered him argument or challenged his right. At last he sat back and drained his tankard, which Varric hurried to refill.
“Can you give me one good reason why I should not send you back on the next ship to Britain?”
Percival hung his head. “No, my lord.”
“Hand over my father’s dagger.” Percival went white, but obeyed. Maelgon tucked the dagger in his belt. “You are not worthy of your birthright as Prince of Gwynedd.”
Percival’s eyes filled with tears. Galahad shot a desperate glance at Arthur, who was watching Percival with great compassion.
Maelgon, satisfied at last, sighed deeply. “It grieves me to do it,” he said to the King, “but I cannot keep him here. He is too young to fight and all the men know I commanded him to stay.”
“And your lady wife?” Arthur murmured, half to himself. “Surely she will suffer great distress when he returns in shame.”
Maelgon colored. “Aye, my lord. But there is no help for that.” “Well,” Arthur said easily, “perhaps there is another solution.” Maelgon looked up sharply, but the King’s face was blank and guileless, his eyes focused on some distant thought.
“What have you in mind, my lord?”
“I am thinking of your honor, Maelgon, and of your lonely queen, Anet. If you sent her, instead of Percival, a message saying you had changed your mind and decided to take him, it would make her proud, would it not?”
Maelgon’s face darkened. “Perhaps, my lord. But I have not changed my mind. He cannot serve me.”
“Perhaps not. But he can serve me.”
Arthur smiled, and Maelgon was forced to swallow his anger. “I am organizing the pages and the grooms, and all the other boys now in my service, into a small corps to serve as hospital guards and scavenger hunters during battle. I will need every able-bodied man upon the field. They all have a weapon of some kind, a sword or a dagger, and while we fight they can at least protect our wounded behind the lines. Galahad will have the training of them.” Galahad’s eyes widened, but he kept his surprise from showing on his face. “With your permission, and if the lad is willing, I would welcome your son in this group. As Galahad’s cousin, he would be second-in-command. Thus will he have the chance to do you honor, Maelgon, instead of bringing you shame.”
Maelgon frowned and grumbled, knowing he had been outwitted, but pleased nevertheless at the result. At last he grinned and slapped the High King heartily on the back.
“Arthur of Britain! By God, I’m glad to have you as my commander! I’ll take your bait if we can keep the truth a secret.”
“We are all kin here. Let us swear an oath upon it.”
The boys swore eagerly, the men solemnly, and afterward they drank another toast.
“Here, boy, take your dagger.” Maelgon grunted. “I wasn’t going to keep it. I know how precious you hold it. I wanted to see if you would give it up to me.” He glanced at Arthur. “He’s better behaved with you, my lord, than ever he was at home.”
“That,” Arthur said, smiling, “is the way of youth.” He rose, and they all rose with him. “Galahad, see if Varric can find Percival some decent clothing before he steps outside in daylight. I am off to the wharf to greet the men who came ashore last night, and see to the horses. These creatures Riderch brought us are fit for harness only. Wait until he sees the animals Lancelot has bred!” And with a laugh of pleasure, he departed.
Maelgon laid a heavy hand on Percival’s shoulder. “You’ll be the death of me, boy, if you don’t learn to obey orders. If you disobey Arthur, there will be no second chance.” He turned and left, still grumbling.
Galahad and Percival found themselves alone in the High King’s tent.
“There. What did I tell you? Arthur listened to you, and outmaneuvered your father. You’ll get to stay and serve Arthur as Prince of Gwynedd.”
Percival grinned. “I knew if I stuck to you everything would be all right.”
30
THE MEETING
Kerrec was a walled town set on a low hill at the edge of the thick Breton forest. The old Roman road led straight from the harbor to the great gates, but centuries of neglect had taken their toll and the once-level highway was cut by gullies, overgrown by scree, reduced in places to little more than a rutted track through the overgrowth. Nearer the town the forest fell back before cleared fields and pastures. Here among the cattle stood ranks of standing stones, black and silent sentinels of a time gone by.
In a hundred years the town had grown beyond its original stone walls. Now a second embankment had been thrown up, topped by a palisade, around the fields, houses, gardens, workplaces, and streets that comprised Kerrec New Town.
Galahad and Percival rode side by side in the train of Arthur’s troops as the army passed in a long file through New Town and up the ramp to the ancient gates of Old Kerrec. Percival’s mount, a bony carthorse scrounged up from somewhere at the last minute, had such an awkward gait it took all of his concentration and a good grip on the mane to stay on his back.
When the procession halted before the gates, Percival looked up from his horse’s withers and looked around. “Is Benoic as big as this?”
Galahad shook his head. “Benoic’s not even half this size.”
Percival laughed as a posy of wildflowers landed in Galahad’s lap. “You never told me you had admirers in Brittany! What pretty girls!”
Three young maidens had stepped forward from the gathered onlookers and now stood gazing up at him, wide-eyed and giggling. Reddening, Galahad brushed the flowers to the ground.
Percival winked at the girls, but to Galahad he said soberly, “Where is Lancelot? In the king’s house with King Hoel?”
“I suppose so.”
“That’s wise of Arthur. To arrange it so that Lancelot and Gawaine meet for the first time while he’s there watching.”
“Arthur’s nothing if not wise.”
“What will you do if Gawaine challenges him?”
Galahad shrugged. “I’ll watch, like you. Lancelot can take care of himself.” Another posy landed in his lap and Galahad’s face flamed. He flung the flowers to the ground without taking his gaze from between his horse’s ears.
 
; Percival felt a tug on his sleeve. A slender, fair-haired girl looked up shyly at him. “Please, good sir, to tell us the name of yonder handsome knight, your friend, who turns his back on us?”
Percival grinned. “You can’t really think he’s handsome, can you? With his face so red? Galahad, do you hear? They admire you for your beauty, of all things—they don’t even know who your father is! His name is Galahad, maiden, and he’s Prince of Lanascol.”
The wide-eyed girl curtsied to the ground. “Sir Lancelot’s son! God be thanked, and keep him safe from harm.” The crowd grew quiet at the mention of Lancelot’s name, and many among them bared their heads.
“You do me no favors, Percival,” Galahad snapped. “I should have let you starve in the forest.”
A rider trotted down the lines, reining in his horse as he came alongside them.
“Galahad. Percival.” He inclined his dark head politely as he addressed them. Galahad sat unmoving, looking him steadily in the face. Something flashed in the rider’s black eyes, as if this was not behavior he expected, but he spoke courteously to them both. “The King has given the order to set up camp near the east gate, next to the Franks. Percival, you are bidden to find your father and stay with the men of Gwynedd until the King sends for you.”
“Very good, my lord. I will.”
“Galahad, you are bidden to attend the King. We go in to greet Hoel.” The black eyes narrowed as a small smile touched the rider’s lips. “And Lancelot. See you don’t keep him waiting.” With that, he put spurs to his horse and cantered back up the lines.
“Who was that, wearing the dragon cipher?” Percival whispered anxiously. “And why didn’t you bow your head? I saw his face—he was affronted.”
“That,” Galahad replied stiffly, “was Mordred.”
“Oh! So that’s Sir Mordred!” Percival lowered his voice. “I heard one of the soldiers say he’s the High King’s son but not the Queen’s. Is he a bastard, then? And heir because there is no trueborn son?”
“It’s worse than that,” Galahad said through clenched teeth. “Mordred is abomination.”