Grail Prince

  Arthur took it and frowned. “Bors, you and Galyn tend the horses and make camp. Get us a fire going. Everyone else, spread out and search. For anything. We have but half an hour before the light fails.”

  It was Galahad who found the nurse. He almost stumbled over her where she lay, huddled against the rock face. Her clothes had been ripped from her body, and her scrawny arms clutched a few tattered, bloody rags to her withered breasts. Her face was pressed into the dirt, and her gray hair, stringy and unbound, was streaked with blood. There was blood between her legs, too, and down her flaccid thighs, old blood, dried and dark. Galahad gagged and turned away. His shout brought the men running. Arthur knelt down and took the old woman gently in his arms, cradling her head against his chest.

  “She breathes!” he cried. “Water, quickly!”

  Galahad watched as the High King washed her face with gentle fingers, and spoke to her in a low voice full of tenderness. It was as if he never even saw her ugliness—her age, her bruises, her wanton nakedness. To him, she was a soul in need, although the mere touch of her dirtied his tunic and soiled his hands. When the water revived her she grew rigid with fear, staring wildly at them, then turned her face into Arthur’s tunic and wept ragged, bitter tears.

  “We are here to take you home,” Arthur said softly, bending his head close to her ear. “Can you tell us what happened? Does the Princess Elen live?”

  “Mother of God!” she croaked, clinging to Arthur. “She is gone to Heaven, my little one, my precious child. The Lord heard her prayers and took her before the brute was done. She is out of her pain. Oh, God!”

  “Hush, mother. I will ask you no more. You need rest.”

  At that she looked up at him and ceased her weeping. Her faded eyes darkened with anger. “I am not going home, kind lord. I will die here with her. So you must take this tale back to her kin. Tell the king. Will you promise me?”

  “I promise it. Rest assured, mother, that we will kill her murderers before the sun sets on the morrow. We have tracked them long and are almost upon them.”

  Her lips parted in an attempt to smile. All her teeth were broken. “You are the one they fear. I heard them talking. You are the One Unconquered.”

  “So God has blessed me.”

  “So it has been foretold.” She closed her eyes. “The giant Grile. He is the leader. Thick as an oak, and as strong. He’s a monster. The others are nothing without him. My poor little Elen. She did not believe, even when they brought us here, that he would . . . The brute stripped her in front of everyone, that they all might behold her beauty, then he . . . right there in the cave, the cowardly dog! I begged him—me, a grandmother—I begged him to take me in her place. He only laughed and set the others on me. Oh, sir, spare him not, though he beg for mercy! There is no mercy in his heart. I hear her screams, even now, waking and sleeping, I hear her screams. She was virgin and he killed her.”

  “Hush, mother,” said the King, lifting her in his arms. “Tell us no more. I will not spare him, I promise you. Let me take you to the fire and warm you. Later you must tell us where her body lies, that we may give her Christian burial.”

  She had buried the girl’s body in the sand as soon as the bandits were gone. She had no tools but her fingers and it was the only earth soft enough to move. She herself had dragged the child’s body from the cave, the little girl she had reared and tended for fourteen years, and whose cruel death she had been forced to witness. It had taken the last of her strength and all but the last of her will. Before moonrise she died.

  The men worked solemnly well into the night, digging graves in the sandy soil by the light of crude torches, saying little. Galahad was glad of the silence and the dark. Nearby lay the body of the princess, washed clean of sand and blood. They had no cloth to cover her, and in the flickering shadows of torchlight the marks of death were dimmed; her flesh looked young and firm and rosy, her body lying as if she idled, waiting for a lover.

  Galahad wiped the sweat from his brow. He should never have come. This rescue had not gone as he’d planned. Instead of wielding his sword in an heroic act and proving himself superior to a sixteen-year-old girl, he wallowed, powerless, in a sea of rising distress. He fought against the physical excitement that gripped him, for it terrified him. What if Lancelot’s curse was a crown of thorns he would wear forever? Surreptitiously he glanced at her body again. He would see her in his dreams, alive and beckoning, he knew it with certainty. He would see those budding breasts, those curving hips, those pliant thighs—with an effort, he forced his thoughts away. He should have stayed in camp with Percival. He should have stayed inside his bedroll. He should have stayed in Britain.

  “Enough, Galahad!” He stopped abruptly. They had all finished digging and were looking at him. “Enough,” Arthur repeated gently. “We can bury them now and give them rest.”

  The High King said prayers over the women’s bodies, anointed them with oil from his saddlepack, and sent their souls to God. Everyone blessed them on their journey, making signs over the gravesite, everyone except Mordred. But as they turned away from the mound, Mordred clutched the amulet he wore around his neck and his eyes shone unnaturally bright in the torchlight. Arthur slung an arm about his son’s shoulders.

  “We’ll lie here tonight,” the High King ordered, “and be off at dawn. Tomorrow we will catch them. Tomorrow they will pay for what they’ve done here. I swear my oath upon it.”

  Galahad watched them walk away. He stood alone and looked down at the raw earth of the girl’s grave, his face hot with shame. Every man there had seen his rampaging emotion and had recognized it for what it was. Like the burning thirst of a man stranded in a wasteland leagues from water, his horrific lust was something solid, physical, overmastering. Was there no way to redeem his honor? He could think of only one. He could find the men who raped her, and make them pay.

  33

  THE SOLDIER

  At dawn they swam the horses back. No one spoke. Tracks showed clearly where the gang had split up, each man going his separate way. The giant had taken the cattle and the wagons.

  “We will divide into pairs,” Arthur commanded. “At sunset, meet back here and we’ll count our spoils.”

  “Galahad,” Lancelot said quickly, “will come with me.”

  Arthur nodded. “Bedwyr, go with Gereint. Bors with Galyn. Mordred, come with me.”

  Was it Galahad’s imagination, or did Mordred smile at him as he rode by? With a grimace of distaste, Galahad turned his horse to follow Lancelot’s into the heavy brush. They rode all morning, Lancelot stopping once or twice to examine the trail.

  “He has joined up with a friend,” he whispered once. “Now you may be sure you will see action.”

  About noon Lancelot stopped and signaled to him to dismount. They tied the horses to the trees and slung their waterskins about their shoulders. “We go on foot from here on,” Lancelot said softly. “I don’t believe they’re far. In this undergrowth we’re faster and quieter without the horses.” He looked hard into Galahad’s face. “Are you ready, son? They’re desperate men. They’ve raped and murdered the King’s niece. They know what punishment they face.”

  Galahad drew his sword and held it firmly. “I am ready.” He hoped his voice did not betray him.

  Lancelot looked at him sharply, then slung an arm around his shoulders in a brief hug. “Let’s go.”

  They slipped silently through the dark forest. Galahad was amazed at his father’s skill, at how swiftly he moved and how sure he was of his way. He himself was lost after fifty paces; he was not even certain he could find the horses. Suddenly Lancelot stopped and beckoned him forward. Between the sloping branches of a pine they could see two men in a clearing. They spoke in furious whispers, brandishing weapons, arguing about whether to split up or stay together. They were both dressed in patched and filthy rags. The older of the two had gray flecks in his beard and a belly over his swordbelt. But he carried himself like a soldier and held a Roman sword. The
younger man, armed with sword and dagger, had thick, matted hair and a wild look about his eyes. He was quick of movement and looked nervously about, scanning the trees.

  “The younger man’s more dangerous,” Lancelot muttered. “He’s mine. The other’s had training; you’ll know what to expect. He’s heavier, but slow. You can take him.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Galahad replied, his heart pounding.

  “For the glory of God, for the glory of Britain, for the glory of Arthur,” Lancelot whispered, crossing himself quickly, and broke through the trees with a wild yell. “Yield in the King’s name, or die!”

  With a cry, the young man bolted into the woods and Lancelot tore after him. The old soldier turned adroitly, sword up, and faced Galahad. His eyes widened.

  “Why, you’re a beardless boy! Who is with you? Come, come, you can’t expect to take me by yourself.”

  Galahad said nothing. He circled slowly, his heart in his mouth and his head pounding. He feinted right and left. His father was right: the man had been trained in some king’s army. All his responses were familiar.

  But the soldier disdained him. He smiled slowly. “Who are you, boy? Where is your mother? Who let you out without your nurse?”

  It was an old trick, provoking one’s enemy into a rash mistake by hurling insults. Galahad smiled. The soldier lunged. Galahad lightly dodged the blade and nicked the man’s shoulder, drawing blood and a howl of pain. This shocked him. Good soldiers did not cry out so. Clearly, this man had not been worthy of the army. He was easy meat.

  The soldier glared at him and spat. “Bitch’s whelp! Mewling puppy! Whose bastard are you? Whose sword have you stolen? You’re naught but the son of a Greek whoremonger; I can see it in your eyes! You filthy little fornicating sodomite—” A fire began to burn within Galahad, and the soldier began to smile. He circled, ignoring Galahad’s feints, watching his eyes. “A strapping bugger, aren’t you? A lady’s man already, I’ve no doubt. Have you ever had a woman, boy? Or better yet, a maiden, straight from her nurse’s lap?” He smacked his lips. “Can you imagine anything so tasty? Such a pretty face, such red lips, such firm, round breasts, just big enough to fit in your hand, little hard nipples under your thumb—”

  “Shut up!” Galahad cried, reddening and gulping. “Shut up!”

  The sword came in fast, too fast; Galahad rolled and dove and missed it by a hairbreadth, springing to his feet, finding himself backed closer to the trees with less room to maneuver. There was no time to collect his thoughts; he parried a blow, and another, and another. The man was stronger and heavier and kept advancing. He had to have more room!

  “Firm thighs,” the soldier gloated, licking his lips and coming closer, “pale and tender, little round belly, curls as soft as goose down against your cheek—”

  “Stop! Oh, God! Please!” Galahad backed, sweating, the sword hilt suddenly slippery in his hand.

  “Can you feel it, son? The burning in your loins? I can see you do. Think of it, son. She’s yours. So young. So frightened. So wild and warm and sweet—”

  “Aaaaargh!” Galahad’s vision went dark. He did not care if he lived another heartbeat. He attacked without thought, without feeling, and let his limbs move where they would. The soldier blocked him, parried, spun, and feinted, but these were moves he knew. He dodged and whirled, nicking him here, slicing him there, making him howl, leaping and dancing, making him pay.

  “I yield! My God! Are you mad? I yield!”

  The man was on his knees, weeping, clutching his bleeding hand. On the ground at Galahad’s feet lay the man’s sword, two fingers still wrapped around the grip.

  “I don’t know who on earth you are,” the soldier sobbed, “but you’re demented. Spare me, boy, and I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll give you treasure!”

  Galahad stood over him, fighting for breath. Slowly his vision cleared. “Get up.” The soldier rose awkwardly, mumbling thanks. “Take down your leggings.”

  The soldier stared. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But . . . I can’t . . . my hand—”

  “Do it. Or die now.”

  Whimpering with terror, the soldier struggled to obey. His maimed hand sprayed his clothes with blood as he fumbled, shaking, with the knotted thong that held his leggings up. Coolly, Galahad stepped forward and ran his sword tip down the man’s legs, barely scratching the flesh but slicing the leggings free. The soldier cried out in horror, more afraid of the skill it took than of the deed itself. “Who are you? What do you want of me?”

  For the first time, Galahad met his eyes. “My name is Galahad. I want your manhood.”

  The soldier stared at him unbelieving, then backed away and began to blubber as Galahad stepped forward and raised his sword. “You can’t! My God, you are mad! No, no! Have mercy, I beg you! Kill me, then! Aaaaah!” He tripped over a root and fell on his back, weeping as the sword came down.

  With a swift stroke Galahad sliced off his genitals and held them in the air for the man to see. The soldier began to scream. Galahad held the bloody flesh aloft and raised his eyes skyward.

  “ ‘See the rage of mine enemies! Let the wickedness of the wicked come to an end!’ ”

  “Kill me!” the soldier howled. “As you love God, run me through!”

  Galahad tossed the severed organs on the ground near the soldier’s face. Within moments two kites dropped from the trees and began to fight over the flesh. “I beg you!” The soldier wept. “Kill me and have done! Oh, God, oh, God!”

  “Don’t worry. You will die,” Galahad sat flatly, watching the man bleed and writhe in pain. Carefully, he wiped his sword on the grass until the blade was clean of blood, then slid it home to its scabbard and looked down at the dying man. “You’ll die as you’ve lived. Without mercy.”

  “Fiend from Hell!” the soldier croaked, gasping in his agony.

  “Galahad! What in God’s name is going on?” Lancelot stepped into the clearing.

  “Good knight!” the soldier shrieked. “Have you a sword? Kill me, sir, I beg you! Save me from this demon!”

  “Dear Christ!” Lancelot gasped, frightening the kites away from their meal. “What have you done? Why have you done it? Are you mad? Why don’t you kill him?”

  Galahad looked up calmly at his father. “As he sows, so shall he reap.”

  “Kill me! I beg you!”

  Lancelot, sickened, regarded his son. “You are not God.” He drew his sword and looked down at the soldier. “For what you have done you deserve death. By the order of King Hoel I take your life. Say your last prayer and go to your god.” With a swift downstroke he dispatched the man, cleaned his sword, and turned to face his son. There were tears in his eyes.

  “Galahad, are you ill?”

  “He has received as he has given; justice is served.”

  “You were ordered to kill him.”

  “He would have died in time.”

  “Mutilation is not punishment for rape. He was a man, after all, and deserving of quick death. You owed him that much. What you did is . . . shameful.” Galahad paled. Lancelot’s face was stone. “You’ve grown up in Camelot. You know better.”

  “Don’t,” the boy whispered. “Don’t be such an ungodly hypocrite!”

  “Watch your tongue!” Lancelot snapped. “Have you forgotten your manners as well as your principles?”

  “You speak to me of principles?” Galahad shouted, backing away as Lancelot stepped forward. Tears streamed down the boy’s face and he could not catch his breath. “Remember the whore of Babylon, the mother of harlots—she rules the hearts of all who look upon her! Even me—I was twice almost beguiled. But you . . . you have embraced her where you had no right. You, who’ve always known the sins of the flesh would be your undoing! A wanton woman corrupts the soul! A good man is like a white robe—but you step into the mud with both eyes opened—you chose your fate!”

  “Galahad. Son. Stop and rest a bit—I have water and bread—you are not well
.”

  “Don’t touch me! You are tainted with her very scent—I can smell it on you! You carry it with you like a badge of shame. Why will you not renounce her? She is damned, because of you. Can you live with that?”

  “Son—”

  “Look into your heart!” Galahad cried, pounding his chest with his fist. “Can you deny you love her? Can you look me in the face and deny you deserted us for her? You kiss the ground she walks on—you are drunk on the wine of her fornication!”

  “What in God’s sweet name—”

  “God’s name is blasphemy on your lips! ‘No covetous man hath any inheritance in the kingdom of God.’ ”

  Lancelot stopped in his tracks and stood completely still, staring at Galahad with narrowed eyes. The boy’s voice cracked as his tears coursed down his cheeks.

  “ ‘Whoso committeth adultery with a woman destroyeth his own soul!’ This you know. This you have always known! ‘Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned? So he that goeth in to his neighbor’s wife—’ Don’t you see what you have done? It is clear to all the world— even to Arthur—can you be the only one who is blind? Yet you pretend to honor. How can you look him in the face and call him lord and friend? Has she corrupted you? Then she is a traitor and a whore! She is damned for love of you! How can you, how can you live with yourself?” The torrent stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Galahad stood sobbing in front of Lancelot.

  Breathing heavily, Lancelot said slowly in a quiet voice, “Do I understand you aright? Do you mean . . . do you speak of Guinevere?”

  “Guinevere!” Galahad wailed. “The whore of Britain!”

  In a movement too quick to defend, Lancelot turned his shoulder and smashed the back of his fist into Galahad’s face. The boy fell spinning to the forest floor, blood bursting from his mouth and nose. He lay facedown, stunned, as the numbness slowly ebbed and the pain began.

  Above him, Lancelot struggled for command of his voice. “If I ever hear her name pass your lips again, I will kill you. Son of my body or no, I will kill you. Do you hear me?”