Grail Prince

  By morning a new tent was raised adjoining the High King’s; Lancelot’s pallet was set next to the tent cloth so that, should he awaken, he could hear the High King’s voice. And Arthur, while he went about his business, could listen for sounds of progress or distress.

  Arthur’s first action was to send two couriers to Mordred with the news of his return, not trusting merely one to get the message through. His second action approved all the decisions Bedwyr had made in his name. He confirmed Galahad at his post and did not ask him if he preferred to be at his father’s side. He took Percival aside and spoke to him privately. When the boy emerged, his eyes were red and he wore his father’s swordbelt and his badge.

  “Galahad! The High King has confirmed me as my father’s heir. Provided I allow my uncle Peredur to act as regent until I am fifteen, I am now King of Gwynedd.”

  “Now you outrank me, my lord Percival.” Galahad smiled, bowing low.

  The light left Percival’s face. “If I did, I’d command you to attend your father. You haven’t been once to see him. Your absence has been marked. He’s senseless, you know. Why don’t you just go in and kneel at his side?”

  Galahad looked quickly away. “It doesn’t matter what others think.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Let it be, Percival. If God wants Lancelot to live, he will live. My presence at his bedside makes no difference.”

  “I will pray for him,” Percival whispered. “I will pray for you both.”

  38

  THE DRAGON AND THE HAWK

  In ten days the dead were identified and buried, their effects sorted, and wag⸍ ons made ready to carry the treasure. The army was rested; the wounded were healing; it was time to start for home. But Arthur would not move. After gaining strength and awakening, Lancelot had fallen into a fever. His injured leg swelled and grew hot. His brow burned. He slipped into delirium, moaned, and tossed about. Gaius, having learned better, said nothing about his chances but lanced the leg, poulticed it to draw the heat, cooled his brow, gave him water, and waited. Arthur paced about his tent, listening to the dreadful moans, knowing by the sound of his agony that his friend still lived.

  The days grew hot and the plain dusty. Men rode far afield to hunt, fished the streams, and set snares for ground fowl. Tempers began to wear ragged. But alone of Arthur’s men Gawaine voiced his discontent. He hung about the High King day and night, badgering him to leave Lancelot with Gaius and start for home.

  “You dare not leave it too long, my lord. You will tempt Mordred past his bearing. I grew up with him and I know his nature—he’s an ambitious man.”

  “I know him, too, Gawaine. He will not steal my crown, if that is what worries you so.”

  “He won’t be able to help himself. It is all he has ever wanted, to rule Britain in your stead!”

  “Nonsense. He was a grown man before I made him my heir. That is treasonous talk—watch your tongue! He is my son.”

  “And my brother. I know his heart. He—”

  “Enough. I will hear no more. I will not leave until Lancelot can travel. Possess your soul in patience, if you can. If you cannot, take your prattle somewhere else.”

  Gawaine left, but he always returned, and always with the same song upon his lips. At the back of the tent, behind a curtain of skins where the men’s effects were piled, Galahad and Percival heard these words and exchanged long looks.

  They were there the day a letter came from Britain. The courier who brought it told a harrowing tale of a wild wind that blew from the north across the Narrow Sea. His ship was nearly wrecked upon the waves, so fast did she fly before the wind. But he would have to wait until the fury abated before he could return. No ship bound for Britain could even leave port.

  Arthur paled. “How long has this been so?”

  “My lord, the gale has blown nigh on a week, and shows no sign of weakening. It’s a strange sight, for the sky is clear. The sailors’ superstitions are aroused. Not a man of them will put hand to an oar.”

  “This means,” Arthur said slowly to Gawaine when the courier had left them, “that the couriers I sent could not get across. They do not know in Britain that I live.”

  Galahad and Percival peeked around the edges of the curtain and held their breaths as the High King unrolled the scroll and read, his face lining with worry and his eyes growing cold. When he had finished, he looked up, his gaze far away, and then read it carefully once more. At his side Gawaine fairly danced with impatience.

  “What does it say, Uncle? Is it good news or ill? Who is it from?”

  Without a word, the King handed him the scroll and began to pace. Using his finger as a guide, Gawaine laboriously worked through the Latin script. “Why, it’s from Constantine of Cornwall! And it’s addressed to the leader of the Briton armies. ‘To the most noble commander, King Arthur, if he liveth, or to whomever now standeth in his stead, greetings from Constantine, Duke of Cornwall.’ ”

  “Notice,” Arthur cut in thinly, “he does not style himself ‘heir of Britain’ as he was once wont to do. That is because Mordred has repulsed him, and because he is not sure that I am dead.”

  “He says . . . he says . . . your presence is urgently required in Britain, my lord. Because—let’s see—how his scribe does beat around the bush. I can’t see Constantine himself taking this long to say anything. Because—I knew it! Mordred has done more than make himself regent! He has made himself High King!”

  Galahad and Percival exchanged frightened glances as Gawaine swore furiously and shook the scroll at Arthur.

  “I told you, my lord! I told you he was ambitious! The traitorous dog has usurped your power and your name!”

  “Call him that again at your peril, Gawaine. He is my son.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “He is following my orders. Nothing more. The night he left Kerrec I told him that if I fell, he must assume the kingship without delay and treat with Cerdic. Surely you see the sense in that.”

  “But you have not fallen!”

  “He does not know that. He has had only Lancelot’s message, not mine.”

  “But Lancelot did not report your death! He knew only that you could not be found. Yet Mordred has crowned himself without even waiting for confirmation!”

  “Nonsense. There has been no crowning. He has taken the title, as he must, until the courier gets through. Otherwise, Britain bares her neck to the Saxon fang.”

  But Gawaine could not be stilled for long. “My lord!” He gasped, staring hard at the scroll. “What is this? Constantine calls the Queen a vixen!”

  “Read on,” Arthur replied evenly, “and you will see.”

  Gawaine flushed as bright as his flaming hair. “Mordred is courting her?” He looked up, stunned. “Uncle, the duke says here . . . he says they are to be married! Oh, the vile dog! He thinks to solidify his power by taking your widow to wife. I’ll have his head for this! I’ll—”

  “Gawaine.” The King’s voice froze Gawaine in midsentence. “If anyone will have his head, I will. But stop a moment, and think before you speak. Consider who writes the letter, and what he has to gain or lose by lies. Do not take every word as truth. Consider Constantine.”

  “Do you think he lies when he says Mordred is gathering his own army? I believe him. It is just what Mordred would do.”

  “Perhaps he is. But recall why Mordred went home to Britain. Constantine was on the march with troops. Mordred was sent to prevent the taking of Camelot. He has obviously succeeded, and Constantine is angry. If you were Mordred, with an angry war leader and his troops loose on the land, would you not shore up your own forces, for safety’s sake? Thus far, what Mordred has done makes perfect sense.”

  “But these men are loyal to Mordred now, not to you.”

  “They are loyal to the High King. To Britain. Why must you see Mordred as my enemy, Gawaine? You know he is not.”

  “No?” Gawaine cried, tossing the letter to the ground. “How can you deny it, wh
en he is betrothed to your own wife?”

  Arthur ceased his pacing and stood very still. “It isn’t true.”

  “How do you know? He has always loved her, Uncle. You know that.”

  “I know Guinevere. And I know Mordred. It isn’t true.”

  “He solidifies his backing, and she holds on to power—”

  “Consider the source, Gawaine. This barb was meant for me. Constantine wishes to divide us and is using Guinevere as the wedge. If he can bring me back to Britain as Mordred’s enemy, he stands to gain much and lose nothing. It’s a crafty tactic, but it will not work if I don’t believe it.”

  “Are you so sure it is not true?”

  “Yes.”

  Gawaine shrugged. “You have much to lose if he is right.”

  Arthur stood as still as stone. “If he is right it is already lost.”

  In the heavy silence that followed, Bedwyr stuck his head through the tent flap.

  “My lord Arthur, have you a moment?”

  Wearily, Arthur nodded. “Come in, Bedwyr. Gawaine is just leaving.” Gawaine scowled, but obeyed, and sketched a salute to Bedwyr on the way out. With a deep sigh, Arthur sat on his stool and motioned Bedwyr to sit beside him.

  “You look tired, my lord,” said Bedwyr anxiously. “Have you eaten?”

  “Later. Later. I have no stomach for food while Lancelot is ill.”

  “That is why I have come. Gaius expects the crisis to come tonight. By tomorrow his fate should be decided. He has a body of iron. If the fever breaks, he might live.”

  Arthur rested a hand on Bedwyr’s shoulder. “And if not, not. Ah, Bedwyr, I cannot envision a world without Lancelot. He is a part of me. As are you, my old friend.” Bedwyr nodded and bit his lip. “But he has a will of iron, too. I put my hope in that. Tell Gaius I will come at sundown. I will stay until it is over.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Arthur sighed. “You might as well know the latest news.” He pointed to the crumpled scroll. Bedwyr retrieved it and slowly read. When at last he looked up, his face was grave.

  “Constantine is your enemy, Arthur. These lies might be believed by credulous men.”

  The King’s smile was bitter. “Indeed. They already are.”

  “Gawaine?”

  “Of course. I am glad to know you have more sense.”

  Bedwyr tapped the letter. “Clearly, they do not yet know you live. For Britain’s safety, Mordred might assume your command and raise an army. But this about the Queen is slander.”

  “Gawaine believes it.”

  Bedwyr shook his head. “If ever anyone made such an accusation about the Lady Ragnall, Gawaine would kill the man who told him for allowing the mere words to pass his lips. How could he say such a thing to you?”

  Arthur folded his hands and stared hard at the floor. “Let us not forget he is my nephew, and stands to gain if my son can be discredited.”

  “Arthur! Do you mistrust him? He has been at your side these many years and always treated you with honor. Does he now plot against you?”

  “No, no, do not misunderstand me. As much as is in him, Gawaine loves me. I do not doubt him. But he has an abiding jealousy of Mordred and would, I think, be pleased to find these lies of Constantine were true.”

  “Well, they are not,” Bedwyr repeated firmly. “But one thing is certain: The sooner we get to Britain, the better. It is past midsummer now.”

  The King rose, and Bedwyr rose with him. “We will stay until Lancelot can travel. We will escort him to Lanascol with honor. Not until Gaius assures me he will live will I return to Britain.” Bedwyr frowned, but Arthur’s tone brooked no opposition. “Britain will come to no harm while Mordred is king.”

  Bedwyr bowed low and handed back the scroll. “As you will, my lord.”

  The King held the scroll to the lamp flame and watched it burn, then ground the ashes into the dirt with the heel of his boot. “So much for Constantine. Come, Bedwyr, I feel the need of sweet air. Let’s go out to the troops.”

  When the sun set the High King went to Lancelot’s tent. Galahad sat on a stool by the treasure he guarded and Percival huddled nearby in his bedroll, unable to sleep. They were near enough to the tent cloth to hear voices from the vicinity of Lancelot’s pallet and to see the shadows cast by Gaius and his assistants moving back and forth in front of the light.

  For a long time nothing happened. Lancelot continued to thrash about and moan while Arthur sat still at his bedside. Bedwyr came in once or twice to confer with the King. Gaius and his assistants kept applying heat to Lancelot’s wound and cool cloths to his brow.

  “God forgive me the thought,” Percival whispered. “But what will you do if he dies? Have you considered it?”

  “No.”

  “You will be King of Lanascol.”

  “You are King of Gwynedd. What are you going to do?”

  “Go home, of course. And when I’m fifteen, serve Arthur.”

  “That sounds sensible.”

  “And you?”

  Galahad shrugged. “Uncle Galyn can hold Lanascol easily enough. He’s done it for Lancelot for years. I wouldn’t be needed there. I’ll stay with Arthur. Until—”

  “Until?”

  Galahad looked at his friend. Percival lay propped up on one elbow, his face solemn in the dimness, not quite a boy’s face any longer. He had a gravity about him that was new. Galahad glanced at Maelgon’s sword in its polished scabbard, wrapped carefully and placed just within Percival’s reach. Not for the first time, he marveled at the power of weapons to transform the men they served. When he himself had belted on Gareth’s sword, he had grown, by degrees, into someone different: a seeker of revenge. But when he had used the sword for that purpose he had wronged everyone. Even the blood of Autun had not cleaned the weapon. He knew, more viscerally than consciously, the sword was not for him any longer. But he had no other.

  Percival, on the other hand, had found the sword of his kingship and he had grown, almost overnight, from a clumsy boy into a royal youth.

  “Until what?” Percival prodded softly.

  “Until,” Galahad said slowly, “I must leave on the quest he has sworn me to perform.”

  Percival sat up. “You have been talking to the High King about your future, and you never told me?”

  Haltingly, Galahad told Percival what Arthur had said to him during their meeting in Kerrec.

  Percival’s eyes grew round as shield bosses. “I knew you were different for a reason. This must be what you were born to do.”

  “Lancelot told me being different was a gift,” Galahad said quietly. “Aidan said that someday I would learn about my destiny, and the High King himself gave me this quest. It’s as if the prophecy was beginning to—”

  Lancelot groaned. They saw the High King’s shadow on the tent cloth, crossing himself quickly.

  “Arthur’s afraid that Lancelot will die,” Percival said softly. “He hasn’t been the same since he returned and found him ill.”

  “There are worse things than death if one dies unrepentant.”

  Percival glanced at him swiftly. “Don’t start that again. He’s shriven. Sir Bedwyr found a priest, remember?”

  Galahad watched his father’s shadow twist and thrash. “He would never tell a priest about her. Not the truth. Not about Guinevere.”

  Hours passed without a change in Lancelot’s condition. Percival fell asleep and Galahad kept watch alone. Toward the middle of the night, when the earth fell quiet in the solid grip of darkness and stars burned still as breathless candle flames, Galahad gradually noticed that Lancelot was struggling. His moans grew wilder and more frequent, his breathing came hard in sharp, rattling gasps, and his delirious babble took shape into occasional words.

  “Arthur!” he cried out. The King’s voice came through the tent cloth, calm and soothing, but Galahad could not make out the words. He knelt down to Percival and shook him gently.

  “My turn?” yawned the boy.

  “Some
thing’s happening.”

  Percival instantly awakened and stood beside him, shivering in the dark, listening. The boys could see Gaius’s shadow moving before the low lamp and they heard water poured into a basin amid the muffled, urgent whispers of his assistants.

  “Guinevere,” Lancelot moaned. “Beg Guinevere come near. I must see her face again. My sweet Gwen.” The High King’s shadow held steady at Lancelot’s side, bent over the racked body, beseeching him, holding his hands.

  Lancelot twisted on the pallet. “Galahad.” He sobbed aloud. “Galahad. Son, forgive me!”

  Galahad trembled and Percival gripped his arm. The King murmured something, but Lancelot turned away and moaned. Gradually, as his voice began to fail, he spoke in breathy shudders words wrenched from his desperate soul.

  “Gareth!” he croaked, clutching at the King. “Murder! Gareth is dead! My God, my God, I’ll kill the man who did it! I’ll have his heart out! Arthur!” He gasped, “Who is it? Tell me!” But he did not pause to hear the King’s response. “Gareth, Gareth, my beloved. Where is Gareth?”

  The sweat stood out on Galahad’s brow as he heard these words and watched the tossing shadow on the tent cloth. Lancelot’s breath rattled in his chest. The King bent low and kissed him, and held him in his arms. After a long silence, while Percival and Galahad stood rooted, Lancelot’s voice came clearly.

  “Forgive me my sins, Arthur.”

  “My dear friend, you are forgiven.”

  “Tell Guinevere . . . I love her.”

  “She knows it well.”

  “Forgive me for it.”

  “There is no need. I forgave you long ago.”

  “Arthur . . .”

  The King gripped him firmly by the shoulders. “Lancelot. I command you to live.”

  “I . . . I cannot,” came the agonized reply. “Gareth. Galahad.”

  “Thou art clean of sin.” Arthur spoke the Latin words slowly and clearly as he made the sign of the cross in the air above his head. “Now live.”

  But Lancelot’s body slumped in his arms and the High King, choking back tears, began to pray. Gaius stood motionless behind him. It was suddenly very quiet. Galahad and Percival could no longer hear his breathing.