Grail Prince

  The old man snorted. “Bella! Ha! Bella’s a different matter. Are you rich, sir? Have you anything to negotiate with?”

  “With your permission, Sir Fortas, I shall come to you and make my request formally. But . . . give me a little time.”

  The shutter banged shut in answer and Galahad exhaled. He found that he was sweating. His face a mask, he bowed to Germaine. “If you will excuse me.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. “Of course, my lord. Go. And farewell.”

  Galahad slid to his knees by the edge of his bed and clasped his hands before him. Outside, Hugh guarded the door. For a little while, an hour at most, he would be alone. After that, he must take the step which would change his life forever. How had he come to this pass? He pressed his forehead against the bed and shut his eyes. There was only one woman he wanted as a wife, and he had had the chance to wed her—he had owed her that wedding—and he had thrown the chance away. More, he had insulted her and her brother, his best—nay, his only friend in all the world. He had made enemies of the two people he loved best. And why? Because he had believed from childhood that he was better than other men. Niniane and her wretched prophecy. Elaine, his mother, and Aidan, her tool. They had filled his head with nonsense for their own ends. But he, Galahad, was paying for it. No, he would not blame them. He was a child no longer. If he was proud, arrogant, certain of his birthright, it was his own fault, not theirs. He had believed them for far too long. And he had ignored others who had tried, again and again, to steer him toward the light. Arthur. Lancelot. Percival. Dane. Ah, God, Dane! His body ached for her; his spirit wept.

  Had he not known this trial was coming? Had he not stood upon the ridge looking down across the wasteland and wished for it? Here it was then, and with it, a chance to do things over, to get it right, even though nothing he could do now would ever help Dane. If he had abandoned the woman he loved, then it was only just retribution that he should wed himself to a woman he detested. As his father had done before him!

  He cried out, and smothered his cry against the bedsheets. Dear God, Dane’s curse upon him had prevailed! May you follow in your poor father’s footsteps and love a woman you cannot in honor have! Had Lancelot loved Guinevere with the kind of burning passion he bore for Dane? He knew the truth of that. Lancelot’s adoration had never wavered; nor had his allegiance. Arthur had told him the truth: Lancelot had married Elaine because he got her with child, not because he loved her. And he lay with her not because he cared for her, but because she seduced him by trickery. And now it was his turn. He could not turn away twice from the duty before him. Not if he ever hoped to be worthy of the appellation “Lancelot’s son.”

  Stiffly, with aching joints, he pushed himself to his feet, splashed water on his face, and called Hugh to attend him.

  With the butt of his dagger Galahad pounded on the door to Sir Fortas’s chamber. His clothes were newly washed, his boots polished, his cheeks shaved. Hugh had belted on his sword. Germaine had combed his hair. Climbing the stairs to the top floor of the tower he had passed each of the sisters, standing flattened against the wall, faces grave, eyes averted, except for Bella. Her pale eyes, so large now in her overly thin face, had followed him with a hope so intense that he was moved to pity for her.

  “Sir Fortas!” he cried.

  “Go away!” a faint voice responded. He pounded again, harder and longer than before. At last the door swung open to reveal a slumped, disheveled man in his bedgown, peering at him with large, unfocused eyes.

  “What’s the meaning of this interruption? Go away, can’t you, and leave me in peace?”

  Galahad pushed past him into the large, round room. Clothes, scrolls, dried pots of ink, nibless pens, and dirty dinnerware littered the floor. Rats rustled under the unmade bed. A pair of pigeons shuffled on the sill of the single window, whose shutter had again swung open. The room stank of smoke, ink, dust, rotten food, sour mead, vermin, dry rot, and urine.

  “Sir Fortas,” Galahad began with determination, “my name is Galahad. I have come to negotiate for Bella’s hand in marriage.”

  The old man gazed up at him with watery eyes. “You’re a fool, Galahad.”

  “Yes, sir. I believe I am.”

  Fortas laughed suddenly and closed the door behind him. “Have you any money?”

  Galahad drew a linen bag from his tunic and dropped it on the table amid a mass of half-written scrolls. The clink of coins sounded loud in the silence.

  Fortas hurried over to the table. “Is it gold?”

  “See for yourself.”

  The old man opened the neck of the bag and fingered a handful of golden coins. “Well, son, if you want Bella, you may have her. Take three of the mares and any furniture you fancy. This is enough to keep me in pens and parchment for a decade!”

  “You used to be a soldier, sir, a man with a noble calling.” Galahad looked about the room and wrinkled his nose. “What happened to you, for God’s sake? What do you do here?”

  “I’ve retired. I am writing a history.” Fortas shuffled closer. “My wife died.”

  “Sixteen years ago.”

  “No, no, you are misinformed. Last month, it was.” He looked up suddenly. “I know who you are. You’re the Grail Prince. But if you’re here, you’ve lost your way. Have you come to me for help?”

  Galahad’s jaw dropped.

  “I can tell you things, you know. It’s all here in my books.” He picked up an old and dirty scroll. “They call you the Servant of God. Or they will soon. What do you want with women?”

  Galahad hung his head. “What does any man want?”

  Fortas cackled. “And they call you the Virgin Knight as well. But that’s a lie.”

  “Yes.”

  Fortas nodded. “Don’t blame Lancelot and Guinevere,” he said suddenly, bringing Galahad’s head up with a jerk. “They’ve given their lives to God and spend each day on their knees. Look to your own soul before you worry about theirs.”

  “Bella will not be able to give you that kind of love.”

  Galahad gulped. “I know.”

  “If you take my advice, you’ll give her to the monks in Battle Valley. They might be able to train her to obedience. I never could.” He thrust the bag of coins into his robe and waved a hand at Galahad. “Take Ariane as well. Although she’s named for her mother, my good wife will not mind. We are better here together without such interruptions. All we need is coin for ink and parchment. Send Hugh to me. I will place an order with the merchant this very day.”

  Galahad bowed stiffly. “Sir, we have fixed the betrothal ceremony for tomorrow evening. We would be honored if you would attend.”

  Fortas returned his formal bow. “We’ll both be there.”

  Shaking his head, Galahad returned slowly downstairs. A thought occurred to him, and bypassing the curious gazes of the sisters, he went to find Hugh.

  On the following evening the household gathered in the main room on the ground floor for the betrothal ceremony. The women wore their finest gowns and dressed one another’s hair with ribbons and wildflowers. Bella, whose illness had emaciated her and left a waxen pallor on her skin, glowed with a fragile, ethereal beauty in the golden candlelight.

  Galahad stood across the hearth from them, formally attired with his sword at his hip and his dagger thrust into his waistband. More than once he glanced at Bella but she would not meet his eye. Gillie stirred a pot of spiced wine over the fire, and Germaine threw open the shutters to the warm summer evening. The scents of the summer moor mingled with the wine’s exotic spices made Galahad’s head pound. But he did not mind it. He felt curiously at peace now that he had decided on his course of action.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Sir Fortas appeared on the threshold with Old Cam behind him. The girls stared at their father. He looked ten times taller in his battle dress: leather leggings, Roman corselet, and leather tunic studded with sharp bronze points. His short cloak was fastened over one shoulder with a lion device they had
never seen before. A thick silver torque encircled his neck, and a jeweled wristband adorned his wrist. Most astonishing of all, he wore an old swordbelt around his waist and the scabbard that hung from it, hastily oiled and not very clean, held a bright and deadly sword.

  Germaine came hesitantly forward. “Father?”

  Sir Fortas nodded at her but gazed fiercely at the others. “Where’s Ariane?”

  “She’s making ready, Father; she’ll be here soon.”

  “Where’s Bella?”

  They stood aside so he could see Bella. It seemed to take him a moment to recognize her.

  “Look me in the face, girl.”

  Trembling, Bella raised her eyes to his.

  “If you dishonor this man, daughter, I will kill you for it.”

  Bella shrieked and dissolved in tears against Megan’s shoulder. Megan stared up her father defiantly. “Leave her alone.”

  Sir Fortas laughed. “Just like your mother, Megan. As feisty as the day is long.” He turned his head to look around the room. “Where is Hugh? Why did Cam come for me and not Hugh? What’s happened to him?”

  “I sent him on an errand,” Galahad said quietly, drawing the stares of all the women. “He promised to be back for the ceremony.”

  “Well, he’s not.”

  Germaine stepped forward. “With your permission, Father, we’ll start without him.” She glanced quickly at Galahad. The black stallion was not in the stables and Hugh had been gone for over twenty-four hours. Something was afoot, but clearly Galahad did not intend that it should interfere with the ceremony. She took one of Bella’s thin hands in hers, and reached for Galahad’s with the other.

  “We are gathered to witness the pledges of this man, Sir Galahad of Lanascol, and this woman, Bella, daughter of Fortas of Darkmoor, to marry each other as soon as opportunity permits.” She joined their hands and dropped her own.

  “Bella, make your pledge.”

  For an instant, Bella threw Galahad a look of triumph; then she cast her gaze to the floor. “I, Bella, promise to wed Galahad of Lanascol—”

  “What’s the matter?” bellowed Fortas. “Are you ashamed to be my daughter?”

  Bella whimpered. “I, Bella, daughter of Fortas of Darkmoor, promise to wed Galahad of Lanascol as soon as opportunity permits.”

  Germaine nodded. She turned to Galahad.

  Galahad drew a deep breath. “I, Galahad—”

  “No!” screamed a voice from the doorway. Everyone whirled. There stood Ariane, hair disheveled, dirt on her green gown, clutching a small cloth bag in her hand. “Foreswear your pledge, Bella! I’ve found you out!” She raised high the discolored bag. “She’s been false to you, my lord Galahad! If you wed her, you wed a lie!”

  Bella collapsed at Galahad’s feet, clinging to his hand. “Pledge to me!” she cried in a piteous voice. “Please! Do it now!”

  But Ariane marched up to her sisters, waving the little bag beneath their noses. “Do you know what this is? Can you smell it? No, not stinkweed, nor rotten eggs. Goatsbane! She’s been poisoning herself with goatsbane to make all of us think she was with child!”

  “What?” Fortas roared.

  Ariane laughed as Bella huddled on the floor, sobbing. “It would serve you right if you died from it! Monster!”

  “Wait, Ariane.” Germaine’s cool voice cut across the clamor. “Be calm a moment. How did you find this bag? How do you know she used it?”

  Ariane explained that she had disbelieved Bella all along, and when Bella’s sickness started she had begun to watch her secretly. But Bella took nothing in the mornings to make her ill, so she started to sit up at night and watch her. Every night, long after everyone else was asleep, Bella crept out of the tower and spent an hour in the shed by the kitchen gardens. Then she returned. And was violently sick upon rising in the morning. Thrice Ariane had searched the shed but had found nothing except the cold ashes of a fire and a small clay cup washed clean of dregs. Not until tonight, as she dressed for the ceremony, had it occurred to her that Bella might have buried her secret brew, so she had spent the last hour digging up the dirt floor of the shed. And she had found it. Goatsbane. Enough of the weed left to identify with ease, and dregs in the cup this time, too. Bella had been poisoning herself with an herbal tisane.

  Everyone stared at Bella, who writhed and sobbed, her thin body curled in pain.

  “What is goatsbane?” Galahad wondered.

  Germaine shrugged, her face gray. “It’s our name for rankweed. We call it that because it’s the only thing goats eat which makes them vomit. I suppose she reasoned that it would work for her, too.” She knelt down to Bella. “Can any man be worth death, my dear?”

  “That man is,” Bella wailed.

  The slither of metal made them all look up. Sir Fortas had drawn his sword and leveled it at Bella’s breast. “Do I understand aright? Did you take this brew to deceive Galahad into thinking you bore his child?”

  Galahad stepped in front of the sword, reached down, and lifted Bella into his arms. “Sir, do not punish the girl for my sake. It would be more than I could bear.”

  “Do you hear that, Bella?” Megan cried. “You have shamed him and yet he defends you!”

  Sir Fortas pointed the sword at Galahad. The weapon shook viciously in his hand. “Did you ask me for her hand because you loved her or to give a name to the child?”

  Galahad looked down at Bella. Her sobs had subsided and she gazed up at him with ruined eyes. Her lips moved against the shoulder of his tunic. “Tell him the truth.”

  Galahad faced Sir Fortas. “There is only one woman in all the world I would marry, if I could. But she is a thousand leagues from me.”

  The sword sank slowly to the floor and Sir Fortas staggered back and fell into a chair. “The wanton hussy. Just like her mother! I disown her. I will not have her in the house.”

  “Gillie!” Germaine cried. “Some wine! His color’s not good!”

  In the midst of the commotion a shadow darkened the door and Hugh stumped in. He took in the situation at a glance, met Galahad’s eyes, and nodded. Galahad settled Bella on a bench near the hearth, asked Megan to tend her, and then went down on one knee before Sir Fortas.

  “I have made arrangements, sir, for the care of your daughters by the brothers at the monastery of St. Ninian in Battle Valley. The abbott has agreed to shelter them—I made provisions for four, but he will not balk at five—and teach them writing, reading, and Scripture. You are welcome to go yourself, but if you prefer to remain here, they will send a brother to tend you. Old Cam has volunteered to stay. So has Hugh. You will not be alone. You will have money for pens, inks, and parchment; you will have access to the brothers’ library; you will have someone to clean and look after you. But you cannot keep your daughters penned in this tower any longer. That way lies madness. You must see that.”

  Sir Fortas gazed at him a long time without speaking. The girls held their breaths. Even Bella, who stared at him in open wonder, did not break the silence.

  At last Sir Fortas nodded. “Their mother will approve. Take back the bridegift you gave me and give it to the brothers for their dowries. Do not weep, Germaine.” His eldest daughter, who had wrapped her arms about his neck, shed tears onto his tunic. “I will live to see your wedding.” He smiled suddenly at Galahad. “She will wed on the day you meet young Tristan by the well. I know all about it. I have a book of prophecy.”

  Galahad frowned at this gibberish, but thanked the old man.

  “You must promise me one thing, Galahad,” Fortas said quickly. “When you get to the end of your journey, take care of the good sister. She is life to you.”

  Which sister did he mean? Galahad shrugged. “Sir, the journey I am on has no end.”

  On the day of departure Old Cam harnessed two of the mares to a rude wagon. The other three were already with foal. Farouk danced eagerly, neck arched and tail raised in front of his mares while the women loaded their meager belongings into the wagon.


  But before they climbed in for the ride that would take them across the wasteland to their hearts’ desires, they gathered around Galahad.

  Germaine curtsied. “Here, my lord. We have a gift for you, the five of us. It was Bella’s idea. Since you came to us without a badge, and we would not have others mistake you for a man of no significance.”

  In her hand she held a round badge carefully crafted of elmwood and bearing the emblem of his shield: a red enamel cross on a field of painted white. He thanked them solemnly and stood still while Germaine fastened it to his cloak.

  “I shall wear it with honor,” he told them gravely. “As a reminder that even in my darkest hour, I found people who believed in me.”

  Bella came up to him as her sisters headed for the wagon. “Wear it in good health, my lord,” she said softly. “I shall never forget what you did for me. But if you wanted to make me really happy”—she glanced at him quickly and saw his face darken—“you would travel the thousand leagues back and marry that woman who has your heart.” She laid her cheek next to his and skipped away before he could respond.

  To hide the flush that sprang to his cheeks, Galahad swung onto his stallion’s back and saluted Hugh, who stood at the door with tears in his eyes. Then he raised his arm and gave the order for departure. In a window high up under the roof, old Fortas leaned out to watch him go.

  “Don’t miss the ford!” he shouted, waving a scroll. “It’s a test! It’s all in my book!”

  Galahad shook his head. Do your best? At the fort? What fort? What could the old man mean? Fortas might have moments of lucidity, but clearly the man was mad.

  50

  THE FORD

  Galahad stopped halfway down the hill and wiped his brow. The day was hot for September, the road dusty and seamed with pebbles. Farouk had thrown a shoe and for two hours Galahad had led the limping horse along the old road in search of a smith. Now, as they rested in the shade of a giant oak, he thought he could just see, beyond the stand of pines at the bend in the road, the sinewy, telltale line of willows that marked a river and, with luck, a ford.