Grail Prince

  “But why would she tell me, when she has not told you?”

  Abbott Martin shook his head. “I don’t know. But God has sent you here for a reason, of that I am very sure. And it is not to mend our roofs and plow our fields. Ah, this is the door.”

  He tapped lightly. The door was opened by a thin woman in a plain gown, well past her youth, who held herself very straight. Her narrow, sharp-featured face held widely spaced, intelligent eyes. She looked vaguely familiar—Galahad wondered if perhaps he had seen her somewhere before, but for the life of him he could not remember where.

  “Good morning, Abbott Martin.”

  “Good morning, Anna. I have brought Joseph, a new lay brother, to see the Good Sister. How does she do today?”

  “My lady is resting. She is weak today, but not in pain.”

  “Will she allow Joseph to come and sit with her awhile?”

  Anna’s glance rested on Galahad. Her eyes widened and she frowned. “Father, I don’t think it would be wise.”

  “Would you ask her?”

  Anna hesitated, glanced at Galahad again, then made the abbott a graceful reverence. “I’m sure, Father, she will see anyone you vouch for.”

  She stepped back from the door and reluctantly Galahad moved forward. As he passed her he felt her eyes on him and had the uncomfortable impression that she knew him, but he could not remember meeting her and had no chance to ask. The abbott drew Anna aside and left him alone in the cell.

  At first he thought there must be some mistake. He had been brought to see a woman and no one was there. The room had only one bed, blanketed in muslin on a wooden frame, and a pine washstand bearing a clay pitcher and a horn cup. An old three-legged stool sat near the bed and a carved wooden cross adorned the wall. There was nothing about the room to signify that a highborn lady lived here. If anything, it was poorer than the other cells he had seen.

  “Sit down, good sir.” He jumped and drew a sharp, painful breath. The whispered words came from the bed but there was no one in it! Then the muslin blanket moved and he realized with a shock that it was a woman’s robe, swaddled with care around a body so thin that nothing of her flesh was visible. As he watched, a small, frail hand appeared and beckoned him toward the stool. A white veil of mourning covered her head and face. He could see no more than a shadow behind it, but he had the impression of eyes watching.

  “My lady,” he managed politely, taking the stool. “Good morning to you. I come from Abbott Martin. My name is Joseph.”

  “I know your name and where you come from,” the thin voice replied. Galahad waited, but nothing else came. It dawned on him she might have difficulty speaking. Unhappily, he tried again.

  “Abbott Martin desires that I stay and talk with you, my lady, but in truth . . . in truth I do not know what about. Um, why do they call you the Good Sister?”

  The muslin veil stirred. “I am sure Abbott Martin did not bring you here to talk about me.” He heard amusement in the low whisper, and fidgeted uncomfortably. “How did you come to Amesbury, Joseph?”

  “I, well, I was riding south, and it lay in my path.”

  “You had no destination?”

  “I go from one place to another as I will.”

  “You are a man in the full flower of your strength, with a noble bearing and a wonderful sword. Yes, word has gone around about your sword. Surely, you are an accomplished warrior and have done battle for Britain.”

  “Yes, but . . . long ago I fought for the High King. But lately I have killed only outlaws and thieves who hide in the hills and torment villagers. In return, the people give me food, a place to sleep, and permission to pray in their place of worship. In the past year I have gone from holy house to holy house throughout Britain. It is . . . in many ways it is better than fighting battles.”

  “You fought for the High King? Do you mean Constantine?”

  “Constantine, and before that, King Arthur.”

  “You must have been very young. Did you ever go to Camelot?”

  “Yes, my lady. I was raised there.”

  She was quiet for so long a time that he began to wonder if she had drifted off to sleep. But at last, the soft whisper stirred the light cloth of her veil.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “About Camelot? Have you never been there?”

  “I was there once. But time dims one’s memory. I should so like to see it again, through your young eyes. Tell me what life was like in Camelot, when Arthur lived.”

  It was easy, after all, to tell her. After a moment’s hesitation, the words came tumbling out of him, as if they had been tightly locked in some old, dark trunk of his memory and she had found the key. Mainly he told her about Gareth, his dearest, his only boyhood friend. Gareth, who’d been fourteen when Galahad had come to Camelot at five, yet who had become his protector, his older brother, his teacher and his friend. Gareth had let him tag along everywhere, and had prevented the other youths from making him the butt of their jests. He told her stories of their gallops through the woodlands, of sword practice with wooden blades, of games with cudgels and bow and arrows—everything Gareth had shared with him. His heart lightened as he relived those times; he grew excited and eager, laughing at the picture he drew of Gareth standing in the River Camel with weeds dripping from his hair, smiling as he recalled Gareth stretched on the riverbank, fashioning a reed pipe and playing to amuse the birds. He was just starting on the tale of how Gareth stole two horses from the High King’s stable and took him on a wild ride across the marsh, when the waiting woman returned and stood sternly at the end of the bed.

  “Brother Joseph,” she said distinctly, as if the name produced a bad taste in her mouth, “that is enough for today. You will tire my lady overmuch.”

  To his surprise, he found that he was disappointed. The tiny hand moved upon the muslin. “You will come again tomorrow?” the voice said softly. “It is wonderful to hear you speak.”

  “With pleasure, my lady.” He glanced at Anna as he rose. “At the same hour?”

  She grimaced. “If you must.”

  There could be no doubt about it any longer. She despised him. As he passed the door he thought he heard the whisper once more, but he could not be sure.

  “Anna! You promised!”

  52

  THE GOOD SISTER

  He went daily to visit the Good Sister. His sleep improved. Now his dreams were filled with Gareth, with Arthur, Bedwyr, and Gereint, and the other men he had worshiped in his childhood. He relived those times in their retelling and it brought him unexpected joy.

  The Good Sister seemed to enjoy these tales every bit as much as he did. On his third visit he found her sitting up in bed, her slender hands folded in her lap while Anna scowled and frowned and fussed behind her. She seldom spoke, but sat and watched him, drinking in his voice from behind her mourning veil. Even moments painful to recall were possible to face when she was listening. She possessed a reservoir of inner peace, or strength, or serenity, that flowed out, surrounded him, and buoyed his spirit.

  “What a fine swordsman Prince Gareth was,” the Good Sister remarked, after one of his long encomiums on his friend’s skill and daring. “He must have learned from a master.”

  “From the finest swordsman in all Britain,” he replied with a touch of pride. “Surely you have heard of Lancelot.”

  Because she asked no questions and did not press him, he found himself wanting to tell her about his father. Even so, it was difficult at first. He grew clumsy in his speech and his face burned, but as she said nothing at all about Lancelot, either in praise or condemnation, gradually he was able to speak of his father with better ease. To his surprise, he found he viewed Lancelot more dispassionately in her presence. His deeds of bravery now seemed like efforts of heroic virtue, and his sins . . . suddenly his sins seemed no more than instances of the frailty all men suffered. Lancelot was a good man, a great man, worthy to be Arthur’s second-in-command and deserving of the High King’s trust and
friendship. There was no one left in Britain of his stature.

  As he sat stunned at his own eloquence, he noticed her veil trembling and wondered if she wept. He feared Anna might chastise him, but when he came next day she actually curtsied to him. He soon saw why. A heavy chair had been placed against the wall near the window and in it sat the Good Sister, waiting for him.

  “Good morning, Joseph.” Even her voice was stronger, having in it a thin reed of timbre, the whisper gone. He took the stool at her knees and kissed her frail hand.

  “Good morning, my lady. How glad I am to see you feeling better!”

  “Thank you, Joseph. You are very kind. It is your doing, I believe. I have been saying to Anna that I hope today you will talk to me about Arthur.”

  “I should be delighted. What is it you wish to know?”

  She squeezed his hand. “Tell me, Joseph, about that last foray to Less Britain, when Arthur took the army to fight the Romans. Tell me what you know of it, what you saw. What was his plan? What went wrong? How did his son, whom he loved so dearly, come to be his enemy? How did he come to take twelve thousand to Less Britain, and return with fewer than five?”

  Galahad frowned. “You sound bitter, my lady. I assure you, Arthur was a wise man and a great warrior. All the kings of Less Britain united behind him. He smashed the Roman army. All his strategies were successful. Never doubt his prowess.”

  She withdrew her hand and spoke with the first touch of coldness he had seen in her. “My husband was killed at Camlann. I suppose I have a grievance against Arthur.”

  Remembering the abbott’s words to him, Galahad grew eager to comfort her. “Your grievance is against Mordred, my lady, not against Arthur. Arthur was a king returning to his kingdom and found it denied him.”

  “But we who remained in Britain knew it was not denied him. Mordred swore openly he would yield his crown to his father.”

  Galahad spoke very gently. “He did yield the crown, but too late. The two armies were already face-to-face. Battle could not be prevented.”

  She sank back in her chair and motioned him to continue. He told her the whole story of the army’s adventures in Less Britain, leaving out only the small details which might have given him away. It was a long tale, but she attended closely and Anna did not stop him. Only twice did he pause. When he came to the night of Lancelot’s near death from his leg wound, she stirred and crossed herself. And when he came to the battle of Cerdices Leaga, she interrupted him.

  “So Mordred refused to fight against his father.”

  “That day, yes. He fled from the field and left the Saxons to fight us.”

  “Then he kept his word. Arthur mistook him.”

  “King Arthur did not know he had made any such pledge. None of us did. But we saw him take the field against us, riding beside Britain’s sworn enemy, Cerdic the Saxon.”

  “With whom,” she countered, “we had had a treaty of mutual defense for some five years.”

  Galahad grunted. Her husband must have been one of Arthur’s men; she knew her facts. “He did not act like an ally.”

  “His lands had been invaded.” She sighed wearily. “Arthur must have been very tired.”

  “Indeed, we were all well-nigh exhausted, what with the shipwreck and losing so many men and provisions, and the quick-march through Saxon lands trying to avoid encounters—and then to see those two armies coming against us. The King was very angry. But we won the battle. Mordred withdrew westward. And that night King Arthur sent me on a mission.”

  Beneath her veil he could see a shadow of her smile. “Perhaps to get you out of the way. You must have been young, and he knew what was coming.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Perhaps. He sent me with a secret message to . . .” Should he tell her of his first message, to the Queen? To that beautiful and seductive woman who had been his father’s bane? No, he could not. “. . . to Niniane, Lady of the Lake.”

  She shuddered. “Do not speak to me of Niniane! She is a witch! With her foreknowledge she could have prevented the massacre at Camlann and saved them all! Yet she did not.”

  Anna laid a hand upon her sleeve. “My lady, do not distress yourself.”

  Galahad shook his head. “Niniane did try to stop the battle. I learned it later—she rode out to the plain of Camlann and counseled Arthur to arrange a meeting with Mordred. And they met. What happened afterward was not her fault.”

  “Did you also fight in that awful slaughter, Joseph?”

  Galahad looked away. “No, my lady. I did not. The Lady Niniane placed a spell on me. I did not wake until the battle was over.”

  “Ah. Was that by the King’s order, or was it Niniane’s own idea?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said the High King gave you a message for her.”

  Galahad gasped. “You think that was the message—to put me to sleep until the battle’s ending?”

  “It might have been.”

  “But Arthur said he wanted her to come to him. He told Lancelot the same thing. That’s all I ever learned of the message.”

  She moved sharply, straightening in her chair. “You saw Lancelot again? When? Tell me.”

  There was command in her voice. Anna laid a hand upon her sleeve, but found it shrugged off in an imperial gesture. Confused, Galahad continued hesitantly.

  “After we buried Arthur—”

  “You buried Arthur?” She was trembling all over now.

  “Please, my lady!” Anna begged.

  “Silence!” came the sharp hiss from beneath the veil. She extended a small, shaking hand and Galahad took it in his own. “Please,” she whispered, “please, Joseph, tell me what you know. If I hear it, perhaps I may die in peace.”

  “Very well, if you are sure—”

  “I am very sure.”

  “I awoke from my sleep at the monastery on the Tor just as the monks bore Arthur’s body to the chapel. Lancelot attended him. They blessed him and said prayers over him. Lancelot and I buried him alone, that no one would know where he lay.”

  “I thought you told me Lancelot had been left behind in Lanascol, unable to walk.”

  “Yes, my lady, but as soon as he could sit a horse he returned to Britain, fearing what Mordred might do. He came to Camlann just in time for the battle and carried Arthur from the field when he . . . when it ended.” He relayed to her all that Lancelot had told him on that still, eerie evening when they had sat and spoken calmly together, father and son, for the last time, with Arthur’s spirit over them. She wept openly to hear it. Anna cradled her head and glared at him, but he found he could not stop. He told her everything: Lancelot’s throwing Excalibur into the lake at Arthur’s bidding, Arthur’s prevision of the three queens in the boat from Avalon, Lancelot’s tears as the boat floated away, bearing Arthur with it, gone forever. At last, when he came to the burial itself, he stopped. He found he had run dry of words and could say no more. The Good Sister straightened and pushed Anna gently away.

  “Only you and Lancelot know where he lies?”

  “Yes. I am sworn to secrecy about the place, lest the Saxons should find him.”

  The white veil nodded. “Anna. Leave us.”

  “My lady?”

  “Leave us. I am well, I assure you.”

  Anna acquiesced reluctantly. “Very well. I will be within call.”

  A great foreboding assailed Galahad as the door softly closed. If the Good Sister asked him for the secret of Arthur’s resting place, would he be able to deny her? It was such a great relief to open his soul to her! Would he now be able to close it against her plea?

  She took both his hands in hers and he braced himself. Her hands looked so small and pale and fragile in his own strong, brown ones; she was so thin and tiny, how could he deny her what she asked?

  “Tell me, Joseph,” she said quietly, “what you and Lancelot spoke about before you parted.”

  He looked up in relief. “You are not going to ask me where the High King lies?
”

  “Of course not,” she replied in some surprise. “You have sworn an oath not to tell. But clearly you spoke to Lancelot when it was done. I would like to know what else he said. And when you parted company, and why. It seems you two were nearly all that was left of Arthur’s army.”

  There was strength in her voice and a wholly feminine curiosity that he found surprising and amusing. “We spoke about Arthur, mainly. And what a king he was. And about . . . fathers and sons, and the things that divide them.”

  “Thank God,” she said under her breath.

  “But when we came to the future . . . he was going back to Lanascol. He gave up on Britain. I had to stay. My friend—”

  “Percival, wasn’t it? Anet’s son?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Had he mentioned Anet? He could not remember. “Percival fought at Camlann and I didn’t know whether he lived or died. I had to find him and take him home to Gwynedd, one way or the other.”

  “Ah. That was good of you.”

  “Lancelot and I went down together to the Lady’s shrine. There we parted. Percival was in their House of Healing, recovering from a grievous wound. Lancelot went on his way.”

  “Where?”

  He fidgeted. Why on earth would she wish to know?

  “What is the matter, Joseph? Have I asked you a question you cannot answer?”

  “No, I know where he went.”

  “Will it pain me to hear it?”

  “Possibly. How can I know? He went to see Queen Guinevere.”

  “Ah.” She held his hands tighter. “Did that distress you?”

  “I thought it hasty. We had just come from Arthur’s grave, and he could not stay the night in Avalon to tend his leg, which was bleeding, but must hie off after Arthur’s wife.”

  “Surely, Joseph, it was not like that.” Her voice was very gentle. He slid onto his knees and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his hair with a motherly caress. “They were true friends, by all accounts, Lancelot and Arthur. When a king dies, Joseph, it is news to all the world. Everyone talks about it. Perhaps Lancelot wanted to tell the poor Queen in person, that she might know it and have a chance to grieve before she heard it gossiped all about. And no doubt, as Arthur knew he was dying, he sent his friend with words to speak to the wife he could not bid adieu himself.”