Grail Prince

  Galahad shook his head. “I don’t understand you, Father.”

  “If you ever love a woman as I have loved Guinevere, you will come to understand it. My blessing goes with you, my dear son. Now leave me in peace.”

  Half-annoyed with himself for obeying, but too tired to protest, Galahad left Lancelot in the chapel and went off to bed.

  He was awakened before dawn by Ignacius’s urgent shaking. “My lord! My lord! Come at once! Oh, dear, oh, dear, what shall we do?”

  “What has happened?” Galahad cried, struggling awake.

  “I knew it, I knew it, I knew by the look on his face,” moaned the monk, as Galahad threw on his tunic and reached for his boots. “It’s Sir Lancelot. He’s dead.”

  Galahad froze. “No.”

  “Aye, my lord, I fear so. How it happened I can’t tell. There doesn’t seem to be a mark on him. Oh, hurry, hurry, the brothers will be up and about in a moment, and whatever shall we tell them?”

  Galahad ran to the chapel and threw open the door. Lancelot lay on his face, his arms stretched over the grave below. There were tear tracks on his cheeks and his limbs had not yet begun to stiffen. He had not been dead long.

  “O my father!” Galahad cried, falling to his knees. “This was what you meant! I did not know it!” He gathered the old soldier in his arms and wept bitterly.

  Behind him, Ignacius fluttered nervously. “My lord! My lord! Take care, it is nearly dawn! Whatever shall we do?”

  Carrying Lancelot in his arms, Galahad rose. “Bring the shovels, Ignacius. We will bury him on the hill. He would prefer to be near his King and Queen than home in Lanascol. He told me as much last night. ‘Without them I am nothing.’ And see? It is morning, and God has provided us a body for the grave.”

  Ignacius followed as Galahad carried Lancelot up the hill to the graveyard. He lined the grave with Lancelot’s cloak, and laid his own over him. He removed Lancelot’s swordbelt—it was his uncle Galyn’s sword—and his badge with the ruby-eyed Hawk of Lanascol, and his ring of kingship, which he slipped on his own finger. Ignacius spoke the prayers of blessing while Galahad kissed his father’s hollow cheek and whispered his farewells. By the time the brothers appeared for morning prayers, it was finished.

  Galahad swayed, leaning on his shovel. “Get me out of here, Ignacius,” he begged. “I cannot stay another minute. The whole place stinks of death.”

  The little monk brought him his horse and Lancelot’s, and placed the reins in his hand. “We think of death as the gate of Heaven,” he murmured, patting Galahad on the back. “But you are too young to find that much of a comfort. Get you down to Avalon and get some rest. The Lady Morgaine is a great healer, if I do say it myself. No one suffers at her hands and you are better off there than here. Go with God, my lord king. Your secret will be safe with us.”

  My lord king. He was King of Lanascol now. The weight of it descended like an iron cloak. He did not feel ready to take up that obligation. A man who does not love a woman is but half a man. The ache in his heart was proof of that. As his head touched the pillow in Morgaine’s guest pavilion, he saw before him a woman’s face, with gray-green eyes and a glorious tumble of chestnut hair. Go back and make right the harm you have done, Guinevere’s voice whispered in his ear. You cannot go back to Lanascol without her.

  55

  QUEEN OF GWYNEDD

  Galahad rode north at speed. After weeks of sun, the weather now turned cold and damp. When it was not raining it was sleeting fitfully, or snowing thin, hard flakes. Morgaine had given him a thick cloak of soft wool as a parting gift, and he wrapped this tightly around him and pushed on, riding first Farouk and then Priam, his father’s stallion, alternating horses to make better time. When Morgaine had said good-bye to him she had pressed her hands against his temples. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. There is little time. It may already be too late. The words had sprung into his head and he heard them still, whenever the howling wind paused to give him a moment’s peace. Too late for what?

  All over Wales folk were readying for winter, storing their harvest, bringing in their sheep and cattle, patching their houses, stacking firewood, peat, and charcoal, nestling into the warmth of the earth while the north winds blew. Nobody else was on the roads. The few travelers he met were local men, hurrying home with clods of peat, bundles of brushwood, or strings of rabbits slung across their shoulders. Everyone stared at him, a single soldier with two priceless horses and two priceless swords. Wales was poorer than it had been in Arthur’s day. Three times he had to defend himself against hill bandits who thought that outnumbering him was enough. Finally he crossed through the mountain pass and made his last camp in the heights above Gwynedd.

  But sleep came hard. The horses huddled together for warmth under a rock ledge and Galahad lit a good fire against wolves. He sat staring at it most of the night, seeing in it a woman’s face and wondering how on earth he could ever say what he must say. He awoke well past dawning and made his way slowly down the mountain track. Now that the moment was upon him, he was eager to delay. For the first time since Lancelot’s death the sun shone long enough to warm the air, melt the frosts, and breathe a deceptive breath of spring against his cheek.

  Around midday he came out of the low hills into the forests that bordered the meadows and tended fields of Gwynedd. When he came across a clearing hard by a stream, he dismounted to let the horses drink. Tethering them to a tree, he gave them fodder and seated himself on a flat stone in a pool of sun. A huge oak stood near the entrance to the clearing, and a laurel, sprung from nowhere, grew near the center. It was a peaceful place and he was glad to rest. He had been there some minutes, deep in thought, when he felt eyes upon him, and turned.

  A child stood in the path at the other side of the clearing, a girl of about three or four, daintily wrapped in furs from her wolfskin cap to her fox-lined boots. Black braids hung over her shoulders and long, dark lashes shaded the bluest eyes he had ever seen. In the far distance he heard a woman’s panicked calling, the nurse, no doubt, looking for her charge. The child stared at him with all the guilelessness of her age. She felt no need to speak, but walked closer to him to get a better look. He shifted his shoulders under the direct gaze of such innocent curiosity.

  “Hello,” he ventured timidly. “I am a stranger hereabouts. Can you tell me, am I in Gwynedd?”

  She nodded.

  He tried again. “Is it far to the castle?”

  She did not move.

  “Er—my name is Galahad. What’s yours?”

  For a long moment he feared she would not answer, but she was not shy, only consumed with curiosity about him. “Elen,” she said at last.

  “A pretty name. A Welsh name. A queen’s name, too, if I remember aright.”

  The child nodded absently, absorbed by his badge, his cloak and tunic, his sword, his belt, his boots.

  “Are you a princess of Gwynedd?” For of course he had placed her now. She must be Percival and Blodwyn’s daughter. If they had married as planned, there was just time. She was handsomer than either of them, and blue-eyed—probably a throwback, he mused, to some ancestral Celtic beauty of wild Wales, perhaps to the original Elen herself, whose fabled loveliness had snared the Emperor Maximus.

  As if she had come to some decision, the child looked up into his face and answered firmly, “Yes. Are you a king?”

  “Yes, but only lately. I’m on my way back to my kingdom. But it’s a long way off. Beyond the sea. And before I leave I would speak with your father.”

  Her eyes widened at that and she considered him, as if deciding whether or not he was telling the truth. The nurse’s shrill cries came nearer. The poor woman sounded close to tears. The child paid her no attention.

  “Tell me, my lady Elen, where is your father? At home or away at the wars?”

  The wide blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

  “Your mother, then, is she about? I must speak with your aunt.” Galahad rose and held out his hand to her. “But f
irst, I will take you home to your mother.”

  She gave him her hand tentatively. “Mama has a badge, too. Just like that.”

  He looked down at her fragile face from his great height and his heart began to pound. “Like this?”

  At that moment the frantic nurse ran into the clearing. “Lady Elen! There you are! Why didn’t you answer me? I’ve been scared half to death— Oh!” She saw him then, and gathered the child to her skirts. Galahad saluted her politely and gained enough control over his voice to introduce himself. The nurse flushed and curtsied. But the child watched him with her unwavering, assessing stare.

  “I found him, Helda. All by myself.”

  “Yes, yes, and a great lord he is, too,” the nurse agreed, patting her hand. “I imagine he’s come a long way to—”

  “He’s my father.”

  The words fell like lightning bolts. The nurse gasped. Galahad’s world began to spin.

  “Nonsense, child. Do hush, now. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “He has a badge like Mama’s.” She pointed. “Like the one in the gilded box. It’s my father’s badge.”

  The nurse grabbed her and shoved a hand across her mouth, but nothing could disturb the child’s tremendous dignity. She pushed aside the hand and stood calmly looking at Galahad.

  “Never mind her, my lord,” the nurse muttered hastily. “Bastards are always looking for their fathers. Pay her no mind.” Bastard! “Thank you, my lord, for tending her when she ran off. I’ll return her to the queen.”

  “Then . . . then she is Guinblodwyn’s daughter?”

  “Oh, no, my lord. Essylte is Lady Blodwyn’s daughter. And the baby Melleas, her son. This is the daughter of Lady Dandrane.”

  Galahad’s knees were jelly. “But . . .”

  “My lord must be a foreigner. Here in Wales we call her Queen of Gwynedd because she is, in fact—I mean, she runs things for her brother, King Percival, being so able and not yet wed. Lady Blodwyn is the king’s wife, but she does little else but bear him children. It’s confusing, I suppose, to an outsider.”

  Galahad sat heavily on the rock, his head in his hands, staring at Dane’s daughter. “Sweet Lord, I am justly served.” He closed his eyes and hung his head. A light touch fell upon his sleeve. The child stood at his elbow and, for the first time, looked pleased to see him.

  He lifted her onto his lap and kissed her. Her mittened hands encircled his neck. He held her gently, partly in terror that this precious, fragile creature might be crushed in his embrace, or worse, that she might suddenly change her mind. “Sweet Elen. Be my guardian and take me to your mother.”

  He brought the horses out and placed her on Rouk’s back. She showed no fear, but grasped the mane and grinned at him. The nurse looked from one to the other in growing amazement.

  All the way down the track to the castle the child chattered to Galahad, asking questions at every stride.

  “Why do you have two swords?”

  “One is my father’s and one my uncle’s. My father’s sword was a gift from the High King Arthur—you’ve heard of Arthur, I suppose?”

  She stared at him as though he were a half-wit. “Of course.”

  Galahad could not keep from smiling. “I’m glad to see your mother has not neglected your education. My father gave me this sword when he knighted me. My uncle died with King Arthur at Camlann, and my father took his sword for his own. I, in turn, took it when my father died. That was . . . barely two weeks ago. I am taking it back to Lanascol.”

  “Lan-scol? Mama said Sir Lanesslot is king of Lan-scol.”

  He reached up to cover her tiny hand with his own. “Lancelot was my father. Your grandfather.”

  A smile of joy lit her face and she looked down at him with great satisfaction. “I knew you would be a prince. I knew you would come back to get us.”

  “Your mother never told you anything? I wonder, after all this time, if she will see me.”

  “There are ways around her.” The child spoke from a vast wisdom of adult behavior and Galahad felt his throat tighten. If only Lancelot could have lived to see her! If only he himself had found the courage to return before—how different things might have been.

  In the castle courtyard he lifted Elen down and gave the horses to a groom. One of the sentries stared at him, reached for his sword, then thought better of it and sent a page running. Galahad let Elen take him by the hand and lead him into Percival’s stronghold.

  The early dusk was already drawing down. Servants were busy in the corridors lighting oil lamps and bringing up the evening’s ale from the cellars. In all the bustle, no one paid them much attention.

  “This way, Father.” Elen tugged at his hand. But Galahad had seen a door fly open down the hall, had seen the commotion of servants, courtiers, and king’s men, had seen Percival come out, turn, and stare.

  Swiftly he bent down to little Elen. “Run along, my sweet girl. I must have a word with the king, alone. Run and send your mother to me—no, put it thus: beg her to attend me, for I have great need of her.” The child, seeing nothing amiss, complied gladly, and skipped away. Galahad straightened and waited.

  Percival strode angrily down the hall. Two guards, coming up behind Galahad, seized him and pinned his arms. He did not struggle against their cruel hold, but waited, watching Percival.

  “Disarm him!” snapped the king, and the swordbelts were torn from his waist. “Bind him well!” A coarse rope was looped around his wrists behind his back and pulled tight, biting his flesh.

  Keeping the pain from his face, he looked sadly at his cousin. “You have changed, Percival.”

  With a wrath that darkened his complexion, Percival drew back his arm and hit him. “How dare you! How dare you show your face here! Who in all of God’s creation do you think you are?” He jerked his head toward a nearby door. “Take him in there.”

  Galahad was dragged into a chamber, bleeding from nose and mouth. He recognized it, he thought, as the meeting chamber, where so many years ago he had carried a sickly Percival in his arms, and taken Dane for a boy. The lamps were already lit and a coal fire was going in the grate. Percival and his courtiers followed him in.

  Galahad fell to his knees. “Percival, I come to you as a suppliant. I beg your pardon. I have done you and your sister a grievous wrong and I will submit to any penance you see fit to give me. I bring no one with me. I came alone, and you have my only weapons.”

  Percival grunted. He was older and thinner, with sharp features growing sharper. “Two swords in your hands are as good as an army. You are right you have done me wrong! I cannot forget it. Bryll, Sebastan, clear the room and close the door. Luathe, stand behind him and look sharp. He’s quicker than you ever would believe.”

  With only a handful of men in the room, Percival drew his sword. “I sent you to find her, that she might choose a husband.” He brought the blade to the side of Galahad’s face. Galahad closed his eyes, remembering the justice he had so smugly meted out to Valvan for a much smaller crime. “Had you brought her back yourself and wed her, I’d have forgiven you the liberty you took.” The blade caressed his ear, slid to his throat. “She is my sister! My own flesh and blood. And you . . . you self-righteous coward! You must know that I have sworn to kill you.”

  Galahad felt the blade at his throat. Beads of sweat stood out across his brow, but he kept his breathing steady and looked up into Percival’s face. “My lord king, I knew all that when I came here. I yield myself to you. Kill me and avenge your sister’s honor, if you wish. I was the coward you call me—I was worse. I betrayed every principle I held dear. I betrayed our friendship, your sister’s love and honor, which I cherish more than life; I betrayed the good name of Gwynedd before all the northern lords; and . . . and I made a bastard of my daughter.” His voice broke, and he struggled to control his emotion. “I have no desire to live without your forgiveness, my good cousin, and without that of your sister, whom I have loved steadfastly every moment of these four lo
ng years. If you can find it in you to forgive such a wretch as me, I will make good the promise of my actions, and take her to wife, if she will have me. If not . . . if not, then do with me what you will.”

  “That’s rich!” Percival snarled. “After all the evil you have done, you offer to become one of my family! I suppose you think we’d want you.”

  Galahad bowed his head. “My father is dead. I am King of Lanascol now. Let me wed her and give the child a name. Then kill me. I will not try to stop you. Let Dane keep the swords herself. Your sister and her child will have a kingdom—they need not have me.”

  Percival lowered his sword. “You strike true, at least.” His features relented and he said sadly, “I am sorry to hear about Lancelot. He was a great man and lived in a great time. All Britain will mourn his passing.” He looked over Galahad’s head to the back of the room. “Well, Dane, you have heard him. What do you think?”

  Galahad stiffened, but with his hands bound and Luathe’s sword point at his back, he could not turn around.

  There was a long silence. At last he heard her voice, cool and steady. “I cannot tell, Val, until I have spoken with him. Will you leave us alone for a while?”

  “Are you sure you will be safe?”

  “You have his weapons. I am proof against anything of his except his sword.”

  Percival nodded. There was pride in the look he gave his sister, and Galahad marked it. “Luathe, untie his hands. Bryll, take the swords.” He looked back darkly at Galahad. “The windows are shuttered, the doors guarded. Do not be twice a fool.”

  They were alone. Galahad rose, rubbing his wrists, and turned around. She was now two-and-twenty and a full-blown beauty. Her rich hair was swept behind her, but crept loose from its pins here and there, just as he remembered, to frame her face. The slender neck, the curved cheek and clear, creamy skin— His throat went dry and his breathing stopped. She held herself still and kept expression from her features, but the gray-green eyes flashed with the fire that he recalled. She stirred him to his soul.