Grail Prince by Nancy McKenzie
Brynn bent over a trunk, brought out a nightrobe, and pulled it over Galahad’s head. Galahad fingered the garment in wonder. It was finely woven of lightweight gray wool, but lined with some fabric of magical softness. When he moved, the garment caressed his skin like a warm breath.
“Where did you get this, Brynn?”
Brynn gestured to the old carved trunk at the foot of the bed. “It belonged to your father, my lord. He left many clothes here.”
“This . . . this is an unbelievable garment. I’ve never worn anything like it.”
Over the breast the Hawk of Lanascol was intricately stitched in tiny, delicate blue threads. He remembered the hanger for his father’s sword that hung on the wall in Benoic and a cold misgiving assailed him.
“That’s because it was made by the High Queen herself. She made two of them, the first as a wedding gift to Arthur, the second for Lancelot when his son—when you were born.”
Galahad clutched at the garment and tore it off over his head. “Take it away! I will wear something plain to bed or nothing at all.”
Gaping at him, Brynn retrieved the nightrobe from the corner where Galahad had flung it, and hurried to pull another—plain and brown—from the trunk.
Galahad was shaking from head to foot. “Go through the trunk, Brynn, and throw out anything that witch has touched. I will not have her handiwork against my skin. I will not have it in my chamber. Give it away or burn it, but get it out of my sight.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. I did not understand, my lord, but now I see—I quite see.”
Galahad turned on him, blue eyes blazing. “You’re a font of information because you’re a gossip. If I hear a single word of this from anyone else’s lips, I shall cut out your tongue. Do you understand me?”
Brynn whimpered as he clutched the robe to his chest. “Yes, my lord! I will say nothing, I swear it!”
Galahad pointed to the door. “Then go.”
Brynn bent to gather up the clothes, bowed hastily, and disappeared. Galahad sighed and sat heavily on the bed. The vehemence of his outburst had surprised even him. He plucked at the brown robe in agitation. Would he never be free of the past? Ever since he had set foot back in Camelot, memories he thought he had locked away in darkness had begun breaking loose into the light. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here, after all. Perhaps he should have followed that Druid dwarf to Guent. But it was too late now. Constantine clearly meant to keep him in Camelot. He had put himself in the way of events and they had led him here, so here he would stay. Perhaps somewhere in this place of fables he would see the sign he awaited.
In the morning Constantine introduced Galahad to the lords and battle captains who made up his courtiers. There were twenty of them, not even enough to fill all the seats at the Round Table, and all of them Cornishmen. They regarded Galahad with wary respect, not entirely unmixed with awe, and Galahad wondered what tales Constantine had been telling them.
He was taken to the training field to inspect the Camelot troops. Constantine clearly expected him to be impressed, but these men were nothing, either in equipment, skill, or bearing, to the least of Arthur’s troops, and Galahad kept his expression carefully neutral. Suddenly a page came running from the castle and threw himself at Constantine’s feet.
“My lord! My lord! A marvel! You must come and see! In the Round Hall!”
Galahad glanced sharply at Constantine. Neither the High King nor his men questioned the page, but turned as a body and hurried toward the castle. In the Round Hall Constantine’s seneschal stood across the table, staring down.
“My lord!” he cried. “Here’s a marvel! Look!”
The king and his men gathered around the Seat Perilous in subdued excitement. “There’s a name carved on it!”
Galahad exhaled slowly and kept his face straight. So this was why Constantine had shown him the Round Hall last night.
“Galahad!” the king cried. “Come look at this!”
There on the back of the Seat Perilous he saw his name carved deep into the shining wood: Sir Galahad. He bowed politely to Constantine. “My lord does me great honor.”
“Not I, my lad, I assure you,” the king said quickly. “It is a day of miracles! You have been sent to us—here is the sign! I have prayed long for such a warrior to join our ranks!”
Galahad noticed some of the knights glancing at one another but he kept his own face solemn before the king. Constantine need not have bothered. He had already decided that he might as well stay and serve him. All the man strove to do was keep the Saxons from Briton lands, which was no more than Arthur had fought for all his life. It was known ground. He would fight for Constantine as he had fought for lesser kings, as he had fought for Arthur. He would quell the demons of his memory until he could walk past the Round Hall without thinking of Gareth. Besides, for all he knew this rather obvious trick might, in spite of Constantine, be the sign he sought. He was obviously expected to take it as a marvel.
He went down on one knee. “I accept your offer, my lord. I will swear service to you, faithful service, until the time comes that God calls me away.”
Relief flooded Constantine’s face and he smiled. Around the two of them the Round Hall erupted with cheering.
25
AN ILL WIND
Late that night, stuffed with rich foods at Constantine’s table and half-drunk on his miserable wine, Galahad fell at last into a restless sleep. The crowding memories that had assailed him at every turn since his arrival in Camelot, memories so fiercely resisted by his waking mind, now found that resistance melted away and in sleep swamped him. He did not dream, but remembered.
He was nine years old when Arthur took him along as page on a visit to King Hoel of Brittany. A host of Briton kings accompanied him—but not Lancelot—to discuss the growing unrest among the Franks in Gaul. All went smoothly until they were on their way home. Galahad was eager to get back to Camelot and share his adventures with Gareth, his only friend. He had no way of knowing, as Arthur’s cavalry galloped flat out on the Roman road, that it was already too late.
Overhead the wild wind tore across the night, flinging cloud against cloud in thunderous fury, hurling stinging pebbles of rain at the huddling earth, screaming in a wanton crescendo that deafened even the pounding of the horses’ hooves. It was a dream, Galahad thought, or a nightmare: the animal beneath him ran and ran, sides heaving, slippery with sweat, yet he could hear nothing of its movement above the raucous, raging violence of the storm.
If he lifted his head into the onslaught, he could just see the backs of the foremost riders and dimly, through sheets of rain, the streaming tail of Arthur’s gray. He could barely make out the road. In all his life he had never ridden so fast. Thank God they were already across the Camel—they might get home in one piece yet.
Until today they had taken it easy coming home from Brittany. King Hoel’s council of kings in Kerrec had been a great success. Treaties of alliance had been signed and feasted over, and Arthur had journeyed home at a leisurely pace. Even the sea had complied with the High King’s wishes and given them an easy crossing. It wasn’t until today, more than halfway home from the coast, as they cantered along the dry November roads and began to think about a meal and rest, that this madness had begun. Arthur had stopped to question a horseman riding south. Constantine of Cornwall, the traveler had reported, was rumored to be moving north with troops. At that, Arthur had sent a courier flying off to Camelot, had handpicked the twelve best riders in his train and headed north at full speed in the courier’s wake.
Galahad hunched against the horse as cold rivulets ran down his neck. A wicked gust tore at his cloak and threw sharp needles of rain against his face. He shuddered involuntarily. There was something sinister and ominous about this storm.
At last Caer Camel loomed before them, a solid shadow darker than the night. They turned up the broad, paved ride toward King’s Gate, the tired horses straining hard against the hill. Not until they were
“It’s the High King!” someone shouted from the guardhouse. “Quick, men, to the gates!”
Galahad rode forward, shivering, as the great gates swung open. He was close enough to see the captain of the guard come out to Arthur, a smoking torch held high over his head.
“My lord King! Stay a moment! An urgent message from the Queen!”
“Guinevere!” Arthur reined in sharply. “How does she fare? Is she well?”
“Aye, my lord, as far as I know. The message concerns your nephew, Sir Gawaine.”
Gawaine, who had ridden up to Arthur’s side, sidled closer. “What’s this?”
Arthur frowned. “Give me the message, man! Don’t keep my horses standing!”
“Yes, my lord! The High Queen begs the King to place Sir Gawaine under guard and seal him away from any intercourse with others, even servants, until the King has spoken to the Queen. She begs, my lord, that you will trust her judgment and see the order carried out, or death may follow that might be otherwise prevented.”
“What nonsense is this?” Gawaine cried. “It’s house arrest! Don’t be absurd! I’m not going to kill anyone. Let us get in out of the wet—”
Arthur raised a hand for silence and Gawaine stopped. “Augus, do you know aught of this?” the King asked the captain.
“No, my lord. But Sir Kay gave me the message himself.”
“Very well. I will have the Queen’s order obeyed. Gawaine—”
“Uncle, this is utterly ridiculous—”
“Do it anyway,” Arthur snapped. “Augus, take five of your men and escort Sir Gawaine to the Round Hall.”
“For pity’s sake, Uncle!”
Arthur looked at him coldly. “Have you ever considered it might be for your own good? That you are the one she is afraid for? Quit blubbering like a spoiled child and wait in the Round Hall for me. I’ll come to you as soon as I know what this is all about.” He looked around uneasily. “It’s an evil night. And something is amiss.”
Reluctantly, Gawaine slid off his steaming horse and allowed himself to be surrounded by the guards. Arthur raised his arm and the rest of the cavalry cantered through the gates and up the hill to the castle. Arthur dismounted at the door, but Galahad and most of the others rode on to the stableyard, cold, wet, and grumbling, and after seeing their horses rubbed down and fed, hurried off to the barracks for hot porridge, warm wine, and a change of clothes.
Galahad hesitated at the barracks door. He was afire to know what the trouble was. What could have happened to put Gawaine’s life in danger? Pulling his soaking cloak close around him, he slipped through the shadows to the castle’s scullery door, ran quietly through the deserted kitchens and up the back stairs to Gareth’s chamber. Gareth was Gawaine’s youngest brother. He would know what the trouble was.
But Gareth’s room was empty. The bed had been slept in, Gareth’s cloak lay on the chest, but his boots and his sword were gone. The candle at his bedside had burned to the hour mark, but if he wasn’t coming back, then he’d have snuffed it. Galahad stood uncertainly a moment and then sat down on the chest to wait. He doffed his wet cloak and wrapped Gareth’s around himself. The shuttered window faced south, in the storm’s lee, but the wind’s chill fingers still reached in, seeking everywhere, to steal his warmth.
To keep his teeth from chattering, Galahad forced himself to think about Gareth. The youngest of the four sons of King Lot of Lothian and his queen Morgause, Gareth was the only one without a killing temper. Gawaine, Agravaine, and Gaheris were as hotheaded as their royal father. Gawaine was, at the moment, imprisoned in the Round Hall, but Agravaine and Gaheris might be anywhere, up to anything. Gareth was too sensible to be caught up in their schemes. Besides, where could he have gone without his cloak on a night like this?
He could have gone to visit his betrothed, Linet of York, the Queen’s waiting woman. But if he’d meant to visit Linet, he’d not have gone to bed.
He rose and began to pace fitfully. Someone shouted in the corridor. He ran to the door in time to see sentries running by.
“What’s the matter? What news?”
One of them turned and shrugged. “Don’t know. Sir Kay’s in a passion. Sir Bedwyr’s sent for a physician. Rumor is, there’s been murder done. Drunken Orkneymen in the High Queen’s chamber!”
Orkneymen in Guinevere’s chamber! Not Gareth—Gareth seldom drank, and Mordred was never drunk. But the twins, Agravaine and Gaheris, were seldom sober. They were notorious troublemakers, besides, and leaders of a small band of rabble-rousers who thirsted for glory in a land at peace. Still, none of them had any business in the High Queen’s chamber. No one had any business there but the Queen herself and her women. And, of course, the King. But King Arthur had been away for six long weeks. . . .
Galahad’s palms began to sweat. He would not let himself think the thought. He got up again and searched the corridor, but no one was about. Who was dead? Who had been in that room? An ache clutched at Galahad’s throat until he could hardly breathe. He saw again the dark head bent in prayer, urgent prayer, hour upon hour, praying for something he had needed so much more desperately than sleep. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, O Lord, forgive my sin.
Galahad found his knees were shaking. He sat down again. Curling himself in a corner beyond the bed, he forced all speculation from his mind and settled down to wait. Weary as he was, he could not close his eyes, but dully watched the candle burn. From time to time he heard voices, shouts, barked orders, the quick tramp of booted feet. No one came to Gareth’s door. Once he thought he caught the sound of weeping, but on such a night the wind played tricks with sound. Finally, a chamberlain came in to replace the candle.
“What news, Fayn?”
The man jumped. “Who’s there? Sir Gareth?”
“No. It’s Galahad. Over here.”
Color seeped back into the man’s ashen face. “Oh, my lord! What are you doing in the corner? You gave me a fright, you did!”
“I’m waiting for Gareth. Do you know where he is?”
“No, my lord. He’s been gone a long while. Sir Lancelot came to fetch him hours ago.”
Something twisted hard in Galahad’s gut. “Lancelot came himself?”
“Aye, my lord. They went away together.”
“Was . . . was Lancelot armed?”
The chamberlain tugged at his beard and paused. “No. Now I think on it, he had neither boots nor sword. Sir Gareth, he pulled his boots on and took his sword. I recollect Sir Lancelot grumbled about it and said they had not time.”
“Were they sent for?”
Fayn said nervously, “Aye, my lord. By the High Queen.”
Galahad’s throat tightened until he could not speak. He simply stared at Fayn.
The chamberlain rolled his eyes and edged toward the door. “Oh, my lord, there’s evil doings aplenty, I hear tell. Dead men everywhere. Thank all the gods the High King’s back and in command.” With that, he went out and closed the door. Galahad sat still, staring at nothing, suddenly afraid that the future trembling on the edge of knowledge was a nightmare, like the storm outside. He no longer wanted to know what had happened. He wanted to be back on the Roman road, riding recklessly in driving rain, back where he could hear nothing but screaming wind.
Slow, heavy footsteps came down the corridor. He held his breath as the door swung open. There stood Lancelot, pale as a nether spirit, armed, booted, and dressed for the road in his thickest cloak.
“Galahad?” he whispered. “What—”
“I’m waiting for Gareth.”
Lancelot stared at him, standing stiffly, drawing breath as if it were a labor. His black hair was wet from recent washing. His red-rimmed eyes glistened in the candlelight. His face, mirthless and exhausted, looked suddenly old. He entered the room, moving as if every step gave him pain. Above Gareth’s bed a small cross of beaten silver hung on an old thong. Slowly and with deliberation, Lancelot took
“Father!” Galahad heard the note of panic in his own voice and tried to still it. “Father, where are you going? Why are you taking Gareth’s cross? What has happened?”
Lancelot looked back. A tear slid down his lined cheek but his eyes were hard as metal. “Gareth is dead and I am exiled. If you hate me for the rest of your long life, it is no more than I deserve.” Before Galahad had time to draw a second breath, he was gone.
He was jerked back to consciousness by a stab of pain in his ribs. Gawaine kicked him again.
“Get out! Get out, you filthy Breton swine! Get out before I kill you! Aye, that’s what I ought to do! A life for a life! Murderer’s whelp!”
Galahad scrambled to his feet, dodging the next blow.
“Murderer’s brat! By God, don’t gape at me! Pretend you don’t know, is that it? That won’t get you far!” He struck Galahad in the side of the head with a heavy fist, knocking the boy across the room.
“That’s enough, Gawaine.” Arthur stood in the doorway, his face lined with weariness, the dust of travel still upon his clothes. “Beating the boy won’t bring your brother back.”
A woman slipped by Arthur soft-footed into the room. She knelt by Galahad. “Arthur, he’s bleeding. Give me your kerchief, Gawaine. You owe him that.”
The cloth against his head smarted dreadfully, but the smooth, cool hands were gentle and caressing. Galahad looked up into wide, dark blue eyes and alabaster cheeks that bore the tracks of tears. He struggled to sit up.
Gawaine slammed his fist into the wall. “I’ll kill him if he sets foot in Britain!” His voice, half scream, half sob, broke upon the words. “I’ll kill him! I’ve taken an oath upon it!”
“Yes,” Arthur agreed quietly. “I’ve heard your oath.”