Grail Prince by Nancy McKenzie
“Lancelot wanted nothing more than to lead our contingent to greet King Arthur, his oldest and dearest friend. But he did not—he stayed in Kerrec with King Hoel and sent me instead—because he knew you would be near the King, and he wanted to spare you the pain of a public greeting, should you still hold Gareth against him.”
Galahad kept his eyes on the rutted road and said nothing.
“Galahad, can you not find it in your heart to greet him as a son should? He loves you dearly and you repay him with grief.”
Galahad did not respond and Galyn shook his head. “Well, well, perhaps it must wait until you are old enough to know him as a man. Come sup with us and bring us up-to-date on events in Britain. It’s going on two years since I was there, and Cordovic, poor fellow, has never seen it. He is green with envy. Tell us about Camelot and the gathering of all the kings for war with Rome.”
The Lanascol encampment was in a place of honor near that of Riderch, not far from the crest of the hill where the High King’s tent stood, the Dragon of Britain already flying, red on a field of gold. Everyone came to greet Galahad, sons and fathers, lords and soldiers. This was but one more mark, Galahad knew, of the love they bore his father. He himself had never seen any of them since he was five years old.
They placed him in a seat of honor at the campfire and served him first. The food was rich and steaming, the wine mellow. In answer to their questions he told them all of Britain’s preparations, named the kings and princes who had come, and with how many, and all the knights who traveled with them, and who was left to hold the kingdoms in their absence. But of Guinevere, the Queen regent, he said nothing. It seemed everyone already knew.
To a man, they were delighted that so many had united behind King Arthur when Britain herself was not directly threatened. It was more than just repayment for the aid the kings of Less Britain had given to Arthur in the Saxon wars. But it was like Arthur, they said, to repay tenfold what had been given as a gift.
“There is one lord you have not mentioned,” Bors growled. “What of Constantine of Cornwall? I saw the Cornish banner, but it was young Meliodas who led them. Where is Constantine?”
“He stays as guardian of the west. I heard the High King say Constantine had lately quarreled with Childebert, so he did not like to bring him. And clearly some trustworthy warrior must be left to safeguard Britain.”
Bors snorted. “Arthur did not say that, I warrant. Those are your words, Galahad. I’d trust old Constantine about as far as I could catch him with my spear.”
Galahad flushed. “Well, sir, the High King left him to guard the west. I heard him say so. If that is not trust, I don’t know what is.”
Bors laughed heartily, and downed his ale. “It’s prudence, lad. What to do with a man who’s a poisonous spider and can’t be trusted? If you can’t take him with you, give him a sop to his pride and a set of clear orders to obey. If he disobeys them, why then, you have the excuse you’ve been looking for to rid yourself of the pest. And mark my words, that’s what the King will do.” He glanced at Galahad, whose face was burning. “Well, well, this is only speculation. Forgive me, boy. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers. We’ll know in time. Come on, drink up, there’s a lad. No hard feelings.”
Galyn leaned forward. “It’s true, Galahad, that Arthur has not trusted Constantine since he publicly named Mordred his heir. Remember, Constantine grew up knowing his own father had been named the High King’s heir. But then, with Cador dead and Constantine himself next in line, to have an outland Orkney youth, and a bastard at that, take his place—”
“I grant you that he has reason to hold a grudge.”
“Indeed he does, but if he does not see that the future of Cornwall lies in the unity Arthur has brought to Britain, he’s a half-wit. If he risks offending Arthur by trying something while the King’s away, he will only do himself irreparable harm. Young Meliodas knows this—that’s why he’s here with us—so Constantine must. Yes, Britain will be safe in Arthur’s absence. The Queen is well protected, and believe me, she is no fool.”
The talk soon turned to the coming meeting between Gawaine and Lancelot. Everyone in all Less Britain knew of Gawaine’s oath to kill Lancelot, and within the week the two men would meet in Kerrec face-to-face. No one knew what might happen. No one could match Lancelot’s skill with a sword, but Gawaine was fifteen years his junior and known for his great strength. It might be a close fight. To a man, the men of Lanascol declared themselves ready to defend Lancelot against Gawaine.
Galahad rose suddenly. “With your permission, my lords, I must report to the King. He will be wondering where I am.”
“There is room for your bedroll in my tent,” Galyn offered. “We would be happy to have your company. Why don’t you stay? Surely Arthur can spare you.”
Galahad shook his head. “Thank you, Uncle Galyn, but I must be there when he looks for me.”
“What for?” Cordovic sneered. “You’re not a soldier yet, and surely you are a little old to be a page!”
“I serve him as his personal guard,” Galahad replied coldly.
“Ha!” Cordovic laughed. “A likely story! He has bodyguards aplenty! With an army of proven soldiers all about him, what need has he of a child of fourteen? He only tolerates you because he loves Lancelot so. Everyone knows it but you, fool.”
As Galahad spun on his heel his sword leaped to his hand. Before any man there could draw breath to speak, the weapon flashed in the firelight and whipped down, slashing the leather lacings on the breast of Cordovic’s tunic. The fabric fell open, revealing his flesh, unmarked, untouched by the blade. The sword slid softly home to its scabbard as Cordovic gasped and belatedly stepped back.
“If I’m a fool, what does that make you?” Galahad turned and walked coolly out of camp. No one stopped him.
27
THE PROMISE
It was dark when Galahad arrived at the High King’s tent. Two sentries stood at the entrance, Gabral and Bryddon, the night watch. He moved to his accustomed place between them at the edge of the skins that closed the entrance and, drawing his sword, took up his stance. Gabral raised a hand in greeting; Bryddon turned his head to one side and spat.
“Where’ve you been, young lord?” Gabral whispered with a grin. “The King’s missed you, he has. We been laying bets whether you was took sick from the crossing or whether”—with a sharp nudge of his elbow and a lurid wink—“whether you was bedded down with a lass in the bushes outside of town.”
Galahad colored and Gabral chuckled. “I was hopin’ you’d’a caught one o’ they lasses down at wharfside. I seen a redhead”—he leaned closer and Galahad stiffened to keep from reeling at the stench of his breath—“I seen a redhead could lift a man’s spear with a glance.” He cackled and clapped a hand to his groin. “She lifted mine, right enough!”
Galahad smiled. “By your own account, that’s not hard to do.”
“Shut your trap, Gabral,” Bryddon snapped. “Have you been at the wineskin? Think of war instead of women, just this once. If the King hears you, it’s as much as your post is worth.”
Gabral sobered and straightened. “Beg pardon, Bryddon. Just tryin’ to lighten him up a bit. When he came up that hill he had such a face on him—I thought he was bit by a poisonous snake.”
“Save your breath,” Bryddon returned. “It’s his natural expression.” Galahad glanced at Bryddon. The man had never liked him and he did not know why. “Is Arthur in council within?”
“Aye.”
“With how many?”
“Ten.” Bryddon grunted, avoiding the boy’s brilliant eyes and staring instead over his shoulder.
“Who?”
The sentry’s tone grew clipped. “Mordred, Prince of Britain. King Gawaine of Lothian and Orkney. King Bedwyr of Brydwell. King Urien of Rheged. King Maelgon of Gwynedd. King Melwas of the Summer Country. King Hapgar of Strathclyde. My lord Sir Gereint and my lord Sir Meliodas of Cornwall. And Prince Riderch of Brittany.”
“Have they eaten?”
“Oh, aye, a while back,” Gabral supplied eagerly, his glance flicking from boy to man and back. “And the wine’s gone in. They be at council now. For hours p’rhaps. There be no trouble— Who goes there?” he cried suddenly, drawing his sword and taking a step forward. But no one answered, no one moved, no sound met their ears but the night whispers of the forest. All the same, Galahad sensed that someone was out there in the dark, beyond the flare of torches. He felt the presence. And he would trust Gabral’s hearing beyond any doubt of his own. The man had the ears of a fox; he could hear a leaf fall. Thus he earned royal guard duty even though he was a half-wit. They waited a long moment, weapons poised, but heard nothing. Galahad felt the presence slip away. Gabral had already sheathed his sword.
“Scared him,” he whispered, grinning. “Gone away to find food.”
“Good man, Gabral,” Bryddon grumbled and Gabral straightened proudly, throwing him a look of frank affection.
Galahad stood between them in silence. He did not understand the deep friendship between these men, the sour soldier and the half-wit, but it was a real thing, tangible and enduring, and he envied them for it.
The night deepened. The moon swung toward her setting and far away in the hills a wolf howled mournfully. Suddenly a great cheer went up within the tent. “To Arthur of Britain! Long may he live!” Galahad stepped back from the curtain just in time to escape a collision with Riderch, who came out laughing and staggered drunkenly, his arms slung around the shoulders of his companions. The sentries stood at attention, eyes forward, faces carefully neutral of expression. But Galahad watched the lords as they went by. Maelgon followed, with Urien, Hapgar, and the rest of Britain’s honored princes, all in exuberant spirits, all rosy-cheeked and buoyant with the effects of wine. Last came Gawaine with Mordred, who was never drunk. They paused at the entrance.
“I promised him, Dred, in front of everyone. Why isn’t that enough for you?” Gawaine’s speech was thick, but he was steady enough on his feet. There was no need for Mordred’s hand upon his arm.
“I know your temper, cousin—”
“Brother!” Gawaine snapped. “And don’t forget it.”
“Cousin and brother,” Mordred agreed calmly. “And how could I forget it when I am so often reminded?”
Gawaine grinned maliciously. “Less Britain is swarming with Christians. There are plenty hereabouts who will hate you on account of your birth.”
Mordred refused to be drawn. “No doubt. But I fear them not. We are come together in a great cause that overrides all others. My only fear, brother, is that you may forget this when you stand before Lancelot face-to-face.”
Gawaine straightened and shrugged off Mordred’s arm. “I tell you, Mordred, I will do as Arthur bids me. I will stand before my brother’s murderer and forswear my vengeance while we both fight in Arthur’s service.”
“If you do this, Gawaine, I will honor you for it.”
“I have sworn to do it. But I make no promises beyond the battle. When the fighting is behind us, then let him look to his defense. Before I leave Less Britain I will kill him.”
“That day is your death day,” Mordred said sadly.
“There you are wrong, fisher-boy. Our witch-mother saw my future in her glass. I will die by the hand of an enemy of Britain. So you see, if I live beyond this battle, I need have no fear of Lancelot.”
Mordred’s face went cold and his voice sank to a growl. “Call me ‘fisher-boy’ again at your peril.”
Gawaine laughed loudly. “My pardon, Prince of Britain! You wish to leave your past behind you? No fault of yours when your future looks so bright!” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “A word of advice, brother-cousin. Don’t count your catch until the net is in.” He hiccupped, turned to leave, swayed on his feet, and staggered into Galahad, who pushed him upright with a grimace of distaste.
“Get off me, you filthy— Who’s that? Galahad?”
Gawaine glared at him but it was the look in Mordred’s eyes that made Galahad blanch.
“My lords.” He bowed to the space between them.
“So,” Gawaine sneered, “the High King’s spaniel has returned. Did you know that’s what we call you behind your back? Ha ha!”
“Gawaine!” Mordred said sharply.
Gawaine thrust out his chin. “How long have you been there? How much have you heard?”
Galahad did not reply.
“Everything, no doubt,” Mordred said coolly. “He always knows more than he lets on.”
“I’ll teach him a lesson!” Gawaine raised a fist, only to find it caught fast by Mordred. “Let me go, Dred! He’s naught but a murderer’s brat who dogs my poor uncle more closely than his shadow.”
Mordred smiled. “You ought to befriend him, Gawaine. I believe he’s the only man alive who despises Lancelot as much as you do.”
Gawaine shrugged free of Mordred’s grip and spat on the ground. “Man, indeed! He’s a child. I bid you good-night, Mordred.” And he strode away into the darkness.
Mordred looked steadily at Galahad, who trembled under his gaze. “I will tell my father you have returned.” He disappeared into the tent and when he emerged some moments later he said nothing, did not even turn his head, but walked silently away and melted into the night.
Galahad exhaled and Gabral smiled. “He’s a dark one, ain’t he?” he whispered. “Got a devil spirit in him, ain’t he?”
“Hush, Gabral,” Bryddon growled. “Remember where you are.”
“Mordred,” Galahad asserted, “is abomination.”
At that moment the skins parted and Varric, the High King’s chamberlain, looked out.
“My lord Galahad, the High King would like a word with you.”
Galahad swallowed and followed him inside. Arthur was seated amid a pile of skins and carpets, looking tired and sober. In the center of the dirt floor a small fire burned, encircled by stones, and all around it were the marks where the other kings had sat. Over the fire hung a flaccid wineskin, nearly empty. He rose as Galahad entered and the boy fell to his knees, kissing the great ruby on Arthur’s hand.
“My lord Arthur.”
“Come, Galahad, sit here by me and tell me what has passed with you. I lost you in the bustle of landing. I assumed you met up with Galahantyn and were taken to camp to greet your kinsmen?”
Arthur listened patiently as Galahad related the details of his day, nodding gravely and watching the boy’s face with worried eyes. Galahad had met his kinsmen for the first time in nine years, had been offered the chance to join them, but had passed it by.
“Well, Galahad,” he said slowly when the boy had finished. “Think twice about the choice you have made. Do you wish to stay and serve me, or would you rather join your countrymen and your kinsmen? I will not prevent your going, if you wish to.”
“My lord, I will stay with you.”
“Even though it means sleeping outside with Gabral and Bryddon? I wouldn’t have thought they were much company for a lad like you.”
Galahad smiled. “If I can’t sleep, I can always listen to Gabral’s tales about the women he wants.”
“Gabral thinks of nothing but women because he has never had one,” Arthur said, laughing. “He fears them.”
Galahad’s smile faded. He looked away. “So do I, my lord.”
Arthur’s hand came down on his shoulder. “That is common enough at your age. That kind of courage will come without thought when you are ready.” He searched Galahad’s face. “Consider the choice you’ve made, son. You can fight with the men of Lanascol. They will give you a place of honor among them and you can wield your sword in our joint defense. But I cannot offer you that chance, much as I would like to. Skilled as you are, you are too young for my army. I am bound by the rules I myself have set, and I cannot break them, even for you.”
Galahad looked up at him and swallowed hard. “My lord, do you need my sword?”
“One sword, more
“Sir, I would rather serve you than my father. But I do not want others to think I fear the fighting.”
Arthur smiled. “There is not a man in Britain who believes there is a drop of cowardice in you. And those who will say it, say it to rile you. Pay them no mind.” He sobered, then, and regarded Galahad with the grave, assessing look he was known for. “Before you go, I want you to make me a promise.”
“Anything, my lord.”
“I have this night extracted Gawaine’s oath to forswear his vengeance and deal civilly with Lancelot while they both fight in my service. If you wish to serve me, you must promise me the same. Behave toward Lancelot as a son should toward his father. Whatever is between you, let it die.”
“I can’t!” Galahad cried, fighting unexpected tears. “How can I?”
“Gareth was Gawaine’s brother. Yet Gawaine will put his grief aside for a space of time, for my sake. I know he was your friend. But you have had five years to mourn him. Put that grief behind you now or it will do you harm.”
Galahad struggled against the words he wished to speak. How could he tell the High King to his face that it was on Guinevere’s account—not Gareth’s—he could not love Lancelot? A root bearing poison and wormwood, the wicked woman is.
“I do not ask you to love Gareth any less,” the King was saying. “Only to let go of the bitter grief that wears upon your spirit. Do this for your own sake, if not for mine.”
“My lord,” Galahad whispered, “I don’t know how.”
“Are you man enough to forgive your father? However much you have suffered from Gareth’s loss, he has suffered a thousandfold.”
“Sir, Gawaine has not forgiven him. I heard him say himself he will kill Lancelot before he leaves Less Britain.”
“Well,” Arthur said wearily after a long pause, “Gawaine has taken a first step toward forgiveness. They will fight side by side against the Romans. Gawaine has done the best he can. What, Galahad, is the best that you can do?”