Grail Prince by Nancy McKenzie
The stallion’s ears pricked forward. Galahad did not know where they were, but it hardly mattered. No matter how far he had ridden up into the hills, the horse could always find his way back to his own kind. He let the reins fall slack across the stallion’s withers; through the fog the horse strode surefooted, climbing higher, quickening his pace. Suddenly he stopped, threw up his head, and whinnied. Galahad awoke with a start from his brown study and reined in sharply.
Directly ahead of him a fire burned at the mouth of a large cave. With a gasp of dismay he slid to the ground and covered the stallion’s nostrils with his cloak, holding him fast, and looked quickly about. But no one came forth; nothing stirred; the thickening mist bathed everything in silence. He loosed the horse and drew his sword. The stallion’s head lifted, nostrils quivering, searching the air. The horse stamped once, blew, and lowered his head to graze. Exhaling slowly, Galahad tethered the reins to a tree and advanced cautiously toward the cave.
It was of comfortable size and only recently deserted. A bed of bracken lay against the wall, covered by a blanket of fine, combed wool. Near the fire a place was laid for a meal with Samian ware as fine as any in the king’s house. He held his sword at the ready and trod cautiously forward. Bold thieves, indeed, to steal from Maelgon’s very castle and live in his hills! How strange that Percival had not mentioned ruffians so close to home. A woven basket sat against the far wall. He lifted the lid, half expecting to find more stolen goods, and was surprised to find it full of clothes—tunic, mantle, a pair of leggings, and a good, thick cloak. He paused. This was not the hiding place of thieves, after all. Perhaps a hermit lived here; perhaps he had fled when he heard the stallion scream.
Near the bed of bracken an oil lamp, just like the ones in the castle, perched on a shelf of rock. He trimmed the wick and lit it with a stick of kindling. After a moment’s hesitation it caught, and shed a bright, steady light over the rest of the cave: jars of oil and provisions stacked in a corner near neatly folded blankets, bits of candle scraps lined up carefully on a ledge; a small bow with a quiver of carved arrows, and half in shadow, a sword.
He lifted the weapon carefully. It was thick and unbalanced, old, practically useless, the blade dull and chipped. But the hilt was ivory inlaid with enamel in an ancient Celtic pattern. Such a weapon predated the Romans’ coming. Who had the need for it now? He replaced it and turned. Beyond the bed was an old oak chest, handsomely carved and silver with age. He sheathed his sword and knelt down beside it. It was not locked and opened easily at his touch. He stared in astonishment at a stack of scrolls. Twenty at least—a veritable library! He picked up the thickest of them and was astounded to find it written in Greek. Another was a child’s prayer, written in Latin by an amateur hand. There were drawings, too, of swords and horses, a harness, a wheel, some kind of loom. At the bottom of the chest lay an assortment of quills, knives for sharpening them, and small pots of ink. He sat back on his heels, frowning. Surely this was the abode of a wise man, a learned recluse. Why had Percival not told him?
He closed the chest and rose. Something lay in the shadow behind the chest and he bent down to pick it up. It was furred, soft to his touch: a wolf’s pelt, well cured and neatly rolled. As he stared at it he realized it looked familiar. He unrolled it quickly; yes, there were the jagged edges where his dagger had cut unevenly across the neck and paws—he’d been in a hurry that night in the cave; the light had been dim; it was not a job he was used to—this was his wolf pelt that he had given to Percival! What on God’s sweet earth was it doing here?
His stallion nickered; he whirled, sword drawn, toward the entrance. From the blank mist a dark form slowly took shape, coming closer, growing solid and real as it neared the fire.
“Halt and declare yourself!” he cried.
“Put down your sword, cousin. I won’t hurt you. Even though you’ve found my private ground. You’re just in time for dinner.”
He blinked twice at the slender shadow. As she set down the sack of firewood she carried, the firelight danced over the fall of auburn hair escaping in reckless abundance from her hood. “Don’t stare so. It’s only me. You’ve found my secret place, but I forgive you. Are you hungry? I’ve made some honey cakes.”
“Dane!”
She stopped, startled. “What?”
“What . . . what are you doing here? This is a hermit’s lodge!”
She laughed. “Yes, well, I’m the hermit. I live here, when I’m not at home. It’s where I come when I want to be alone.”
He gaped at her. “You? But why?”
“Why are you out in the hills today? Why is Val out fishing off the point? To get out, of course. Another day of it and I’m sure I’d have gone perfectly mad. Put your sword away; there’s no one here but us.”
“But”—he gestured toward the chest—“but these things cannot be yours.”
She smiled. “Why not?”
“Because . . . because they are books!”
“Books and sketches. I don’t usually take them out in such wet weather.
But now that you have let in the damp, we might as well have a look at them.” She slid off her cloak and laid it neatly to dry by the fire, then approached him.
Hastily, he sheathed his sword. The wolf pelt was still in his hand.
“And this.” He held it out to her. “This is my wolf pelt. What’s it doing here?”
“Percival gave it to me. He said it was a gift from you, along with his life.”
“But—”
“Do you mind that he gave it to me? I asked him for it. As a caution against hubris.” She looked up at him solemnly. “As a reminder of how close he came to death when he was almost home. It’s another danger I sent him to when I helped him sneak away to war.” She glanced around the cave. “I keep all my dearest treasures here. But you can have it back if you want it.”
“No, no,” Galahad said quickly. “I didn’t mean that. You’re welcome to it.”
Dane reached into the chest and retrieved the thickest scroll. “I see you found my Xenophon. It’s my own copy.” She held it lovingly against her breast. “It was my birthgift from Queen Guinevere herself.”
“But surely you can’t read it,” Galahad spluttered. “It’s not in any tongue you know!”
“I can so read it. It’s only Greek.” She unrolled it carefully and held it toward the lamp.
.1 There.”
Galahad gaped at her. “Wherever did you learn it?”
“I had an old Greek tutor when I was young. Iakos. He taught Guinevere as well when she was a girl here. And your mother.”
“My mother couldn’t read Greek.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t as apt a student as her cousin.”
Galahad’s face flamed. “What nonsense! What do you need Greek for, anyway?”
“Why, to read Xenophon, of course.” She laughed at him and dug deeper in the chest. “Here, look at this. This is a poem I wrote when I was six. It’s a prayer, really. Go on; you can read it; it’s in Latin.”
“I’ve read it already.” He reached into the chest and pulled out a drawing of a horse in strange trappings. “What’s this?”
“A harness I invented to enable my mare to pull things without getting sores. It’s simple to put on and releases quickly if she gets stuck. I can ride her at the same time, you see, and control her better.”
Galahad bit back a smile. “What you need more is something to control your hair.”
Dane flushed and grabbed her hair, braiding it swiftly behind her. “There. Now think of me again as Percival’s brother. We shall get on much better that way.”
“And have you invented new arrows and sword hilts as well?”
“You have been reading my scrolls. I didn’t think I’d been out that long.”
“What makes you think of these things?”
“Oh, I think about lots of things,” Dane replied, diving back into the chest. “Winters are so deadly dull, I have to do something. So I think about b
“Never mind!” Galahad laughed. “I’ve heard enough!”
“And if she will let me make one, I will give Mother a present for her loom. I’ve found a way to move the shuttle faster. She will spend half as much time weaving and get twice as much done. But I shan’t tell her about it if she doesn’t let me make my spindle wheel.”
“Well, I’m sure if anyone can talk her into it, you are the one.” He turned and lifted the sword from its corner. “And where on earth did you get this?”
Dane smiled. “Isn’t it a beauty?”
Galahad held the blade across his palms and examined it by lamplight. “It’s primitive work, except for the hilt. It must be very old.”
“It’s ancient. I found it in one of the inner caves, not far from here. It lay half-buried with a jumble of bones. It’s probably a grave gift from the ancient days.”
“You disturbed a grave?”
Dane shifted her shoulders and said quickly, “I didn’t disturb anything. There were plenty of old badges and buckles about. All I took was the sword. They’re my own ancestors, anyway. Just look at the inlay—isn’t it beautiful?”
“It’s very fine, indeed. Is that why you took it?”
“Well . . .” She dropped her eyes. “Not exactly. I took it because it was a sword and I was jealous of Percival. He gets to receive sword training, and I get to spin!” Galahad grinned as her voice rose. “I spy upon his lessons, and then come up here and practice. I’m better than he is at some moves, he’ll tell you so himself.” She looked up, her face alight. “And I’ve invented a tactic that cannot be defended. Do you want to see it?”
“By all means, princeling. Show me your skill.”
Deftly she took the sword as he drew his own. After a few halfhearted feints she began to attack on his left side; graciously, he allowed her to back him toward the wall. She was quick, he saw, and graceful, and had acquired a surprising degree of skill, especially as she had learned it all from observation. But she certainly was not dangerous.
“Now here is my invention,” she announced, breathing fast. “As you’re right-handed, I’ll strike down like this, pinning your arm like that—”
Smiling, Galahad twisted his wrist, turned his hip, whirled out of her trap, and before she had moved a step, held his sword point at her breast.
“Oh!” She gasped, and her shoulders sank. “I . . . I hadn’t thought of that evasion. I didn’t know your wrist could be so strong. Percival’s isn’t. I suppose you’ve seen that move before?”
To comfort her, he spoke gently. “Well, once or twice. To make it work, you can’t allow me this much room.”
She sighed. “Well, the other problem is, I’m not very strong. I suppose I never will be.” She set the sword down lovingly. “And as handsome as this old sword is, it’s nothing beside yours. I’ve often admired it from a distance. May I take a closer look?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Galahad yielded his weapon. She took it gingerly, and looked at it in awe. “Why, it’s so thin and supple!”
“And sharp. Take care.”
“And this silver work upon the hilt—that was done by a master. Rubies set deep to form a cross, how dark they are! This is a magnificent weapon, Galahad. Worth a king’s ransom. Where did you get it? Was it a gift?”
He took it back in silence, and slid it home to its scabbard. “It was my father’s sword.”
“The one that Arthur gave Lancelot? I remember the tale. But it’s yours now.”
He nodded slowly. “He gave it to me the night after Camlann. Before he headed home. He knighted me with it after we buried Arthur. It was made by the High King’s swordsmith to use in Britain’s defense, and my father is done defending Britain.”
Dane’s features softened. “He has passed that duty on to you, now that you are a man.” She smiled quickly. “You see, I haven’t forgotten. You turned fifteen when we turned twelve.”
“How did you know? I’ve told no one.”
“Percival told me you were born on the equinox. A week before us. It’s a propitious time, isn’t it, when the world nears rebirth? Why didn’t you tell us your father knighted you? It’s not a thing to hide. We’ve not celebrated that and we ought to. Come, are you hungry? We’ll have a little feast in your honor.”
Galahad suddenly realized he had not eaten since dawn, and it must be by now near the middle of the afternoon. He helped her put the scrolls away and built up the fire while she brought forth a plate of sweet cakes and a small skin of wine which she set near the fire to warm.
“Welcome to my table, Sir Galahad. May God bless you and keep you and make His face to shine upon you.” She closed her eyes as she spoke the blessing and poured a small libation on the ground.
“And be gracious unto you and give you peace,” Galahad finished. “Amen.” They ate in silence for a moment. The cakes were surprisingly good and the wine sweet and warming. He looked around the cave in wonder. Clearly, it was more a home to Dane than her father’s castle. Why had Percival never told him about it?
“Did you ride up here? Where is your mare? Is that what Rouk smelled?”
“I’ve built a shelter for her around back. There’s a fissure at the back of this cave just big enough to squeeze through. It leads into another cave, a small one, which opens out on the side of the hill. I’ve made a stable out of it, and stored up some hay. We can last out here for days without discomfort. There’s a spring up the track a little farther.”
“Then you come here often?”
“Whenever I can.”
“How did you get all this stuff up here? The hay, the chest, and jars of oil?”
“Most of them I carried. Mother was throwing the chest out—it’s old-fashioned Celtic work and she’s had a new one made. I fashioned a sled and strapped it on. Gilla pulled it up for me. I used my new harness on her. She didn’t mind at all.”
“You mean you got all this stuff up here by yourself?”
“And without anyone knowing. Not even Val knows about it. It’s my own, you see.”
Galahad gaped at her. “You didn’t tell Percival?”
“No, and I wouldn’t have told you, either, but you stumbled upon it. Or your stallion did. This is my private ground. You must swear, Galahad, on your honor, to keep my secret. You’ve broken bread with me. You must.”
The gray-green eyes were intent. He nodded slowly. “All right. I swear upon my honor not to tell Percival or anyone else about it so long as I live.”
Dane grinned. “After you’re dead you can tell anyone you want.”
He shrugged at her jest and stretched his legs out toward the fire. It was very pleasant to lie warm and dry and comfortable on such a cold, damp day, watching the fog drift by the cave mouth, listening to the steady sounds of the stallion’s grazing. The honey cakes were the best he’d ever tasted. He began to think that Percival’s sister had her uses, after all.
Dane added another stick to the fire. “Galahad, where will you go with Percival? Why won’t you go home to Lanascol? What exactly is this grail you’re seeking and why didn’t you tell me about it?”
6
MACSEN’S TREASURE
Galahad stared at her. “Fair is fair,” she retorted. “Your private ground for mine. I vow to keep it secret.” She leaned forward, curious and intent. “What is the grail? Why is it so special?”
His heart began to pound. It served him right, he thought suddenly. He should have left Gwynedd already. If he had, he wouldn’t have to endure this. “It’s none of your concern.”
“But it is,” she responded softly. “Val is afire with this quest of
“You are not. You’re completely different.”
“We are as close as one. Nothing can come between us, not even you. He tells me everything, you know.” Her voice was gentle. “Everything you tell him, he tells me.”
“Then you don’t need to ask me questions. Ask Percival.”
“He doesn’t know the answers. He thinks this grail you’re after is some old feasting krater of Macsen Wledig. He thinks the recovery of it will unite Britain.”
“I told him that. It’s true.”
Dane laughed. “Then you don’t know much about Macsen, do you?”
“And you do?”
“There are thousands of tales about him here in Wales. Gwynedd is where he lived, you know. He was a greedy old devil of an emperor—oh, yes, he was a fearless commander, and his men adored him. But he could never have enough of the things he liked. Half the women in Northgallis bore him children. He led his men into wars they didn’t need to fight because he grew too fond of praise. That’s why he died on a battlefield fighting the King of Rome and not at home in bed. I’m sure his feasting krater is beautiful—no one loved a lavish display more than Macsen—but, Galahad, it isn’t magic! It isn’t sacred. It doesn’t carry any power. It’s been in the ground a hundred years or more; it’s probably in pieces by now. Why on earth are you looking for it?”
Galahad’s gaze sharpened. “How do you know it’s in the ground?”
“I don’t. But the hillmen have a song about it:
Ravens sing
Blackthorn ring
Under stone
Myrddin’s home.
Water weathers
Stones alight
Macsen’s treasures
Burning white.
Llud’s gate
Open waits,
Blessing stays