Percival glanced quickly about them but none of the bystanders had heard. He leaned closer to Galahad. “Why is that? Is his mother so ignoble?”
Galahad glared at him. “Don’t you get any news in Gwynedd? Or did your parents keep you in the dark on purpose? His mother is Queen Morgause of Lothian and Orkney. Gareth’s mother. Gawaine’s mother.”
Percival brightened. “Brother to Sir Gawaine and son to the High King. He is nobly born, indeed.”
“Brother and cousin,” Galahad said bitterly. “Queen Morgause is Arthur’s sister.”
Percival paled. “You mean—”
“Yes. Bishop Landrum says Mordred is damned on account of his birth. He’s a fiend in prince’s trappings. He’s abomination.”
“Keep your voice down, for pity’s sake,” Percival urged in a whisper. “You’re speaking treason!”
“I am speaking nothing but the truth.”
“You’re calling the High King’s son a fiend! It’s as much as your life’s worth if anyone should hear you.”
Galahad shrugged contemptuously. “Mordred knows what he is. He can never be High King.”
Percival’s eyes bulged. “Of course he can, if he’s the High King’s heir.”
“He will never wear Arthur’s crown. I have sworn an oath before Bishop Landrum that if he attempts it, I shall slay him.”
Percival’s jaw dropped. “You’ll what?”
The horn sounded and the procession began to move.
“Cousin!” Percival cried, but Galahad ignored him. Soon they were trotting and the effort of staying in his saddle took all of Percival’s attention.
Double wooden gates set into thick walls of dressed stone guarded the entrance to Kerrec Old Town. As he passed within, Galahad saw rank upon rank of soldiers’ barracks and workmen’s shops of every kind: smiths, coopers, carpenters, engineers, and masons—one could tell their skills by the sounds inside, as well as by the signs upon their doors. The tanners, saddlers, and bootmakers he could smell. The narrow streets thronged with people who had come to greet King Arthur. They stared as the men rode by, now and then calling out a greeting to the King or to a man they knew, and blessing him in the name of whichever god was sacred to them.
In the forecourt of the king’s house Arthur’s company dismounted. Unlike the fortress of Camelot, the king’s house was not a castle of stone but a large, rounded, timbered dwelling with a roof of tiles patched with thatch. Servants brought them basins of water to wash with and they cleansed themselves of the dust of travel. Galahad followed the men down an ill-lit hallway until they came to a set of double doors. Suddenly he heard the High King’s voice. “Where is young Galahad? Bring him to me.”
“Here I am, my lord!” The press of men pulled back to let him through. Galahad looked up at Arthur. The High King wore his crown, a simple crested band of beaten gold that shone bright against his dark hair, lighting the dimness. Although the day was warm he had donned his scarlet cloak, pinned at the shoulder with the dragon brooch. At his side hung wonderful Excalibur, the great emerald in the hilt glinting as he moved. Long life! it signaled, Victory to Britain! No one could mistake the message: This was the High King of all Britain, the One Unconquered, awesome, aloof, and powerful, who held all their futures in his hands.
“Galahad, I want you near me. Stand here, behind Mordred and Gawaine, as we go in.” The dark eyes met his. “Remember your promise to me.” A swift glance at Gawaine. “Both of you.”
Arthur gave the signal and the doors opened. The hall was packed with soldiers, the Breton commanders and officers on one side, Franks on the other. A narrow passage opened between them; down this walked Arthur. Galahad could feel the tension in the men he passed. It was more than the distrust of ancient enemies newly allied. All their eyes were on Gawaine of Orkney. Galahad wondered suddenly if Gawaine’s word could be trusted. The Orkneyman walked stiffly, head up and eyes forward. But his hands, held at his sides, were bunched into fists. His reputation as a fierce fighter had obviously preceded him across the Narrow Sea. Would his hot temper get the better of him, despite the vow he had made to Arthur? Mordred had thought it possible. Was this the spectacle all these men had come to see, a fight to the death between Gawaine and Lancelot? And what would Arthur do when Lancelot killed him, the last living of Lot’s children, his own sister’s son? Galahad’s palms began to sweat and he schooled his face to show nothing.
At the far end of the hall upon a low dais King Hoel of Brittany sat in a great, carved chair. He was old and frail, with thin gray hair and sagging flesh that had onced housed a larger body. Even thick robes of rich velvet could not hide the thinness of his frame. But his eyes, light blue and quick, missed nothing. To his left stood Childebert, King of the Franks, a stocky man of middle years, sharp-featured and ill at ease, whose eyes flitted restlessly over the congregation and whose jeweled fingers played nervously around the hilt of his sword.
In sharp contrast, Lancelot stood as still as stone on the other side of Hoel’s chair, tall, lean, and self-possessed, his eyes on Arthur. Galahad saw at once the change in him: five years had aged him ten. There were silver threads in his black hair and his temples had gone gray. The crown of Lanascol encircled his brow, a silver band set with garnets. His clothes were plain and self-effacing, and he wore no badge, but the hawk had been beautifully stitched in silver threads on the breast of his dark tunic. Who had done that? Galahad’s mother never would have and his aunt Adele was not so skilled with a needle. Suddenly he remembered the fine stitching upon the sword hanger in the king’s room in Lanascol, and the beautifully embroidered cushions in Arthur’s library. A cold draft pricked his skin. How did Lancelot dare wear that tunic to greet the King? It was a badge of shame, and yet he wore it like a badge of honor.
Then his throat went dry as he saw that his father was not wearing a sword.
“Welcome, Arthur,” Hoel grumbled as Arthur bowed, and the endless formal greetings and introductions began.
Galahad stood quietly and listened, but all his senses were attuned to Gawaine, beside him, and to his father on the dais. He could feel Gawaine’s hatred like a wave of heat, sweeping past him, engulfing everything in its path. Mordred must have felt it, too, for he took a half step forward in front of Gawaine and hooked his thumb casually in his swordbelt.
Arthur and Childebert exchanged civilities. The High King took his time and spoke to Childebert in his own tongue. Childebert visibly relaxed and nodded, pleased, to much of what the High King said. Where had Arthur learned to speak the Frankish language? Galahad knew a few words himself, swear words and name-calling, mostly, but he, who had grown up a week’s ride from Frankish lands, he could not speak as fluently as the High King. Hoel looked tickled and interjected once, slapping his knee and laughing outright. At the end of the exchange, Childebert stepped forward and took Arthur’s hand, lifting the great Pendragon ruby to his lips. A shout went up from all the gathered men. No stronger sign of unity could be given from king to king.
While cheering filled the air, Arthur turned at last to Lancelot, who came forward and bent his knee. But before he could kneel Arthur raised him and embraced him, hugging him and speaking softly, while Lancelot’s face lit with joy.
Mordred stepped forward and began to kneel, but Lancelot gripped his arm in the soldier’s embrace.
“Arthur’s son does not kneel to me,” he said roughly in a voice heavy with emotion. “How are you, Mordred? It is good to see your face again. You grow more like him with every passing year.”
“In spirit as well as flesh, I hope,” replied Mordred with a smile. “You are looking well, my lord. We have missed you in Camelot. Arthur speaks truth when he says that without you we are a ship without a sail. All the men look forward to fighting beside you.”
Lancelot smiled and glanced toward Arthur. “He does me too much honor.” The smile faded. “I hope I shall see battle. But that is up to Gawaine.”
The hall quieted instantly as Lancelot stepped in
front of Gawaine. Slowly, while every man in the room held his breath, Lancelot sank to both knees and bowed his head.
“I beg your pardon, Gawaine of Lothian and Orkney. I have done you a grievous wrong. For the deaths of your brothers Agravaine and Gaheris I am responsible but guiltless. But for the murder of Gareth . . .” He stumbled over the word and his voice choked. He drew a long breath to steady himself. “For the murder of Gareth I am alone at fault. He was innocent of wrongdoing and I slew him. I carry this stain upon my soul until my death, and God will judge me for it. I beg your forgiveness. I will submit to any penance you see fit to give me.”
There was a long silence while Gawaine struggled for the control to speak. No one moved. Arthur stood at Lancelot’s side, a hand upon his shoulder, and stared hard at Gawaine. That redheaded warrior visibly shook with anger, looking down on Lancelot’s bowed head, but he dared not touch his sword. Finally, he spoke.
“I do not forgive you, Lancelot. You’re very clever to come to me unarmed and try to make your peace in public. I do not require penance. I require your life.” Arthur stirred and Gawaine said quickly, “But I have promised my uncle the High King that while we both fight in his service I will not harm you. For this long, you are safe from me. Fight, then, Lanascol, fight for Britain and fight well. For at battle’s end you shall meet me. You owe me a life.”
Lancelot rose sorrowfully and bowed. “At battle’s end, my lord,” he said wearily. He turned away, but Arthur caught his arm.
“Stay, Lancelot. There is more ahead than grief. Turn around.”
Lancelot turned and Arthur beckoned Galahad forward. He stepped out from behind Gawaine and saw Lancelot’s eyes widen.
“Galahad? My son.” Lancelot wrapped his long arms around Galahad and embraced him. Galahad stiffened. His head hammered. His breath stopped in his throat. And then he saw Arthur’s eyes. He dropped his gaze obediently and allowed Lancelot to kiss his cheeks.
“I did not recognize you—you have grown three handspans in five years! What a comely lad you have become—you have your uncle’s beauty and your mother’s eyes.”
“And your skill with a sword,” Arthur interjected, smiling, with an arm about Lancelot’s shoulders.
“That should be no surprise, my lord, after nine years in Camelot training with the best in Britain.”
“Alas,” said Arthur in a low voice, “these last five years the best has been in Lanascol, not in Britain. How we have missed you, Lancelot! But your son does you great credit. He learns everything as fast as we can teach him.”
“Commendation from the High King is praise worth having. You make me proud, Galahad, to be your father.”
Again, Galahad felt the pressure of Arthur’s stare. He bent his knee. “Thank you, my lord. It is my wish to be worthy of the expectations you and the High King have of me. I pray God I may do Britain honor.”
“Well spoken, son.” Lancelot stepped closer. He raised Galahad and looked into his face. “Are you here to fight? Will you fight for Lanascol? You can do Britain honor now on the battlefield if you fight with me.”
Galahad flinched under his gaze and shot a look at Arthur.
“He has sworn an oath to serve me,” Arthur said lightly, “and I have put him in charge of the house guard, such as it is. As both you and Galahantyn want to be in the front lines, I thought it best for Lanascol to do this. I dislike to disappoint you, Lancelot, but it is better so.”
The two men looked at each other and some message passed between them that Galahad could not read. Lancelot nodded slowly. When he looked at Galahad again, his gray eyes grew sad.
As the kings of Britain came forward to greet Hoel and Childebert, Galahad retreated into the crowd. It had all happened as he had thought it would. Arthur had protected him as promised, and Lancelot knew that but for his own presence there, Galahad would gladly have fought with Lanascol. It had all gone smoothly.
Then why did he feel so wretched? Why did he feel as if he had done something wrong? A good man is like a white robe. Everyone present knew of Lancelot’s transgression. Gareth’s murder was only a part of it. How could they still love him? And how could Arthur, who knew firsthand the wickedness of seduction, who himself had fallen prey to a woman’s corrupt desire when he begot Mordred, how could Arthur welcome the very man who had betrayed him? Who wore, to greet Arthur, a tunic embroidered by the loving hand of Arthur’s wife! Was he, Galahad, the only one in this hall of men who recognized the enemy? Could he alone see the tawdry truth for what it was? A lump rose in his throat. Sin is anathema, and those who commit it. Put them all away.
With tears in his eyes he spun on his heel and pushed his way out of the hall.
31
LANCELOT’S CURSE
In the darkest hour of the night Galahad awoke in a sudden sweat. He gasped for breath, his chest tight, and pushed himself upright. His bedroll was soaked—dew on the outside, sweat on the inside. He glanced hurriedly around. The torch in its stand outside the High King’s tent was nearly out; it must be close to dawn. Bryddon was frankly asleep on his feet, leaning on his sword and snoring softly. Gabral nudged him with a toe.
“Nightmare?”
Galahad gulped, and nodded. “I guess so.”
“It be Frankish air. Bad for Britons.”
“Nonsense, Gabral. We’re in Brittany. We’re a long way from Frankish air.”
“Too much feasting, then.” He grinned. “Too much wine.”
Galahad shook his head. King Hoel’s feast had been a good one, and the wine had been sweet and unwatered, but he had partaken lightly of Hoel’s offerings and knew that the source of his distress lay not in what he ate or drank, but in his dreams themselves.
He passed a shaking hand across his brow. It was the third time in the week they’d been in Kerrec that he’d had this dream just as he awakened. No, not a dream, but a memory, for the horror was real. It had happened just before they had left Camelot for Brittany. While he was awake he could keep the memory dark, but in his sleep it was liable to return to him with all the power of the original event. He covered his face with his hands.
It was a soft, spring evening in Camelot. In the dim quiet of the chapel the burnished altar cross glowed in the gilded light of candles. Outside in the town and in the meadows, the fortress thronged with crowds. They spilled out beyond the walls onto the slopes of the hill itself, the armies of Britain gathered for war with Rome. The chapel was a refuge, a place of peace and rest, a place to pray and to think without interruption.
As Galahad arose from his prayers he was startled to find he was not alone. A slender woman in a dark cloak knelt in a corner, hands clasped, head bent in fervent prayer. There could be no doubt about who she was, for her bright hair escaped from her hood like sunlight from a storm cloud. Only one woman in all of Britain had hair like that.
Suddenly he was beside her, looking down at her bright, hooded head. He did not remember moving his feet. So great was her concentration, she did not hear him. He caught a whisper of her prayer: for Arthur’s safety and speedy return, well and whole, to her arms. And for Lancelot’s life.
His blood began to race. With a trembling hand he pulled his cloak tighter around his body. The movement disturbed her, and she finished her prayer, crossed herself, and rose. Drawing back her hood, she faced him.
There was nothing angelic about her. Her beauty was so startling because it was tangible, physical, so completely flesh and blood. The scent she used clung to his nostrils; her sapphire eyes, so deep, so clear, swamped his reason; the flawless silk of her complexion reduced his bones to water; the full curve of her lips robbed him of breath. He stared at her in wonder and in silence, for he had completely forgotten what he had come to her side to say.
“Galahad.” Her voice, calmly sensible, steadied him. “If you wish to speak to me, speak, and I will hear you. . . . Well? . . . Time presses upon me. I beg you, my lord, speak or let me go.”
Renounce my father and let him be! The words ran
g clearly in his head but his lips refused to let them pass. He looked into her calm, perfect face and cursed himself for a coward and a fool. There was no trifling with her and no getting around her. He wished now he had never risen from his knees.
Worse still, the effect of her beauty did not ebb as time passed in silence between them, but rather increased. He was a crab trapped on the melting beach and she was the full, inflowing tide. In another moment she would drown him.
The candlelight threw his shadow against the wall, where it towered over hers. For a brief moment it gave him a kind of courage. “For my father’s sake—”
Anger sparked her dark blue eyes, but he knew she would not chastise him for his presumption—he was Lancelot’s son. It had always been, with her, the most powerful weapon he possessed. But she, too, knew her weapon. She leaned toward him until his breath stopped and he waited, awash in dread, for her lips to touch his face. The edge of her cloak brushed his body with the gentleness of a caress.
“For your father’s sake, I forgive you,” she said softly against his cheek. “Judge me not, Galahad. Look into your own heart before you seek to know mine.”
With that, she sidestepped him adroitly and walked away. And he stood there, engulfed in rampant longing, wondering desperately if this physical curse, this disobedient body that had leaped to life at her nearness, was his inheritance from Lancelot or God’s punishment for his raging, covetous, wanton desire. Your very daydreams may betray you. You may be damned for what you long for. He threw up an arm before his face, but too late. Like it or not, he was flesh of Lancelot’s flesh and cursed with Lancelot’s curse.
It was the last time he had seen her until the day of departing. Then she had stood between the great dragon doors with tears in her beautiful eyes and a crown on her bright head, and had kissed Arthur good-bye while the armies raised a great shout of joy around them.
All his life Galahad had known that Lancelot lived under a curse; he had heard his father say so. Father Aidan had told him what it was. Long ago in Benoic, the Lady of the Lake had prophesied to Lancelot:
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