Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  Her scent filled his head, sweet and enticing. The hem of her gown lay inches from his boot. The fabric trembled. He struggled against the familiar soft pit in his stomach, the growing lassitude in his limbs, the slowing of his thoughts as the small thrill of excitement deep in his gut blossomed into a beating ache.

  “My lady!” Anna gasped. “Arthur is alive! This is his messenger!”

  The Queen went still. For a long moment the only sound was the lashing of rain against the glazing of the door. Then she said, very softly, “How does my lord? Fares he well?”

  Her tenderness swept over him like a wave of heat. Her nearness forced him into one mistake after another. If he knelt another minute at the hem of her scented robe, he feared he might press it to his lips. “May I rise?”

  “Will you behave?”

  He nodded. He did not have to stay long—he would endure it somehow. “I am tamed, lady. Your lord and husband has bound me round with oaths. I am harmless.” He opened his cloak. “I come without weapons.”

  She reached out her small, slender hand and raised him. The skin of her palm was cool and firm. “It is not your weapons that I fear. Tell me about Arthur. You traveled with him? You were aboard his ship?”

  “Yes,” he replied, avoiding her beautiful eyes. “I have been at his side since we left Britain. I guard his flank, now that Gawaine is dead.”

  She went still. “Gawaine dead? When? Where did he die?”

  “On a Saxon beach. He led the charge and I was right behind him. Cynewulf’s ax got him. He died in Arthur’s arms.”

  “So . . . you have fought for the King after all?”

  He nodded. “I owe the King my life twice over. Would I could be so cool in battle!”

  She looked calmly up at him and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. He could almost feel the silk of her skin beneath his fingertips. The urge to touch her grew irresistible. Something moved behind her eyes. With the smallest smile, she turned away and gave him peace. “Yes, my husband is a warrior to his soul. How does he fare? Does he sleep? Eat? Is he weary?”

  “He is angry. His allies have attacked him and bar his way.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “You don’t understand it, Galahad. We had to reestablish treaties with the Saxons.” She stopped. “Well, no matter now. Tell me about Arthur. Has he his health?”

  Her long, slender neck, pale in the dimness, reminded him of the wild lilies in the fields outside Autun. A stray wisp of white-gold hair crept from her net and nestled against her cheek. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. She raised an eyebrow in a graceful arch. He cleared his throat and prayed silently for fortitude. “He is sick at heart and weary of war. There is a knife in his back. He thinks his son a traitor, and it kills him.”

  “Traitor!” she cried. “Mordred is no traitor!” Her pretty hands, clasped tightly together, were shaking. She crossed herself and gripped the bedpost for support.

  “Even so, we saw him, plain as day, come take the field against us— against us—and beside Saxons.”

  “Dear God!” She sank to the bed. “The end has come.” Anna approached, but Guinevere waved her away. “Surely Mordred never raised a sword against him? He swore to me he would not.”

  “No. The King attacked and Mordred withdrew his men from the field. King Arthur took it for cowardice. It broke his heart.”

  She bowed her lovely head and covered her face with her hands. Anna hugged her shoulders. Galahad straightened. It was the first instance of frailty he had ever seen in her. But when the Queen looked up, her eyes were dry.

  “One more thing,” she said slowly. “Does your father live?”

  Now that the moment was upon him, he could not tell her. He wanted to believe Mordred. And Arthur. But it was easier to believe that they, along with Lancelot and every man of his acquaintance, had fallen victim to the power of her features, her form, her voice. He knew he could not bear to see the look upon her face when she learned that Lancelot was alive.

  “Bedwyr lives and fights with us. Of my father, I say nothing.”

  She could not control the anguish on her face. “Please,” she begged. “Please, Galahad. Give me a word only. That’s all I ask.”

  “What happened to Lancelot is no concern of yours.”

  “No concern!” While he watched, she seemed to harden and grow cold by slow degrees. She rose. There was nothing frail about her now. She walked up to him with all the majesty she could summon and stared him down.

  “Give me your message.”

  He was aghast to find how his fingers shook as he drew forth the scroll. In taking it, her hand touched his. Her beautiful eyes seemed to collect him and drink him in, drowning his resistance, whirling his thoughts into confusion, drawing him down into a maelstrom of molten longing. He could scarcely breathe. He burned in every sinew. Without willing it, he took a half a step forward and saw her lips lift in a knowing smile. He could do nothing but stand rooted to the spinning floor and curse himself for a willing fool. She controlled the beating of his blood, the very breath that fed his body.

  She backed away, smiling as he flushed scarlet and broke out in sweat.

  “It will pass,” she whispered. “Give it time.”

  He stood unmoving, unable to move, in a hot flush of shame.

  “Are you going back to Arthur?” she asked him quietly. “Will you take him a word from me?”

  “I . . . I . . . I”—he gulped—“I’m going on to Ynys Witrin. The Isle of Glass. To Avalon, to seek audience with a witch—”

  “With Niniane, Lady of the Lake?”

  He nodded. “The King has a message for her. After that . . . I . . . I . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “I see.” She held the scroll to her breast. “Then this is good-bye.”

  He was unsure whether she referred to the King’s letter or to himself. He bowed quickly, awkwardly, and fumbled with the latch to the glazed door.

  “Galahad.” He looked up and saw her standing straight and very pale. “Go with God.”

  He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross in the air above her head. Then he turned and ran.

  43

  THE HARBINGER OF DOOM

  Wearily, Galahad reined in his horse and slid to the muddy earth. He was soaked to the skin and so cold he could no longer feel his fingers. Steam eddied upward from his stallion’s dripping flanks; the horse lowered his head, stretched his neck, and shook, spraying water everywhere. Galahad smiled and laid a hand on the streaming coat.

  “No matter, Rouk, old boy, I couldn’t be any wetter. God in Heaven, what a night! The causeway was half underwater, there isn’t a star in the sky—more than once I was afraid we’d have to swim for it.” He looked up at the smooth white walls of the Lady’s shrine. Rain pelted his face relentlessly and a sharp wind lifted his sodden cloak. “Still,” he muttered, “I’d rather sleep out here on the ground than ring the bell. But an oath is an oath.” He reached up and pulled the bell cord that hung by the gate. “Perhaps they’re asleep. Do witches sleep, I wonder?”

  The horse nuzzled his chest and blew warm, sweet breath against Galahad’s cold cheek. The boy reached up and scratched his ears, blowing his own breath gently into the horse’s nostrils. “From one enchantress to another the High King sends us. I hope he reckons it’s worth it.” The stallion lowered his nose to the ground and began to crop the grass. Galahad grunted. “I tell you, Rouk, I pray this one is plain. I am burning alive from that beautiful woman’s fire.”

  He was suddenly aware that eyes watched him from the dimness beyond the gate. An old woman in a dark robe set her hand to the latch.

  “It is late for travelers,” she began in a high, cracking voice. “This is the Lady’s shrine at Avalon, lord. Follow the road up yonder and you will come to King Melwas’s stronghold. He is away at the wars, but his cousin will provide shelter for you and your horse.”

  Galahad took hold of the gate as she tried to close it on him. None
of them yet knew Melwas was dead.

  “Madam, I have no wish to disturb you, but I come from King Arthur with a message for the Lady Niniane. It is urgent. I am instructed to give the message in person.”

  “From King Arthur?” She began to tremble, but whether from age or cold or shock, Galahad could not tell. “Have you proof?”

  Galahad dropped the dragon badge into her hand. “Give this to your priestess. I will wait out here for her answer.”

  The badge disappeared into the fastness of her robe as she swung the gate open and beckoned him inside. “No, no, we are not so inhospitable as that. Come in, young lord, and bring your horse. There is warmth and a dry place for both of you to wait while I take this token to the Lady. Come in, come in. Do not be shy. We welcome all comers, even Christians.”

  Half an hour in the porter’s lodge before a wood fire was enough to warm him, if not to dry him. At least he felt presentable by the time two pages came to escort him into the Lady’s presence. They were no more than young girls, robed in white, with slim bare feet in simple sandals. They neither spoke to him nor looked at him, but led him silently along ill-lit hallways until he stood at last before a small, curved door. One of them reached out and pulled the latch with a slender hand. As she stood back she peeked up at him. He saw wide, hazel eyes in a pretty face and heard her catch her breath as she dipped him a quick curtsy.

  “My lord may go in now,” she whispered, and then the two of them turned and disappeared, whispering and giggling, into the labyrinth of corridors.

  Galahad paused. He would have given everything he possessed to be back in Arthur’s camp, in the companionship of men, where he could think straight and where his body obeyed his will. When this last interview was over, he would ride up the Tor to the Christian monastery near the summit and beg for a sleeping space among the brothers. He would be safe there.

  Squaring his shoulders, he pushed the door open and strode into the room. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—a dais, perhaps, or a gilded chair, a priestess bedecked with ornaments and surrounded by acolytes—but what he saw surprised him. Two women worked at a trestle table, potting plants. The sleeves of their white robes were rolled up past their elbows, and their hands were filthy with dirt. At the end of the table sat a basket full of plump, green apples, and beside it, the dragon badge. Nearby, tall candles lit their work and shone upon their faces, absorbed and content. One woman was past thirty but still lovely, pale-skinned and dark-haired. The lines in her face respected her beauty, and spoke of purpose as well as of power. The younger woman was the first to look up and see him. She was thin to the point of frailty, with rich brown hair and large, warm brown eyes that dominated her other features. As he met her eyes Galahad felt a shock of recognition, although he knew well he had never seen her before. She sat perfectly still, staring at him, hardly breathing. He felt her fear clearly across the distance between them.

  “Yes, Morgaine, I know,” the older woman said softly, pushing the soil in place around the edges of a glazed clay pot. “The Harbinger is here. Give me a minute longer.”

  Without looking at him, she dipped her fingers into a water bowl and cleaned her hands upon a towel. Then she rose, and at last lifted her head to look at him.

  This was Niniane, Lady of the Lake. He recognized her from her visits to Camelot during his boyhood. Always close to the bishop’s side, he had learned only disdain for the pagan witch who was Arthur’s chief advisor. But he knew her face. He had not intended to kneel—he was Christian, after all—but he suddenly found himself with one knee on the floor.

  The faintest of smiles touched Niniane’s lips. “Prince Galahad of Lanascol, if I am not mistaken.”

  “I am he, Lady. I come from King Arthur, bearing a message. For you alone.”

  He had the impression of violent movement, but they were both perfectly still, the standing woman, the seated girl.

  “From Arthur.” She whispered it, then turned to her companion and motioned her to stand. Together they came around the worktable and stood before him.

  “Arise, Galahad. Be welcome. It’s a nasty night to be out riding. We will give you comfort here.”

  “Madam, I do not come here for comfort. My lord King bade me bring you an urgent message.”

  “Yes.” The word was clipped, and for a moment her face grew hard. Watching Niniane, Morgaine’s brow wrinkled in worry and again Galahad was struck by a sense of recognition. Morgaine turned to him. At once he felt a soothing touch upon his spirit, a sweet caress of love, of patience, of care. She held his gaze with a will stronger than his own. He could not look away.

  “He has been to see the Queen, and she has left her mark upon him.” He heard Niniane’s voice, amused. “Yes, Morgaine, go ahead. Give him peace.”

  The young woman approached him until she stood only inches away. Galahad’s temples pounded, his breath came short, but he was held frozen in place and could not back away. Gently, she reached out and touched his temples, then his chest, his stomach, and, very lightly, his thighs. He could not prevent her; he was bound by invisible bonds. At her cool touch the fever in his body slowly died, excitement and longing dissolving into gentle calm.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. She looked back at him and smiled. He knew that smile! Who was she?

  “This is Morgaine,” Niniane said, reading his thought, “daughter of Urien of Rheged and of Morgan, his queen.” Morgan—Arthur’s sister! This amazing young woman was Arthur’s niece. Galahad smiled in return. Those were Arthur’s eyes he recognized, and Arthur’s smile. He bowed to her.

  “Lady Morgaine. I am in your debt.”

  “Morgaine does not speak,” Niniane said. “But you will hear her voice with the ears of your spirit when she desires it. She is known as the Queen of Avalon for her healing hands.” An eyebrow lifted. “We do not get many callers. Few of them are male. Fewer still are Christian. Here we honor the Great Mother, who made men.”

  “I was sent,” he said quickly, “by King Arthur.”

  Sadness swept her features and again her face grew cold. “Your coming has been foretold. You are the Harbinger.”

  Neither woman looked at him but he could feel their fear across the space between them.

  “Harbinger of what?”

  “Of doom.” The words rang loud in the small, still room. “Time is turning. The low are made high and the mighty fall. Morgaine, you must be ready.”

  Trembling, Morgaine nodded.

  Niniane addressed Galahad. “When Arthur has no more need of me— when my time is past—she will be Lady of the Lake after me. She is a healer, as I am a giver of dreams. Her Sight is far-seeing and always true.” She paused, her lips pressed close together. “She will be the last.”

  “But the King does have need of you,” Galahad broke in, “he sends for you. He would see you as soon as you can come to him. It is urgent. He commands you.”

  A single tear formed slowly in her eye, spilled over the lid, and crept down her ivory cheek. “I will come to him,” she whispered. “On the plain of Camlann I will see him again.”

  Morgaine reached out and touched her arm. Niniane shook herself.

  “Your message is delivered, prince. I thank you for the pains you took to bring it. We would be pleased to offer you rest tonight in our guest pavilion.”

  “Thank you. I . . . I know it is an honor, but I will go on to the monastery farther up the Tor. This is not the place for such as me.”

  Niniane smiled charmingly. “And take your poor horse from his dry stall out into this weather? He will founder if you do.” Galahad paused, not sure whether this was warning or prophecy. “Besides,” she continued pleasantly, “through Morgaine, the Goddess has done you a kindness. You owe Her a night in Her house.” Although he intended to resist, Galahad found himself nodding in acquiesence. Niniane reached into the basket of apples and handed him one of the shining fruit. “Morgaine will guide you to your chamber. Sleep well, and dream a true dream.”

 
; The cell was small, but comfortably furnished and scrupulously clean. He fingered the soft wool blankets on the bed as Morgaine set the candle down. To sleep in a bed again, after months of soldiering! And a pillow stuffed with down! Through the narrow windows he smelled the rich scents of a land at peace: stacked salt hay from the marshes, new-cut grass, and the heavy sweetness of ripening fruit. Apples from the orchards of Avalon were prized throughout Britain. He looked down at the one he held his hand. What he longed for was a heel of bread with meat broth, but shied from mentioning it to Morgaine. It was well past midnight; the kitchens must be closed.

  Morgaine stirred and he looked up. Slowly, she reached out and placed her palm against his chest. Her eyes closed, and she began to lightly hum. She was a tiny thing, frail and fragile. A reed for the god’s voice. The words came to him from nowhere, out of the dark. Perhaps he had heard it said of Merlin long ago—he could not remember—the weight of his flesh grew heavy and he sank down upon the bed. His hunger died. He wished only to eat the apple and go to sleep.

  Morgaine took a clean towel from the bedstand and moistened it with sweet water from a carafe. Pushing his hair from his brow, she gently washed his face, and then his hands, even his fingers, one by one, with care and attention. All the while he watched her face. She was pretty in a delicate, elfin way but not remarkably so. She certainly had nothing of the kind of beauty Guinevere possessed, that set men afire and turned their wits. Hers was a peaceful loveliness that soothed his restless longings and filled him with contentment. Yet her power was real enough. Her presence commanded his attention; while she was there, he could not look away.

  When she finished her ministrations she retrieved the apple and handed it back to him.

  “Thank you, Lady Morgaine.” He smiled and she returned it, shyly. “Will the Lady Niniane send me a dream tonight?” Yes, young lord. He heard her voice, clear as a silver bell, in his thoughts. “Long ago, before I was even born, she made a prophecy about me. Can I . . . I mean, I would like to know more about it. Because I don’t understand. Anything at all.” She smiled again and turned to go. You will.