Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  To his surprise, she nodded. “I won’t tell a soul. But I can’t answer for my cousins.”

  “No matter. I won’t be here long.”

  “Where are you going?” He did not answer, but picked up the iron poker and stabbed at the fire. “I must thank you, Galahad. I owe you my life.”

  He shook his head. “I only did what anyone would have done. Give your thanks to God, not to me. He sent me across the ford.”

  “I have. And it is not true that anyone else would have done as much. You grieved. You did not even know him, and your grief was as deep as mine.”

  He said nothing, but stabbed again at the fire.

  “I wondered, but I did not like to ask, who it was you lost . . . forgive me. It is none of my concern. Only . . . I would give anything I possessed to help you as you helped me.”

  There was no curiosity in her voice, only warm concern. He shrugged roughly. “I am beyond help.”

  “Surely not,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “Gods are not deaf; nor are they weak. If you need help, ask.”

  “I . . . I can’t.”

  She nodded slowly. “Let me tell you what happened to my father when my mother died. He was out of his mind with grief. He could not eat. He could not sleep. He could get no peace from prayer, nor from his friends, his family, not even from his work. In his despair, he wished for death.”

  Galahad looked up. Her solemn eyes looked through him and spoke to his very soul.

  “He railed at the gods in his anger, and dared them to make him whole. He was full of bitterness, rage, and sorrow. He went from shrine to shrine, packing me along in his saddlepack, poor man. And then one day a she-wolf came into our camp, lifted me from my blanket, and started to carry me away. Father killed the beast and saved me, and from that moment on, put his grief behind him. It was the beginning of our devotion to each other.” She smiled tentatively and withdrew her hand from his arm. “It is a matter of focus, you see. Finding the true center of your heart.”

  Galahad bent his head. “The center of my heart is beyond my reach.”

  Lynet pointed to the copper cross on the wall. “Perhaps you need a longer arm.”

  In the dying light of the fire the cross glowed red and gold against the wattle wall. Red and gold. Arthur’s colors. From a great distance Galahad heard her say, “It’s a long ride, but Christians always claim that the monastery at Amesbury is the best place to go for peace of mind.”

  She rose and with a soft “Good night” left Galahad alone in the fireshot dark.

  PART II

  The Once and Future King

  In the eleventh year of the reign of Constantine

  51

  AMESBURY

  Two children sat by the well in the midday sun. The elder, a girl of twelve or thirteen, splashed cool water from the bucket onto her face and hands. The boy, her cousin, a lad of six, bent over his sandal straps, attempting to repair what had already been repaired three times before.

  “Never mind,” the girl said kindly. “Have some water. It’s so deliciously cool!”

  The boy sprang to his feet and grabbed his wooden sword, lovingly carved from a pine bough, complete with hilt and sharpened point. “How dare you address me so, maiden! My name is Galahad! The greatest knight in all the world! Take that! And that!” He danced around her, thrusting and feinting, accompanying his attack with such grunts and exclamations, and raising such a dust cloud, that the girl fell to laughing and then coughing.

  “Enough!” she cried, waving her hand before her face. “Enough. Good sir, I yield! Bless me, Tristan, I wish I knew where you get your energy. It’s hot enough to fire clay in the open air.”

  “That’s weak woman’s talk,” he retorted, sheathing his weapon in the rope sling that hung from his waist.

  But the girl only smiled. “I’ll box your ears; then we’ll see how weak you think me! Are you going to help me with these buckets or not?”

  “I’ll have a drink first.” He reached for the horn cup in its niche in the lip of the well and dipped it in the bucket, draining it all in one gulp. As he lowered the cup he happened to glance down the dusty road.

  A lone knight on a black horse road slowly toward them. With each weary step of the horse’s hooves small white puffs of dust sprang up, spread, and slowly dissolved in the shimmering air, until the whole figure, man and horse, floated like an apparition above the road.

  The boy rubbed his eyes and stared. “Look, Ayn.”

  She turned. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. A stranger.”

  “A Saxon?” she cried, grabbing his hand.

  But the boy shook his head. “Not a Saxon.”

  “A pilgrim, then?”

  “He doesn’t look much like a pilgrim.”

  The girl pulled at his hand. “Come on, let’s not wait to find out. It’s a hot day; he’s probably stopping here.”

  Stubbornly, the boy stood his ground. “I want to see him.”

  “We’ll run to the woods and watch from there. If he’s a stranger, he won’t know the woodland paths; we’ll be safe.”

  But the boy shook his head obstinately. “You go. But I want to stay.”

  Ayn dropped his hand. “You know I daren’t leave you. Mother would have my hide! Are all Cornishmen so stubborn? You know I’m not to let you out of my sight while you’re visiting us. I swear to God, Tristan, if you get us in trouble I’ll kill you with my own hands.”

  He looked up at her calmly. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

  “With what?” She snorted. “Your sword?”

  But he had turned all his attention back to the approaching knight. The horse was not so old as he had thought, but it was tired, plodding with head down and neck outstretched, the reins slack across the withers. The knight himself sat straight, eyes half-closed against the glare of the long, white road. The boy’s eyes widened. He rode bareback!

  “Ayn,” he whispered, “look who it is!”

  Horse and man saw the children, and stopped. The stallion’s head lifted and his nostrils flared as he scented water. The knight slipped lightly from his back and came forward. Ayn retreated to the edge of the well. He had black hair, sleek in the sun, and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  “May a stranger and his horse drink from your well?” the knight asked gruffly.

  “It’s not our well,” the girl quavered. “It belongs to all of Amesbury.”

  “We’d be honored,” the boy spoke at the same time as the girl, and they glared at each other.

  “Thank you.” The knight lifted their bucket and set it before the horse. With an audible sigh, the stallion buried his muzzle in the cool liquid and great gulps slid up his throat in a steady rhythm. When at last he raised his head and blew gently, the knight lifted the second bucket and emptied it over the animal’s steaming back. Within seconds they were all sprayed as the horse shook joyously. The children laughed, the knight smiled, and Ayn caught her breath at the dazzling beauty of his countenance.

  “No,” the knight commanded sharply as the horse began to bend his knees. “No rolling.” Obediently, the animal straightened and, moving off toward the trees, lowered his head to graze. The stranger lowered the empty buckets into the well and brought them up refilled. “With your permission,” he murmured, nodding toward Ayn, and stripped off his dusty tunic. He bathed quickly in the cold water, pouring it over his chest and his shoulders. He was brown from the sun, his skin smooth and unblemished. His arms were long and well shaped, his chest and back hard with muscle, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow. Something within the girl she hardly guessed existed awakened and stirred. He soaked his tunic and wrung it out. By chance, his eyes met hers.

  “My lord.” Flushed, breathless, she dipped him a curtsy.

  The knight regarded her wearily and with a small sigh pulled on his wet tunic. He refilled the bucket once again, and bowed low. “Many thanks.”

  “Wait!” cried the boy, who all the while h
ad been staring at the hilt of the slender sword in its ancient scabbard. “Here, my lord, you have forgotten to take a drink yourself!” He lifted up his own horn cup. For a moment the knight stood immobile; then he took the cup, filled it, and drained it.

  “Thank you, son. May I know your name?”

  “Tristan of Lyonesse,” the boy said proudly. “I’m a king’s son, and the grandson of a king. Like you, my lord.”

  The blue eyes flickered and the knight’s lips twisted as he handed back the cup. “Don’t put your faith in lineage or ambition. Nor in dreams.” He turned and whistled for the horse, who came trotting. “Put your faith in the strength of your sword arm and in God. All else is mockery.” He leaped upon the horse and gathered the reins in his hand. “God keep you, Tristan. Which way to the Christian monastery?”

  “Straight ahead down the road, my lord.”

  He nodded to the boy, sketched a salute to the girl, and headed off. They watched him out of sight; then Ayn stamped her foot hard in the dust. “He did not ask to know my name!”

  “You offended him.”

  “I did nothing to offend him! You saw me—what did I do? No, he is just ill brought up, however noble.”

  Tristan stared at her. “Don’t you know who that was?”

  “I know he was ill-mannered.” Ayn sniffed, plucking at her skirt.

  “That was Sir Galahad!” Tristan cried.

  Ayn shrugged defensively. “I don’t care who he was; he has no manners.”

  “Sir Galahad is the bravest knight in all of Britain.”

  “Just how do you know it was Sir Galahad? He wasn’t wearing a white badge with a red cross. He wasn’t wearing any badge at all.”

  “Didn’t you see his sword? The rubies on the hilt? That’s the red cross of his badge. It’s the most fearsome sword in all of Britain. And I stood this close to it!”

  “Well, if it was Sir Galahad,” Ayn persisted, “why is he here? There’s no grail here. Who’s he come to see? He’s hardly welcome anywhere anymore. Your grandfather Constantine calls him traitor, the men of the north laugh at him behind his back, and the King of Gwynedd wants his blood. Perhaps he means to hide out in the monastery and become a lay brother.”

  Young Tristan was scandalized. “Him? Hide out in a monastery? Not a knight like that. He’s going to find the Grail.”

  Ayn squared her shoulders and lifted the water buckets. “He looked tired to me. Maybe he’s given up. After all, he’s been searching for years and he’s never found anything.”

  Tristan turned his back on her. He stared down the road where a shimmering of dust still floated in the air. “Maybe,” he said, “he’s looking in the wrong places.”

  Abbott Martin took his evening stroll after vespers, leaning on the arm of his companion. The heat of the day had died with the lowering sun and he found it cool and pleasant to walk among the willows by the stream’s edge. The Great Plain lay at his left hand, and the neat, tilled plots of the monastery at his right. Several of the brothers had gone back to work in the gardens, eager to make use of the long light of summer evenings.

  “Tell me, Brother Marrovic,” mused the abbott, “tell me what you think of our new lay brother, the man who wishes to be known as Joseph.”

  The young monk looked up quickly. He could read nothing in the abbott’s face but his customary detachment. “He’s a warrior, Father. Not a man of peace. He won’t stay long.”

  “No? Does he make trouble? Come, give me your opinion.”

  “In one way, I wish we had more like him. He is the most industrious man I have ever seen. He has rebuilt the benches in the refectory and patched the stable roof. He helped Brother Dynas plow two new plots, and has repaired the footbridge that was partly washed away in the spring floods. With Brother Timon he has relaid the flooring in the chapel, and by himself has whitewashed all the eastern cells.”

  “All that,” the abbott murmured gently, “all that in two weeks’ time.”

  “He’s strong as a horse and there’s nothing he won’t do. Why, Brother Howyll even caught him scouring the cooking pots, which was supposed to be Jacob’s penance. Er—perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

  But the abbott only raised his brows. “Indeed?” He stopped, turning to watch the setting sun throw long fingers of color against the whitewashed walls. “Joseph’s industry is plain. He drives himself but finds no relief in it. Why do you suppose that is?”

  Marrovic shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know him well, Father. Nobody does. He holds himself apart. But he’s a fighter and he’s quick. The threat of violence is always there in his responses. He’s not the kind of man you can jest with. As far as I can see he works and suffers and suffers and works. As if he has a debt to pay.”

  The abbott looked at him sharply. “That’s perceptive of you, Marro.”

  “Why is he here, Father? And what makes you think ‘Joseph’ is not his name?”

  The abbott paused. The rose-washed walls darkened slowly to lavender. The monks rose from their gardens, wiping their hands and chatting together. In a pear tree a nightingale took up its song. “He doesn’t answer to it, you know, not at once. He’s only had it a fortnight. It’s still new to him.”

  “But why travel incognito? Is he a fugitive? An enemy of the King?”

  The abbott shook his head. “I doubt it’s anything so simple. He is in torment, not hiding.”

  They walked slowly back together in the thickening dusk. The abbott stopped to admire the evening star, clear and brilliant in the western sky, riding low over the courtyard where the women’s quarters lay.

  “Perhaps he has come to work it off,” Marrovic suggested, “whatever it is. We’ve seen that often enough.”

  “It can’t be worked off,” replied the abbott sadly, “which he must surely know by now. He spends more time on his knees than any man in Amesbury, but his prayers avail him nothing. Dreams disturb his sleep. The demon in him has got his soul.” He looked at the star again, and suddenly drew breath in surprise.

  “Yes, Father? What is it?”

  “God has whispered in my ear. I wonder . . . yes, I dare say it cannot hurt. Tomorrow, Marrovic, bring Joseph to me after prime. I think I will take him to visit the Good Sister.”

  “The Good Sister! But she sees no one.”

  Abbott Martin smiled. “She will see him, I think, if he is who I think he is.”

  Marrovic stared at him “You know who Joseph is?”

  “I have a suspicion.”

  “Who?”

  But the abbott shook his head. “Give it five minutes’ steady thought and you will discover it yourself. But as it is not my secret, I may not share it.”

  “But the Good Sister is dying.”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  “Why send this stranger to her? What good can come of it?”

  The abbott glanced up again at the evening star. “Two souls in such dire need may perhaps help each other.” He smiled down at Marrovic. “I see you have your doubts. Well, Marro, so do I. Nothing may come of it. But this I know—God moves in ways mysterious to men.”

  Galahad demurred at the abbott’s suggestion.

  “A woman? But why? If she has lived here for years she can have no need of me. And I . . . I certainly have no need to speak with her. Please, Father, set me whatever task you will and I will do it. But I am not fit to see this holy woman.” He spoke rapidly, nervously, as he walked at the abbott’s side, slowing his steps to match the pace of the older man. “Surely there are other things I can do to serve you better.”

  “You have done much to serve us, Joseph,” the abbott replied calmly. “It would be ungrateful of me not to do you a service in return.”

  “Then let me pray alone in the chapel, or seek solitude in one of your cells. It is all I ask.”

  “But nothing comes of your prayers, Joseph,” said the quiet voice. Galahad looked at him sharply, but the old man’s hood fell forward across his face and he could see nothing in it
s shadow. “God will not speak to you in the chapel, or in the solitude of a cell. But I think God may wish to speak to you through this woman.” He spoke with authority, and Galahad did not answer, but stared miserably at the paving stones. “You would do me a service to see her, Joseph. This woman is dear to us, and is dying. Visit her for ten days, and after that you may do what you will.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  They advanced slowly toward the women’s quarters. The cells they passed were small and bare, but scrupulously clean, with swept dirt floors and a few pieces of simple furniture. Wreaths of fresh herbs hung on the walls to sweeten the air, and through the uncurtained windows the warm breeze brought the scent of summer flowers.

  “I will tell you something about the Good Sister. She is a widow without family who came to us many years ago for protection when her husband died. She never left. She has touched the life of everyone here and made it better. She taught most of our younger men to read and is more beloved among the women than the abbess herself. And I have found, over the years, that she has a great gift, though she knows it not. Very often God will speak through her mouth.”

  “Why is she not the abbess, then?”

  “Oh, she has not taken orders. She is a lay visitor.” The abbott smiled gently. “She is a worldly woman, Joseph, who has dealt with kings and princes. However much she may enjoy the peace of our small community, she knows she is not called to join us. She still mourns the death of her husband. It is a fetter which binds her to this world.”

  “She is highborn? Where does she come from? What is her name?”

  “When she came to us, consumed by bitterness, pain, and grief, she put her old life behind her and began anew. She put away her name and her kin. We call her the Good Sister.”

  “Surely, Father Martin, you must know who she is.”

  The abbott stopped and turned toward him. “I do,” he said gently. “But I think you can understand, Joseph, why some who stop among us might wish to remain anonymous.” Galahad flushed and looked away. “We respect that wish,” the abbott said calmly, resuming his slow progress. “Now God lays His hand upon her and calls her home. She has waited patiently for this, yet I worry that she is not yet ready to go. There is something unfinished, something left undone that she feels she must do, but is powerless to accomplish by herself. I do not know what it is. It is my hope, Joseph, that you may discover it, and do it for her, and let her die in peace.”