Grail pc-5

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Many reached out their hands to me, crying for help, for release, but I could do nothing for them.

  I knew the plague had worsened in the south; I had heard the bleak tidings like everyone else, but had no idea it was this bad. If it did not end soon, I reckoned, there would be no one left in Londinium to even bury the victims, let alone care for them. Oppression hung over the camp like the nasty smoke from the smutty little fires that had been lit here and there to burn the plague sufferers' clothing. This served to heighten the feeling of gloom and foreboding and misery into a sensation so palpable that I could almost see Death hovering over the camp, black wings outspread, gliding slow.

  I also saw scores of monks at work among the plague victims, for the church had shouldered the burden of caring for the diseased and dying. These stalwart clerics carried water to the fevered and warm cloaks to the shivering; they prayed with the distressed and comforted the dying. And though they strove valiantly against an insidiously powerful adversary, their struggle was in vain. There were far too few of them to sway the course of battle. The cause, so far as I could see, was lost – yet they fought on.

  The good brothers had used the rubble stone of the fallen wall behind them to erect hundreds of small enclosures over which cloth and skins were placed to form hovels in which the more curable of the sick might lie. Need had far outstripped the monks' kindly provision, however, and they had begun laying the plague-struck toe-to-toe, rank upon rank in endless rows beneath the crumbling wall. Meanwhile, the busy brothers hastened among the sprawled bodies on urgent errands.

  I caught one brown-robed cleric and asked of him where I might find Brother Paulus. The monk pointed to a tent beside the wall, not far from the gate, and I made directly for the place. Once, when stepping over a body of one I thought a corpse, I felt a hand reach out and snatch hold of my foot. A pitiful voice cried, 'Please!'

  Revulsion swept over me. I jerked my foot free.

  'Please…' the wretch moaned again. 'I thirst… I thirst.'

  Ashamed of my harsh reaction, I glanced around to see where I might find some water to give the poor fellow, and saw a monk carrying two flasks. I ran to the brother, told him I had need of the jar, and returned to the man on the ground, then knelt beside him, put my hand beneath his head, and raised him up a little to drink. His hair was wet and his skin damp and cold; his rheumy eyes fluttered in his head when I put the jar to his lips. I watched in horror as a black tongue darted out to lap at the water.

  'Bless you,' he whispered, his breath sighing out between his teeth.

  'Drink,' I urged. 'Take a little more.'

  It was only after entreating him a second time that I realized I was clutching a corpse. I put aside the jar, lowered his head to the ground, and stood, wiping my hands on the ground. Hardening my heart, I walked on, ignoring the pleas of those I passed. God help me, I walked on, lest through their defiling touch I should become like them.

  What if Arthur is right, I thought, and the most Holy Grail can end this suffering? What if it could bring about the miracle Arthur believes? Then he must try. Anyone with half a heart would try. Indeed, the king would have to be either a coldhearted fiend or insane not to attempt anything that held out even the slightest hope for healing his people. Certainly, a king of Arthur's stamp must do everything in his power to bring this healing about.

  These things I thought, and began, at last, to understand Arthur's obsession with the shrine. I regretted my doubt and mistrust, and repented of my disbelief. Who was I, an ignorant warrior, to question the things of God? Thus, as I walked along, I found myself praying: Great Light, let Arthur be right. Hasten the completion of the shrine, and let the Grail do its work. Let the Grail do its saving work, Merciful Lord, and let the healing begin.

  I reached the tent and ducked gratefully inside, where I found Paulus hunched over a low table, pouring his healing potion from a large jar into smaller vessels for distribution to the afflicted. 'Brother Paulus,' I said, and he looked up, recognized me, and smiled. It was the tired, forlorn smile of an exhausted man. His hair was lank and his eyes were sunken; his flesh had the wan, pallid look of a person too long confined.

  'God be praised, it is Gwalchavad!' he said, genuinely pleased to see me. 'Greetings!' He took two steps towards me, then caught himself. 'You should not be here,' he warned. 'Tell me quickly what you have to say, and then leave.'

  Taking him at his word, I said, 'Greetings, Paulus. I bring supplies and provisions from your fellow monks. I also bring word that Lady Chads is required at the Tor. The Pendragon has sent me to fetch her. If you will tell me where she may be found, trust that we will depart as soon as the horses are unburdened.'

  That would be best,' the haggard monk agreed, replacing the jar and drawing his sleeve across his damp forehead. 'Come, I will show you.'

  'Please, I would not disturb you. Just tell me where she is, and I will find her myself.'

  The dutiful monk waved aside my offer. 'It will be quicker to show you,' he insisted.

  He led me out along the wall, passing the burning refuse heap on the way – where I saw to my horror that it was in fact an immense pit which had been dug in the earth, filled with logs, and set alight to burn the dead. By twos and threes the corpses were thrown onto the sputtering heap. The smoke stank and the corpses sizzled. Down in the lower depths of the pit, black, grinning skulls nestled among the red embers. I turned my face, held my breath, and hurried by.

  'I am sorry,' Paulus said, calling over his shoulder; 'we have no other choice. The plague is far worse in the city, where people live close together – that makes it more virulent, I think.'

  'Everything is worse in the city,' I concurred, then inhaled some of the stinking smoke and was overcome by a fit of coughing.

  Paulus led me past the pit and along the wall to another section of the camp and still more hovels and still more bodies lying on the ground. But here, at least, robed monks passed among the plague-struck bearing jars of healing elixir. 'Not all die,' Paulus told me. 'Many of these may yet recover. Those who have that chance are brought here, where we can care for them.'

  Just then a figure emerged from a nearby hovel, moved to one of the victims on the ground. I saw that it was Chads, Lady of the Lake, her fair hair bound in a length of cloth and wound around her head, her tall, elegant form clothed in a simple coarse robe such as the monks around her wore. Kneeling beside the sufferer – a young woman with waxy yellow skin -she placed her hand gently on the young woman's forehead. The stricken woman came awake at the touch and, seeing the one who attended her, smiled. Despite the agony of her distress, she smiled at Chads and I saw the killing plague retreat, if only for a moment.

  Charis offered her charge a few words of comfort, at which the young woman closed her eyes and rested again, but more comfortably, I think, for her features appeared serene as Charis rose and continued on her way. Paulus made to call Charis, but I stopped him, saying, 'Please, no. I will go to her.'

  I watched for a while as Charis moved among the stricken and suffering, here stooping to touch, there stopping to offer a word. Like the monks, she carried a jar of the elixir, which she gave out, pouring a few precious drops of Paulus' healing draught into the victims' bowls and cups, then helping the sufferer to drink. Wherever she went, I imagined peace and solace followed – a healing presence, like a light, clearer and finer than sunlight, which soothed and calmed, easing the pains of disease and death.

  Upon reaching the last of her charges, Charis stood, smoothed her robe, turned, and looked back along the ranks of victims. She closed her eyes and stood there for a moment, head bowed, lips moving slightly. Then she opened her eyes and, glancing up, saw me and smiled in greeting. In that smile she became the Fair Folk queen I remembered. Oh, they are a handsome race, there is no doubt. I saw the light come up in her eyes, and the breath caught in my throat.

  I watched as she approached, feeling both humble and proud to be accounted worthy to converse with such nobility. 'Yo
u have come from Arthur, I think,' she said upon joining us.

  'I give you good greeting, Lady Chads,' I replied, inclining my head in respect. 'The Pendragon has indeed sent me to find you.'

  'Have you come to help us?' she inquired with a smile. 'Or brought supplies, perhaps?'

  'Bishop Elfodd has sent a fair store of provisions, but I have come to escort you back to Ynys Avallach.'

  'I see.' The smile faded instantly, and I watched as grey fatigue repossessed her features.

  'Forgive me,' I said, and explained about the Grail Shrine and Arthur's concern to have it consecrated at the Christ Mass observance. I must have told it poorly, for a frown appeared, grew, and darkened, like a shadow of apprehension, as she listened.

  'So,' she said with crisp indignation when I had finished, 'Arthur deems the building of this shrine more important than the saving of lives. What of my son – does Merlin encourage this enterprise?'

  'Lady,' I said, 'it is the king's hope that the consecration of the Grail Shrine will drive both disease and war from our land forever. Arthur believes it will be the saving of us. Myrddin, as ever, aids his king.'

  Charis regarded me with a keen eye. 'You avoid my question. I wonder why.'

  'Forgive me, Lady Charis, but the Wise Emrys does not often vouchsafe his confidences to me.'

  'But you have eyes, do you not? You have a mind to question what you see. Do you think this Grail Shrine will end plague and war?' she demanded. 'Do you believe it will be the saving of Britain?'

  My mind whirled, searching for a suitable reply. 'I believe,' I answered slowly, 'that the Swift Sure Hand is upon our king to accomplish many things. Who am I to say whether the Good God should bless Arthur's efforts?'

  Charis relented. 'You are right, of course. My question was unkind. I am sorry, Gwalchavad.' She smiled again, and again I saw fatigue in her clear eyes; like Paulus, she was on the knife-edge of exhaustion. She glanced along the long row of hovels and shook her head. 'You see how it is here. I cannot leave.' She spoke softly, as if to herself. Then, turning to me, she said, 'At the risk of incurring the king's displeasure, I fear you must tell Arthur that I cannot attend the ceremony. I am needed here.'

  Paulus stepped forward and laid his hand on her arm. 'You have been summoned by the High King; you must go.' His tone became quietly insistent. 'Go now, and return to us when you have rested.'

  'I have brought a horse for you,' I told her, glad to have the monk's approval. I had seen enough of pestilence and death and was anxious to get away. 'If you are willing, we could leave at once.'

  Charis hesitated. 'Go,' Paulus urged. 'Gwalchavad is right. Arthur's new shrine may be just as important in this battle as your presence here. He would not have summoned you otherwise.'

  'Very well,' Charis decided. To me she said, 'Tend to the horses. It is best for you not to linger. I will join you as soon as I am ready.'

  I thanked Paulus and asked him where he would like the supplies to be stored. 'Just leave them,' he advised. 'That would be best. We can collect them when you have gone.'

  I hastened to the horses, removing myself from the hateful camp as swiftly as possible. I carefully stacked all the bundles and casks in a neat pile, and sat down to wait. In a little while, Charis joined me, and without a backward glance we were riding for Ynys Avallach. Earlier, I had marked a stream – one of the few I encountered that had not yet dried up completely -and stopped there for the night. I was heartily glad to have left the plague behind, though it was not until I had washed myself head to sole that I felt hale again.

  While I kept watch, my companion slept soundly and well -grateful, I reckon, for a respite from her unendurable duties -and the next morning we journeyed on. The return took a little more time than the outward journey, for I chose another trail, which kept us well away from the forest. Having braved the unseen watcher once, I saw no need to do so again; besides, I thought it a reproach to tax the Heavenly Host with my protection when I could so easily avoid trouble in the first place.

  Thus, we skirted the forest and arrived at the Tor by another way, passing within sight of the Grail Shrine. Though I had been away only a handful of days, I found the site altered beyond recognition.

  Gone were the wagons and the heaps of rock-broken stone; gone, too, the ropes and lumber and ranks of workers swarming over a half-finished building. In place of all the clutter and activity stood a silent, graceful structure of whitewashed stone, glistening in the dawn light. Elegant in its simplicity – the Master Gall had done his work well – the shrine appeared to shimmer with an inner radiance. The drought heat had long since blasted the surrounding grass to thin, withered wisps of palest yellow, so that the whole place, with hill and shrine included, glowed in the early morning with the lustre and radiance of gold.

  We stopped to marvel at the glorious sight. In all, it was a fitting house for the Christ's Holy Cup. What is more, for the first time since I had heard Arthur's plan, I thought he was right. It is magnificent, I thought; truly, it betokens a new and glorious reign of peace and well-being.

  Upon our arrival at the Tor, we were greeted by Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, who appeared in the yard as we dismounted. Gwenhwyvar and Charis embraced one another warmly, and Arthur stood by, beaming his good pleasure. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the elusive Avallach standing beside a pillar, arms crossed over his chest. Since coming to the Tor, I had rarely seen him – most often in the long evening when he was fishing with Bedwyr or Myrddin – and then only from a distance.

  I knew that the Fisher King suffered from an incurable malady which often kept him confined to his quarters. I assumed that was why we had not seen much of him since our arrival. Thus, I was surprised to see him standing in the shadows nearby. He stood for a moment, gazing at the tight group before him, then stepped out to join it.

  'Chads!' he said, throwing his arms wide for his daughter. His voice boomed like friendly thunder, and he hugged his daughter and told her how much he had missed her. 'You are the sun of my happiness,' he said, 'and now it is summer again.'

  'Have you seen the shrine?' asked Arthur, unable to rein in his curiosity any longer.

  'I have indeed,' replied Lady Charis, and pronounced the shrine the work of a master who both knew and respected the object to be protected within.

  'It is that,' affirmed the Fisher King – somewhat reluctantly, I thought.

  'Arthur,' Charis said, 'are you certain this is the way?' She gripped Arthur by the arm as if to hold him to account.

  'As certain as the sun and stars,' the Pendragon replied, his gaze as steady as his unwavering grip. 'The Summer Kingdom is here. We stand at the threshold of an age the like of which has never been seen since the beginning of our race. The nations will look up in wonder when they hear what we have done. The blessing begins here, and it will flow throughout all Britain and to the ends of the earth. People of lands far distant from these will come to witness the miracle. Britain will be foremost among the nations, and our people will be exalted."

  Avallach nodded, resignation heavy in his eyes. Arthur reached out and squeezed the Fisher King's arm. 'We are so close, my friend. So very close. Have faith, and watch what God will do!'

  Arthur spoke with such passion and assurance that it would have been a dead heart indeed not to beat more quickly at his words. His zeal was a flame, burning away the straw of opposition. Who could stand against the Pendragon when heart and will and mind were united in the pursuit of so lofty a purpose?

  Who, indeed?

  As we were yet talking, others of Arthur's court came to greet Avallach and welcome the Lady of the Lake: Cai and Bedwyr first, then Cador and Rhys. I looked for Llenlleawg but did not see him, and it was not until we were all gathered in the hall for our supper that the Irishman emerged from hiding.

  The hall was prepared for the Lady of the Lake's return, and Avallach had already called for his guests to be seated and we were making way to our places – some of us more slowly as we hailed this one
or another. Myrddin and Charis arrived and were talking quietly just inside the doorway while others entered the hall.

  It was then I saw Llenlleawg appear in the doorway, Morgaws at his side. The two stepped into the hall and moved towards their places at one of the nearer boards. As I was slowly making my way to the board myself, I had opportunity to mark their entrance and observe what followed.

  See, now: the Emrys, his head low and a little forward, is speaking earnestly to his mother, who listens intently. She senses a movement beside her, however, and glances to the side to see Llenlleawg pass by. She recognizes him, of course, for I see it in her eyes as her lips begin a smile – a smile that instantly freezes when she also takes in the sight of Morgaws.

  It is only the merest glance, but the queerest thing happens: as if acutely mindful of Charis' attention, the young woman turns her head; their eyes meet. Morgaws falters, her foot catching in mid-step. She lurches sideways as if struck by a spear hurled from across the hall. She stumbles, her features twisted in pain, or rage, and I fear she will fall. But Llenlleawg's hand is at her elbow; he steadies her arm and bears her up. Incredibly, Morgaws recovers both balance and aplomb in her stride; the moment passes in a twinkling, and I, the only one to have seen it, am left to wonder at what I have witnessed.

  The two latecomers turn away and lose themselves in the convivial mingling at the board. I look once more to where Myrddin and Charis stand. The Emrys is still speaking, but his mother is no longer listening. Instead, she stares at the place where Morgaws and Llenlleawg appeared, her expression one of horror, the colour drained from her face. Strange to say, but I am put in mind of the first time Peredur laid eyes on the woman when we found her in the wood – his expression combined the same shock and terror at her appearance.