Then he rose and their eyes met. "Merciful Lord," Launcelot whispered.
Galahad was the very image of Elaine, the woman he had loved with his body while his heart had longed for the Queen. The eyes were Elaine's, serene, almost saintly eyes that had wept with gratitude when Launcelot prevented her husband from beating her to death. Eyes that shone with love for him whenever he came to her, filled to bursting with guilty passion for another woman. Eyes that he often suspected had known the truth without being told.
She had never accused him, never shown him anything but courtesy and kindness. When he came to her house without warning, Elaine had always greeted him as if she had been expecting him all day. And when he left again, after using her for an hour, she would say good-bye with a smile, never asking when he would come again. Even when he forsook her forever without a word, she had offered no recriminations—no letters, no gossip designed to reach his ears.
He saw her once again, several years after the incident with Sir Naw. She was picking wildflowers in a field with a small boy by her side. Her hair was bound by a kerchief, and she wore a long white apron that billowed like a sail in the summer breeze. She had looked beautiful.
Launcelot had hoped to ride past without being recognized, but the boy shouted, "Look, a knight!" and began to run toward him. Feeling like a thief who'd been caught, Launcelot halted his horse and waited for the terrible moment when he would have to speak with her, but Elaine called the child back with a word. Then she smiled at the lover who had betrayed her with such callousness and waved to him in farewell.
That was the image he had kept of Elaine from that day: a woman surrounded by flowers, waving farewell.
Of course she had not told him about the boy—this boy, now grown into a man and standing before him in the armor of a knight. Launcelot had never given the child in the field a second thought, but he knew now. Galahad's face was Elaine's, but his coloring and height were Launcelot's own.
"What is your surname?" he asked thickly.
"Parsifal," the young man answered. "Though my father died before I knew him."
"And your mother?"
"She died, too, Sire. Last year."
Launcelot lowered his head in shame and regret. "I am sorry to hear it. She was a fine lady whom I had the honor of knowing."
Galahad's eyes shone. "Yes, Sire. She told me that once you chanced upon our lands, and slew a wicked man who was about to kill us."
"A wicked man," he murmured. But not so wicked as myself.
"And once again we saw you, riding past a fallow field. I was not yet seven years old, and had never before seen a real knight. My mother told me that you were Launcelot of the Round Table, and beloved by God." He blushed crimson. "It has been my prayer ever since to serve the King by your side."
Launcelot tried to speak, but could not. At last he cleared his throat and rose slowly to his feet. "And so you shall, young Galahad of Parsifal. Take the seat that none except he whom the hand of God shall place there may occupy."
The other knights got to their feet as well, drawing their swords from their scabbards.
"By the grace of God," Kay said, holding his sword over the table.
The others touched the tip of his weapon with their own. "By the grace of God."
At the precise moment when Galahad sat in the long-unoccupied chair, a ray of sunlight appeared through the narrow window and beamed directly onto the young man. In the glare of the sudden light, the dust motes in the room seemed to swirl around him like moondust. A horn sounded—a call to some courtiers' hunt, no doubt, but for Launcelot, filled with memories of lost chances and broken dreams, it was the trumpet call of heaven itself. It heralded a new hope—not for himself, for his time was past, but for the world.
"Sir Galahad," he said.
"Sir Galahad!" the others shouted in approval.
Tears streamed down the young man's face. The mission of his life had begun, and though he did not yet know what that mission was, he would serve it to the end of his days.
I was once the queen's champion, but he will be the King's, Launcelot thought with pride. God be with you, my son.
The queen left the next day. It was done without ceremony: Guenevere came out of the castle dressed in a plain black gown, like a widow. A serving woman walked behind her carrying a satchel in which a few of the queen's personal things had been packed. The woman was weeping; after the satchel was given to the equerry, Guenevere kissed her upon both cheeks, then ordered her back inside.
Two members of the King's Guard served as her escort. Launcelot had chosen himself as one, and Galahad as the other. Neither spoke as the queen mounted her horse.
She looked around, allowing her eyes to explore Camelot for the last time. The window in the King's solar was empty.
Did he ever say good-bye to her? Launcelot wondered. Or had the King simply pretended, as he himself had pretended with Elaine, that the woman who loved him no longer existed?
Guenevere's face was drawn, her eyes huge beneath the feathery brows. Launcelot had not noticed until then how thin she had grown, how fragile her alabaster beauty.
"Well, then," she said with a smile, "I suppose we had better be going."
With a nod, Launcelot led them out of the courtyard at a walk. When Camelot was a mile behind them, spread out over the hills it occupied like some fairy kingdom, she looked back.
"It feels strange to leave one's home," she said. "I've only done it once before, and that was..." She looked down at her hands.
That was to marry Arthur Pendragon, Launcelot thought. Arthur, who had pulled the magical sword from the stone to bring peace to all the world.
Dreams died the hardest death of all.
"I imagine this will be rather like a grand adventure for me. A little frightening, but... interesting." Her voice faded away.
"Yes, my lady," Launcelot said.
As they approached the convent, Launcelot felt an overwhelming impulse to grab the reins of her horse and gallop with her back to Brittany. He still had lands there; he could see that she lived in comfort for the rest of her life. It would be a place of gaiety, with parties and music and beautiful gardens blooming under Brittany's warm sun. Yes, it was possible! They would...
He actually reached for the reins, heedless of what would inevitably happen—the King's Guard coming to claim her, the necessity to fight and perhaps kill his sworn brothers of the Round Table before his own certain death, and perhaps Guenevere's as well.
He reached for the reins, but the queen stopped him.
She put her small hand over his while she looked into his eyes as if he had spoken his reckless plan aloud. They said nothing; they did not have to. All of their unwritten history was revealed in that silent moment between them.
She loved me, too. The revelation struck him like the blow from a mace. All those years…
Then she released his hand and rode on, ahead of her knights, through the wide abbey gate.
"I'm glad you converted me to Christianity," Guenevere said lightly as he helped her to dismount. "Otherwise, I should be quite an oddity in this place."
Overcome by emotion, he went down on one knee before her. "My lady..." he rasped, but could say nothing more.
She stood perfectly still. When he looked up, he saw that her eyes had welled with tears.
"Good-bye, my champion," she whispered. Her voice quavered for the briefest moment before she brought it under control. "I shall miss you."
She was gone.
The abbess had come out to greet her, and a stableboy had taken her horse, and she had walked through a heavy oak door. And then the door had closed.
Launcelot sat mounted on his horse for a long time, watching the door close again and again in his mind. Galahad sat with him in silence, though the sky clouded over and a strong October wind had begun to blow piles of dry leaves against the convent's outer walls. By the time Launcelot finally wheeled his stallion around, the first drops of rain were falling.
/> "A storm’s coming, and I think it's going to be a bad one," Galahad shouted.
Launcelot looked into the wind, toward the northern hills. Beyond those hills were the ruined cities of the Romans, squalid ratholes inhabited by bandits who waited by the tumbled remains of roads for travelers whose throats they would cut for a piece of stale bread and spoiled meat. Past them lay the wide plain of Salisbury, where the druids' monument, Stonehenge, still stood, and the ghosts of their dead gods wailed for revenge. Above that were the lands of Rheged. Lot's men would enjoy catching the likes of Launcelot du Lac, he'd wager. Still farther north lay Hadrian's Wall, erected in the distant past by the first of the Romans who thought to conquer Britain. Launcelot had never seen the wall, but in his mind it marked the boundary of a land that had grown too small for him.
And what lay beyond that? The rough mountains of the Picts, who still painted their faces blue and fought like demons from Hell? Or the loch country of the Scots, where monsters sang in the mist, and warriors danced to their unearthly music by the light of the moon?
"Launcelot," Galahad prodded. "Sir Launcelot, I beg your pardon, but the horses are frightened. I think—"
"Can you find your way back to Camelot?"
"Yes," the young knight said, puzzled. "Of course."
"Good." The older knight’s stallion pranced with impatience. "Galahad!"
"Yes, Sire?"
"Look after the King."
He turned his steed toward the north. It was all good country up there for a man with the time to wander and nothing left to lose.
The animal reared up and whinnied. Then, under Launcelot's spurs, it raced headlong into the wind.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Galahad did look after the King, to the last breath in his body.
Long after the cup of immortality was lost, unwanted by the King and discarded by Merlin as a burden he no longer wished to shoulder, Galahad watched over Arthur with the devotion of a dog for his master.
But Arthur had already been lost by then, to himself and to Britain.
The banishment of the queen had broken him. After putting her aside, he could never again stomach the petty kings and their advice. He did not take another wife, even though many were offered to him, bringing with them powerful alliances which might have averted the catastrophe that was to follow.
He also never sat at the Round Table again. Launcelot's departure wounded him, and the wound did not heal. During every waking moment, the knight's terrible words rang in his ears: I would die for the King. It is the man I cannot respect.
Arthur, too, could no longer respect the man he was. For all the trappings of his office, he felt he was not worthy to sit among men of valor and unwavering loyalty.
His reign had been crumbling. The Saxons continued their desultory attacks, gradually making inroads into Britain's interior to band with their displaced countrymen who had once tried to make their homes there. Together they carved out territories which they defended against the King's troops as if they were legitimate kingdoms.
"This is the final irony," Arthur told Merlin at the old man's lake cottage. "While Lot amasses his army and Morgause waits for her son to grow old enough to lead that army against me, I am losing my soldiers in a war against the same Saxon homesteaders I wanted to welcome twenty years ago." He tried to smile. "It does no good to fight them. When the tide of battle begins to turn against them, they vanish into the woods. They might as well be spirits."
"Unfortunately," Merlin said, "they are not spirits. I have heard that Lot has been paying them, and handsomely, to set up their encampments on your land and not his."
Arthur sighed. "Well, it's a way to keep his army intact, I suppose. Although he'll have to deal with the Saxons eventually, after I'm gone."
It pained Merlin to hear the King speak of his death. "Lot may not succeed you."
"Oh, he will. For a while, at least." He stretched his arms over his head. "Damn it all, I'd give it all to him right now if I weren't certain that he'll drive the country into ruin. As it is, I've sent word to the farmers to put by any extra grain and dried meat they can spare against the day when he finally makes his move." He shook his head. "He'll gouge the very livers from their bellies, the poor devils."
"What about a peaceful transfer of power? You could name a new High King, if you want to take yourself out of things."
"It wouldn't accomplish anything. Lot won't serve another High King; he doesn't even want to be High King. He wants to rule all of Britain absolutely. The others know that, too. Some of them are already handing over their troops to him, hoping he'll toss them a bone later. Imagine their surprise when the hangman's noose is put around their necks." He drummed his fingers on the table. "I suppose you're going to bring up that blighted cup again."
"No," Merlin said quietly. "The cup is gone."
"Who took it?"
The old man remembered his last sight of the miraculous relic, clutched in the talons of a bird, disappearing into the sky. "The gods, I think."
Arthur took a deep breath. "It's just as well." He examined his fingers. "Young Galahad's seen it, you know."
"He has?" Merlin nearly fell out of his chair. "Where?"
"In a vision."
"Oh."
"He claims to have them. Strange, for a fighting man."
Merlin shrugged, uninterested.
"He's a Christian, like Launcelot. He thinks it's the cup of Christ. He calls it the Holy Grail."
"It may be. I don't know its origins," the old man said. "But how does he even know about it? I never showed it to anyone except you. Did you tell those soldiers—"
"Of course not. They'd have all thought I'd gone mad. Besides, Galahad's vision isn't anything like the real thing. He pictures some gorgeous silver chalice worth a king's ransom."
Merlin smiled. "From what I've heard of the Christ, I doubt that he'd have used such a thing."
"Still, the boy's right about what the cup does. He says it heals wounds and confers immortality on its owner."
Merlin frowned. "And he got all this from a vision?"
"That's what he says. He's quite fervent about it. Wants to go looking for it."
"I can imagine," Merlin said with a sniff.
Arthur laughed softly. "No, I really think he means to find it for me. He's still young enough to feel that way about things."
"Ah. And will you send him?"
"I might. The others, too."
The old man blinked. "Have you changed your mind, then? Now you want it? Now that it's lost?" He could hear his own voice rising.
"No, no, I don't want it any more than I ever did. It's just... well, it might be a good way to disband the Round Table."
"Disband the King's Guard? There's a clever idea. Why don't you just chop off your head and send it to King Lot on a pike?"
Arthur waved him down. "I'll have a guard. But I'm thinking of these particular men. Kay's past fifty, and Gawain's not much younger. After they've given me so much of their lives, I'd hate to see them..." He didn't have to finish the sentence.
"You expect to lose, don't you," Merlin said.
"There's a strong possibility." He stood up and went to the window. "If I die, Lot won't have much use for the knights of the Round Table. He would make an example of them."
Merlin knew the King was right. Deserters from Lot's army were flogged to death. He could imagine what tortures the king of Rheged and his wife would come up with for Arthur's lifelong bodyguards.
"So you'd send them away?"
"On a quest. It's the only way I could get them to leave. 'Quest,'" he said, smiling. "The Quest for the Holy Grail. I rather like the sound of that, don't you?"
The old man smiled back. "Yes, I do," he said. "And who knows—they might even find it."
Galahad did find the cup, but not for many years, long after most of the others had returned to Camelot empty-handed.
The Grail looked exactly as it had in Galahad's vision, silvered and gilded and
carved with Christian images. The plain metal half-sphere had come into the possession of a monastery in Sassa, far into the eastern lands of Gaul. The abbot there, having experienced no more of the cup's power than its warm, throbbing heartbeat, had ordered its adornment.
The abbot was about to take it to Rome as a gift for the Pope when it was stolen. At the place where the magnificent chalice had stood lay the body of a knight dressed in British armor, his throat cut.
"He was still alive when I found him," the young monk who brought Galahad's body to Camelot explained. His last words were, 'For you, my King.'"
Arthur's jaw clenched. Galahad's body had been wrapped in thick bandages for the journey, but his armor lay beside it. Painted on his shield was the red and white insignia of the Pendragon dynasty.
"I was charged to bring him here because we know of only one king on this island, and that is Arthur of Britain."
Arthur could not speak.
"Thank you," Merlin said to the young cleric, leading him outside, where he had the cook bring bread and a bag filled with dried apples. "You have journeyed far to bring our friend back to his home. Will you return now to your own country?"
"No, Sire," the monk said, brightening. "I am being sent by the Church to Ireland, to bring the word of our blessed Lord to the savage Celts, who still follow the evil ways of the druids."
"Ah," Merlin said. "Soon the new religion will be everywhere."
“I hope so, Sire. I myself am a convert. I was born a Roman, named Padraic. But my name in Christ is Patrick."
"Well, godspeed to you, Patrick," the old man said. "But it might do you well to know that the Irish are not savages. They were writing books and making music centuries before our own ancestors learned even to weave cloth." He swallowed. "And the druids were not evil."
"Oh, but they were." Patrick looked shocked. "Perhaps on this island you do not have the opportunity to read the works of the great Christian scholars. They are all in agreement on that point. The druids were the most wicked of sorcerers, and those who remain must be put to the sword in the name of all that is good and holy."
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