Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I thank you for leading me,” I told her. We started across the field together, and had just reached the trail when I heard a shout behind us and turned; the young woman continued on without looking back.

  Peredur and Tallaght emerged from the wood, leading my horse. They rode to where I stood waiting. “The trail led from the glade,” explained Tallaght. “I cannot understand how we missed it before.”

  “Nor can I,” added Peredur.

  “Well,” I replied, “at least we will not have to search for it on our return.” Taking the reins from Tallaght, I said, “You can go ahead, if you like. I will walk with our guide.” At this, both warriors exchanged uneasy glances, but I ignored their odd behavior and quickly joined the young woman on the trail.

  We walked towards the gate—a steady climb as the hill rose steeply at its summit—and the young woman kept her eyes on the stronghold and said nothing. Approaching the gate, we were hailed by a man brandishing a spear. “Greetings!” he called, hastening forward to meet us. “I give you good day!”

  I gave the gateman my greeting, whereupon he looked at the girl beside me and stopped in his tracks, losing control of his spear, which fell to the ground. He bent to retrieve it and stood staring at us, his mouth agape like a beached fish.

  “We come looking for the caer of Urien Rheged,” I told the man. “Have we found it?”

  “That you have, lord,” he replied slowly; he seemed to have difficulty taking his eyes from the girl. For her part, she regarded the man without expression; indeed, she seemed to look through him to the settlement beyond. “But if it is himself you are wanting, I must tell you he is not here,” the man said. His attention shifted to the two warriors coming up behind me. “Is it far you have ridden today?”

  “We have come from the Pendragon,” I answered. “Our camp is no farther than a short day’s ride.”

  “The Pendragon!—here?” cried the man. “But our lord is gone to join him in the south.” His eyes, fearful now, shifted quickly to me. “Has Urien been killed? I must tell Hwyl—I must tell him at once.”

  He made to dash away then and there, but I held him. “Stay, friend. Calm yourself. All will be explained in good time.” I smiled to assure him we meant no harm. “Ah, but it is too hot to be standing here in the sun. Perhaps there is a shady spot within.” I gestured towards the fortress. “My men and I could use a drink—and the horses as well.”

  “Forgive me, lord,” spluttered the man. “I am a hound for yapping on so. Come with me, and I will lead you to Hwyl—he holds the throne while Lord Urien is gone.”

  The man turned on his heel and rushed off. I took a step or two, and noticed that the young woman was not following. Indeed, she paid not the least heed to the conversation that had just taken place, but was still gazing at the fortress as if entranced by the sight.

  Stepping once more beside her, I touched her arm and said, “We are going up now. Perhaps you could lead us.”

  She gave a shudder, as with cold, and came to herself once more. She looked at me, nodded, and proceeded to follow the gateman. I fell into step behind her, and the two warriors came after. We passed through the gates and into the foreyard of the caer. It was a large fortification, well provided with numerous storehouses and dwellings. People occupied with their daily chores paused in their work to observe us; a few called greetings. Most, if not all, regarded the young woman beside me with looks of unguarded curiosity.

  The gateman ran before us into the hall, reappearing a moment later with another man, tall and slender and, despite the gray in his thinning hair, alert and ready-handed.

  “Greetings in the name of the Pendragon,” I said. I told him who it was that addressed him and presented the two warriors with me. “We have come to speak to the chieftain here, and secure his aid.”

  “I am Hwyl.” The man stepped before me. “Urien’s chieftain I am, and I give you good greeting, Lord Gwalchavad.” He held out his arms to me by way of welcome. It is an old Celtic custom that when two friends or kinsmen meet, they grip one another by the arms and look into each other’s eyes to exchange their greeting. We do this in the north and in the islands, too, although I did not expect to receive such a welcome here. But then, I thought, they did not yet know of Urien’s banishment; our reception might sour when they heard what I had to tell them.

  Turning his eyes to the young woman, he gave her an appraising look and said, “I would greet your friend, but you have not told me her name.”

  “I had hoped you could tell me,” I replied. “As we found her within shout of the stronghold, I assumed she was one of your people.”

  “My people?” wondered the chieftain, much surprised. “But you are mistaken. I am certain we have never seen her before.”

  Chapter Four

  Hwyl appeared unsettled by the simple suggestion that the young woman might belong to his tribe. “Know you, I would remember her,” he stated firmly, “if I had ever seen her before—and I have not.” He shook his head emphatically. “She is not of our folk.”

  “Well,” I said, “perhaps some of your people know her. No doubt she comes from a holding nearby.”

  “Perhaps,” allowed Hwyl reluctantly. Addressing the girl, he asked, “Do you have kinsfolk hereabouts?”

  Although she turned her eyes towards him as he spoke, she gave no other sign that she had heard the question. He asked again and received again the same uncomprehending stare.

  “See, now,” said Hwyl, beginning to lose patience, “this reluctance is unseemly. We have asked kindly, and expect an answer. We mean you no harm.”

  “Please,” I said to Hwyl, “I believe she is mute. She has not said a single word since we found her.” Seeking merely to reassure her, I reached out and touched her gently on the arm. “May God have mercy on her soul, it is a pity.”

  However light, my touch produced an astonishing result. The young woman pulled her arm away as if my fingertips had burned her flesh. She held the arm stiff and close to her, staring wild-eyed as she backed away from me, rubbing the place my hand had touched. She took three steps and began trembling and shaking all over. Her eyes then rolled up into her head, showing nothing but white. Meanwhile, her mouth framed a scream, but no sound emerged. She then collapsed, falling to the ground, where she began thrashing and rolling, as if in unbearable agony.

  I was beside her in two steps. “Bring water!” I shouted, kneeling over her. “Hurry!”

  Hwyl sent the gateman scrambling away for water. I called to Peredur and Tallaght, “It is the heat. We must get her out of the sun.”

  “Bring her into the hall,” suggested Hwyl, going before me.

  By the time the two warriors had dismounted, I was already striding for the entrance. It took all my strength to hold her, for the tremors threatened to throw us down at every step. I could feel the muscles of her back and arms, stiff and tight as iron bands. Somehow, I reached the doorway and stumbled in.

  Owing to the high roof and lack of windholes, the hall was dimly dark and much cooler. Along one side of the great room was a series of wicker partitions separating a number of sleeping places. I carried the stricken young woman to the first of these and lay her down on the straw pallet, and then stood helplessly watching the convulsions coursing through her body.

  Two women from the settlement entered and rushed to the young woman’s side. One of the women carried a water jar, and the other some rags. Kneeling down in the straw, the first cradled the young woman’s head in her lap while the other wet the cloth and began applying it gently to her forehead. This produced a soothing effect and, in a moment, it appeared the more violent of her spasms had passed; the girl closed her eyes and lay back, still trembling and shaking somewhat, but quieter.

  “Go about your affairs,” said the woman with the water jar. “We will look after her and bring word of any change.”

  I thanked her kindly and, leaving the young woman to the elder women’s care, summoned Tallaght and charged him to tend the hor
ses. But Hwyl interposed, saying, “Please, have no care for the beasts. Cet will see your mounts watered and rested. Join me at table. We will share a cup instead.”

  Thus we settled with Hwyl at the far end of the hall where a table stood beside a long hearth next to a large chair made of oak and covered with the hides of three or four red stags. A young boy appeared as soon as we sat down; he carried a bowl of ale, which he placed on the table. He looked to the chieftain for approval and, receiving it in the nod of his elder, turned and ran away.

  “That is Ffinn, my young nephew; I am teaching him to serve in the hall,” explained Hwyl. “All those of an age have gone with Urien to fight the war in the south, but as you are here, no doubt they will be returning soon.” Lifting the bowl, he took a drink and passed it to me, saying, “Welcome, my friends. The comfort of this hearth is yours for as long as you care to stay.”

  I drank—the brew was cool, dark, and sweet—and with great reluctance passed the bowl to Tallaght. “Your welcome cheers me,” I told the chieftain. “It is too long since I have tasted ale so good. Already I am regretting that we cannot stay longer.”

  He offered the cup around once more, and said, “Be it short or long, your stay is more than agreeable. We have had no word from the south at all.”

  A quick, sharp thrust is best, I thought, drawing a deep breath. “Word is not good,” I told him. “The war is over, but the price has been high.”

  “I feared as much,” remarked Hwyl grimly. “Is Urien dead?”

  “No,” I answered, grateful for the opportunity to set the matter in a different light. “No, he is not dead—though perhaps he might prefer it.”

  Suspicion clouded Hwyl’s features. “Death is more than enough for most men, I find.”

  “Hwyl,” I said, “your lord has been banished from Britain.” I let that sink in a moment before explaining. “Urien broke faith with the High King and joined a faction that rebelled against Arthur. The rebellion was crushed, and the leaders exiled to Armorica along with any who would go with them. Urien will not be returning to Rheged.”

  Hwyl, staring at the empty board before him, was shaking his head and muttering to himself. I might have let him find out later at the council, but I know if I were in his place, I would wish to learn the worst as soon as possible so that I could warn the settlement and begin making plans.

  “I am sorry to bear such bad tidings,” I continued, and then drove the blade home: “The lands of all who joined in the rebellion are forfeit to the High King, and he has given them to another.”

  The chieftain raised his eyes at this. His face was ashen with shock and dismay. But his reply surprised me. “Bad tidings, you say,” he mused, shaking his head ruefully, “and that is only the half of it.” He looked at me as if staring hopelessness in the face. Then, turning once more to the contemplation of his barren table, he said, “God’s truth, I always feared the worst.”

  “Did you, now?”

  “Alas, Urien is no steady man; as a boy he was a flighty lad—so unlike his father. I always hoped he would come to a better nature, but no—he has grown reckless, headstrong, and inconstant. Unhealthy in any man, such character is perilous in a ruler. Even so, I hoped…” He looked at me with sad, haunted eyes, his mouth quivering, his voice thick. “That we took him for our lord I do most deeply regret.”

  “I am sorry it has come to this,” I told him.

  Hwyl, struggling to hold himself, simply nodded; he was too overcome to speak. Peredur extended the bowl to me, indicating that I should give it to the chieftain, which I did. Hwyl accepted the ale and braced himself with a last, long drink.

  “It is bad for you, I will not deny it,” I said when he had finished, “yet it need not be the ruin you fear.”

  “No?” His interest pricked. “If there is some way to avert the judgment, lord, I beg you to tell me.”

  “There is,” I assured him, “if you will abide it.” I then extended the small hope I had brought with me. “The man who has been given these lands is not willing that any should be cast out. He has said that any who wish to stay in their settlements may do so, and has vowed that the protection he affords his own people will be extended to all who remain in his realm.”

  Thinking he saw the answer to his troubles, Hwyl seized the proposition at once. “Then we will stay! By God, we will stay.”

  “Wait until you have heard all,” I cautioned. “You may have different thoughts when I tell the rest.”

  Hwyl, unwilling to throw aside the promise so quickly embraced, said, “Tell me, then. It can be no worse than I have heard already.”

  “It is this: the man of whom I speak is not a Briton.”

  “No?” A frown of concern creased his brow. He imagined the worst, and confronted it head-on. “Is he Irish, then?”

  “He is not Irish, either,” I said. Peredur and Tallaght knew what was coming and tensed as if to meet a blow. There was no way to say otherwise, so I told him the blunt truth. “This man is the lord and leader of the enemy we have been fighting in the south.”

  “Blessed God in Heaven,” breathed Hwyl, aghast at such harsh justice.

  I allowed him to grapple with this, wishing we had another cup or two to help digest this meal of stones. “His name is Mercia, and he is lord of the Vandali, who have been conquered. The enemy king who made war on Britain has been vanquished, and in exchange for peace, his lords have sworn fealty to Arthur Pendragon. It is Mercia’s desire to occupy unsettled lands; he purposes that his people should raise their own settlements and strongholds. What is more, this Mercia has vowed that he will take nothing that is not given freely, and will strive for peace between his people and the Britons who remain under his care.”

  Hwyl was silent for a time, coming to terms with what I had said. “We can stay—that is certain?” he asked finally.

  “Mercia has made this promise—I cannot honestly vouch for its certainty. But you need not answer me now. Hold council with your people,” I advised. “Summon the other chieftains and talk to them.”

  “If we left our lands, where would we go?”

  “There is no provision for you elsewhere.”

  “So that is the way of it,” concluded Hwyl bitterly. “It is either remain and be ruled by an enemy, or become like the Picti and wander the hills knowing neither hearth nor home.”

  I did not allow his budding anger a chance to flower. “Yes, that is the way of it. In the Pendragon’s name, you and your chieftains are summoned to a council of all whose lands are forfeit,” I informed him. “You are to deliver your decision then.” I signaled to Peredur and Tallaght that it was time to go. The two rose at once, and I instructed them to ready the horses.

  “Will you not stay the night?” asked Hwyl, but the warmth of hospitality had grown cool. His shoulders were slumped now, as if under the weight of his grief and the hard judgment he must endure.

  “We have disturbed the peace of this place more than enough,” I answered. “I think we should leave you to your deliberations.”

  Hwyl did not disagree, but merely nodded and said, “That might be best.”

  I told him when and where the council would be held, and then took my leave of him. He walked with me out of the hall, passing by the place where the young woman lay. The two looking after her rose as we approached. “She is sleeping soundly now,” the elder woman reported.

  “Was it the sun?” I asked.

  “Aye, it was,” the woman replied. “Nor, I surmise, has she had a bite to eat for a good few days.”

  “She was gathering mushrooms when we found her.”

  The woman regarded me suspiciously. “Those? Even one of those would kill a horse,” she explained as if I should have known better.

  Hwyl asked, “What would you have us do with her?”

  “Might she stay here?”

  “She does not belong here,” said Hwyl firmly. “That much I know.”

  “Her people may be searching for her,” the woman offered.
“But she is in no wise fit to travel.”

  “Perhaps,” I suggested, “you could take care of her for a few days and bring her with you when you come to the council. There will be people from other settlements in the region; someone may know her.”

  “That we will do,” Hwyl replied. “Now I bid you farewell.”

  “I wish our meeting had been otherwise,” I told him. “I am sorry.”

  The chieftain shook his head. “Urien has brought this calamity upon us, not you. I must speak to the people and decide what is to be done. We will come to the council and give our answer.”

  We left the settlement then, all thoughts of ale vats far behind us, and rode as far as we could before daylight left us. We made rough camp along the way, and slept under the stars. I was long awake, however, thinking about the young woman we had found, and the strangeness of that finding. But stranger things were to come.

  Chapter Five

  Rejoining the Cymbrogi next day, we found the entire lakeside camp in an uproar. We rode into the midst of a throng, shouting and clamoring outside the tent. Everyone was so excited that it took some moments before I could make myself heard. Finally, leaning down from the saddle, I seized the shoulder of the nearest warrior. “Why this turmoil?” I demanded. “What trouble?”

  “Trouble!” he cried, twisting around to see me. “There is no trouble, Lord Gwalchavad,” he replied, grinning, “unless you think the happy return of our Pendragon a quarrelsome thing.”

  “Arthur returned?” I wondered. “So soon?” Handing the warrior the reins of my horse, I left him to care for the animal as a reward for his impudence, and pushed my way nearer the tent. I caught sight of Cai, attempting to subdue the enthusiasm of the crowd with an inadequate supply of gestures and grimaces.

  Pressing my way to him, I said, “Where is he?”

  “Ah, Gwalchavad! Thank God you are here. I could use another hand.”