Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “There is a well!” he exclaimed, bustling towards us. “And I found this bowl on a chain. I had some difficulty getting the bowl free without spilling the water, but—” He stopped when he saw what we were looking at. “It looks like writing.”

  “Aye, lad, it is,” Bors affirmed. “But we can make nothing of it.”

  “Maybe this will help,” replied Gereint. Stepping quickly to the altar, he raised the vessel and dashed the contents over the stone.

  The water struck the stone with a hiss and a splutter, casting up great vaporous clouds of steam while droplets of water sizzled and cracked—as if the altar had been iron-heated in the forge. Bors and Gereint drew back a step, and I threw an arm over my face and twisted away lest I be scalded by the heat blast.

  “Jesu be praised!” breathed Gereint. “Look!”

  Lowering my arm, I gazed once more upon the altar. Through the steam I could see the incised lines glowing with a golden sheen. Even as I watched, the thin broken lines joined, deepened, became robust and bold. The flat altar stone had changed, too: glittering and smooth as a new polished gem, it gleamed with the milky radiance of crystal shot through with veins of silver and flecks of crimson and gold.

  The image on the stone resolved clearly into that of a broad circular band of gold with a cross inside; bent around the band was a finely drawn ring of words. Flanking the circle and cross on either side were two figures—creatures whose bodies appeared to be made of fire—with wings outspread as if in supplication or worship.

  “It is beautiful,” murmured Gereint.

  “The words,” said Bors, his voice soft with awe. “What do they say?”

  “I have never seen writing like this,” I said.

  “Is it Latin?” he wondered.

  “Perhaps,” I allowed doubtfully, “but it is not like any Latin the monks use. See how the letters curve and twist back upon one another. I think it must be some other script.”

  Gereint, his face illumined by the soft golden light, gazed upon the altar figures with a beatific expression on his face. Oblivious to all else, he sank to his knees before the altar, his lips moving in an unspoken prayer. The purity of this simple, spontaneous act shamed me and I averted my eyes. Then I heard a movement beside me and when I looked back, Bors had joined the young warrior on his knees.

  The two knelt together shoulder to shoulder, hands upraised in the posture of monks. Had I been able to bend my leg, I would have joined them. Instead, I clung to my crude crutch, and raised my voice to heaven.

  “Blessed Jesu,” I prayed, my voice sounding loud and clear in the sacred place, “I come to you a beggar in need. Great evil stalks this forest and we are not strong enough to overcome it. Help us, Lord. Do not forsake us, nor yet leave us prey to the powers of the Evil One.” Then, remembering the ruined chapel and its desecration, I added, “Holy One of God, accept our poor offering of water poured out upon the stone. Sain this chapel with your presence, and restore the glory of your name in this place. So be it.”

  Into the silence of the chapel came the echo of a song—like one of those Myrddin sometimes plays in which the harp seems to spin the melody of itself: Gift Songs, the Emrys calls them—so quiet it took me a moment to realize that it was not of my imagining. Bors and Gereint ceased their prayers and raised their eyes above.

  I, too, gazed around, for it seemed as if the music derived from the heights. I saw nothing but the shadowed recesses of the high-pitched roof. The music, exquisite in its simple elegance, grew louder, and I saw the shadows fade as the carvings on the roof and walls of the chapel began to glimmer and glow.

  We gazed in wonder at the old, old markings as the delicate interwoven lines filled with the same shimmering radiance that transformed the altar. Soon we three were bathed in soft golden light. Suddenly the chapel was filled with a sound like that of the wind swirling through long-leafed willows, or the rush of feathered wings beating the air when birds take flight. With this sound came music, very faint, but distinct and unmistakable: the celestial music of the heavenly realms.

  A joy like that which I had experienced when I knelt alone in the presence of the Grail once more filled my heart, and it swelled to bursting for me to hear the strains of that glorious song swirling like a graceful wind, sweeping the crannies and corners of the chapel. I closed my eyes and turned my face heavenward and felt the warmth of the golden light on my skin, and knew a fine and holy rapture.

  Then, more wonderful than anything that had gone before, there came to me a fragrance far surpassing that of all the flowers that ever grew. I drew the marvelous scent deep into my lungs and breathed the air of heaven itself; and on my tongue I tasted the honeyed sweetness of that rarest of atmospheres.

  I tasted, and knew, even before I opened my eyes, that we were no longer alone.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Gereint saw her first. Still kneeling before the altar, he raised his head, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise, but there was neither fear nor alarm in the expression, only delight. The light reflected on his face made him appear wise and good.

  Bors—kneeling beside Gereint, his still head bowed—had yet to apprehend the visitor in our midst.

  She took the appearance of an earthly woman; her features dark and dusky, her skin smooth and clear as amber honey, she stood before us as calmly and naturally as any mortal being, but with the dignity and grace only the heaven-born possess. Her eyes were blue as the sun-washed sky, pale against the tawny hue of her supple flesh. Hair the color of autumn chestnuts hung in long, loose curls around her shoulders, and spilled over the fine, gentle curves of her breasts. Clothed in a robe of deepest crimson, with a woven girdle of blue fretted with plaited gold, she seemed to me the very image and essence of beauty, wisdom, and dignity conjoined in the elegant, winsome form of a woman.

  I could have lingered a lifetime in her presence and reckoned it only joy. I could gladly have stood entranced forever and counted it nothing but pleasure as, fairest of the Great King’s servants, she bent over the altar, gazing devoutly upon the object in her hands.

  Her devotion drew my own; I looked and saw what it was that the maiden had placed upon the altar: the Grail.

  My first thought was that the Blessed Cup had been found, that she had somehow got it away from those who had stolen it and was now returning it to us. This notion was instantly dashed, however; as if in answer to my thought, the Grail Maiden turned her head and looked directly at me, and the fire that burned in those clear blue eyes was terrible to see.

  “Turn away, Sons of Dust,” the angel said in a voice unyielding as the altar stone. “The cup before you is holy. You defile it with your presence.”

  Speechless with shame and amazement, I could only stare at her and feel the full depth of my worthlessness in her eyes. Glancing at Gereint, I saw that he had bent his head under the weight of futility, and held his clasped hands tight against his chest. Bors had collapsed inwardly upon himself, his hands lying palm upward on the floor, his head touching his knees.

  “Did you think me incapable of defending that which I have been ordained to uphold? Blind guides! How is it that you can see so much, yet understand so little?” Her words were like fire scorching my ears with the vehemence of her anger. “I do not know which is worse, your ignorance or your arrogance. Think you the Great King requires the aid of any mortal to accomplish his will? Is the Lord of Creation powerless to protect his treasures?”

  Her righteous scorn leapt like a flame, withering my self-respect and misplaced honor with its indignant heat.

  “O Mighty Guardians,” she demanded, “where were you when the enemy laid hand to your treasure? Did you imagine the Cup of Christ would be protected by frail flesh?”

  I stared in dismay and could not answer.

  “Hear me, Sons of Dust! You held the Kingdom of Summer in your grasp and you threw it away. You have destroyed the one opportunity you were granted to bring peace to the peoples of the earth.”

  I c
ould not endure her anger any longer. “Please!” I cried. “I am an ignorant man, it is true. If I have failed to—”

  “Silence!” the angel cried, and the walls of the chapel quaked at the word. “The Grail Cup is returning to the hand that gave it. Look upon it, Son of Dust! Look upon it and weep at your loss, for this is the last it will be seen in this worlds-realm.”

  Bending over the cup, she reached out to take it up once more, and I knew no mortal being would ever again know its healing presence.

  “No, wait!” I said, and the Grail Keeper hesitated, the light of righteous anger flaring in her eyes again. I had braved it once, and would a thousand times over if I could but stay her hand a little longer. “Forgive me, lady. My words and ways are crude, I know, but I mean no disrespect. It is only that I do not know how to speak as I ought. Truly, I could not endure the knowledge that this Holy Cup has passed from the world of men because of my failure. If there is any way the Glorious Vessel can be redeemed, only tell me and I pledge my life and all I possess to its redemption.”

  The maiden regarded me with a look both piercing and pitying; her reply was blade-sharp. “Why weary heaven with your contemptible pleading? Think you to sway what has been commanded from before the earth was framed and the stars set in their courses?”

  “Please,” I said, summoning every grain of courage I owned to one last entreaty. “It is not for myself that I ask, less yet for those whose duty it was to defend the Grail, but for those who struggle in darkness for the light. They have so little, and their needs are so great, the merest glimpse of the Holy Cup is enough to give them courage to abide the misfortunes of their lot with hope and faith in the life to come. It is for them that I plead. I beg you, do not take the Grail away.”

  The lady listened to my plea, but her face remained like flint and her fierce gaze unaltered. “Words cannot atone for your sin and failure.”

  “Then take me instead, I pray. I will endure the fires of perdition, and that gladly, if my suffering could be accounted for the reclamation of the Summer Realm and the cup that upholds it.”

  “You are a man, indeed,” she conceded, softening somewhat. “But it is not to be.”

  So saying, she reached for the cup and took it between her hands. I knew I looked my last upon the Most Holy Grail.

  She straightened and made to turn away, paused, and raised her head; her gaze lifted—as if heeding a voice I could not hear.

  I saw this and hope leapt in my heart.

  Nodding once, she turned to me again. “Most fortunate of men are you,” she said, “for the Lord of Hosts has heard the plea of your heart and has been moved to give you a second chance to prove yourselves worthy. The Grail will stay.”

  Joy flowed up and over me in a warm, giddy rush. But for my injured leg, I would have thrown myself to my knees before her and kissed the hem of her robe in gratitude. “Thank you,” I breathed. “Thank you.”

  “Your petition has been granted,” she told me, “for the sake of the king you serve, and those who stand in need of the blessing of this Holy Cup.”

  Before I could think what to say, she continued, her voice assuming a commanding tone once more. “Hear me, Sons of Dust: it has been decided that you are to be shown what you have pledged your lives to protect, and who it is that sustains you in your duty.”

  Placing the cup upon the altar once more, her fingers described a graceful figure in the air, and the Grail gathered radiance, drawing light to itself, shining with a rosy brilliance as if reflecting the sunrays of creation’s dawn. When she removed her hands, I saw that a faint circle of light had formed in the air above the rim.

  “Behold!” she said, and spread her hands wide.

  At once I heard a sound like that of a struck harp, and a bright light leapt up, and the altar began to glow with a fine and holy light. I do not know how to say it otherwise, but that this radiance expanded outward to embrace the whole of the chapel. The stone walls began to shine, and the incised designs seemed to move and grow in the light, entwining with one another and spreading to form patterns of gleaming light. The next I knew, those selfsame walls were not stone anymore, but gold! Still, the alteration did not end there, for the patterns continued to grow and change and the gold paled to white marble, and that gave way to crystal so pure I could see through the very walls to the world beyond—all green and lush beneath a sky of gold.

  “Look upon me, Son of Dust, and know me as I am,” the lady said; I do not think she spoke aloud this time, but I heard her clearly and, emboldened by the tenderness of her invitation, I looked and saw that she, like the chapel, had changed.

  Indeed, the woman who stood before me now was taller and far more noble in face and figure. Her long hair was silver-white, and so, too, the robe which clothed her slender form. Her skin was pale as milk or moonlight, and she seemed, despite her aspect and the obvious maturity of her body, to manifest the spirited youth of a child. The visible manifestation of her sustaining power rose behind her in two radiant arcs, subtle, yet perceptible as a rippling rainbow in the sunlight, shimmering with vital potency, overarching and sweeping out like enfolding wings to sustain and protect. Her face, once fair to look upon, was no less beautiful now, yet it was a piercing beauty almost frightening in its symmetry and the compelling elegance of its proportions. Piercing, too, the radiance that streamed from her—almost too bright to look upon, and of a quality that penetrated the heart as well as the eye, and illumined both; for to see her was to know one looked upon a glory that partook of the heavenly and was the birthright of those who served in the High King of Heaven’s celestial courts.

  “Behold,” she said again, and I saw that the cup had changed. No longer a vessel of jeweled metal—indeed, there was neither ornament nor design: no gold, gems, or pearls; no inscribed scrollwork; nor any other such embellishment—yet it glittered and shone with a dancing brilliance as if it were made of golden starfire, for it was garbed in its heavenly form now, and was as high above the earthly cup as the Grail Maiden was above her mortal sisters.

  This! I thought. This is the True Cup of Christ!

  These words formed in my mind before I knew what they meant. Even so, I heard in them truth’s clear and undisputed ring. The Grail Maiden raised the Holy Cup from the now-translucent altar stone, turned, and, Holy Savior, offered it to me! I hesitated, glancing towards Gereint and Bors for help, but their heads were bowed and their eyes were closed as if in raptured sleep. It was to me alone that she extended the wondrous bowl. Still, I hesitated lest I defile the Holy Cup with my touch.

  Take it, noble Gwalchavad, the angel urged gently, her tone melting honey and sunlight. With trembling hands, I reached out and received the Sacred Bowl.

  The blood of Christ, shed for you, Gwalchavad, she intoned. Drink deep of it and be renewed in body, mind, and spirit.

  My heart beating within me like a captive creature sensing its release, I raised the Sacred Bowl and saw the liquid glint of deep crimson as I brought it to my lips. I put my mouth to the rim, closed my eyes, and emptied the cup. The wine danced on my tongue like cool fire; it was sweet to the taste, but with a tart, almost bitter edge that revealed subtle depths of flavor. Although I am no master of the vine, I would have said that it must far surpass the finest wine ever poured into an emperor’s cup.

  As I swallowed, I felt the renewing warmth spread out from my throat and stomach, passing through my limbs and out to the tips of my fingers and toes. The sensation, after innumerable privations of the trail, was so pleasurable I could not help smiling. My injured leg tingled and I realized the pain was swiftly ebbing away to a distant memory. I flexed the limb and discovered it whole and hale once more.

  The Grail Maiden extended her hands and I released the wonderful bowl. Inclining her head as she received the cup, she smiled at my delighted surprise, and then, holding her palm above the cup’s rim, turned to Gereint.

  Though I heard nothing, the instant she turned from me the young warrior raised his head
and opened his eyes as if summoned. The angel offered him the cup, in the same way she had offered it to me, and Gereint took it in both hands, lifted it, and drank, draining the cup in great, gulping swallows, as if he could not get the liquid inside him fast enough. Then, embarrassed by his immoderate quaffing, he bent his head and returned the Holy Cup to the maiden, who accepted it nicely. She must have spoken a word of encouragement to him, for Gereint raised his head and smiled.

  Then it was Bors’ turn to drink from the cup, which he did with his customary exuberance. Seizing the proffered vessel in both hands, he elevated it once, twice, three times over the altar, then brought it to his mouth and drained it down—much as I had seen him do on countless occasions in Arthur’s hall. Tilting back his head, he swallowed and then paused, savoring the draught before returning the empty bowl to the angel. “Noble lady,” he said, the only one among us to speak aloud.

  The Grail Maiden bent her head in acknowledgment and replaced the Sacred Cup on the altar stone, whereupon she raised her hands to shoulder height, palms outward, and said, “Rise, friends, and stand.”

  This time she spoke aloud, and oh! to hear that voice was to know the intimate ecstasy of a lover when beckoned by his best beloved. She called us friends, and I vowed within myself to be worthy of the word to the end of my earthly life.

  “This day you have by grace been granted a foretaste of heaven’s feast,” she told us. “Those to whom much is given, much is required. Draw near by faith and stand at the altar where men’s hearts are tried and known.”

  Raising her face heavenward, she appeared to listen for a moment, and then began reciting aloud the words as she was given them. She said:

  “Receive the word of the Lord! The Kingdom of Summer is close at hand, but the Evil One is closer still. He roars and raves, and roams the earthly crust ever seeking those he might destroy. Hold fast to the truth, my friends, and know in your hearts that where the King of Kings is honored, evil cannot prevail. Remember, greater is He who is in you than he who is in the world. Fear nothing, but gird yourself for the battle to come, and cling to the Sword of your Salvation.