Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  One look in those unblinking eyes and I knew beyond all doubt that they wished us dead, yes, and more than dead: they willed our annihilation; we were to be completely and utterly destroyed and our souls obliterated. Yet they waited, a malign and brooding mass beneath a gruesome yellow sky.

  “Why do they just stand there?” Gereint said, his voice quivering—with cold, I think, not fear.

  “Perhaps their battlechief has not arrived,” Bors suggested. “Or maybe they await the command to attack.”

  “Come on,” muttered Gereint. “Let us finish it!”

  “Patience, lad,” said Bors. “Life is short, and death is long. Use what time you have left to make your peace.”

  “God knows I am more than ready,” replied Gereint evenly. “Let it begin, I say.”

  “Look there,” I said, directing their attention to a disturbance in the rearward ranks. In a moment, it emerged that the warhost was dividing along a line back to front.

  “They are preparing to attack,” said Bors, flinging his cloak away from his arms in preparation.

  “I think their war leader has arrived,” I said. “He is taking his place at the forefront of his warhost.”

  The ranks continued parting until a wide way stood clear. I could see several figures moving towards us along the opened course. One of them, taller than the others, appeared to be advancing at the head of the others.

  I watched him stride nearer, and recognized the familiar gait. I had seen it so often, I would have known it far more readily than my own.

  “It is Arthur,” said Bors. “He is alive.”

  The Pendragon came to the edge of the clearing and stood regarding us silently. His clothes were ripped and torn—as if he had been dragged through the wood by horses. His face was lined with fatigue; he looked haggard and old. His right cheek was discolored with an ugly bruise, but he held himself erect, head high.

  “Arthur!” I shouted. “Here! Join us!”

  The king made no reply, but turned and stepped aside; only then did I notice that his hands were bound with chains. Llenlleawg, spear in hand, advanced directly behind Arthur with Morgaws at his side. I could also see Myrddin and Gwenhwyvar, with Rhys and Peredur coming up behind Llenlleawg; their hands were chained also, and they stood with their heads down. Their clothes, too, were ragged and blood-stained, and they wore the look of warriors who knew the battle was lost and their lives were swiftly approaching a bloody, wretched end.

  At a nod from Llenlleawg, Arthur turned once more to address us. He called us by name, and said, “You have fought well, my friends. But the battle is lost. It is time to surrender.”

  “Is it really the Pendragon?” whispered Gereint uncertainly.

  “Never!” declared Bors. “The true Arthur has never so much as breathed a word of surrender, and never will.” Raising a hand to his mouth, Bors shouted, “Take your words of surrender to hell with you! We are Pendragon’s men, sworn before God to guard the Grail. We will not stand down for anyone.”

  The Pendragon, humble and sorrowful, appealed to him, saying, “Bors, old friend, do as I say. You have pledged loyalty to me, whether in victory or defeat. It is time to end this battle.”

  “In God’s name, Arthur,” Bors cried, “what have they done to you? Join us, lord, and fight them! We will go down together!”

  Ignoring this outburst, the king continued calmly. “They have come for Caledvwlch and the Grail. The fighting can stop, but you must do as I say and bring the sword and cup.”

  Bitterness and bleak desperation welled up inside me. I had known defeat before, but never like this. Never! This…this ignoble submission was not worthy of the Pendragon I knew. Myrddin would have moved Heaven and Earth before giving in, and even the least of the Cymbrogi would have fought to the last dying breath rather than be party to such a shameful capitulation.

  I stared across the clearing as across a great divide; my king stood on one side, and I on the other. Could I defy my king and continue the fight? Or must I obey him, even to my shame and degradation?

  See, now: one who has never served a True Lord, nor vowed loyalty through all things to the end of life, cannot know what it is to behold that lord defeated by wicked enemies, humiliated, and disgraced. Those who know nothing of honor cannot comprehend the pain of dishonor. I tell you the truth, it is a pain worse than death, and it does not end.

  Thus, I stood staring at Arthur, his head bowed in defeat, and the tears came to my eyes. I could not stand the sight and I had to turn away.

  “The fighting can end,” the Pendragon repeated, his voice broken and weary. “Bring the Grail. Give it up.”

  Bors’ face clenched like a fist, and his refusal was anvil hard. “Never!” he cried, shaking with rage. Taking Caledvwlch from Gereint, he flourished it, shouting, “To get the Grail, you will have to pry this blade from my dead hands.”

  It might have been a trick of the light, but I thought I saw the merest shadow of a smile flicker across Arthur’s face as he received Bors’ reply. Turning towards Morgaws, he made a gesture with his hands—as much as to say, Well, I tried—and Llenlleawg prodded him aside into line with the butt of his spear.

  The Irish champion took hold of Myrddin and dragged him forth. But Morgaws, impatient with Arthur’s feeble efforts at persuasion, stepped out from among the enemy warriors. Flame-haired, features ablaze like a torch with hate and triumph and spite all mingled together in her wild expression, she was both terrible and magnificent. The flames of her passion had given her a fearful, feral beauty, like that of a ravening she-wolf leaping to the kill, or lightning striking from a storm-fraught sky. Her smooth white brow fierce, fiery hair streaming from her temples, lips drawn back in a malevolent smile of rage and dominion, she appeared a goddess of destruction—the fearsome Morrighan of the old tales could not have been more appalling in aspect and allure.

  “The cup! Give me the cup!” Morgaws cried in a voice swollen with exultation. Long gone was the maid I had found wandering lost in the wood that day; like everything else about her, the mute innocent was a lie, too.

  I watched Morgaws now, and remembered our first meeting. I had stepped from among the trees and there she was, sitting on the ground, her carefully gathered mushrooms scattered around her. She had tripped and fallen, spilling her harvest. I helped her retrieve them, as I recall. Peredur and Tallaght were with me, and we had simply stumbled upon her, alone and lost…Ah, no, no, it was not that way at all. It was the song—the song led us to her. She had been singing and we heard it and followed, and that was how it began.

  Had I not been so beguiled, I might have stopped long enough to wonder how it was that a maid who could sing yet lacked the power of speech. Alas, I was deceived like all the rest. I hung my head and asked Jesu to forgive my blindness.

  As if in answer to my reproachful thoughts, I heard again the song that I had heard that summer day in the wood. Glancing up, I saw Morgaws standing before me, the song still fresh on her lips. She smiled and I knew at once that I had judged her far too harshly.

  “Do not think ill of me, Brave Gwalchavad,” she said in a voice both soft and low. She stepped closer. “I am just like you. I, too, have suffered at Morgian’s hands.”

  It was true, I thought. Like all the rest of us, she was caught in Wicked Morgian’s designs. And like everyone else, she had suffered for it. A pang of genuine regret speared my heart, and I opened my mouth to express my sorrow at her distress.

  But Morgaws prevented me. “Say nothing,” she whispered, placing her fingertips against my mouth. “It is over, my love. We can forget the pain and hardship, and begin again. We must make a new start, and we can. You do believe me, Gwalchavad. We can show the others, the doubters. We can show them, you and I.”

  She smiled again and the last particle of doubt melted away in the bright sun of her smile. She looked at me and I saw nothing but love in her eyes. “Come with me, Gwalchavad. Come away with me, my love. We can be together, you and I. Together always.�
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  Oh, I did believe her. And I so wanted the travail to end. In that moment I think I would have done anything she asked. “Come, bring me the Grail, my love. You do not need to guard it anymore. Bring it to me, and we can begin anew.”

  When I hesitated, she urged me on, saying, “I want you, my love. Is the cup inside?” She glanced at the chapel expectantly. “Go get it, Gwalchavad. Bring the cup to me. Hurry! Then we can leave this place forever.”

  I heard Bors raise a protest behind me, but I could not hear what he said. It did not matter. Morgaws, beautiful and yielding, stood before me, and desire was in her eyes. “Come to me, my love,” she said, extending her hands to embrace me. I looked at those long, lovely arms—so fine and shapely and inviting—and lust leapt like a flame within me. I looked at her rounded hips and breasts and I wanted her. I ached to hold her in my arms and to take her.

  In that instant the watching world disappeared—the enemy host with its rank on rank of baleful-eyed warriors, my friends and comrades, the chapel and surrounding forest—everything vanished in the white heat of my ardor and was instantly forgotten. It was as if a dull, thick fog descended over the world, blotting out everything but Morgaws and my aching need; nothing else existed, nothing else mattered. Only Morgaws and I remained, only we two, a man and a woman. One look at the hunger burning in her eyes, and I knew she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

  “Come to me, my love. Take me, lie with me—make love to me. I want you, Gwalchavad. Come to me.”

  I stepped nearer, my breath coming in raking gasps, desire making me weak. I could feel the last restraining cords of will dissolving.

  Morgaws smiled knowingly. Her lips parted as she put her head back to allow me to kiss her throat. At the same time, she opened her robe so that I could admire her body. I saw the white, white skin and her gently rounded thighs and rose-tipped breasts; I saw the welcome in her eyes and the temptation of those half-parted lips, and wanted so much to taste the sweetness there.

  “Gwalchavad,” she said, closing the distance between us with a swaying step. “Take me.” Her voice was husky with longing, and she moaned with pleasure as she pressed her body against mine. I felt her hands on mine, pulling me nearer. “The Grail, my love,” she whispered, her breath hot in my ear. “Give me the Grail and I am yours….”

  Jesu save me, I turned and started towards the chapel, intent on fetching the Grail and yielding it up to her. But as I turned, the gleam of gold caught my eye—Caledvwlch, clutched tight in Bors’ fist—and I heard again the Grail Maiden’s admonition to cling to the Sword of Salvation. I heard her solemn warning: Lusting after honor, he was bewitched by one who honors only lust and lies. Thus are the mighty undone.

  “Bring me the cup,” Morgaws said, subtle insistence rising in her voice. She stepped nearer. “Give it me, and I will be yours, my love, forever.”

  “No,” I said, and the sound of my voice was harsh in my ears. “I am sworn to guard the cup.”

  “The Grail,” Morgaws moaned, rubbing her body against mine. “I am yours, Gwalchavad. Take me now.”

  I felt her touch hot on my skin as she raised my hand to her mouth. “I want you,” she whispered, bending her head towards my hand. I saw her lips draw away from her fine white teeth as she prepared to bite.

  I jerked my hand away, as if from a serpent. This angered her. “Gwalchavad!” she said sternly. “You will give me the cup.”

  Confusion assaulted me. Morgaws’ voice boomed inside my head, urgent and insistent. The Grail! Give me the Grail!

  “No,” I said, shaken, confused.

  “Maggot!” Morgaws advanced, her presence over-powering. “I killed all the rest, and I will kill you, too. For the last time, bring me the cup.”

  “No,” I said, forcing strength into my voice. “I will not.”

  She turned on her heel and moved to where Llenlleawg stood, spear in hand, watching the proceedings with a hostile eye. “They have the Grail, my darling,” she said, her voice softly cozening once more. “Kill them, and it is ours. We can rule forever, you and I.”

  Llenlleawg’s gaze shifted from me to Morgaws. I saw him glance down the length of her body, and an expression of loathing appeared on his face. “You said you loved me,” he rasped in a voice so tight he could hardly force out the words.

  “The Grail,” she whispered, moving closer. “They have the cup, my love. Kill them and it will be ours!”

  Llenlleawg’s jaw tensed and he turned his face once more towards me. Morgaws lifted her hand to his cheek and put her face close to his. She whispered something to him, and pressed herself against him. I saw Llenlleawg’s free hand come around behind her to gather her into his embrace as her lips parted in a kiss. Llenlleawg’s hand moved up from her waist to her shoulders and was lost in the snaking tresses of her hair.

  Morgaws kissed Llenlleawg again and, still clinging to him, turned her face towards me, her expression haughty, exulting in triumph. “Kill them, my lo—” she began, but never finished, for suddenly her head snapped back sharply.

  She made to cry out, but Llenlleawg tightened his grip on her hair and pulled her head back still further. The scream stuck in her throat. Her eyes bulged in terror as Llenlleawg put his lips to her pale cheek.

  “Farewell, my love,” he growled, then jerked her head sharply back and to the side. The bones of her slender neck snapped with a meaty crack and Morgaws fell dead to the ground.

  The next thing I heard was a queer, hushed clatter. In the same instant, the entrancing fog vanished from my head and I raised my gaze from Morgaws’ corpse to see a thousand spears swinging level.

  Then Dread Morgian’s dark minions attacked.

  Chapter Forty

  “Cut me free!” cried Arthur, struggling to his feet.

  I staggered towards him, amazed that I could move again.

  “Hurry, Gwalchavad!” Behind him, I glimpsed Morgian’s massed battlehost surging to the attack.

  There was no shout of command, no battle cry. One moment they were standing at the ready, and the next they were in motion, swarming down upon us.

  “Gwalchavad!” cried the Pendragon, holding out his chained hands. “For the love of God, man, cut me free!”

  I was beside him in an instant. Raising the sword, I took careful aim, and brought the blade down sharply. The blow made not the slightest mark on the chain. I tried again, and yet once more—with no greater success than before—and then the enemy was upon us.

  Turning to meet the attack, I put myself between the king and the onrushing foe, and shouted for the others to join me. “Bors! Gereint!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Bors as he raced to take his place at my right hand. Expecting Gereint on my left, I turned, and when I did not see him, I shouted for him. He did not answer.

  “Gereint!” I cried again.

  “Here I am!”

  I heard his voice behind me as he dashed for his place on my left. He came up with me, but did not stop. Instead, he raced on ahead. I saw a flash of gold in his hands as he blew past.

  “He has the Grail!” Bors shouted.

  Gereint, holding the Blessed Cup between his hands, ran to meet the foe alone. Lofting the Sacred Bowl, he cried, “In the name of Christ Jesu,” he shouted, “be gone!”

  Confusion descended upon the onrushing host. The foremost ranks halted in mid-step and fell back. Those behind kept coming, trampling the leaders underfoot before they could halt themselves.

  The young warrior, defiant and unafraid, stood in the midst of the chaos. “In the name of the Father God, the Blessed Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Gereint shouted again, “I command you to leave this place. Return to Hell!”

  All at once there arose the sound of a thousand wings taking flight, and the enemy host flew. They appeared to shrivel and diminish, wrinkling and shrinking like the flesh of rotten fruit in the sun. Even as we stood looking on, they became no more than husks of grain, brittle and dry, and though there was no wind, th
ey appeared to rise up into the air as if scattering and dispersing before a mighty gale. The power that had called them and sustained them was broken, and now they fled, away from the realm of light and life, and back to the nameless pit from which they had been summoned.

  Spinning and tumbling into the void, the last of them disappeared and they were no more. A great peal of thunder broke over us and I looked up to see the leaden vault of the sky crack open and a single shaft of light stabbed down into the gloom of the forest. Like a spear thrown from on high, the beam struck the chapel, transforming the stone to silver, dazzling our light-starved eyes. In the same moment a scream pierced the air high above us—a wounded cry, dying away even as it was born. Myrddin lifted his head at the sound and said, “Morgian is defeated.” His voice sounded tired and old, but the light in his eye was undimmed. “We have driven her back to her darksome lair and, God willing, she will not trouble us again for a very long time.”

  The thunder cracked once more and I felt something wet on my face. “It is raining!” someone shouted, and as the word was uttered, the heavens opened and down poured the precious water. The blessed rain fell from the sky, striking down through the empty air to bathe the long-parched earth.

  We raised our faces to the glorious water and drank it down. “The chains—” called Gwenhwyvar, holding up her hands, “I am free!” Myrddin and Arthur held out their hands, and Rhys and Peredur. As with Gwenhwyvar, wherever the rain touched the links, the chains parted and the pieces fell to the ground, the shattered links melting like ice.

  Standing in the rain beneath that low, leaden sky, I looked around and understood that we alone had survived; of all the multitude, only we were left: Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, Bors, Gereint, Peredur, Rhys, Myrddin and me, and, alas, Llenlleawg. Dazed and bewildered, we all gazed at one another, trying to comprehend our miraculous survival.

  Arthur moved to where Bors and Gereint and I stood. Falling to one knee, he put Caledvwlch point downward on the ground and held the bare blade in both hands. Then, as if swearing a solemn oath upon the Holy Cross, he said, “Most noble friends, I owe you my kingdom and my life. No king was ever served by more loyal and honorable men, and no king was ever more aware of his failing. I beg your forgiveness, and offer my pledge, as I would offer it to Jesu himself, that I will never forget the debt of gratitude and honor that I, and all Britain, owe you.”