Grail

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Arthur stared hard at Myrddin. “It can wait,” he growled at last. “We have more important affairs before us—or have you forgotten?”

  Impatient and angry though he was, he should not have said that last. “Do I weary you with my prattling?” Myrddin demanded tartly. Drawing himself up full height, he took breath and let fly. “I am a True Bard,” he said, his voice a very lash. “If I speak, know that it is worthy of your regard, O Lofty King. Question me, if you will, but doubt me at your peril.”

  “Peace, Myrddin,” Arthur grumbled. “I meant no disrespect.”

  But the Wise Emrys would not be appeased so easily. “While you have been busy with your grand and glorious schemes, the secret enemy has quietly invaded the innermost treasure-room of your stronghold. Find Morgaws and you will find the Grail.”

  Arthur gazed grudgingly at his counselor—as if trying to weigh the implications of his next decision. “Ready the Dragon Flight,” he said at last.

  Bedwyr remained unconvinced. “Do you think Rhys and I would have returned so soon if we had found anything? With so many people coming and going in the last days, it was impossible to see anything.”

  “Might it be possible you were looking in the wrong place?” inquired Myrddin smoothly.

  Bedwyr opened his mouth to protest, then clamped it promptly shut. He knew better than to argue with Myrddin when the Wise Emrys was in a mood to cross swords. Thus, we were very soon riding out from the Tor in force. At my suggestion, the king agreed to allow Peredur to lead the search. I knew and valued the young warrior’s abilities as a tracker, and he was eager to be of service.

  The day was no longer fresh when we set out, but our hopes were kindled when, upon reaching the lakeside, we found the tracks of one unshod horse leading away west. All of Arthur’s horses are iron-shod, of course, and so are Avallach’s. “It might be Morgaws’ mount,” suggested Peredur doubtfully. “Then again, there have been many visitors to the Tor of late. It could be any one of them.”

  “True,” Myrddin allowed, “but did any of the visitors ride west in the last day or so? Can anyone say that they saw anyone riding alone?”

  That was good enough for Arthur. “Let us see where this leads. We will quickly discover whether we have made an error.”

  Well, the trail was good to begin with, and we flew along the wooded pathways, confidence growing through the day, only to be cast down abruptly when it ceased. I do not mean that we merely lost the trail, for we did not: the tracks—those of a lone horse and rider—led us all the way around the lake, thereby avoiding the abbey, and then bent towards Shrine Hill. According to the tale of the tracks, the rider came within sight of the Grail Shrine but did not approach, paused, then moved off at speed east, in the direction of the wood.

  We followed the trail without the slightest difficulty; the tracks were good and the dry ground took a ready impression. Eventually, the trail came to a small clearing in the wood where stood a stone; there the rider had stopped.

  “It appears she met someone here, lord,” Peredur said, rising from his examination of the tracks. Even without dismounting, I could see the place where two other horses had stood, chafing the dry earth here and there with impatient hooves. “They rode on that way.” Peredur pointed into the trees on the opposite side of the clearing.

  We resumed our pursuit, but not for long; at the other side of the clearing—no more than two or three hundred paces away—the hoofprints of the three horses simply and suddenly stopped. The marks were there in the dust for everyone to see, and then they were gone.

  “It appears they have vanished between one step and the next,” Bedwyr observed, pressing a fingertip into the last print. Not trusting completely to his eyes—less yet to Peredur’s or anyone else’s—Bedwyr had dismounted for a closer look, and now turned from his scrutiny of the prints in the dirt to regard the jagged circle of sky showing through the close-woven branches above. The short day was far gone, the wan light already fading.

  Meanwhile, Cai had carried the search farther along the trail, and some others had quickly scoured the perimeter. Finding nothing, they all returned to await the Pendragon’s pleasure.

  “What would you have us do, lord?” asked Bors. Arthur stared at the broken trail and said nothing, so we fell to discussing what, in view of this unhelpful discovery, might be the best course.

  In the end, it was decided that Rhys and Cador would continue the search with Peredur and a company of men; the rest of us would return to Ynys Avallach—which we did, reaching the Tor long after dark, having ridden in dejected silence all the way back.

  Nothing had happened in our absence: the dead were still dead, the Grail was still gone, Llenlleawg had not returned to explain his behavior, nor had Morgaws been seen. Neither had Gwenhwyvar returned to welcome the search party and tell us we had worried for nothing, that all was well. Exhausted and edgy, we stared blear-eyed at the prospect of another long, hopeless night, and an endless succession of hopeless days to follow.

  Thoroughly dejected, we dragged ourselves to the hall to get a bite to eat and a drink, and to rest ourselves from our strenuous, if futile, exertions. More disturbing news awaited us there, however. We entered to find the great room empty save for one of Avallach’s servants, who approached us the instant we crossed the threshold, greeted the High King, and said, “If you please, lord, I have been instructed to tell you that Lord Avallach and Lady Charis have left the palace and returned to work with the good brothers at Londinium. They wish you God’s aid in your search.”

  Arthur stiffened. “I see,” he said. “Was there anything else?”

  “No, lord,” the steward replied. “That is all I was to say.”

  While some might have considered this circumstance a blessing in disguise—after all, facing a still-angry Avallach would not have been the most pleasant end to a day already rich with disaster—Arthur took it hard. “I am disgraced,” he murmured, then, remembering himself, dismissed the servant with a command to bring some food and drink for his men.

  We collapsed onto the nearby benches, a sorry-looking group once more. The only good that could be said of this day was that it was soon to end. Well, it could not end soon enough for me. Even so, too tired to eat and too disheartened to sleep, we prolonged the torment; we sat like gloomy lumps on the bench, clenching our cups in unfeeling hands, the bread tasteless in our mouths, each one nursing his disappointment as best he could.

  Bors made a halfhearted attempt at lightening the desultory mood with a tale about a hunt in Benowyc. When the effort failed, he dragged himself away to sleep. Bedwyr followed soon after, leaving only Cai, Myrddin, and myself to sit with the king.

  After a while, Myrddin rose, drained his cup, and said, “This avails nothing,” he said. “Tomorrow’s troubles can wait until tomorrow. Rest while you can.”

  With that he left, and Cai and I stood to go, too, but hesitated when Arthur made no move. Cai sat down once more. “Go on,” he whispered to me. “I will see him to his bed when he is ready.”

  I did not like leaving them like that, but I was swaying on my feet and could not keep my eyes open any longer. “Very well,” I said, relenting. “Only see to it that you both get some sleep.”

  “Oh, aye,” agreed Cai, turning his gaze to the dejected king. “Soon.”

  I have no doubt they sat there all night, for Cai was red-eyed and irritable the following day, and the Pendragon’s disposition had not improved. Nor did the morning light serve to brighten our circumstances.

  The day ended in dismal waiting, Arthur’s spirits sinking ever lower with the slow, relentless arc of the sun. He fretted and fumed, chafing at the tedium, and then, as the long shadows stretched across the yard, subsided into a wretched silence.

  “Cador and Rhys had better appear tomorrow,” muttered Bedwyr as we abandoned the vigil for the night, leaving the king to his misery. But they did not return, and Bedwyr, refusing to endure a third endless day of anxious inaction, took six Cymbrogi and
rode out to see what he might find.

  He returned at dusk, having done nothing more useful than tire seven horses. Finally, toward evening of the following day, Cador appeared, alone, with ill tidings on his lips.

  “We searched in all possible directions,” Cador informed us, his clothes begrimed, his face gray with fatigue, “and could not raise the trail again. But Peredur found this—” He put his hand to his belt and withdrew a circlet of silver.

  In our eagerness we all gathered close for a better look, and I saw, on Cador’s extended palm, a silver brooch of the kind used to fasten a cloak. The metal had been worked into the shape of a torc, with two small rubies at the ends. The pin was missing and the brooch was bent— as if a horse had stepped on it—but still it was a handsome piece, no doubt belonging to a man or woman of noble rank. I had never seen it before—at least not that I could remember.

  But Myrddin took one look and almost swooned. His knees buckled and Cai took him by the shoulders and bore him up. “Emrys, are you well? Here, sit you down.”

  But Myrddin pushed away from him and staggered forth. “Give it to me!” he shouted, snatching the brooch from Cador’s hand. He studied it closely, then folded his fingers around it and pressed his fist to his forehead. “Great Light!” he groaned. “No…no…no,” he murmured in his anguish. “Not again.”

  We stared at him, apprehensive, uncertain what to do, ignorant still of the trouble. What could he see in this simple ornament?

  “Is it Gwenhwyvar’s?” asked Bors, his voice creaking with apprehension.

  “No,” said Arthur. “It was never Gwenhwyvar’s—or Llenlleawg’s, either.”

  “Then whose?” wondered Cador, as mystified as the rest of us. “I thought it must be—”

  Myrddin gave out a groan. “Ah, fool…” he said, more to himself, I think, than to anyone else. He looked around, his face ashen. “It belonged to Pelleas.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  See, now: the Fisher King had two daughters—Charis, the elder, and Morgian, the younger, by his second wife. There was some trouble between the two daughters—I never learned what it was—but it led Morgian to reject her kinfolk. She left Ynys Avallach long ago and took refuge in the wild north, as far away from Charis and Avallach as possible. In time, she came to the Orcades and, in that clutch of smooth-hilled islands, made for herself a fortress amidst the ancient standing stones and barrows.

  God help me, this selfsame Morgian became my grandfather’s wife. She was not my mother, nor even my father’s mother. Heaven forbid it! Hear me, I am the son of Lot ap Loth, King of Orcady. My father rode with Arthur against the Saecsens and Vandali. Let all men remember that. It was my grandfather’s misfortune to fall prey to Morgian’s lust for power. He was a king, and she wanted a kingdom. The match was set before anyone knew the danger.

  Poor Loth, in his dotage, imagined himself a lord of vast wealth and influence, and she was very beautiful. Some say that even then she was a canny sorceress, and laid an enchantment on my grandfather. Under the sway of Morgian’s corrosive influence, he believed Lot, his loyal son, plotted to steal his throne. He harried my father and tried to kill him, but Lot escaped with most of the warband, and established himself on one of Orcady’s many unassailable rocks. Gwalcmai and I were raised there, coming south to serve with Duke Arthur. No more than boys, my brother and I, and Arthur no older; we were among the first of the young war leader’s Cymbrogi.

  I have no doubt that it was Morgian who had turned Loth against Arthur in the end, but, true lord that he was, Arthur never counted our kinsman’s rebellious ways against us. Still, the infamy is never far from me—every time I take the field, it is to restore some luster to our tarnished name. The Good Lord willing, we may yet be remembered as something other than the twin grandsons of wayward Loth, the mad king who made wicked Morgian his queen.

  In the years we were fighting for our lives, Morgian delved deep into the Dark Arts that now ruled her. Myrddin says she has been consumed by the power she sought to command. Evil, he says, cannot rest and is never satisfied; it is a guest that always devours its host, a weapon that wounds all who would wield it. And Myrddin should know: he faced her and defeated her; she fled the field, her precious power shattered, her sorcery overthrown.

  That victory did not come without a price, however; it cost Myrddin his eyesight and his closest friend. When Myrddin rode out to confront Morgian, he went alone. Pelleas, Myrddin’s faithful friend and servant, feared for his master and followed. Alas, Pelleas has never been seen again, nor his body ever found. In all the world, there is only one person who knows what happened to Pelleas, and that person left Pelleas’ brooch behind.

  “You ask what this means!” said Myrddin Emrys, clutching the silver brooch. “Do you not know the darkness of the tomb when you see it? Do you wake in the night and think it bright day?”

  He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, and stared around him with wild eyes.

  “Calm yourself, Myrddin,” said Bors, attempting to soothe. “We do not understand.”

  “Death and darkness!” he said, his voice raw in its torment. “Morgian has returned!”

  “Morgian!” whispered Bedwyr.

  At the sound of her name, the hairs on my neck prickled and my mouth grew dry.

  Myrddin, his face ashen, his hands shaking, swept from the chamber, leaving us stunned and bewildered. As soon as he had gone, everyone began talking at once. Most knew something of the Queen of Air and Darkness—aside from Myrddin, I think Bedwyr and I knew her best—but Bors knew her not at all. He pulled me aside and said, “This Morgian—she and Morgaws are the same, yes?”

  “No,” I answered, but in my heart I wondered: was it possible? Had Morgian taken the shape of Morgaws? I shuddered at the thought.

  “But you know her?” he persisted. “Who is she that she wields such power?”

  “She is a sorceress, and the sworn enemy of the Emrys and all his works,” I told him. “Her powers are as vast as her ways are subtle, she is shrewd and she is cunning, and the Ancient Adversary himself is not more fearful than she.”

  “Myrddin fought her once and nearly lost his life,” Bedwyr informed Bors. “She blinded him and left him for dead. I think if it were not for Pelleas, he would have died.”

  “I remember Pelleas…” Bors said, his voice trailing off.

  “Maybe it is nothing to do with Morgian,” Cai suggested weakly. God love him, if the sea and sky ever changed places, he would be first to question it, and last to believe it.

  I wished I had some of Cai’s dogged obstinance. As hardheaded as he was bighearted, he refused to believe the worst about anyone or anything. But I believed—more the dread—for I had some small experience of Morgian’s powers, and it chilled me to the marrow to think she was somehow involved in the theft of the Grail.

  We fell silent. No one believed Cai was right, but no one had the heart to dispute him, either. After a time, Arthur turned quietly to Cador. “What of Rhys?” he inquired softly.

  The change in the Pendragon astonished me. The fire of his anger had been quenched utterly. Cowed by Myrddin’s revelations, he appeared shaken and defeated.

  “I did not like to keep you waiting any longer,” Cador replied. “I thought best to bring word, but also to begin spreading the search. Rhys and the Cymbrogi are riding to the nearby settlements and holdings to ask their aid.”

  “Soon the whole world will know of my failure,” mused Arthur ruefully. The king dismissed Cador then, charging him to rest and return to the court when he was once more refreshed.

  When Cador had gone, the Pendragon turned to the remaining Grail Guardians and Bors, who had in all respects taken Llenlleawg’s place. “This is what your negligence has wrought,” he said, “the ruin of a kingdom.” He glared around the ring of faces. “If you have anything to say, I beg you say it now, friends. For I tell you the truth, unless the Holy Cup is restored, Britain is lost.”

  We all stared in silence,
loath to make matters worse for saying the wrong thing. Alas, it was true; the Guardians had failed in their sworn duty and now the kingdom was imperiled. Who could answer that?

  Unfortunately, the king read our reticence the wrong way. Taking a step backward, he collapsed into the throne-like chair. It was as if a blow from the flat of a sword had struck him down. “Even my friends desert me,” he groaned. I could but gaze in wretched misery at his anguish now made painfully visible.

  Then, as if to fight the despair that even now ensnared him, the Pendragon heaved himself up once more and stood defiant—a man confronting his accusers. He spoke, and there was fire in his voice. “Every day more and more pilgrims arrive at the shrine, only to find it empty. The word of miracles has gone out: ‘Come!’ they say. ‘Come to the Summer Realm, and there you will see miracles!’ And so the people come expecting a marvel, but instead see only Arthur’s folly.” His grotesque smile was terrible to see. “Ah, perhaps that is the greatest marvel of all: one man’s arrogance and pride transformed into a hollow shell of lifeless stone.”

  He regarded us dully, then flicked a hand at us. “Leave me!”

  No one said a word, and no one moved. “What?” the king demanded. “Are you become stumps? Leave me, I said. Get you from me! I cannot bear the sight of you!”

  Bors, standing with his head down, arms wrapped around himself, made no move. Lost in thought, he seemed no longer to heed anything taking place in this world. But Bedwyr, dour in his silence, turned on his heel and led the retreat, abandoning his king to his misery.

  Oh, it was a hard, hard thing, but what else could we do? With Arthur in this vile humor, there was nothing for it but to quit the chamber. To stay would have served no good purpose. Bedwyr and the others went to the hall, but I could not bring myself to join them.

  I went my way alone, wandering wherever my feet would take me, and soon found myself out on the high parapet above the gate—the inner yard on one side, the sloping hill with its twisting path on the other and the lake beyond. I watched as the dull twilight deepened, and with it a dreary fog rose from the marshes and lake to clothe the Tor in a thick, damp, silent cloak—the silence of the grave, Myrddin would say.