Pendragon's Heir

by Suzannah Rowntree

  “I suppose you had better,” said Blanche, for she could think of nothing else to say. But if the fire brigade came at once, would Perceval have time to deal with the giant? “Wait,” she called after him. “The horses! They are still in the stables! If the fire spreads—”

  John and Keats set off for the stables.

  “Miss, miss,” gasped the cook, fighting the shawl she’d snatched to wrap around her, “Mr Perceval—he’s not here.”

  Blanche looked at her, trying to think of something to say.

  “He must be still in the house,” said Daisy.

  “I’ll fetch him,” the cook volunteered.

  “No! You mustn’t!” Blanche put her hands to her head. She could not tell them to sit back and watch the house burn down with someone still inside. And she certainly could not send anyone in after him.

  There was only one thing to do.

  “I’ll go in and find him.”

  “No, don’t!” sobbed Daisy. “I’ll run for Mr Keats.”

  “Don’t move,” said Blanche, and turned the full force of her look on the housemaid; to her surprise, Daisy shrank back, looking almost frightened. But they had to obey her now; it was desperately important, and she had nothing but her voice and her eyes. She stiffened from crown to heel and said: “Listen, all of you. Stay here. I will fetch my cousin.”

  “But—” the cook protested.

  “You can’t. Not with the smoke, and your bronchitis. Quiet! You will obey me.”

  She had never spoken like this before. They stared at her dazedly, but they neither moved nor objected. She fixed them with one last glare, then turned and ran through the gale to the house. Her thoughts thrummed to the time of her feet:

  “I must make a plan. I must make a plan.”

  PERCEVAL GROANED AND COUGHED, FLUNG OFF the flaming waste which had followed him into the depths, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked around. The floor of Blanche’s room, once it collapsed, had dropped them among fiery wreckage into the library, and the bookshelves had blossomed into flame.

  He was in poor case. His armour still kept him whole, but his right hand was scorched and the smell of singed hair, as well as improved visibility, told that his helm was gone. There was blood and smoke stinging his eyes; he rubbed and blinked the tears away.

  Over in the corner, the colossal enemy reared to his knees and glanced around. Perceval, still shaking, lifted his shield, but the giant ignored him, climbed to his feet, and swung his axe at the wall.

  Blanchefleur was the true quarry, and if that wall gave way the giant would be out of the house, free to move, able to snatch her and crush her in a moment. Perceval howled and lunged. The giant waited for him to come in range, then swung an iron fist. Perceval ducked to the floor, came up and jumped. The giant’s armour was crude mail; there would be a chink somewhere. He clung to the massive body for only half a second before being brushed off, but in that half-second he stabbed deep into the giant’s armpit. There was a bellowing roar and a shake that sent him tumbling across the room. The giant lifted his axe again.

  Perceval was up and out of the way in the nick of time. Again he dashed in close, within the giant’s reach, and circled round, drawing his poniard in his left hand. The long, slender knife, he hoped, would do the trick; he waited for the giant to straighten a little to turn, and then he plunged the blade screeching between the chain links of the creature’s mail, into the back of the knee.

  The giant bellowed again and his leg snapped shut with a convulsive kick, trapping Perceval’s left hand in the hinge of the knee. He felt the bones in his hand grinding together and then the knee opened. He left the poniard wedged into the giant’s mail and slithered to the ground.

  So the enemy was crippled now, but savagely angry. Perceval snatched up his sword from the floor and ran into the corridor.

  INSIDE THE HOUSE BLANCHE HEARD WUTHERING wind, roaring fire and the commotion of battle mixed into a thunderous symphony. Heavy smoke and flakes of paper gusted on the air.

  In the hall she put her hands to her head and tried to think. Perceval had smashed her lamp and set fire to her room, either to help him defeat the giant or to destroy all signs of the fight. Did he have a plan beyond survival? Blanche looked up at the wardrobe which led to Carbonek. On the other side of that door was safety and shelter and the Holy Grail. She dashed to it and pulled at the handle. Locked, and Perceval had the—elf-key, as he called it. Desperate, Blanche snatched up a letter-opener lying on the side-table by the front door. It only took her a moment to slide back the tongue of the lock and fling the door open.

  Beyond hope she saw two narrow walls of rock running away into the darkness. There was a puff of cold, fresh air and the scent of earth. She could run away and be at Carbonek long before morning; it was only a short scramble down the rocks. Perceval would deal with the giant and, if he survived, be collected by Sir Ector and Nerys when they came.

  She put a foot inside the wardrobe, onto the path. It flashed into her mind that Carbonek had a will of its own: it seemed not to need keys or even doors, it had yielded gracefully to a lock picked with a letter-opener—it wanted her, and its goodwill leapt toward her through the dark.

  Yet still she hesitated. Then a flake of burning wallpaper drifted down from the upper landing, and the hall-carpet smouldered where it fell. Blanche peered up through the murk to see a flicker of red at the top of the stairs. Then there was another crash, and the house shook.

  She found herself standing motionless, listening and waiting for the next sound. Was he still alive? There came a muffled bellow from the corridor that led down to the library. Yes. Blanche took one more longing look at the dark cleft inside the wardrobe and pushed the door to, propping it open with the paper-knife. Carbonek could wait for Perceval.

  Blanche wrapped her cloak more closely around her, crossed the hall and stepped into the corridor, full of thick choking smoke with a dull yellow glow at the end. She felt the house trembling around her with a succession of thumps. Then out of the halo of smoke Perceval appeared, running toward her. He had lost his helm, his surcoat was scorched and tattered, and his face was covered in soot.

  He skidded to a stop when he saw her and almost stumbled into her arms. At the same moment, the library exploded into the corridor with an ear-shattering crash and a tide of wind and fire, and Perceval, regaining his feet, shouted, “Get out!”

  He turned to face the giant. The massive enemy crawled into the passage, reaching out his hand, while the flaming walls groaned around his shoulders.

  Perceval tightened his two-handed grip on his sword, hefted it to his shoulder, and ran. The outstretched hand snatched at him, but he swerved to one side and skidded under it on his knees. A look of foolish surprise crossed the giant’s face as he realised that he had missed his tiny foe. Then Perceval plunged his blade into one stupefied eye.

  All this had barely taken a few moments, and Blanche had not stirred. Thus she saw the death of the giant: a spurt of blood, the eyeball tumbling out, and the final, desperate struggle as it died.

  Perceval wrenched his sword back and came reeling up the corridor to Blanche, scarcely evading the thrashing arm which tore through the walls and flung the fire further. Blanche stepped forward and caught him just as his knees buckled.

  “Stand, sir,” she commanded. “The house is falling. We must go.”

  They staggered out into the hall. There was fire here now, too, and Blanche, treading with thin slippers, sucked in her breath as something seared her foot. Perceval hardly seemed conscious and she had almost his full weight to bear. A short dash through the flames would take them to the wardrobe. Blanche hesitated, coughing, balancing on her unburned foot, trying to blink back the tears of pain. Then, just as she gathered herself to stagger forward, a sconce which hung from the high ceiling above fell crashing to the floor, followed within a heartbeat by the beam it hung from. The way was blocked.

  Blanche cast one last despairing look at the wardrobe, bar
ely visible through flame and smoke, then pulled Perceval’s arm around her neck and half-dragged him a step or two to the back door. She fumbled with the latch. Then the door banged open, driven by the wind, and she staggered down the steps and into the garden.

  In the biting gale, Perceval revived somewhat. “Further,” he rasped. “Into the orchard.”

  They fell to the ground at last beneath a pear-tree, in grass wet with dew. Perceval groaned in pain as he relaxed. Blanche leaned back against the tree and gasped for breath. Here, at the foot of the rise behind the house, they were just high enough to see the whole place wrapped in flames, and the hills lit up with a lurid light.

  “My home,” she said. “And our door back to Logres!”

  Perceval grunted in reply. Pain stabbed through Blanche’s foot like a reminder and she turned to him in concern. “Are you badly hurt?”

  He grinned. “I don’t know.”

  Blanche clutched her hair. “Oh, what are we going to do? The wardrobe is gone and I can’t imagine how I shall explain you to the servants.”

  “I still have the key,” Perceval muttered. Then something caught his attention. He struggled to his elbow and said, “Hark!”

  It was a low rumble, shivering up from the ground. Blanche froze. Then, with a rolling, thunderous crash, the house collapsed. Yellow and scarlet flames shot up into the sky, illuminating everything. A moment later, when the glare died down somewhat, Blanche could see the little huddle of servants on the front lawn. There were John and Keats, holding the horses; there was Cook, fallen to her knees with her handkerchief to her mouth, and Lucy and Daisy clinging to each other in terror.

  “They think we are dead,” said Perceval, and fell back with a sigh. Blanche went to rise, but he raised his hand. “No,” he said. “More trouble may come. Wait.”

  He fumbled for his sword, trying to wipe the blood off onto the grass. Blanche, seeing how it hurt him to move, said, “Let me.” She cleaned the long blade gingerly, then slid it back into the scabbard.

  “Let me see your hands,” she told him, and eased the gauntlets off. His left hand was bruised and swollen from being caught in the giant’s knee, and his right hand was burned shiny red through the tattered glove. “Oh, dear.”

  “The rest of me isn’t much better,” he said cheerfully.

  “I haven’t even ointment to put on the burns,” Blanche sighed. She took a handkerchief from her cloak’s pocket and dabbed at a welt on the side of his head. “Oh—that’s nasty.”

  “It hurts.” He twisted his head and grinned up at her.

  “Oh, you’re enjoying this,” she groaned, blushing.

  He gestured to hands and head, looking innocent. “What, this?”

  She laughed, but a moment later she bent and kissed his forehead. “Thank you. Again.”

  Perceval cocked his head to look up at her, but then, on the wind, they heard the beat of galloping hooves. Instantly he struggled to his feet, gripping his sword. “Someone’s coming.”

  The hooves rushed closer, as if blown on the wind. Through the shadowy orchard the fire’s red glare struck glittering off mail. Then they saw the rider more clearly—a knight, sitting an outstretched white horse easily with slackened reins, his flashing sword whistling in the wind. Perceval snatched his own blade out of the sheath, but the knight had already reined in, throwing his horse into a sliding stop and coming to a dead halt within inches of Perceval’s trembling swordpoint.

  Spatters of mud settled back into the grass. With a titanic surge the horse regained its feet. The knight snatched off his helm and Blanche said in a voice that was half a sob:

  “Sir Ector!”

  Her guardian wiped his bloody sword against the saddle-blanket and shot it back into the sheath. “Blanche, my dear. Thank God we are not too late.”

  For the first time, Blanche saw two women who followed the knight and checked their horses more slowly. Nerys was one of them. The other, she guessed, must be the famous Nimue.

  This was the one who spoke. “What happened here, sir?” she said, addressing Perceval.

  “The servants think we are dead,” he said. With the coming of their friends all the tight-wound vigilance had gone out of him, and his words slurred and stumbled against each other in weariness. “It was a giant. I don’t know who sent him. He sleeps yonder,” and he pointed to the flaming wreck of the house.

  Sir Ector slid off Malaventure and gathered Blanche into his arm. “Well done,” he said.

  Perceval bowed his head. “What now? The servants have our horses. And I think you too have been hard-pressed.”

  Nimue said: “We were followed from Camelot, God knows how, for only the Council knew our errand. We went out of our way to shake them off, but Morgan and her men surprised us when I had opened the gate.”

  “Was there a fight?”

  “For a while,” rumbled Sir Ector, and Blanche shuddered at the fearful light in his eyes. “But her giant passed us easily enough.”

  “We put the others to flight and hastened through. The door is still open for us to return. As for the horses—” and Nimue put her hands to her mouth and sent a whisper into the wind. There was an answering whinny from the front lawn, a rush of hooves, and helpless gesticulations from the coachman’s little black figure. A moment later, Rufus and Florence stood panting before them.

  “Let us go,” said Nimue.

  In the sudden silence that followed the Lady’s words Blanche glanced up to see that all of them had, almost involuntarily, turned to look at her. It took a moment for her to remember that she had once insisted on staying. A wry smile cracked the hot tight skin of her face.

  “Yes, let’s go,” Blanche said.

  14

  Impious war in Heaven and battle proud,

  With vain attempt.

  Milton

  IN A RUSH OF COLD AIR Blanche saw huddled bodies on the ground, saw the glimmer of dawning light off broken spears and discarded shields, and felt Florence rise beneath her and fly smoothly over the heaped ruin of a dead horse. Before she could turn her head away, or close her eyes to block out that horrible sight, the forest swallowed them and flowed away to the south.

  They were galloping much too fast for her comfort. Her burned foot throbbed in the stirrup. Blanche let the reins fall slack in her hands and curled white-knuckled fingers around her saddle-horn. Next to her, riding bareback with the wind in her hair, Nerys somehow sat straight and smiling. To her, this was a homecoming. To Blanche, it felt more like going into exile.

  After half a mile Sir Ector, in the lead on the flying Malaventure, slackened the horses into a rolling canter which lasted until the sun rose above the treetops, flooding the forest with wintry light.

  In a sheltered glade at the head of a valley where a little dark spring welled from the ground and rushed down the hill, Sir Ector pulled Malaventure to a standstill, craning in his saddle to look back the way they had come, lifting a hand for silence. They listened to the dawn.

  No pursuit came to their ears.

  Sir Ector nodded and dismounted. “We are safe here for a moment. Let us take counsel.”

  Blanche glanced around at her companions. Nimue urged forward to speak to Sir Ector. Nerys smiled at Blanche, as sunny as the morning itself, then winced as she slid to the ground. She had transferred her saddle to Florence for Blanche’s use, and the long bareback canter had taken its toll. Perceval climbed stiffly off Rufus and fell to his knees by the water’s edge, hesitating a moment before plunging his whole head into the icy stream.

  Blanche slid her injured foot out of the stirrup and dismounted gingerly, trying not to put weight on the burn. She limped toward Nerys. “Where are we going?”

  A rare delight flickered in the fay’s eyes. “To Carbonek.”

  Blanche glanced at Sir Ector and Lady Nimue as they exchanged hurried words with frosty puffs of breath. Then Sir Ector called to the others:

  “Here we part: the damsel Blanchefleur is called to Carbonek.”
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br />   Perceval reared up, flinging drops of water from his head. “Carbonek! There is no place I had rather see.”

  “Nor I,” said Sir Ector. “But only the damsel Blanchefleur is called there, and only the called will find it.”

  Perceval said, “She will need an escort. Protection.”

  “Only the called.” A smile flickered in his eyes. “Were I the Knight of Wales, I would go in quest of a herbalist and a warm bed.”

  Perceval grimaced. The Lady of the Lake said: “Nerys will go with the Grail Maiden. We others have our own tasks to accomplish. The Queen of Gore’s rift must be mended again. And one must take word to Camelot that the damsel Blanchefleur is in Logres.”

  “There is your work, if you will have it,” said Sir Ector. “But first we will rest and eat.” And he led Malaventure to the water.

  The food was plain and tough—hard bannocks, a battered cheese, and strips of dried venison washed down with water. They ate without fire or warmth, sitting on the bare stones by the spring. Then, as Nerys filled the water-bottles and divided their remaining food between the two parties, Blanche moved over to Perceval.

  “Well, I suppose this is goodbye,” she said, making a shield of her light and careless voice. “Thanks again for everything, Percy.”

  He laughed and groaned. “Call me anything, but not that. …So I cannot follow you to Carbonek.”

  “Believe me, you’re welcome to go in my stead.”

  “Oh, I would make but a poor Grail Maiden, damsel. Well, I will get myself to a sickbed, where if you come running to me for help I shall turn over and go back to sleep. So keep clear of trouble.”

  “I’ll try.” She wove her fingers together and wondered how she would survive in this place without him. “I don’t like to get into trouble, you know. Or to be any inconvenience to anyone.”

  He laughed at her. “I tease! Lady, you carried yourself tonight like the true heir of Logres. Any king might be proud to call you his daughter. Any prince might be glad to win you for his wife. A plain knight may serve you for the moment, and consider himself raised by the honour.”