“So ho, a boy.” Gawain cocked an eyebrow. “I wonder if that has anything to do with the old story… Give me your horse, Perceval. I can put him away while you take those flowers inside.”
Sun flooded the great hall of Camelot with midday light, striking sparks from hurrying women in finery and serving-men in refurbished livery. Perceval dumped his mayflower on the Table and jumped aside to avoid a page spreading fresh rushes on the hall’s floor. Fetching up against his own siege, he folded himself into the seat so as to be out of the way as he watched Lynet and her sister hanging the new Pendragon banner on the wall behind Arthur’s chair. Then someone came up with fresh tablecloths, and Perceval vaulted across the Table to avoid her. He landed gently on the rushes inside the Table, opposite his own seat and the Siege Perilous, and turned laughing…
Perceval stopped laughing. The Siege Perilous had been as blank as a practice shield ever since he had first come to Camelot. There were fiery marks on it now, words of gold.
“Lynet,” Perceval called. “You can read.”
She came over and stared at the siege. As the others in the hall crowded around them, Lynet read:
“On the day of Pentecost this seat shall find its master.”
“Call the King,” someone said.
When Arthur came, he stared at the words for a while, and then sent for a cloth of samite. “So the Siege Perilous will be filled at last,” he said. “Let it be veiled until it is claimed.”
When the hall was finished, the doors opened. In came the ninety-nine knights of the Round Table and sat in their ninety-nine seats, each with a name written on it in words of gold, from the King at the head of the Table facing the hall doors, to Sir Bors and Sir Perceval facing him on each side of the shrouded Siege Perilous. In jostled the visitors, the servants, and the people of the town to sit at the four long tables on each side of the hall. Above, the galleries flooded with silk and the laughter of ladies. Perceval looked up and searched for those he knew—his aunt Lynet, Lyones wife of Sir Gaheris, Guimier wife of Sir Caradoc, and the Queen of Logres. A twinge of sorrow struck him for apparently no reason, and it took him a moment to realise that he hoped and half-expected to see his mother there. It was not her face that broke upon him through the rippling colour of the gallery, however; it was Nimue’s, as subtle and secretive as ever, that looked down on him, and bowed in greeting, before turning away again.
Even the Elves had heard of the Grail. Even the Elves had come to see.
Then the food came in, and Perceval gulped as he inhaled the fragrance of boar, beef, venison, pheasant, and game of all kinds cooked in stews, in pies, or roasted. Someone passed him a flagon of wine, and he splashed out a cupful; since the first time he had tasted it, in the pavilion more than a year ago, he had gained the stomach for it. Bread came around next, soft fluffy brown rounds still warm from the oven to serve as plates and soak up gravy. There were apples and carrots, parsnips and onions, whole roasted mushrooms and long strips of crisp smoked bacon, nuts and barley, all mixed together beneath a huge boar stuffed and roasted and propped up on a platter. There was a pie full of mutton, sweetened with plums, nuts, and apples. There were ten enormous wheels of cheese, blue-mottled inside, whose smell failed to fight off the knights gathered to do them injury.
Perceval had no idea how he would even begin to taste everything. But his dilemma was put off. Just as the Bishop rose to say grace, a page ran into the hall waving his cap. “Sire! Sire!” he cried. “Here’s a great marvel!”
After the discovery of the words on the Siege Perilous, Camelot was athirst for any news. A breathless silence fell on the hall. The page skidded to a stop, turning red.
“Will you not come out and see it?”
Then everyone moved, jumping up with a rattle of chairs and following the page outside, down the hill, to the river running around the foot of Camelot-town. In the water below the bridge floated a not-quite-square stone, like the keystone of an arch. A sword had been thrust point-first into the rock. Here it had floated, and here it waited as if to be drawn, bobbing on the current.
Perceval saw the King’s hand go hesitantly to his own sword, Excalibur, then fall back again as Arthur remembered that the sword in the stone which had made him King so many years ago was long broken, and the one he wore now was the gift of the Lake.
The King leaned out over the parapet and read the second prophetic message of the day, chiselled into the stone.
“Never shall I be drawn, but by the best knight of the world.”
By Perceval’s side, Sir Caradoc murmured “What, bar none?”
The King looked up with a smile. “Well, Sir Lancelot. As it appears, someone has sent you another sword.”
Lancelot shook his head. “It was not meant for me, sire.” The King waited for more explanation, but Lancelot bowed his head and stood back.
“Sir Gawain?”
“I fear that only the right owner of this sword will lay hands upon it and escape harm,” said Gawain. “Nevertheless, I will try.” He stepped onto the bridge, leaned over, and knotted his hand around the hilt. Grunting, he drew it up an inch or two—but the stone clung to the blade. Gawain let go and the sword slid, bobbing, back into the water.
The King turned and surveyed the crowd. “Will you try, Sir Perceval?”
“I am sure that this sword was meant for the Grail Knight,” Perceval said. “But I will try if you wish.”
He stepped up beside his father and closed his hand around the hilt. In that moment he wondered, with a sudden thrill, if the sword would move in his hand. But the stone stuck with the sword, and although he put forth all his strength, the further he drew it up the heavier it became, until the pommel slipped through his fingers and the stone splashed back into the river.
“It will not come,” he said, gasping air.
“Then let us wait for the coming of the Grail Knight,” said the King, and they all went back to the feast.
Perceval was settling back into his seat, and the Bishop was just drawing breath, when there was a sound like trumpets, and the doors of the hall slammed open. Some of the knights started to their feet, hands going to swords and daggers. But Perceval grunted in surprise, and glanced up at Bors on the other side of the Siege Perilous. It was the old man they had both seen questing in the night: Naciens, the hermit of Carbonek. He came over the threshold, under the leaping arch of the tall door, leading by the hand a young man of Perceval’s age all clad in red armour, but with an empty scabbard and no shield. In perfect silence the hermit led the young man to the seat by Perceval’s, and drew off the white cloth. And now on the Siege Perilous appeared the words:
“This is the seat of Galahad the High Prince.”
The young knight unclasped the white cloak from his shoulders and laid it over the back of the Siege Perilous as calmly as if it had been any ordinary chair. Then he sat down in it.
Not a breath stirred the silence. A knight of Gaul had sat in that chair once, and been consumed in flames. But nothing happened to the new knight, except that he glanced at Sir Perceval and gave a tight-lipped smile.
Perceval remembered how he had felt when first taking his own seat at the Table of Camelot and thought incredulously: He is shy of us all. He, the best knight of the world.
Then, in the hush, the Bishop of Ergyng saw his chance and took it. “OREMUS! Benedic Domine nos, et haec tua dona, quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi; per Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen.”
That was the signal to begin eating, and the people of Camelot busied themselves with food. Perceval lunged for a pie as it went past and ladled some of it onto his trencher, thinking to give the Grail Knight a few more moments’ grace before the attention of Camelot fixed on him again. He was surprised, then, when the boy said very quietly under the clatter:
“I am Galahad. Have you been a knight of the Table long?”
“A year, more or less,” said Perceval, handing him the pie. Sir Galahad took it from him with pale scholar’s hands, but
Perceval saw dauntless goodwill behind the shyness in the young man’s eyes and felt that here was a courage deeper than lay in his own power. “You are really the Grail Knight? Have you seen it? Is it near?”
Galahad shook his dark head. “No. I have come in quest of it, just like everyone else.”
His smile, something in the set of the teeth and the cock of the head, reminded Perceval of someone he knew. “Were you the boy Sir Lancelot knighted this morning?”
The smile fled. Galahad looked down at his trencher. “Yes, that was I.”
Perceval cried, “He’s your father, surely?”
“Is it so easy to see?”
“Huzzah! I am Perceval, the son of Gawain who is more than a brother to Lancelot. And now let no one marvel at your being the Grail Knight. The best knight of the world could only come from one father.”
At that Galahad looked so uncomfortable that Perceval tried to think of something else to say. “I never knew Sir Lancelot had a wife.”
“He has none,” said Galahad. “I am a bastard.”
He said the word softly, but when he raised his eyes to Perceval they were level, candid, neither bitter nor defensive. Perceval said: “Oh.” After that he could think of nothing to say at all. Only the food no longer smelled as good.
Sir Bors, on the other side of Galahad, claimed the young knight’s attention. Perceval looked around the Table. Sir Gawain was neither talking nor eating; he only sat still with his arms folded, a look of deep joy in his face. The King opposite also seemed to be feasting his soul, not on the food but on a sight never before seen under the high windows of Camelot: one hundred knights, none greater in the world. Was he glad, as Gawain was glad? As Perceval watched, Arthur lifted a hand and passed it across his eyes.
Sir Lancelot, for once, both spoke and laughed as though it was the proudest day of his life. He boasted of his son and Gawain’s, and said that today the keeping of Logres passed into hands mightier than his own. And cleaner, too, Perceval thought with a rush of something that was almost anger.
The Queen had come down from the gallery to speak to those eating at the long tables on each side of the Round Table, and stood with bowed head speaking to the young Bishop of Ergyng. Sir Ector, at the head of one of those tables, sat with chin sunk deeply in hand. Above, in the gallery, the Lady of the Lake had come forward and leaned upon the baluster. Her gaze burned into Galahad’s shoulders next to him, not his own, but Perceval almost flinched back from that white-hot pressure.
When Nimue saw his motion she drew back, veiling her eyes, and turned back into the crowd. But her pale fingers had left dents in the oak baluster.
At last the whole company rose and went down to the water again. There stood Naciens on the bridge with bent head, looking at the marvellous sword. The crowd reached him but did not overwhelm him, standing back as if some instinct warned it of the ancient hermit’s high authority.
Naciens looked up, up the hill. The crowd parted and waited. At last, walking slowly, Galahad came down from the castle between the King and Sir Lancelot. The Grail Knight reached out his hand and took hold of the sword-hilts. Immediately the stone sunk into the water, and Galahad lifted up his sword.
Naciens lifted his hand and said, “This is the sword of Sir Balyn, who struck the Dolorous Stroke. Now it is yours, Sir Galahad. Bear it to good fortune and God’s glory.”
Galahad went down on his knees, and Naciens blessed him. Then the little, bent old man untied his mule from the castle gate and went away. Perceval watched his brown and battered form shamble into the woods, resisting the urge to run after him and offer his protection. Naciens, of all men, did not need it.
Galahad rose to his feet and brushed futilely at the mud on his knees, only succeeding in working it further into the mail he wore. When he looked up, he met Perceval’s eyes and laughed.
Perceval wondered: Where did one learn such humility, not even to resent such wrongs as Galahad had been born to?
The company went back up to the castle. Sir Lancelot called, “A joust!” and others took up the cry—“A joust! Put the new knight to the test!” Perceval lengthened his stride and reached the keep ahead of the main body of the crowd in time to find a pageboy to saddle his horse. Then he dashed up to his room, wrestled into his leather and mail, and came running out again, buckling his sword on over his surcoat as he went.
Most of the knights had gone to arm themselves as well. Only Galahad, who was already armed, stood in the empty Great Hall speaking to the King. Perceval went over to them and the King smiled at him, reached out, and gripped his shoulder.
Perceval said to the Grail Knight: “Will you break a spear with me this day?”
He did not expect Galahad to look down on him from Lancelot’s immense height and say, gently, as if he knew it must disappoint, “Sir, I cannot.”
“No? Well, there are others to fight,” said Perceval, trying not to show how vexed he felt to be denied the honour.
“Not for any lack of love,” Galahad added. “But for the regard in which I hold you, Perceval of Wales.”
Courtesy, Perceval thought, almost in a panic. It would be easier to break a spear. He said, trying to mean it: “Your kindness is better than any fame.” And then, with a rush of more sincere feeling, he added, “I ask your pardon for falling so silent at the Table today when you told me of your birth. It meant no disdain. I can imagine no harder thing befalling a man, than to be cast off by his father.”
“I knew you thought no ill of me,” said Galahad. “And of your kindness, think not much ill of him either. So far as the matter lies between him and me, we have killed and buried it.”
And again, although he searched for it, Perceval saw no trace of bitterness in Galahad’s eyes.
So when Perceval sat by the side of the meadow with the others whom the Grail Knight had refused to joust, Lancelot and Bors, he did so with no shadow of resentment for Galahad’s sake. There was good sport, for Sir Galahad knocked Sir Lamorak, Sir Gareth, and Sir Tristan off their horses in quick succession. Perceval whistled as Gaheris went down like a ninepin, and glanced sidelong at Sir Bors. “He strikes like a thunderbolt. And I thought him scholarly!”
The older knight smiled. “I am no longer sorry to be passed over,” he said.
Perceval laughed and remembered the tourney at Carlisle.
After Galahad unhorsed everyone he would agree to fight, however, it was Perceval’s turn to take the field. After a year as a knight, his skill had grown to match the wit, strength, and audacity that had assisted him from the beginning. He went through Sir Tristan, Sir Lionel, Sir Lamorak, and Sir Aglovale almost as easily as Sir Galahad had; only Sir Tristan came close to unhorsing him. He was just leaning down from Rufus to help Gaheris off the ground and shake his hand when the people lining the town walls and the grassy bank above the lists began shouting and cheering in good earnest, and Perceval turned to see Sir Lancelot trotting up.
“May I beg a breaking of lances?” asked the king’s champion.
Perceval agreed and drew back, his stomach suddenly full of March-flies. As he laid his spear in rest, the sickening jolt of his fall at Carlisle came back to his mind. Perceval fought down the nausea and dug resolute spurs into Rufus. If he kept thinking of that, he would have to hang up his shield and take to farming, for his spear would never keep him again… Ahead, Lancelot thundered down on him, and then there was the familiar double shock, and with some resignation he went rolling through the green grass of summer.
Perceval staggered to his feet, vaguely aware of the crowd’s yelling, and looked around for the victor. But Lancelot was not far away. He, his helm, and his saddle diversely littered the ground. His horse wandered, confused and shocked, on the other side of the lists. Perceval tore off his own helm and went to shake hands.
“Well struck. No, not again: another such fall might cripple me,” Sir Lancelot gasped, and struck Perceval between the shoulder-blades with painful goodwill.
THAT EVENING THE HUND
RED KNIGHTS OF the Round Table gathered in the Great Hall with their guests, and with the last light of the day came the Grail. Late in the afternoon it had begun to rain, and the clouds gathered thick and angry over Camelot, but the wind changed at sunset. There was a great cracking and pealing of thunder, as though Camelot itself was broken and thrown down; then, through the western windows of the hall the sun flickered and gained strength and struck the floor in the midst of the Table’s ring. And there floating in the sunlight was a vision of the Holy Grail, all covered over but burning with unbearable light.
In that marvellous light the knights stirred like sleepers waking. Perceval saw faces turned to him which seemed fairer than mortal flesh, as if remade in some new mould.
A subtle, mazing scent stole through the air, as if all the spices in the world were there. Suddenly—impossible to see how—the table was full of food and drink. And then the wind blew the clouds together, the sun sank, and the vision was gone as quickly and heartbreakingly as it had come.
In the sudden dark, the King drew long breath. “Now,” he said shakily, “let our Lord Jesu be thanked for what we have seen this day!”
The meal was almost done when Sir Gawain rose from his seat.
“Brothers,” he said, “we have eaten of the Grail’s bounty, but it was veiled from us, and not explained. Wherefore I vow that I shall labour in quest of the Holy Grail for a year and a day, or more if necessary, and never shall I drink in any other name than in the Name of that cup until I have seen it more openly. And if I may not prosper, then I will return as one that may not set himself against the will of our Lord Jesu Christ.”
Perceval stood. “And I make the same vow.”
He was followed by a great number of the knights of the Table. But the King buried his face in his hands.
“Alas!” he said. “For all the years we have longed for this day, my heart misgives me at last. Fair nephew, you have well-nigh slain me with this oath. For you have dispersed the fairest fellowship in the world, and where might I find others to take your place?”
Pendragon's Heir Page 20