Kingdom of the Grail

by Judith Tarr

  Charles came to his tent while the water was still steaming hot. He greeted Roland with a swift smile and a raised brow. Roland matched the smile, and bowed. “Your bath, sire,” he said.

  If ever one wanted to betray this man, Roland thought as he bathed the king, he could do it all too easily with the lure of water and cleanliness. Charles naked, alone, unarmed, all at ease in the basin, could die with a single stroke to the heart, and never know what had felled him.

  But then, thought Roland, Charles was never a fool. This was great trust he gave his Companion, such trust as he gave seldom. Roland returned it by refraining from vexing the king while he luxuriated in his bath. When he emerged from it, scrubbed clean and wrapped in a robe of fine silk, he said, “Come, share the luxury. The water’s still warm. I’ll be your servant as you were mine.”

  This was not a choice. It was a test of sorts. Roland acquiesced to it.

  He stripped and stepped into the basin. Charles was a surprisingly good bodyservant: quick, thorough, and not too heavy-handed. Roland let himself melt into the water, and for a little while be all at ease, trusting utterly this man to whom he had sworn his life.

  He might have fallen asleep, had Charles not caught him by the hair and drawn his head back. There was a razor at his throat, light and cold. He smiled into the round blue eyes. So unlike Ganelon’s, those; so clear, and so full of light.

  Charles shaved him adeptly enough, then laid the razor aside. He had drawn no blood. He folded his arms on the basin’s rim and inspected Roland critically. After a moment he nodded. “You’ll do. I’ll lend you a shirt—yours isn’t fit for a dog to roll in.”

  “I’ll be swimming in it,” Roland said drowsily.

  “And wouldn’t it be splendid if we could swim in truth?” said Charles. “Do you know, when I’ve settled the kingdoms, I’ve in mind to find myself a city with baths in it. Roman baths. Or a hot spring, or better yet, both. I’ll make that my city, and live there as much as I can. And every day I’ll swim in the baths.”

  “Aachen,” said Roland.

  Charles blinked. “What?”

  “Aachen,” Roland said. “It’s in the east of Francia. It has baths, and a hot spring. The water is wonderful for the skin, Sister Aude told me once.”

  “I know Aachen,” Charles said. “It’s a pleasant place. And the baths—yes. I remember them. They’re half a ruin now, but they were splendid once.”

  “And can be again,” said Roland.

  “Are you making prophecies?”

  Roland shrugged. The water was cooling fast, but he was too lazy to climb out of it.

  “If I asked, would you?” Charles asked him.

  “Are you asking?”

  Charles paused for a moment as if in thought. Then he said, “No. I think it’s best I not know.”

  “Wise,” said Roland.

  “Not wise,” the king said. “Cowardly. If I knew the worst, I might never lift my head again.”

  “Not you,” Roland said.

  “No,” Charles said. “After all, no. I’d thrash like a gaffed fish, and whatever ill is to come, I’d make it infinitely worse.” He peered into Roland’s face. Whatever he read there did not disturb him unduly. “You didn’t come here to share a bath. Tell me.”

  Roland roused with an effort. He pulled himself out of the water. Charles, still playing the servant, dried him in spite of his protests, for after all it was hardly fitting that a count be waited on by a king.

  “I choose to,” Charles said. “Now stop wriggling and talk. What brings you away from your post?”

  “Suspicions,” Roland said as he submitted to the king’s ministrations. “We’re being watched.”

  Charles nodded. “There are people in these mountains—ancient and secret. Basques, they’re called. They’ll let us pass if we hold to the straight road and offer no threat.”

  “Not Basques,” Roland said, “or not only Basques. There’s something else out there.”

  “An ill thing?”

  “Something I don’t like,” Roland said. “And here in this army—sire, you don’t want to hear it, but there is one who is no friend to you.”

  “That good old man? Still?”

  Charles was more amused than not. Roland was not amused at all. “Consider, sire, why he counsels that the men stay in arms.”

  “The Gascons—”

  “Certainly the Gascons, sire. But what I know of this one who wears the face of a man . . . he bends kings to his will, and seduces their sons. He has a use for this army. What it is, I don’t know. I only know that it will be a weapon in his hand.”

  “That,” said Charles, “is a great leap of unfaith.”

  “It may be nothing,” Roland said. “He may be content with small evils and tiny corruptions. He has a prince in his power—maybe he intends to wield that power long years from now. But he wants this army in Gascony. I would ask why. What use does he think to make of it?”

  “To put down rebels,” Charles said. “To secure my western borders before I cross the heart of Francia.”

  Roland shook his head. He needed words of power and terror, but none would come to him. There was no proof, nothing to point to and say, “This. This is his doing.”

  “I’ll post sentries,” Charles said, “and send out scouts when we march. This country is made for ambush. We’ll avoid it as we can.”

  Roland bowed. “And the other?” he asked, not wisely, but he could not help himself.

  “Find me proof,” said Charles, “and I’ll act on it.”

  That was no more than Roland had ever had, but at least it was no less. Dressed in the borrowed tunic, which fit him not so badly after all—it must have been made for one of the king’s servants—he returned to his post.

  The night was quiet. The watchers had withdrawn, though Roland sensed them still, waiting out the darkness as the army itself did.

  It struck him as he walked, that Charles had said nothing of another stranger who was other than she seemed. Roland’s arms were empty, his heart cold. Sarissa had abandoned him without even a word of farewell. Because of that, he had not wanted to speak of her; it hurt too much.

  No one else had spoken of her, either. It was as if they had forgotten her existence. And that was strange. Very strange, amid so many odd things.

  Yet unlike Ganelon, she bore no ancient evil in her. Roland would have staked his soul on that. Whoever she was, wherever she had gone, she was no servant of the Prince of Darkness.

  CHAPTER 31

  Pepin was not given to listening at tent walls. But he had seen the king’s servants bring in the basin and the water and then depart, and he had seen Roland slip into the tent. With difficulty he extricated himself from a clinging mob of hangers-on. Time was, he thought, when he could slip away whenever he pleased; when no one cared what he did or where he went. He had grown past that, become more princely.

  Prince or no, he could still, when he chose, make himself invisible. He crouched in the shadows and heard what there was to hear. It was not much, but its import struck him as large enough. The king played servant to the Breton count. Roland had Charles in his power—had won him, seduced him.

  Pepin would see to it that the men knew. They had quieted overmuch since Saragossa; there had been too little hatred in them for one of their own, when they had all of Spain to hate.

  Tomorrow Pepin would spread rumors again, stronger ones, words honed to a bitter edge. It did not matter what Ganelon said, or what he had commanded. Roland would not escape this time. This would begin his downfall, and the end of his power over the king.

  The prospect made Pepin smile. But tonight he had another errand. Ganelon needed his eyes once more, and perhaps more than that.

  It was nearing midnight. Most of the army slept, all but the sentries walking the edges, slipping like shadows among the trees. Ganelon’s tent was pitched in the dark away from firelight. It was strange, rather, that on this march Ganelon set himself full in the light before
the king, but set his tent as far from it as he could.

  Pepin found his way as he had been taught, with other senses than eyes: by the feeling in his bones, and by a scent like hot iron, that was the scent of sorcery. When he stretched out his hand, he touched the flap of a tent. He lifted it, releasing a shaft of sudden light.

  Before his eyes had recovered from their dazzlement, he stood within. He blinked through tears of pain.

  Slowly his sight cleared. The rest of his senses were reeling. Fragrance of surpassing sweetness, music beyond earthly beauty, air softer than silk, a taste on his tongue more potent than honey. Petals drifted about him, stroking his cheeks like soft fingers.

  This was the garden he had seen before he came under Ganelon’s tutelage, the magic he had yearned for since first he happened upon it. The close confines of the tent were gone. Lush greenery and great glowing banks of flowers lay all about him. Down paths of perfect smoothness he glimpsed blue distances, broad expanses of plain and forest, mountain and sky.

  Close by was a greensward ringed in blossoming trees. A fountain played in its center, a marble extravagance such as he had seen in Rome: a dance of nymphs about a broad clear pool. They were painted as the old Roman images still sometimes were, given the hues and the texture of life. It even seemed that they breathed, their white breasts rising and falling, their eyes gleaming on him, promising rare delights.

  Pepin yearned toward them, but Ganelon stood in his way. In this place he was never the plain old man whom Pepin had known. He was not young, but neither was he old. He was ageless, beyond years, honed and strong. And beautiful. The beauty of the swordblade as it drinks blood, of the wolf’s fang as it sinks into the throat of its prey. So must the dark angel be, the Son of the Morning whose pride cast him into the pit.

  Pepin was a king’s son of the Franks. He did not bow to fallen angels. A prince of the hosts of heaven, perhaps. But not a prince who was cast down. And certainly not to a man who served such a creature, however ancient, however powerful he might be.

  “Pride was the first sin,” Ganelon said, “greatest and most terrible.”

  Even his voice was changed here: stronger, more beautiful. But his eyes were the same. He could not conceal those, no matter what shape he wore.

  Pepin kept his head up and his gaze level. “Master,” he said. “You have need of me?”

  “Attend me,” Ganelon said. “Say nothing except to me. If there is a question, I will answer it. If there is need of words, I will speak them. Do you understand?”

  Pepin was not sure he did, but he nodded brusquely.

  Ganelon saw through him; the dark eyes narrowed, perhaps with amusement, perhaps with contempt. But the sorcerer said nothing. He merely turned and walked down one of the paths that rayed out from the greensward like the spokes of a wheel.

  They walked from blinding daylight into blind night. It was all Pepin could do not to stumble and fall. He had, ignominiously, to clutch at Ganelon’s mantle, and so be guided through the darkness like a child at its mother’s skirts.

  Firelight glimmered at the end of the long path. Wind shrilled in stony heights. It was keen and rather cold.

  They stood in a camp, but it was not that of the Franks. There were no trees here, only wind and stones. A rise of cliff sheltered ranks of tents that marched away into the gloom. Most of the fires were banked. One burned strongly in front of a tent no larger or more splendid than the others, but it was set as near the center as Pepin could tell. From the shadows beside it men emerged, armed and armored, clearly on guard.

  Pepin’s eyes widened at sight of them. He knew Gascon faces, and Gascon armor, too. These men bowed as Ganelon emerged into the light, bowed to the ground, and lifted the tent’s flap for him.

  There was a gathering of men within, half a dozen dark, sharp-faced sons of Gascony. Ganelon before them kept somewhat of the power and beauty he had had in the garden. He wore wisdom like a mantle.

  It was a pleasure to see the master in glory, accepting the Gascons’ worship as his due. Pepin they seemed not to notice—which piqued him, for he was a prince, but pleased him somewhat, too. Everyone in Francia knew Pepin Crookback. Here, he was nothing to remark on; he was simply there. It was not a sensation he had known before.

  Ganelon was given the place of honor, and offered food and drink, which he declined. Pepin would have welcomed a cup or two of wine, but a guardsman was not expected to suffer hunger or thirst.

  He played the part because he had been asked, and because he was curious. For a while it seemed they would speak of nothing in particular, but that was the way of such gatherings. In time the chief of the Gascons said, “My lord, all is ready. Will you stay until morning, to see?”

  “No need,” said Ganelon. “I have seen.”

  “Then, my lord—if I may ask—”

  “You may not,” said Ganelon, “but I will answer. I have no doubt that you will do as we agreed. I come to ask another thing.”

  The Gascons leaned forward. There was a hungry air to them, like wolves in winter.

  “When you do what we have agreed,” Ganelon said, “there is one whom I would have. Take him alive, but confine him closely. And beware! He has more arts and skills than the run of men.”

  “Magic?” the chief of them asked.

  Ganelon inclined his head. “He may not choose to be taken as a man. A stag, a wolf, a falcon—he may be any or all of those.”

  “We’ll net him like a fish, my lord,” said the Gascon.

  “A net would do well,” Ganelon said. “He leads the rearguard—remember. There is a golden hawk on his shield. His horse is grey. His eyes, when you come close, are not a man’s eyes.”

  “Ah,” said the Gascon, nodding. “The Count of the Breton Marches. Yes, we know that one. We’ll catch him for you.”

  “That is well,” said Ganelon.

  It was not well for Pepin, but he kept his tongue between his teeth. Ganelon did nothing on a whim. He had made Pepin privy to this for a reason. What it was, Pepin was not exactly sure. It was larger than Roland, he could tell that, but Roland was a notable part of it.

  The Gascons glanced at one another. They were afraid of Ganelon: they shied from him, somewhat. Only their captain seemed brave enough to speak. “Lord,” he said, “the men ask a thing—not in return, but for their souls’ sakes. They ask for protection—a prayer, a talisman, some simple thing—against the allies that will be called forth.”

  Ganelon’s brow rose. “You told them of that?”

  The man blanched, but he held his ground. “My men fight with open eyes. They know the cause and the cost. They accept it. They only ask—”

  “I will ward them,” Ganelon said, “when the time comes. Only let them do their part.”

  “They will do it,” the Gascon said.

  “Tell me you’re not going to destroy my father,” Pepin said.

  “And why would you think that?” Ganelon asked him.

  They had returned through the bright garden to the tent that Pepin had known, walking down a path that rounded a corner into that small and priestly space. It seemed all the smaller and all the darker for the splendor that had been contained in it.

  Pepin had learned much since Paderborn. He could summon his wits together, and think on what he must think on. He was stronger, he thought, for all those hours and days of scraping parchment, writing letters, learning languages that had long vanished from the earth. He had learned patience.

  He had not learned to be less than proud, and he did not intend to. “Whatever you purpose,” he said, “it means ill to one of my father’s favorites. That ill is to be done by a nation whom you yourself have called rebel. You are subtle, master, and that is a great gift. Will this grand design of yours bring harm to my father?”

  “Your father has little to do with it,” Ganelon said.

  “And I? What is my part in this?”

  Ganelon did not smile. It was not his way. Yet he seemed amused. “You are my pupil,
” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you wished to learn.”

  Pepin bit his lip. Had he not called Ganelon subtle? This was the truth. Yet it could not be all of the truth. “You need my eyes,” he said. “Tonight you needed my presence. What more will you need of me?”

  “That will come with time,” Ganelon said.

  “I will not harm my father,” said Pepin.

  “You will not be asked for such a thing,” Ganelon said. “He has his own destiny. What you are, what I need of you—you know, and will know. You will give yourself freely, as you always have. There will be no compulsion laid upon you.”

  “Will you swear oath as to that?”

  Pepin’s heart beat hard. He trod very close to the edge of the unacceptable. But he was royal. He could ask such a thing, and be granted it.

  Ganelon inclined his head, both regal and humble. The humility, Pepin thought, was a mask. The royalty was truth. “I swear,” he said, “that you will act of your own free will, whatever is required of you.”

  Pepin was not satisfied, somehow, but that was all Ganelon would give him. He had to be content with it.

  CHAPTER 32

  The king’s scouts, sent ahead of the army into the ever-ascending valleys, found nothing. The passes were clear, they said, and the mountains empty of enemies. They had come across a village of Basques, fierce secret people who spoke a tongue like none in the world; but those expressed no interest in the army marching past their borders.

  Still Roland was ill at ease. On the second morning after Charles played the servant, he rode for a while with the king. Charles looked him over critically and said, “You’re as twitchy as a cat.”

  Roland shrugged. He was irritable, too, and that was not like him. This ran deeper than plain threat of ambush in the mountains. Forces moved just below his awareness. Things were in train that he could not quite grasp. His dreams, when he could sleep at all, were of drowning in deep water, and of reaching perpetually for a thing that eluded him: sometimes fruit on a tree, sometimes a sword suspended in air.