by Unknown
“Which one?”
“Gwalchavad.”
Arthwyr smiled broadly. It was wrong for a king to show favorites among a coterie of knights who all were as brave and loyal as a ruler could ever wish, but Gwalchavad was a special young man, eager as a pup, pious as a monk and the finest jouster in the kingdom. He was of royal blood. His mother was the queen’s sister, his father the great knight Llych Llenlleawg, who had ardently desired the king’s own woman but had settled for her youngest sister. Arthwyr had been painfully aware of the unrequited passion that burned so brightly between Gwenhwyfar and Llych Llenlleawg and used it like an implement to push his leading knight to greater and greater heights of daring on the battlefield. At Mynydd Baddon he had handed Llych Llenlleawg one of his wife’s scarves and told him she wanted him to carry it, thereby inflaming the knight. Arthwyr never knew if the man was seized by ardor or embarrassment or pride but he fought like a madman and it took four arrows to bring him off his horse that day.
Gwalchavad was summoned, bounding into the throne room with all the energy and zeal of youth. He approached his king and fell to one knee before him, his scabbard clattering on the stones.
“Rise, Gwalchavad,” Arthwyr commanded, “and speak your mind.”
Gwalchavad rose to his full height brimming with the confidence of a man at the peak of life. The ladies of the court milling at the edges of the room looked on him longingly; and the men, Arthwyr’s nobles, lowered their heads in envy. (Indeed one of them was Arthwyr’s oldest son, Gwydre, who, true to form, became livid in Gwalchavad’s presence. “I am his son, not Gwalchavad,” he had complained only recently to his mother. “Why does he treat him like his heir and me like his dog?”)
“Sire,” Gwalchavad said. “I have come from Castle Caerlleon. I received word that one of the Saxon nobles I captured at Mynydd Baddon wished to see me to discuss a proposal for his ransom.”
“Which prisoner?” Arthwyr asked.
“Sir Wallia, son of Ardo.”
“An able knight. You cleaved him well. Has his wound healed?”
“He is well mended. Until we spoke I had not been made aware he was the nephew of King Euric.”
Arthwyr frowned at the name. “Euric was a great adversary. I much despised him, though I much admired him too.”
“Wallia seems a decent fellow,” Gwalchavad said. “Though we have treated him with the respect his noble heritage deserves and have afforded him all reasonable comforts, he is restless after these many months in captivity and wishes to return to his own land.”
“Then his people should pay his ransom!” Arthwyr bellowed.
Myrddin took a small step forward. “The negotiations are at an early stage, sire. These matters are delicate and take time, though King Cissa has oftentimes pledged to ransom his nobles without ever delivering the booty.”
“Then we should take such time as is necessary,” the king barked.
“With respect, sire,” Gwalchavad said, “Wallia told me something that has quickened my heart. He swore to me on the honor of his ancestors that he knows where we might find the Gral of Christ, our Lord!”
The throne room erupted in murmurs, which Arthwyr silenced with a fierce wave of his hand. The quest for Christ’s chalice had inflamed his mind ever since Myrddin appeared at his castle offering his services as a seer to the young king. Arthwyr’s advisers, his father’s men, had shunned the foreigner, seeking to discredit him at every turn; but Myrddin’s counsel had been infallibly wise. He foresaw the best time to attack the enemy, the best time to retreat, the best time to sail the fierce channel to reach Gaul, the best time to bed a woman to produce a male child. In time, Arthur elevated Myrddin to become prime counselor to the king and Uther Pendragon’s old guard was sent to pasture. And Myrddin, who had forsaken his ancient religion to embrace the teachings of Jesus Christ, had goaded his king at every turn to commit the prestige of his throne and the lives of his knights to finding the Gral. It was a quest, the Egyptian had insisted, that if successful would establish Arthwyr as the greatest ruler in all of Christendom. Finding the Gral was Arthwyr’s one great unaccomplished goal.
“The Gral, you say?” the King erupted. “Is this the talk of a desperate prisoner who will lie to gain his release or the words of a truthful man?”
“I believe he is being truthful, my king,” Gwalchavad said. “Here is his tale. He says it has been told by bards of his people that Joseph of Arimathea, the great saint who gave his own tomb so that our crucified Christ might be buried, came into possession of the Gral after our Lord’s resurrection. Pursued by Pontius Pilate, Joseph fled Jerusalem and journeyed to the land the Romans called Tarraconensis. There he became a priest and founded an enclave to honor Christ high in the mountains where he and his followers might be safe. And it is there where he hid the Gral.”
Arthur shifted in his throne with impatience. “We have heard tales such as this before and many a time have our knights braved the perils of foreign lands in search of nothing more than mist. Why should this time be different?”
Gwalchavad’s confidence did not fade. “Has a man of honor ever before claimed to have held the chalice in his own hands?”
Arthwyr glanced at Myrddin before shifting his gaze back to his knight. “Has this man, Wallia, told you this?”
“He has, sire.”
Arthwyr leaned forward. “And what did he say it felt like in his hands?”
“He said it felt as warm as the belly of a baby, as warm as blood. He felt its power.”
Arthwyr leaned heavily against the throne and nodded. This was just as Myrddin had predicted. The Gral, he had said, would be the temperature of a beating human heart.
“What say you, Myrddin?” Arthwyr asked.
“When Sir Gwalchavad informed me of Sir Wallia’s tale I fell to my knees in a prayer of thanks. There have been those who have whispered about the Gral being hidden in the kingdom of Euric and those who claimed that Saint Joseph found sanctuary in Tarraconensis with a precious relic. I believe we cannot ignore the claims of Sir Wallia.”
“What does Wallia propose?” Arthwyr asked Gwalchavad.
“His demands are this,” the knight answered. “He will tell me where this sanctuary lies and where the Gral is hidden within. If I return from my quest with the Gral, then we will promise to release him immediately, free of ransom, and give him and his comrades safe passage to Germania.”
“A modest request for a treasure so great,” Arthwyr said.
“Sir Wallia fears he will spend his entire life in captivity otherwise and die a wretched death,” Gwalchavad continued. “He wishes to see his wife and children again. He knows the reputation of his own king in matters of ransom. I ask that you, sire, grant me the honor of leading a band of knights to find the Gral so I may lay it at your feet.”
Arthwyr was not ashamed to openly shed tears. While Gwydre seethed in the shadows, Arthwyr replied, “Go, my brave and noble Gwalchavad. Fulfill my most fervent dream.”
#
Myrddin had his own turret room high in the castle with rich furnishings, every bit as fine as the king’s, silver plates and cups and wooden chests full of fur-lined garments. Mailoc, a hulking Gaul, and Kilian, a small strong Pict from the northern lands, sat by the hearth drinking Myrddin’s wine and tearing off chunks of roasted gamecock with their greasy fingers. Myrddin showed little interest in food or drink. Instead he seemed drawn to the leaping flames and the tiny explosive pops emanating from his stack of cured, split logs.
Finally, he broke the silence. “Mailoc, I want you to accompany Gwalchavad on his journey. I will persuade Arthwyr that Gwalchavad needs to have a seer at his side to advise him by and by.”
“Do you really believe this Saxon’s story?” Kilian asked.
Myrddin shrugged. “It has the ring of truth but who can say? We Qem have been chasing after the Gral since the day Joseph of Arimathea stole it from us. I came to this desolate land twenty years ago because I believed that Arthwyr would bec
ome a powerful ruler and he has become that. I also believed I could influence a young king to dedicate the resources of his court and kingdom to help us find the Gral and I have done that. Perhaps this prisoner, Wallia, has knowledge of the relic, perhaps he is a scoundrel. There is only one way to know.”
“And if I get my hands on it?” Mailoc asked.
Myrddin smiled. “If you do, I trust you will have the reverence to wipe the fat from your fingers first. Then steal it away from Gwalchavad and his party of knights. Kill them if you must. It matters not to me. After this, send word to me via messenger and take the Gral to Jerusalem where you will keep to yourself in the guise of a humble pilgrim. Wait for me there. If this is the true Gral then we will surely fulfill our destiny.”
#
Gwalchavad led his small band of seekers across the black, treacherous waters separating Briton and Gaul and began his journey through the wild Gallic countryside, inching south to the land of Euric, the land of Tarraconensis. A large force of knights and soldiers would have attracted the attention of hostile lords and their armies so a mere twelve men rode on.
There were two other knights of Arthwyr’s court, Sir Jowan and Sir Porthawyr, both fine young men who were content to accept Gwalchavad’s leadership. Myrddin had persuaded the king that Mailoc would be invaluable: he was a native of Gaul who knew their ways and could make a divination from the entrails of a rabbit as ably as he could thrust a dagger.
Seven squires and servants attended the entourage, riding the pack horses and tending to the party’s victuals. The knights wore simple cloaks over their chain mail and swords. When approached by the local folk, Mailoc told them in their own tongue that these were tradesmen and pilgrims seeking relics of the Virgin Mary and the holy saints that they might sell to priests and bishops.
Wallia had told Gwalchavad that he should proceed to Barcino, the great Iberian port city in the heart of Tarraconensis. From there it was only a day’s ride to the place the locals called the Mountain of Miracles where, it was said, the sick could be healed by bathing in the icy waterfalls that cascaded from its slopes. The journey to Barcino took two months—during which the travelers endured storms and bad food, insects and snakes, and a skirmish with a minor Gallic warlord who tried to rob them. The knights dealt harshly with the marauders and sent them to their maker with cold steel through warm flesh. In Barcino, a bustling city populated by merchants and mariners from a mélange of foreign lands, they were able to find good lodgings and rest their horses for the final push.
Gwalchavad was eager to complete the journey. He sensed a presence deep inside of something great and wondrous; how could that not be the Gral? Yet his knights and the others were anxious to stay for a time in the comfort of the portside inn to recover their strength. Gwalchavad was about to agree to a respite when Mailoc pulled him aside, to a corner of the barrel room, to convince him otherwise. As the two were downing their flagons of barley wine, the Gaul told the knight that he foresaw danger should they linger. He had seen a dead crow on each of three days, the last practically on the threshold of the inn. Here, in the city, was evil.
When Gwalchavad announced they would depart the next day the young squires ordered more wine for their table, then more, until they were well drunk. Had Gwalchavad or any of the knights heard Sir Jowan’s squire pissing behind the inn and boasting to a stranger in his slurred Briton tongue about a Gral quest they would have throttled him on the spot.
The next day the pilgrims departed at dawn, their horses pointed toward the misty distant peak. The mountain loomed larger as the day progressed and by the middle of the afternoon they had to crane their necks to take it in. Throughout, Gwalchavad felt the urge to glance repeatedly over his shoulder but he saw nothing of concern. At the base of the mountain it took time to find the landmark Wallia had described: an enormous triangular boulder the color of watered-down wine. It was Jowan who first spotted it, letting out a triumphant cry. Beside the boulder was a worn path wide enough for one horse or man to navigate at a time. That was the path they took.
The path snaked up the mountain by turning back on itself over and over again. The result was a gentle grade that hardly taxed horse or rider but took several hours for the party to negotiate to reach the next of Wallia’s landmarks: a wide clearing where the whole of Barcino was visible in the distance. Gwalchavad knew they were close, and just as Wallia had said, the path grew dramatically steeper—and littered with treacherous stones, as if to signal the final stages of the quest would not be easy. The horses whinnied and fought for their footing and Gwalchavad decided to send the packhorses and servants back to the clearing to await their return.
The men pressed on for another hundred yards before Gwalchavad concluded that their steeds could go no further. Everyone dismounted and the squires led the horses down to join the others. Gwalchavad instructed his squire to wait for them for up to one full day before seeking them out. Then the three knights—Gwalchavad, Porthawyr, and their seer, Mailoc—ventured upwards on foot.
The trail ended in a higher clearing, which they reached in the softening light of evening.
Then Gwalchavad pointed, fighting an urge to drop to his knees in thanksgiving.
“There!” he cried. “Just as Sir Wallia promised. We are close, my friends! We are close indeed.”
20
“Come on, Arthur, let me see it. You can tell me all about your sleepless night later.”
Arthur unzipped his shoulder bag and passed the sword, wrapped in a hotel wash towel, to Tony Ferro. Tony unbundled it slowly, clearly savoring the anticipation.
Arthur had phoned him early that morning and had driven with Claire directly to London from Stoneleigh to see him at the university. Tony’s desk was awash in harsh light and when the sun first caught the silver, Claire and Arthur saw the large man’s face soften like heated wax.
“My, my, my,” he muttered, turning the hilt over in his hands.
“What do you think?” Claire asked.
“I think I want to blubber like a baby. I wish the hell we could show this to Holmes.”
“Me too, Tony,” Arthur said. “What’s it telling you?”
Tony curled his hand around the grip. “First of all, they had smaller hands than we do today. I can’t easily get both my paws around this but that’s how it was used. It’s a greatsword, meant to be wielded two-handed. Of course, it’s a pity there’s no blade. It would have been up to seventy-two inches in length. This hilt is about eighteen inches, so you’d have ninety inches—that’s over seven feet of destructive power, the assault rifle of its day.”
“What day is that?” Arthur asked. “Can you date it?”
“Well, not precisely, not without metallurgical analysis, but stylistically its certainly early medieval: fifth century, sixth, seventh perhaps. It’s entirely consistent with our best guesses that a King Arthur lived in fifth-century Cornwall or Wales and that he was a renowned warrior who may have played a rather direct role in kicking the posteriors of the Angles and Saxons back to the continent at the battle of Mount Badon, among other venues. Look at this cross guard. It’s almost a foot long. It’s covered in silver but it surely has a steel core for strength. The silver veneer probably stopped it from corroding. Picture a long blade with this cross guard. What do you imagine?”
“A cross,” Claire said. “A beautiful cross.”
“Precisely that. The perfect implement for a king or a knight to take into battle. The power of Christ, the glory of Christ, all in one.”
“There’s no escaping it, is there, Tony?” Arthur said. “This is Excalibur.”
“Arthur! I don’t know if we can jump to that conclusion about its provenance and especially its name. Perhaps the little boy in me would like to go there but the stuffy academic I’ve become is far more circumspect. I mean, the moniker Excalibur first appears in the twelfth century in Chrétien de Troyes’ Perceval as Escalibor before it mutated over time to Excalibur by the time of your Thomas Malory. Yes, the
great lords and kings of the period did have a tradition of naming their weapons but this sword’s name, if any, will be lost to time.
“This we do know: in his letter to Bishop Waynflete, Thomas Malory claims to have found King Arthur’s sword. And in the other important parchment in the Warwickshire chest he laid out a rather elaborate puzzle. You two clever bunnies have solved the puzzle and here is that sword. It is undoubtedly a medieval sword. Does that make it King Arthur’s sword? No. Does it make it a very important artifact? Yes, it does. Without too much more study it probably deserves its own pavilion at the British Museum.”
“The inscription,” Claire said. “Can you read it?”
“Yes, let’s have a look at that,” Tony said, rummaging for his magnifying loupe. He squinted through it, moving from left to right over the cross guard. Then he looked up. “Wow.”
“Wow?” Claire repeated.
“Yes, my dear, wow.” He carefully wrote the inscription on a pad and read it out loud. “Eni Tirro Euric Nemeto Ouxselo Brunka Kanta Cristus Ke Wereo Gral. Not only is the message shockingly provocative but this goes a long way to helping date the sword.”
“You’re killing me,” Arthur pleaded.
“Hang on. First of all, there’s the language. This is Proto-Celtic, also known as Common Celtic. This is the predecessor language to modern Celtic. More specifically it’s late Proto-Celtic, which began to seriously disappear by the fifth and sixth centuries in favor of the modern Celtic variants. Putting that together with the morphology of the sword, I’d say that we can reasonably date the artifact to the late fifth to early sixth century.”
“But that’s not the wow,” Arthur said.
“No. It’s the translation. Here it is: ‘In the land of Euric on a sacred place on high lie before Christ and find the Grail.’ Do you know what this means?”