Grail Prince

Prologue

    In the twelfth year of the reign of Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, the full moon rose on the night of the autumn equinox. On that night Niniane, the Lady of the Lake, walked out the curved gates of Avalon unattended and ascended the Tor by secret paths to hear the Oracle of the Great Goddess.
    She walked alone in her white robe to the clearing near the summit of the Tor. Below her stretched the glittering lakes, orchards, marshes, fields, meadows, flowing rivers, rich woodlands and rolling hills of a land at peace: Arthur’s Britain.  It had not always been so. She remembered well the years of war, the long fight against Saxon domination, the burned fields, the desecrated shrines, the rape of women, the savage butchering of children, the mortal terror of coastal villages at the sight of a Saxon sail.
    Niniane stood by the Black Stone, waiting for the moment when the  moon would rise above the pines and send her first shaft of light onto the concave surface of the rock. She recalled the morning, over a decade past, when her predecessor, old Nimue, Chief Priestess of Avalon, had descended at dawn from her night on the sacred Tor. She had babbled at first. Perhaps that was why the Ancients called the Oracle the Sacred Speaking. It had taken days to get sense from her. But what she had told them­that their young war leader would grow into the greatest King Britain had ever known; that he would unite the warbands and the kingdoms, from Lothian to Cornwall, into a single Kingdom and win for Britain a breathing space of peace from barbarian invasions; that Merlin the Enchanter would die entombed inside a rock; that for all his power the great King would fail to breed an heir of the woman he wed­all had come to pass.
    Niniane shivered. Her dark hair was washed and dressed, pulled back from the pale oval of her face, her body bathed and scented, her robe as white and flawless as a thousand bleachings could make it. She was prepared; but in her heart she knew she did not want to receive this Oracle. The land was at peace. She served Arthur, a man she liked and trusted against all her expectations, even though he was a Christian. She did not want anything to change. But she knew well that time turned, nothing stayed the same.
    Overhead the heavens wheeled. The pines trembled as the great virgin disc rose brilliant and majestic above their branches. The first bright shaft of light stabbed down at the rock. Niniane took her curved knife from her belt and cut her wrist, letting the blood spill into the stone’s concave bowl. When it was full to overflowing she bound up the cut, lifted her hands to the moon and murmured the ritual greeting. Lightheaded, she staggered against the rock. The bowl of her blood looked black in the moonlight, glittering silver on the surface like a shining skin. Niniane blinked. There in the blood was the face of the Goddess, blank, white, inhuman. Niniane winced at the sudden sound of a strident, metal voice.
    The wheel is turning and the world will change. Those who are weak shall grow in power, and the mightly shall be cut down. A dark prince from the Otherworld shall arise and slay the Dragon; a great serpent shall wade forth from  the sea and swallow the Dragon’s remains. The Dragon himself will be borne across water and buried in glass. Forever. And a son of Lancelot, with a bloody sword and a righteous heart, shall renew the Light in Britain  before the last descent of  savage dark.
    The voice stopped. Hands pressed hard against her ringing ears, Niniane slid to the ground. Overhead the night breeze sang sweetly in the pines. Somewhere below her on the hill a nightingale took up its song. Crouching in the shadow of the great rock, huddling from the moonlight, Niniane covered her face with her hands and wept.
 
 

Excerpt from Chapter Seven

    “Come, Galahad. Itís time for bed.”
    The black-haired child looked up at his nurse with wide blue eyes. “Please, Renna, let me stay until my mother comes. She promised she would. When the dancing started. Please.”
    He sat near the back of the hall on a stool piled high with cushions. Around him swirled the heady din of celebration, the music of lutes, the stomp of dancers’ feet, the cries and laughter and shouted conversation of a hundred wedding guests. A sharp draft whistled around his legs and lifted the edges of a heavy tapestry behind him, hung to cover cracks in the plaster wall. The nearest torch shed more light than warmth. Across the room a good log fire roared on the hearth, now and then shooting sparks among the dancers to the merriment of all. Wayward tendrils of firesmoke drifted in the moving air. He coughed once, and covered his mouth politely.
    Renna sighed. “She’s busy, lad. She’s no time for you tonight. Oh, all right. Five more minutes, then. Why I give in to you I’m sure I’ll never know. . . .”
    He smiled up at her and she laughed aloud, tousling his hair.
    He sat at the end of the last long table, among the lesser lords and nobles, all busy with with the meat on their platters or the rich wine in their cups. Now and again one of the colorfully gowned women would cast him a warm glance, but they were strangers and no one spoke to him.
    At the far end of the hall at the table on the dais, his beautiful mother sat next to the king. Uncle Galyn was there too, the bridegroom, robed in white with a garland on his brow. But Uncle Galyn was too busy to notice him now. He could hardly take his eyes off dark-haired Adele, his bride of a few hours, who sat blushing at his elbow. Galahad gazed longingly at his mother. From time to time she looked around the hall, nodding to the lords who caught her eye as she scanned the gathered faces. He sat up straighter and tried to draw her attention, but her gaze swept past him, over him, her golden head turning gracefully away.
    “Never mind her now, Galahad. Come along to bed.”
    “She’s coming. I know it. She promised.”
    Renna leaned down and grasped his hand. “It’s late,” she said kindly, “and you know you are tired. You’ve yawned thrice. It’s been such a hectic day.”
    “I’m not tired.” He fought unsuccessfully against a yawn. Renna smiled.
    “The king has done you a kindness in letting you attend his brother’s wedding feast. Don’t repay him with disobedience. You have been done honor and you must not take advantage. It’s long past dark; in another hour the bride herself will be led out. You are to leave when the wine goes around. Those are his orders.”
    Galahad looked down at his lap. “He just doesn’t want me to see Mother.”
    “Don’t be silly. But she is busy with her guests. It is her duty. You have a duty, too. To obey the king.”
    Reluctantly Galahad slid off the stool. “What will she say when she comes and I’m not here?”
    “She’ll know you’re abed with your brothers,” Renna replied firmly, taking his hand. “That’s where you ought to have been long past, at your age.” She stopped suddenly and Galahad looked up, his hopes renewed. Renna gathered her skirts in her hand and bent her knee. “Bless you, boy,” she whispered, “your mother is on her way.”
    Heads turned. Galahad climbed back up on his stool so he could see. The queen came down the hall towards him, her head held high, her blue gown, his favorite, sighing sweetly as she moved. On either side of her lords and ladies made her reverence as she passed, but she paid them small attention. She looked straight at him, only at him, a smile forming on her lips. Behind her on the dais the king had risen, following her with his eyes.
    “My lady queen,” Renna murmured, falling into a curtsy.
    “Mother!”
    The queen lifted him in her arms, even though she wore her best gown and all her jewels, and kissed his cheek. She smelled like a meadowful of flowers, although it was midwinter. “My handsome boy, are you enjoying the celebration?”
    “Yes, Mother! Only Uncle Galyn looks so silly. Is he happy with that crown of leaves on his head?”
    She laughed and perched him on her hip, straightening his hair with gentle fingers. “Indeed he is. A fever of anticipation is putting it mildly. And what do you think of his wife, Lady Adele?”
    “She’s not as pretty as you.”
    “What a little flatterer you are! Everyone thinks I am mad to let you stay so late in hall. But you have made me proud, Galahad. Youíve been perfectly behaved. Now it ís time for bed.”
    “May I not stay until the end?”
    She laughed again. “Certainly not! The drinking goes on until dawn. The hall gets rowdy once the ladies leave.”
    “May I not stay just until you go?”
    “No, Galahad. Go with Renna now. You have seen enough. You ought to be in bed already. You have seen your uncle Galahantyn wedded­that was what you wanted.”
    What he had wanted was to see his mother in her blue gown and her silver crown, openly admired by all the lords of Less Britain, but he did not tell her so. Reluctantly, he took Renna’s hand.
    “Can I come see you later?”
    As she turned back to him, she caught the kingís gaze, and Galahad saw her pause for a moment and go still. Suddenly she knelt down so that her face was close to his. Her eyes, the fierce, brilliant blue of summer skies, held his own. She spoke softly so only he could hear.
    “Yes, Galahad, my brave soldier, come to me later when the watch changes. Wait for the right moment. Come in to me and together we will keep the monster out. Like last time. His fever is upon him tonight, I can tell from his face. You will help me, won’t you, my brave protector?”
    His chest tightened and his eyes grew wide. “I will!”
    “And I will tell you any tale you wish to hear. Tales of Camelot, the golden city, and of valiant King Arthur and his wicked Queen.”
    “Yes, Mother! I will come! I will keep you safe!”
    She smiled at him, kissed his cheek and rose. “Take him to bed,” she said, nodding to Renna. “Goodnight, Galahad.”
    On the dais, the black-haired king still stood, watching them both, frowning.

    For a long time he lay alone and cold in his big bed, shivering. He hated the dark. It wasn’t the loneliness of it, he had never minded being alone; it was the unseen menace in the corners that terrified him. Warmth and comfort were nearby, next door in the nursery where Maida slept with his little brothers. Sometimes he ached to sneak in and cuddle with her as he used to do, sucking dreamily at her milky breasts until sleep gently closed his eyes. But those days were pastóhe was nearly five years old and he was Prince of Lanascol. He was entitled to his own chamber. Dark corners and all, it must be endured. Wet nurses were for babies.
    He sat up suddenly when he heard footsteps in the corridor. Was it the watch changing? The tread was too light.  He slipped out of bed and ran lightly to the door. Cold struck upward from the stone floor, numbing his bare feet, setting him shaking. Pulling with all his might at the heavy handle, he slipped the latch and opened the door a crack.
Cressets burned smokily in the hall sconces, but even in the dim light he recognized her, her blue gown, her golden hair, the proud lift of her head. But he dared not move. At her side, stern and silent, soft-footed in his best doeskin boots, walked the king himself! Biting his lip, Galahad watched them go by. He had only a glimpse of her face, cold and shuttered, but it filled him with rage. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Why didn’t he stay all night in the hall drinking with the wedding guests? He hadn’t even waited for the night watch! Galahad opened the door a little further and stuck his head out. They stopped outside the queen’s chamber and his hopes rose. Perhaps the king would not go in. He heard their voices: his, low-pitched and commanding; hers, shrill and heavy with contempt. He waited a moment, hopeful that the argument would end in the king’s leaving; it had been so often enough before. But the king took her arm, opened the door, spoke briefly to the sentry and followed the queen in. The door shut behind them with a loud  thud.
    Come to me when the watch changes. He hesitated, but it was freezing and his feet were already numb. He hurried back to bed and pulled the soft wool blankets tight around him. He closed his eyes and tried to think of things that pleased him, as Renna had taught him to do when he was angry. Maida’s warm breasts filled his vision, and stifling a sob, he pushed away that longing. He thought of his mother’s hair with the sun on it, dark gold and glowing. And his uncle Galyn’s sword, which had silver chasing on the scabbard and a golden cross upon the hilt. And the new brown horse with the white blaze, which Galyn had promised he could sit this coming spring.
    He thought of his mother’s small white hands as she sat stitching by candlelight, dancing hands, moving with swift, sure grace over some bright fabric. Sometimes she would take him on her lap and caress him with those pretty hands. How sweet she always smelled! She was so different from anyone else in Lanascol, with her fair complexion and accented speech. He knew she had been born in a far-off land, at the edge of Britain, and that the king had taken her away from her people when he wed her and brought her to Lanascol. Whenever she spoke of her homeland her eyes would mist with tears.
    He sat up, his thoughts racing. She was always sad in winters, when the king was home. But in spring,  summer and autumn, when the king was gone across the sea to Britain, she would smile and sing, she would dance with Galahad in the garden, she would hold court in her own name and everyone did her bidding. From equinox to equinox she ruled Lanascol. She would bring out her finest gowns and deck her fingers, throat and hair with jewels of glorious colors, until she glittered as brightly as the sunlight in the garden fountain. Galahad could not imagine angels more resplendent. Servants scurried to obey her; everyone from courtier to cook to stableboy sought to please her. Grown men would tremble before her anger. But she was never angry at him.
    The scrape of metal on stone interrupted his reverie. He slid out of bed and ran to the door. The sentry was gone from the queen’s chamber, he could hear his footfalls on the stair, and those of his replacement. Galahad slipped quickly out into the hallway. Everything was cold, still and silent. Surely the king had gone.  They had little enough to say to one another at the best of times. He ran down the corridor, his bare feet making no sound at all on the icy stone.
    The door was heavy, but unlocked, and he got it open. There in the antechamber were the queen’s maids, fast asleep on pallets in the corner. And old Grannic, grown almost deaf, snoring near the door to the bedchamber. It was easy to slip past them. Without a backward glance, he put a hand to the latch and opened the inner door.
    The first thing he saw was the sword. It lay balanced on a stool against the wall close by his hand. Light from the candle on the little table gleamed on the oiled leather scabbard and picked out the dull glow of rubies set in a cross upon the hilt. He knew­everyone knew­the sword was the gift of the High King Arthur, and a weapon of sacred power. He had never seen it so near. Tentatively, he reached out a furtive hand to touch it, then froze as it dawned on him what the sword’s presence meant. In the same instant, he heard sounds in the darkness beyond the candle: the bed’s rhythmic creak, low-pitched grunts, and a womanís hiss.
    “Animal! Swine!”
    Galahad stood motionless, fist in mouth, and began to shake. The king himself was here!
    “Vermin! Viper! I spit on you! There!”
    He recognized his motherís voice, and stepping closer, shaded his eyes against the candle and peered into the darkness.
    She lay naked with her hair flung untidily across the pillows, pale and helpless, pinned beneath the man’s brown body. He held her wrists to the bed and moved against her, pushing her, crushing her flesh, his dark head bent near her face. She gasped each time he moved, struggling against his weight and cursing him in furious whispers. One heavy breast flopped sideways, ghostly in the dimness, jiggling, its dark nipple staring at him like some baleful eye. Even as he watched the man gasped, groaned, fell still and bowed his head, releasing her arms. Weeping, she clawed his back with her nails.
    “Oh, God, what have I done to deserve this?” she cried. “Get off me, you heavy oaf! You are a beast, no better! Get off!”
    “Mother!” Galahad wailed, but his lips were too stiff to move, and no sound came out. He wanted to run to her, but could not command his limbs.
    The king raised his dark head from the woman’s breast. “For Godís sake, Elaine,” he said wearily, “you are my wife. Be still.”
    “I will not! You will not take your pleasure without cost! You are an animal! Let me go!” She pummelled his shoulders with her fists, trying futilely to push him away. “You rutting beast! I loathe you! Go back to Britainótake your filthy lusts to Britain’s great whore­”
    His hand took her throat, his long fingers encircled her neck. She lay instantly still, whimpering.
    “If her name passes your lips,” he said slowly and very clearly, “I will have your life.” They stared at one another in silence. The boy did not dare to breathe.
    “I hope you roast in Hell.”
    His fingers tightened and she began to scream. Too quick for thought, Galahad grabbed the great sword with both hands, pulled it free of the scabbard, heaved it over his head, sobbing with the effort it cost him, and lurched towards the bed.
    “Leaver her alone! Leave her alone!” The words burst forth at last, unstoppable  and shrill. “Leave her alone!” Straining with all his might, he swung the heavy weapon and brought it down. The king’s startled face turned towards him; his strong hand whipped out, caught the boy’s wrist and the sword pulled free. The woman gasped, grabbing for the blankets.
    “Galahad!” To the man she hissed, “In front of your own son! Are you not ashamed?”
    But the king lay still, watching him calmly, holding the sword without effort.
    “Galahad. Son. Could you not sleep?”
    The boy gulped. “Leave her alone! You are hurting her! Why can’t you leave her alone? Go away! We don’t want you here!”
    The king moved off her, then, and carefully set the sword down. Slowly and with deliberation, he swung out of bed and faced the boy, a naked giant of a man, tall and lean, war-hardened and battle scarred, a King’s man, a king. The boy stepped back. His mother’s hand pulled him close against the bed and held him. She whimpered something to him but he did not listen. He could not take his eyes from the man before him.
    “I am not ashamed,” the king said. “She is my wife. It is my right. But even so,” and the voice softened slightly, “I would not hurt her. Go ahead and look. There is not a mark on her. She is not in pain.”
    “You hurt her!” Galahad blurted, fighting tears. “I saw you! Why can’t you leave us alone?”
The man said nothing, but reached for his leggings and pulled them on, then his boots, then his tunic and mantle and royal brooch. Finally he reached for his sword.
    “Galahad. Be easy, son. Your mother is well and whole. If I have hurt her, it is in her vanity only, and does not touch her honor­”
    “Honor!” she howled, pointing a finger at him. “Oh yes, let’s talk about honor! How you lust after one woman and lie with another! What precious honor!”
    “Hush, Elaine,” he replied in irritation. “This does not help him to understand it.”
The boy listened as the familiar bitterness of their arguments eddied past him, making him feel alone and small. All he understood was that the king had admitted to causing her pain. He stepped forward from her embrace.
    “I will kill you for it,” he said firmly, standing straight as a soldier and looking his father in the face. “When I am grown. I will kill you.”
    His mother squeezed his arm, but the king stood unmoving. The gray eyes pinned him with the swiftness of a dagger blow. Although his heart was pounding, Galahad could not look away from his father’s face, from the black hair and straight black brows, the clean lines of cheekbone, jaw and chin, and the crooked nose, broken in childhood, that women said robbed him of beauty. Slowly the king raised the sword and touched the blade to his forehead in salute.
    “We shall see,” he said with a grim smile, and turned away. At the door he stopped and looked back. “Soon, Elaine, I will take him with me. Next summer, perhaps. He is ready. He has been too long with you.”
    “Try and take him, if you dare!” she spat. “I will kill you myself, first! He is all I have! Go back to Britain, where everyone values you so, and leave us alone! The great Lancelot! No one wants you here.” She clutched the boy to her breast as the door closed.
    He turned and kissed her face. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t get here soon enough.”
    A tear slipped down her cheek as she ruffled his hair. “My fierce little protector, you couldn’t have stopped the monster. Not tonight. His blood was up. It ís not your fault, my brave boy. It ís the fault of that wicked queen, that sorceress, Guinevere. The whore of Britain.”