Stephen Lawhead - Pendragon Cycle 05 - Grail

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PROLOGUE

Men are such pathetic, lumpen things - so predictable in their appetites,

such slaves to their tedious desires and pleasures. Creatures of dull habit

and savage compulsion, they waver between one and the other, never

perceiving anything of the world beyond their animal passions. Why, the

cattle of the field know more of life.

Ah, but it is all too easy. I have long since tired of their trivial ambitions

and endeavours. Ignorant brutes, they deserve every misfortune their beast

of a god can rain down upon them.

Where is real strength? Where is true courage? Where is genuine

discipline harnessed to uncompromising volition, and both allied in total

harmony, each subject to the other? Where are such treasures to be found?

On the battlefield, in the heat of the fight? Ha! That is what men think, and

as in all else they are vastly mistaken. War is children with dirty faces

squabbling over the dungheap. In war, life - that single most precious

substance in the universe - is bartered cheap, thrown away, wasted, traded

for a prize which will not last beyond the changing of the seasons. Fools,

all of them! Blind, ignorant fools - it is pure joy tormenting them.

Only that which endures beyond time is worth having.

Well I know it. I, who have given all for the mastery of time and the

elements, know the value of life. Truly, truly, I have spent my life on the

things that endure. Not for nothing am I called the Queen of Air and

Darkness.

ONE

I, Gwalchavad, Lord of Orcady, write this. And no gentle labour it is. Nor

less rough the reading, I fear. Unlike Myrddin, or the brown-cloaked

clerics, I am no master of the scribbler's craft. God's truth, the sword hilt

better fits my hand than this close-pared reed. Even so, I am assured my

crabbed script will live long after the hand that framed it is dust. This

Brother Aneirin assures me, and he is wise in such things. So be it.

I was born in sight of Ynys Prydain, with my brother and twin, Gwalcmai

- both sons of noble Lot, himself a king of the Orcades. My birth, in itself,

is of small consequence. But for Arthur, I would have lived all my days in

that wild place and never travelled beyond the boundary stones of my

father's island realm; but for Arthur, my life might have passed in hunting,

fishing, and settling the squabbles of petty chieftains. I would never have

heard of the Kingdom of Summer - much less the Grail - and truly, I

would not be writing this at all.

Still, I will persist in my endeavour so you may know the way of it.

Anyone with ears has heard of Arthur and his trials and triumphs; tales

and more tales flood the land from Lloegres to Celyddon. Many bards tell

them now, and a few of the monkish kind have written them, too. A sorry

scribe I may be, though perhaps not least among these gall-stained ink-

spillers.

They speak of wars and battles, and that is right. They tell of brave men

defending the Island of the Mighty with their lives. These tales are good,

and some are even true; I take nothing away from them. But my task is

ordered differently.

See, now, it is the Grail I tell: that strange stirrer of marvels, that most

uncanny vessel of desire. Dangerous, yes, and more beautiful than words

alone can tell, it is the holiest treasure in all this worlds-realm. But for

Arthur, that precious cup would surely have been forgotten, and its healing

virtues lost through ignorance and neglect. Yet, truth be told, but for

Arthur, none of the terrors and tribulations I describe would have befallen

us. But for Arthur, the Grail was almost lost, and a flame of Heaven's pure

fire extinguished on the earth.

That is a tale few have heard, and it is worth more than all the others. Ah,

but I race before myself. Know you, the Battlehost of the Ancient Enemy

is large, and falters before nothing save the True Word. And the sound of

the clash when those two combatants met will echo through the ages, I do

believe it. Blessed among men, I was favoured to ride at my king's right

hand in the foreranks of the fight. Tremble and turn pale; sain yourself

with runes and strong prayers, call upon the company of angels, and

barken well to my warning: where great good endures, great evil gathers

close about. This I know.

Hear me! Speak of the Grail and you speak a mystery with a secret at its

heart, and I, Gwalchavad, Prince of Orcady, know the secret as none other.

If the telling gives you pleasure, well and good but I should not like cold

eyes to read it in this book.

Therefore, look to your heart; look long and hard. If you are friend to all

that is true and right, then welcome and read on. But if you would savour

the sauce of slander and shadow tricks, feast on lies, betrayals, and

seductions, you will find little to your liking here. Blessed Jesu, I mean to

tell the truth of what I know.

Thus, I begin:

For seven long years we warred against the ravaging Saecsens

- seven years of hardship and privation, misery, torment, and death. Under

Arthur's command, and with the aid of the Swift Sure Hand, we prevailed

in the end. This is well known -indeed, even small children know how the

warhost of Britain raised the wall on Baedun Hill and destroyed the bold

invader

- so I will not say more, except to point out that we had scarcely drawn

breath from our hard-fought victory at Baedun when we were beset by the

wandering Vandal horde. Fighting first in lerna, then in Britain, we chased

Amilcar, that greedy boar of battle, over most of Lloegres before he was

subdued.

A strange war, that; it lasted little more than a season, yet brought more

waste and destruction to our land than all the Saecsen battles put together.

Why is it that trouble always seems to come in threes? For with the havoc

of the Vandali came plague and drought as well. Those who grumble and

complain would do well to remember that the Pendragon had three

enemies to fight, not just one. If there is another king who could have done

better against such odds, then show me that man, I say, or shut your

mouth. There is no pleasing some people. Though many raise their voices

in accusation and make loud lament over lost lands and such, I still think

Arthur chose the better course.

The thing is over now, in any event, so it does no good to piss and moan.

If they knew the Bear of Britain at all, they would realize their miserable

whining only hardens his conviction the more.

Better a trustworthy foe than a treacherous friend, and we have seen

enough of scheming friends. The Island of the Mighty is better off without

the likes of Ceredig, Morcant, Brastias, Gerontius, Urien, and their

rebellious ilk always making trouble. The Devil take them all, I say. They

will not be missed.

Where were they - those who make such loud complaint -when Arthur

stood against the Vandal lord? Urien and Brastias thought to usurp the

High King's portion, but did I hear them offer to take the High King's

place on the blood-soaked battleground? Gerontius was ever quick to goad

the others in their petty rebellion, but did I see bold Gerontius in the

forefront of the fight?

No, I did not.

We had amassed the greatest warhost seen in Britain since Great

Constantine - twenty thousand men and fifteen thousand horses! Yet, on

that fearful day Arthur faced his foe alone, and the treasonous lords were

nowhere to be seen. Well, they made their choice. So be it. But instead of

insulting Heaven with their lament, they would do better to offer heartfelt

praise that they possess both breath and tongue to complain.

Arthur paid dearly for the peace we now enjoy. When they carried him

from the field of battle, so, too, were our hearts borne away - and the sun

and stars as well, for we walked in darkness without Arthur.

'They have taken him to Ynys Avallach,' Rhys said, his face grey with

fatigue and worry. 'If you know any prayers, say them now.' For if Arthur

would be healed, it must be in that holy place and none other. The Wise

Emrys knew best what to do. Rhys then delivered Arthur's last command.

'You are to conduct the Vandali to the north, where they will take

possession of lands surrendered by the rebel lords. Any Britons living in

these realms will be cast out and their settlements made forfeit by their

lords' treason.'

Thus they departed, leaving us to establish the peace Arthur had won. We

divided the warhost; Bedwyr, Cai, and I conducted the new Vandal

chieftain, Mercia, and his tribes to the lands Arthur had granted them in

the north. Cador and the rest of the Cymbrogi - the name is Arthur's

choice, it means companions of the heart - turned their attention to

overseeing the departure from these shores of the traitors and their

followers whose lands had fallen forfeit.

Burdened by weight of numbers, and fatigued with all the fighting we had

endured, we made our way north very slowly, leading the Vandal host,

searching out water along the way. Far easier said than done, I fear; with

each passing day the drought deepened, causing hardship from one end of

the land to the other. It broke my heart to see holding after holding

deserted -many had fled to Armorica - but worse still were the burned-out

strongholds, those which plague had ravaged and destroyed.

If the sight of so much suffering made us heart-heavy, the thought of

displacing honest British folk from their homelands brought us to despair.

Oh, it is a hard, hard thing to tell a man his home must be surrendered and

all his life's labour has come to naught because his rogue of a lord has

broken faith with the High King. Stab that man in the heart; it is kinder in

the end, I swear it.

I loathed the task set before me, and prayed for a way to evade what must

be done. Day after day, as we moved the Vandal host northward, I prayed

to God for a miracle.

Behold! My prayer was answered, not with a miracle, but with a resolution

almost as good. One night, the sixth or seventh since leaving our

encampment near the battlefield at Caer Gloiu, Mercia and his priest

approached Bedwyr's tent. Bedwyr had brought Arthur's camp chair and

tent as the sole, scant consolation of a miserable journey. We were

enjoying a moment's rest after another arduous day.

'What do they want now?' growled Bedwyr.

Like Bedwyr, I desired nothing more than to end this day of heat and dust

in good company. 'I will deal with them,' I said, thinking to send them

away; I stood to call out.

'Stay, brother.' Bedwyr sighed, changing his mind. 'As we have not had

more than a dusty glimpse of them for a day or two, we had better allow

him his say.'

Swarthy Mercia, dark hair and eyes - darker still in the fading twilight -

hailed us with his customary salute, striking his heart with his fist. The

once-captive priest, Hergest, spoke when Mercia spoke, saying,

'Greetings, friends.'

'Greetings,' Bedwyr replied bleakly. After days of herding Vandali, he was

finding it hard to muster any enthusiasm for their concerns.

'Sit down if you will,' I said, making a gesture towards courtesy. 'We

would offer you a cup to wet your throats on such a sultry day, but we

have nothing to put in it.' I said this last to discourage the appeal I knew

was coming. Every day since the beginning of this journey, one or another

of the barbarian chieftains had come before us to demand a greater water

ration - sometimes two or three on the same day. What little water we had

was shared out to all in equal measure, as I told them - each and every day.

'It is hot, yes,' said Mercia. His speech, though broken, was rapidly

improving. No doubt Hergest was a good teacher.

'Yes,' Bedwyr answered, leaning back in his chair. 'We need rain - the land

needs rain.'

'My people thirst,' Mercia said bluntly.

Bedwyr reacted irritably. 'Am I a fountain? I just said we need rain. It is a

drought, you know. Everyone is thirsty.'

Mercia gazed mildly back, undisturbed by this outburst. He glanced at

Hergest, who uttered a few harsh-sounding words in his own tongue. The

Vandal merely nodded and loosed a lengthy torrent of barbarian jabber.

When he finished, he nodded again, this time to the priest, who said, 'Lord

Mercia wants you both to know that he would be less than noble if he did

not ask for water when his people are thirsty. He intended no disrespect.'

'Very well,' Bedwyr muttered, somewhat chastened by his reply.

'Mercia also says that he is unhappy,' continued Hergest. Before Bedwyr

or I could frame a reply, the priest said, 'The source of his unhappiness is

this: rooting Britons from their homes sits ill with him. To be the cause of

such hardship does make him seem small in his own eyes.'

'I understand,' Bedwyr told him, 'but there is nothing to be done. The

hardship to the Britons has come about by the willful action of their lords

who broke faith with Arthur. The punishment is shared by all. That is the

High King's command.'

When the stalwart priest had conveyed my meaning, Mercia answered. 'I

quarrel not with Arthur's judgment. But I would offer a - ah, an

understanding,' he said, speaking through Hergest.

'Yes?' asked Bedwyr warily. 'What is this understanding?'

'Allow us to settle unclaimed lands,' suggested Mercia through his priest.

'Let stay who will, but tell them we will not possess inhabited British

holdings.'

This was unforeseen. 'And let Britons and Vandali live together in the

same realm?' I asked.

'If any care to stay,' Hergest answered. 'The Vandal would share the land

with any willing to share the land with them.'

'Is he earnest?' Bedwyr inquired, pulling on his chin.

'Indeed.' Hergest assured us adamantly. 'He has spoken to the other

chieftains, and they all agree. They would rather settle the wilderness than

displace the innocent.' He paused. 'May I explain?'

'If you can.'

'It is this way,' said Hergest. 'Arthur's generosity is more than they

expected and it has shamed them. The people of Vandalia are a proud

race, and resourceful. Because need is great, they will accept the land

Arthur has decreed for them, but their pride recoils from causing hardship

to the kinsmen of those who have befriended them.'

I shook my head in amazement. 'Hardship? Blessed Jesu, only a few days

ago these bloodlusting barbarians were plundering and burning these same

British settlements!'

'That,' Mercia spat, 'was Amilcar's doing.' Obviously, there was little love

between the defeated Vandal king and his minions.

'And is Mercia so very different?' Bedwyr asked harshly, pressing the

matter, I think, to see what sort of man the new king might be.

Without hesitation, the priest replied. 'Mercia regrets the plundering and

burning that Amilcar inflicted on this land. It was war. Such things

happen. But now that Mercia is lord of the Vandali, Hussae, and Rogatti,

he has pledged friendship with Arthur. This friendship he values greatly,

and would increase its worth by extending it to the Britons holding the

lands wherein the Vandal tribes must settle.'

I was amazed. The suggestion showed both benevolence and shrewdness.

The cunning I might have expected, but the compassion in the barbarian's

suggestion took me by surprise. I looked at Bedwyr, who looked at me,

rubbing the back of his neck.

Hergest saw our hesitation. 'Mercia does not ask that you trust him - only

that you try him.'

'It is not a matter of trust,' Bedwyr said slowly. 'The summer is far

advanced; there is no time to raise crops before winter comes. You will

require dwellings, and cattle pens, and everything else. Where will you get

them, if not from the Britons?'

When the priest had explained Bedwyr's words to him, the young chieftain

smiled. 'We are not without skill in such matters,' he replied through

Hergest. 'Besides, the wise ones among us say that this winter shall be like

those of our homeland in the southern sea. It will do us no harm.'

'Winter in the north is harsh and long,' Bedwyr told him, 'as I know only

too well.'

'Your concern does you honour, Lord Bedwyr,' Hergest answered. 'But

would not homeless Britons suffer the winter as readily as homeless

Vandali?' He lifted a hand to Mercia. 'My lord says that if we are to live

under Arthur's rule, let it be among Arthur's people.'

The young chieftain's eyes shifted from Bedwyr to me, and back again -

willing us to believe.

I regarded him carefully, uncertain what to do. Truly, they offered us a

way out of the hateful task of forcing people from their homes -

countrymen whose only sin was having unfaithful noblemen for lords.

What would Arthur do?

I was on the point of sending them away to allow us to think the thing

through when Mercia said, 'Lord Bedvyr... Lord Galahad' - that was as

much as he could make of our names -'please, I beg you, let us prove the

trust that has been granted us.'

'Very well,' Bedwyr said, making up his mind at once. 'Let it be as you

say. We will conduct you to unclaimed lands and there you shall make

your home. I leave it to you how to divide the realms between your tribes.

Make your settlements as you will. But there is to be no trouble between

your people and the Britons who choose to remain.'

He said this sternly, every word an implied threat. Mercia rushed forward,

knelt before him, seized his hand, and kissed it. No doubt this was a

common thing among the Vandal kind, but we are not so accustomed.

Bedwyr snatched his hand away, saying, 'Rise, Mercia. You have the thing

you seek. Go and tell your people.'

Mercia rose and stood a little apart, smiling his good pleasure. 'A wise

decision, Prince Bedwyr,' Hergest assured us; he touched a hand to his

throat and I noticed he no longer wore the iron slave ring.

'Make certain I do not live to regret it.'

'The Vandali are barbarians, it is true. They give their word rarely, but

when they do, the vow endures to the fifth generation,' the priest affirmed.

'I trust Mercia.'

'May God be good to you,' Bedwyr told him. 'I am content.'

'I am heartily glad you are content,' I told Bedwyr when they had gone. 'I

only wonder what Arthur will say when he hears what we have done.'

'I care nothing for that,' replied Bedwyr. He turned away quickly, adding,

'I pray instead he lives to hear it.'

TWO

Bedwyr retreated to the tent, but I remained outside, thinking, and

listening to the sounds of the camp settling in for the night. Twilight

deepened around me. I watched the dusky slope of the distant hillside

begin to glow as campfires wakened in the darkness; soon the aroma of

roasting meat stirred me.

What has become of Rhys? I wondered, thinking that he should have

returned long ago.

He and a small company of warriors had gone in search of water as soon

as we halted our day's march. We were camped in a shallow valley, and

there were streams in the surrounding hills. Finding water had become the

chief task of each and every day; we did not neglect any possible means of

filling the waterskins and jars. As we moved farther up the vale, the

streams narrowed and thinned, and the search became more difficult. We

had not located any drinking water this day, so Rhys had undertaken to

continue looking.

The rest of the Cymbrogi were nearby, having established camp at a

second place on the hillside. We did this by way of guarding the Vandal

host, yet allowing ourselves a ready retreat. For though they were no

longer armed - their spears alone filled three wagons! - there were so

many of them that we could easily be overrun. Thus, we always made two

camps a short distance apart and kept watch through the night.

'He will soon return,' Bedwyr assured me when I pointed out that it was

well past dark and still no sign of Rhys and his company. 'Why uneasy,

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PROLOGUEMenaresuchpathetic,lumpenthings-sopredictableintheirappetites,suchslavestotheirtediousdesiresandpleasures.Creaturesofdullhabitandsavagecompulsion,theywaverbetweenoneandtheother,neverperceivinganythingoftheworldbeyondtheiranimalpassions.Why,thecattleofthefieldknowmoreoflife.Ah,butitisalltooea...

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Stephen Lawhead - Pendragon Cycle 05 - Grail

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