Grail Prince Paperback - 2003 - 1st Edition

Excerpt

BOOK ONE Part I In the Shadow of Camlann In the first year of the reign of Constantine

Wolf Galahad woke instantly. It was cold and dark. Silence breathed on his neck, and his heart raced. Where was he? He lay still, holding his breath, listening hard. He could see nothing, but something was there. The very air was thick with menace. He knew, without knowing how, that death was near.

Suddenly he heard again the sound that had jerked him awake: the shrill bleat of a horse in terror. His horse! Memory flashed back: Farouk tied at the back of the vaulting cave, Percival tucked in his bedroll against the rock face, a fire lit in a circle of stones at the mouth to keep away wolves—

He raised himself cautiously on one elbow. Two feral golden eyes stared at him out of the night, ten feet away, throat high. His breath stopped. By the dark light of dying embers he made out the thin gray-black body of a mountain wolf, head down, ears forward, ruff bristling, nose alive to living scent. Without moving his body he let his fingertips slide toward his belt and his dagger hilt. But even as the weapon slipped into his hand, he knew it was no use. He would never have enough time. At the first threat of movement the animal would attack. Already the lips stretched in an ugly snarl, revealing the great fangs. He stared back at the golden eyes as hard as he could. The wolf did not blink. A low, rumbling growl sprang from deep within its belly. Behind him the frightened horse swung around on his tether, nervous footfalls vibrating through the earth.

“Jesu God!” Percival’s terrified whisper split the silence. The wolf’s head shot up, turned. Galahad’s arm drew back and whipped forward as the animal, sensing its mistake, whirled and flung itself at him. The wolf fell dead as it hit his chest, the dagger’s hilt stuck in its throat.

“Galahad!”

“Shhh!” Galahad rose to a crouch, shaking, and scanned the darkness beyond the cave, but he could see no other eyes.

“My God!” Percival stifled a sob and wriggled out of his bedroll. “It’s my fault! The fire died—I fell asleep—he might have killed you! Oh, Galahad, after all we’ve been through—to think we might have ended as a meal for a mountain wolf! A wolf, of all creatures, when we’re on the road home to Gwynedd!”

“Be quiet, will you, for pity’s sake?” Galahad glanced at Percival’s shoulder badge, where the Gray Wolf of Gwynedd stood proudly guarding the Irish Sea. Did the boy think the creatures knew who he was? “Get busy with that fire. There may be others about.”

Forcing his breath to normal, Galahad looked down at the wolf’s emaciated body. It had been a hard year for wolves as well as men: a late, cold spring, a dry summer, a hot, desolate autumn, and now winter looked to be early. It must be bitterly cold in the heights to drive them down into the valleys so soon.

It’s a new world now. The thought came back to him unbidden, rising in his throat like vomit. Everything is changed.

He dragged the wolf’s body back to the cave mouth, pulled the dagger out, and slit its throat. Blood spilled out onto the rock ledge outside the cave, and dribbled down into the blackthorn thicket hedging the brook below. Percival lay on his stomach, cupping the precious embers as he blew gently on their only hope of fire. Galahad watched him a moment, saw the glow brighten and strips of whittled kindling curl and dissolve into little flames.

He nodded. “Keep your eyes open and your dagger nearby. The stench of wolf’s blood may deter any others, but fire’s better. I’m going to settle the horse.”

The black stallion snorted and flung his head at the end of his rope, but calmed when he felt the reassuring touch of his master’s hand. Galahad took his time with the horse, running his hands over the sweating coat and speaking calmly. “Rouk, Rouk, steady on, my boy. It’s only a wolf. You’ve faced worse: Romans in Gaul and Saxons in Britain. It’s all over now.” But underneath the steady flow of assurances, the fear he had lived with for six long weeks clutched him again. It is a new world now. Arthur is dead. Oh, dear God, Arthur is dead. . . .

He bowed his head against the horse’s flank as hot tears escaped his hard control. It was only last spring—a lifetime ago—he had left Britain with Arthur’s army to join the kingdoms of Less Britain in their stand against the Romans at Autun. That battle had ended the threat of Roman domination, but it had come at such a cost! So many men had died! His own father— He shrugged the thought away. He did not want to think about Lancelot.

And after Autun, disaster had followed hard upon disaster. Was it only six weeks ago, the Battle of Camlann? Six weeks ago half of Britain had died near the banks of the Camel within sight of the towers of Camelot.

Angrily he pushed away that memory. There was no point in remembering. Even the last six weeks were growing more difficult to recall. He had spent most of them at Percival’s side in Avalon’s House of Healing. That was a time shrouded in grief. Or had the Lady of the Lake drawn a living mist across his mind to guard the secrets of Avalon? He wouldn’t be at all surprised. Niniane, chief priestess when Arthur was King, was a powerful enchantress, a witch of the first order. And young Morgaine, who took her place after Camlann, was a gifted healer. Although it was widely claimed they used their power only for good, he did not trust them. He would have preferred a pile of bracken on the floor in one of the mean cells at the Christian monastery atop the Tor, rather than sleep in a real bed with a down pillow as a guest of pagan priestesses in the orchards of Avalon. But they had saved Percival’s life. For that, he owed them courtesy.

What would happen now? He glanced toward the cave mouth, where Percival crouched over the growing flames. Percival of Gwynedd, his cousin, was eleven years old—too young to be a warrior king. He was one of twelve, the Lady said, to survive Camlann. But he had barely survived it. It had taken six weeks in Avalon and all the healing power the Lady could summon to close the sword cut in his shoulder and put color back into his face.

Galahad ran his hand over the stallion’s flank. The horse had cocked a hind leg now and slouched in boredom. How lucky animals were to forget fear so quickly! His own fear pressed down upon him like a bird of prey crouching on his shoulder, with every faltering step digging talons in. Once, he had had a future. King Arthur had given him a mission, a quest—the witch Niniane had sent him a dream about it—but now Arthur was gone and Niniane had disappeared. Nothing was the same as it had been. What on God’s sweet earth would happen now? Slowly, like a man in sleep, Galahad walked forward toward the fire.

“I’m sorry I shouted,” Percival mumbled. “I thought he was going to kill you.” He crouched over the pile of brush and branches they had gathered before dusk, searching for the right size tinder for the nascent flames.

“He might have, if you hadn’t drawn his attention. Your shout probably saved my life.” Percival colored shyly and reached for a branch. Galahad watched him struggle to break it across his knee. The boy had no strength yet in his injured arm. “Do you want some help?”

“Certainly not! Any village child of six can do this. And I’m nearly twelve.”

“No man of twenty could do it if he’d had his shoulder cut clean through six weeks ago.”

Percival flashed him a grateful look. Beads of sweat had formed along his brow, as cold as it was. “Nevertheless, let me try. I’ll get it.”

“You’ll open the wound again. And this time you won’t go to Avalon. You’ll have to settle for whatever care your kin can give you in Gwynedd.”

If we get there. Again the unbidden voice of fear whispered in his ear. Two boys traveling through Welsh hills left lawless by the decimation of Camlann—they could so easily be killed by a couple of bandits with decent knives, or by a starved wolf, or even by a night out in the cold without a fire. . . .

Impatiently Galahad shrugged off the weight of his fear and went out to the rock ledge beyond the cave. He lifted the wolf carcass by its heels until it was drained of blood. Then he dragged it back inside the cave, slit it open, and began to skin it.

“Sharpen a stick or two. Let’s roast the pluck.”

In the end they roasted all the flesh they could get off the bones, and stuffed it into their saddlebags for future meals. They ate the liver and the heart, and finding there was not enough dirt on the cave floor to bury the bones and entrails, threw them off the rock ledge, a feast for night’s creatures. They stretched the wolfskin to dry by the fire and then sat down, looking at each other. Neither of them made a move toward his bedroll. Instead, Percival brought out the skin of wine the Lady had given him at parting, and offered it to Galahad.

“We’re still in Guent now, aren’t we?” he asked. “A day out of Caerleon? How many days until we reach Gwynedd?”

“I was going to ask you that. I’ve never been to Wales. You live here.”

Percival looked uncomfortable. “Yes, but until I sneaked away to join Arthur’s army I had never been out of my own valley. I don’t even know where the border lies. I won’t know where we are until we get to land I recognize.”

Galahad tried a smile. “Then we’ll have to hope the commander at Caerleon was telling us the truth. Northwest, he said. Gwynedd lies northwest of everything.”

“You didn’t like the Caerleon commander, did you? What was his name, Sir Bruenor? I thought he was courteous enough.”

“He’s a Cornishman. Sir Caradoc and the men from Caerleon I knew all died at Camlann. Bruenor is Constantine’s man. Caerleon is Constantine’s. Camelot is Constantine’s. So is Britain, if there is a Britain still.”

“You didn’t like him because he was Cornish? Cornishmen are Britons, too.”

“Under Arthur they were tame enough. But the dukes of Cornwall have always been ambitious. Constantine has wanted the High Kingship all his life. Now he has it. But I wonder how many will follow him.”

“We have to begin again somewhere. It might as well be with Constantine.”

Galahad smiled at his young cousin. “Will you follow Constantine, then, King of Gwynedd?”

Percival colored. “I am king only because my father was killed at Autun. My uncle Peredur is appointed regent until I’m fifteen. Those were Arthur’s orders.”

“Arthur is dead. There is no one to enforce those orders now. You can be king from the day of your arrival home, or your uncle can snatch it from you. There’s no one to stop him.”

“He wouldn’t!”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I know he wouldn’t!”

“We’ll find out as soon as we get to Gwynedd.”

“My mother wouldn’t let him. Or my sister.”

Galahad shook his head. “Peredur has a sword. They don’t.”

“He wouldn’t harm them!” Percival cried. “He wouldn’t dare!”

Galahad moved closer to him and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Calm down, and keep your voice low. I didn’t mean that. I only meant to point out your position. Who’s been ruling in Gwynedd since your father left for Brittany with Arthur? Your mother or Peredur?”

“My father appointed Peredur regent in his stead.”

“You see? For six months he’s been in command of every soldier there. He’s got their loyalty by now; he’s appointed his own captains. If he’s any sort of leader he’s in full control of the house guard, too. He already has the power in his hands. It’s a small step from regent to outright king. There’s only you in the middle.”

Percival gulped. “What are you saying? That I’ll have to fight him for my birthright?”

Galahad shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first. He’s Maelgon’s brother. He has a claim to it. You’re the only one in his way.” He paused. “What kind of man is he? Direct or devious? Selfish? Cruel?”

“N-no. Not cruel. Direct, yes. We breed men so in Gwynedd.”

“Well.” Galahad handed him back the wineskin. “You’re a long way from fighting him for your birthright. You can hardly move that arm of yours, much less hold a sword. And even if you could, you know little enough of swordplay. You had better let me be your sword. I’ll stay with you in Gwynedd, at least until we see which way the land lies.”

“Will you?” Percival’s eyes were shining. “Thank you, cousin. Your sword is protection against any man in Britain! But there won’t be any need. Wait and see. Uncle Peredur will welcome you with open arms. After all, you’re his nephew, too. My whole life he’s always bragged to others how his sister Elaine married Lancelot of Lanascol, the High King’s second-in-command. He’s prouder of his kinship bonds with Lancelot, which are only through marriage, than he is of his blood cousin, the High Queen Guinevere. He’d never raise a sword against Lancelot’s son.”

“That was in the old days,” Galahad said levelly. “Now everything has changed. Lancelot’s name will not be as bright as it was.”

“Why not?”

“He’s gone home to Lanascol. For good. He’s given up on Britain. On the future. He said his time is past. He’d never back Constantine. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not alone.”

Percival sat silent, staring moodily at the flames.

“Britain lies on the brink of disaster,” Galahad muttered. “Everything Arthur fought for, the peace and unity of the past twenty years, is already undone. As soon as the Saxons realize what has happened, the Kingdom of the Britons could go up in smoke.”

Percival looked up and met his eyes. “But it won’t. We’ll unite. We’ll rebuild.”

Galahad managed a smile. “Who’s we? A fourteen-year-old Breton nobody likes and an eleven-year-old boy from the northwest corner of Wales? Who would follow us? I’m not so certain Britain can be put back together. Too many men are dead. Too few left living who dreamed Arthur’s dream.”

A wolf howled mournfully in the distance, and the hairs rose on the backs of both their necks. Percival threw a log on the fire and shuddered.

“Go ahead and sleep,” Galahad said gently. “I’ll stand watch. You need your rest. We’ll get an early start in the morning.”

Galahad gazed into the deep heart of the fire as Percival’s breathing slowed toward sleep. This creeping journey, this covert slinking through the Welsh hills toward the protection of Percival’s home, might prove to be the end of his and Percival’s fortunes—for they were powerless against any man with a force at his back—or it might be a beginning. It all depended upon what they found when they reached Gwynedd.