Grail

NINETEEN

In Llyonesse I learned my an – Annubi possessed a great store of wisdom, all of which I devoured, and in that way devoured him – but in the Dark Islands I practised it. Orcady provided the solitude I required, and also the resources of a wealthy and powerful husband to protect and indulge me while I perfected my craft.

Poor Lot knew little of my labours because I allowed him to see very little – only enough so that he would respect my long seclusions. His headstrong son despised me, but his grandsons, Gwakmai and Gwalchavad, might have proved valuable to me – ardent men have their uses, after all – and I could easily have bent them to my purposes. But they had forsaken their birthright to follow that ox-brained Arthur. So I persuaded the old king to give me a son of my own, a child I could train to my will, who would rule the realm after his father.

I might have reigned in Orcady myself, but I have greater ambitions, and was already laying my designs for Merlin. Once, I offered him the choice of joining me – united, we would have created a force more powerful than any since Atlantis was destroyed! But the self-righteous idiot had the temerity to spurn me. He styles himself a bard like his father, and holds to the ancient bardic ideals – that and the pathetic notion of his which he dignifies with the name 'The Kingdom of Summer'.

Since Merlin would not join me, he must be destroyed. I had, through various means, watched his progress and knew that he had acquired a rough an of his own, which, if allowed to thrive, might cause me trouble. I had paid dearly for that which I possessed – great power comes at great cost – and I could not easily afford to let anyone interfere in my plans. So I lured him to Llyonesse, where I could more easily control the confrontation.

Killing him would have been child's play, of course; and looking back on it now, I know that is what I should have done. What I wanted, however, was not only to strip him of his power, but to do it so completely and absolutely that he would abandon every hope and ambition he had ever had for his ridiculous Summer Realm.

I misjudged him, however; he was more canny than I expected; the encounter went against me and I was forced to break off the attack. Merlin imagines that he bested me; moreover, he believes my power was broken. In that, however, he is desperately mistaken. When I saw I could not win the encounter outright, I abandoned the attempt in order to preserve the power I had laboured so long to gain. In truth, I permitted the little weasel to escape, or he would have been crushed and annihilated – just like the smarmy lickspit Pelleas; I destroyed him just for spite, and to show Merlin just how fortunate he was to escape.

Yes, I allowed Merlin to slip away that time, but he will not elude me again. He has made it his life's labour to raise the oafish Arthur to prominence. It will be a singular pleasure to wipe out that work, to obliterate the both of them. In fact, it is better this way. The sight of them squirming in their death throes is a sight I will relish forever.

Oh, they will die in disgrace with curses between their teeth; that is inevitable, inescapable. They will die in shame and despair, but not before they have seen everything they valued laid waste. This I have promised myself. It will be.

Morgaws is now in place. She has beguiled the entire court in one way or another, and she has chosen the one who will become the agent of betrayal. Rhys, I thought, would have served us admirably in this. Indeed, we tried to seduce him, but met with unaccountable resistance. Nevertheless, his influence has been abrogated; he will not trouble us. Gwakhavad, too, might have provided a pleasantly ironic choice, but I knew he would be difficult. We will keep trying, of course, but whether we win him or not makes no real difference. Others have been corrupted to the cause, and only await the command to strike. That command will not be long in coming. Only one or two details remain, and then the destruction will commence.

The day of Morgian's revenge is at hand. Behold, all you people, your doom swiftly approaches! Weep with black despair, for there is no escape.

The seasons passed. Harvest came and went: a dismal business, best forgotten. The long, dry summer had done its worst. There was nothing for it but to trust winter rains to bring a better spring. Though we looked to every grey cloud that drifted overhead, the rain did not come.

The lack of rain meant, however, that the work on the new shrine could continue without interruption, and people began to look upon its completion as the salvation of the land. 'When the Grail Shrine is finished' became the litany which began every conversation, as people turned hopefully to a brighter future. Each day the Pendragon and Cymbrogi rode out to their labours, and each night returned delirious with exhaustion and companionship. Accordingly, the day of completion, hastened by favourable weather and the unquenchable ardour of the Cymbrogi labourers, arrived far sooner than expected.

Though I did no work myself, I often rode out to watch as the builders, seized with the fervour of creation, vied to outdo one another in the quality of their work. And despite my inexplicable aversion, I will say that it grew into a fine and handsome place: six-sided, with neat straight walls rising from a tiered base and topped by a steep-peaked roof of wood covered with red Roman tile – God knows where they got that! – and a series of curved steps. It was not large, but Arthur allowed that it was, after all, only a beginning; in time, the shrine could be expanded, or attached to a much larger structure, which he had in mind. 'But this will do for now,' he declared, well pleased with the result.

As the turning of the year approached, Arthur began making plans for the Grail Shrine's consecration. He called for messengers to summon those he wished to attend the august event. I volunteered at once, since the errand provided me a welcome escape from what I had begun to think of as the delirium which had overtaken almost everyone.

I say 'almost' because there were others, like myself, who regarded the absurd euphoria with increasing suspicion. Myrddin, as ever, pleased to garner whatever he could of the builders' craft, would speak no word against the shrine or the Grail, but his praise was ever guarded and he held himself aloof from any talk of miracles, or thousand-year reigns of peace, and such. Likewise Bedwyr, who always seemed to find one important concern or another to occupy him -1 know he often fished with Avallach. Llenlleawg, I believe, never so much as rode out to the site; it was whispered that Lady Morgaws demanded his constant attention. Cai helped often, however, and Cador only now and then, as it pleased him.

Thus, Bedwyr, Cador, and I, along with a score of Cymbrogi, rode out one cool, bright morning to our various destinations, far and wide throughout the realm and beyond. I was sent to Londinium to bring back Charis, who yet laboured there in one of the plague camps. Before leaving, I asked Llenlleawg if he would ride with me – for all he appeared so haggard and ill at ease that I reckoned a little sojourn away from the overheated mood of the Tor would be no bad thing – but he declined. 'No,' he said, 'my place is here with Arthur.'

'Of course,' I replied lightly, 'no one doubts it. But Arthur himself has commanded me to go and escort Charis home.'

'Then go. It is nothing to do with me.'

I watched him as he stumped away, and could not help thinking that he was no longer the man I knew. I resolved to bring the matter to Myrddin's attention at the first opportunity when I returned. Be that as it may, it was with a sense of relief that I left the Tor – relief that I might be quit of the tedium and hypocrisy of maintaining a pretence of support when my heart was not in it.

Taking an extra horse, I departed, pausing at the abbey to inquire where I could find Paulus. Some of the brothers had just returned from a long stint away in the south, just outside Caer Lundein, where Paulus had established a camp off the old Roman road. Charis was there, along with a good many monks from neighbouring monasteries, helping to combat the yellow death. 'It has ravaged Londinium terribly,' one of the brothers told me. 'I believe it is far worse there than it ever was here. Paulinus is easy to find, and you will not have to enter the city.'

'Perhaps you would not object,' suggested Elfodd, 'to taking a few supplies to them. The need is great, and it is the least we can do. Would you mind?'

'Not at all,' I assured him, and then watched as the good The seasons passed. Harvest came and went: a dismal business, best forgotten. The long, dry summer had done its worst. There was nothing for it but to trust winter rains to bring a better spring. Though we looked to every grey cloud that drifted overhead, the rain did not come.

The lack of rain meant, however, that the work on the new shrine could continue without interruption, and people began to look upon its completion as the salvation of the land. 'When the Grail Shrine is finished' became the litany which began every conversation, as people turned hopefully to a brighter future. Each day the Pendragon and Cymbrogi rode out to their labours, and each night returned delirious with exhaustion and companionship. Accordingly, the day of completion, hastened by favourable weather and the unquenchable ardour of the Cymbrogi labourers, arrived far sooner than expected.

Though I did no work myself, I often rode out to watch as the builders, seized with the fervour of creation, vied to outdo one another in the quality of their work. And despite my inexplicable aversion, I will say that it grew into a fine and handsome place: six-sided, with neat straight walls rising from a tiered base and topped by a steep-peaked roof of wood covered with red Roman tile – God knows where they got that! – and a series of curved steps. It was not large, but Arthur allowed that it was, after all, only a beginning; in time, the shrine could be expanded, or attached to a much larger structure, which he had in mind. 'But this will do for now,' he declared, well pleased with the result.

As the turning of the year approached, Arthur began making plans for the Grail Shrine's consecration. He called for messengers to summon those he wished to attend the august event. I volunteered at once, since the errand provided me a welcome escape from what I had begun to think of as the delirium which had overtaken almost everyone.

I say 'almost' because there were others, like myself, who regarded the absurd euphoria with increasing suspicion. Myrddin, as ever, pleased to garner whatever he could of the builders' craft, would speak no word against the shrine or the Grail, but his praise was ever guarded and he held himself aloof from any talk of miracles, or thousand-year reigns of peace, and such. Likewise Bedwyr, who always seemed to find one important concern or another to occupy him -1 know he often fished with Avallach. Llenlleawg, I believe, never so much as rode out to the site; it was whispered that Lady Morgaws demanded his constant attention. Cai helped often, however, and Cador only now and then, as it pleased him.

Thus, Bedwyr, Cador, and I, along with a score of Cymbrogi, rode out one cool, bright morning to our various destinations, far and wide throughout the realm and beyond. I was sent to Londinium to bring back Charis, who yet laboured there in one of the plague camps. Before leaving, I asked Llenlleawg if he would ride with me – for all he appeared so haggard and ill at ease that I reckoned a little sojourn away from the overheated mood of the Tor would be no bad thing – but he declined. 'No,' he said, 'my place is here with Arthur.'

'Of course,' I replied lightly, 'no one doubts it. But Arthur himself has commanded me to go and escort Charis home.'

'Then go. It is nothing to do with me.'

I watched him as he stumped away, and could not help thinking that he was no longer the man I knew. I resolved to bring the matter to Myrddin's attention at the first opportunity when I returned. Be that as it may, it was with a sense of relief that I left the Tor – relief that I might be quit of the tedium and hypocrisy of maintaining a pretence of support when my heart was not in it.

Taking an extra horse, I departed, pausing at the abbey to inquire where I could find Paulus. Some of the brothers had just returned from a long stint away in the south, just outside Caer Lundein, where Paulus had established a camp off the old Roman road. Charis was there, along with a good many monks from neighbouring monasteries, helping to combat the yellow death. 'It has ravaged Londinium terribly,' one of the brothers told me. 'I believe it is far worse there than it ever was here. Paulinus is easy to find, and you will not have to enter the city.'

'Perhaps you would not object,' suggested Elfodd, 'to taking a few supplies to them. The need is great, and it is the least we can do. Would you mind?'

'Not at all,' I assured him, and then watched as the good monks piled bundle after bundle upon the horses: supplies for making medicine, cloaks and winter clothing for the brethren, dried meat, and casks of ale and mead to help their fellows celebrate the Christ Mass, which was drawing near. When they finished at last, I took my leave and made for the Londinium Road. I thought it a long time since I had been on that highway; the last time was for Arthur's crowntaking and wedding. So much had happened since then, it seemed a lifetime ago. Perhaps it is as Myrddin says: time is not the passage of an endless succession of moments, but the distance between events. That was nonsense to me when I first heard it. Now, looking back, I think I begin to know what he meant.

The swiftest way to the Londinium Road lies through a stretch of forest – an old, old trackway, used from ages beyond remembering. The forest is older still, of course, and there are yet many of the great patriarchal trees to be seen: elms on which moss has grown so thick that they appear grey-green with age, and oaks with trunks large as houses. The forest fringe, where light still penetrates to the ground, evokes no fear; but when men must go into the dark heart of the ancient wood, they go in haste, passing through as quickly as possible.

This I did, hunkering down in the saddle with one of the Wise Emrys' saining runes on my lips. As I rode, I said:

Be the cloak of Michael Militant about me,

Be the cloak of the Archangel over me, Christ's cloak,

Blessed Saviour, safeguarding me,

God's cloak of grace and strength, shielding me!

To guard me at my back,

To preserve me from the front,

And from the crown of my head to the heel of my foot!

The cloak of Heaven's High King between me and

all things that wish me ill, and all things that

wish me harm, and all things coming darkly

towards me!

In this way I passed through the darkest part of the forest. After a while, the path lightened ahead of me, and I knew that I was reaching the end. I emerged from the wood at a gallop and gained the hills above the road, where I paused to look back at the Tor's blue-misted shape in the distance. I rode until nightfall, whereupon I made camp and spent the first of several mild nights under the winter stars.

The journey remained uneventful and four days later, through the murky brown haze of evening smoke – as if the plague were a visible cloud under which the city suffered – I glimpsed Londinium, cowering behind its high walls. Those walls, erected long before Constantine was Emperor, were collapsed in several places and falling down. It was amidst the rubble of one such breach outside the northern gate that Brother Paulus' camp had been established.

Rather than trust to the hospitality of that plague-ridden city, I happily made camp beside the road and waited until the next morning to proceed any farther – and anyway, the gates were already closed for the night.

At dawn the gates opened and people emerged, bringing the plague victims with them: some they carried, some they dragged. I resumed the saddle and as I drew near, the odour of the place reached me – a foul stench of sickness, rot, and death that made the gorge rise in my throat.

I swallowed hard, crossed myself, and rode on.

A pall of smoke rose from a great refuse heap to hang like a filthy rag over the camp, and I saw what appeared to be bundles of cast-off clothes scattered in their hundreds all around. Closer, I discovered that these were not bundles, but bodies. I tethered the horses on a patch of withered grass a short distance away and approached on foot, picking my way carefully among the Yellow Ravager's victims.

There were so many! Everywhere I looked, I saw more, and still more. I believe the numbers shocked me more than the sight and smell, which were both appalling. I gazed in dismay at the scattered bodies of men, women, and children – in their hundreds, mind, and more being brought out through the gates -many, if not most, to be dumped beside the road like so much refuse, discarded and forgotten. Those who had given up the fight lay still and silent; but those in whom life yet warred cried in their torment, moaning and mewing as they twitched and writhed.

The groans of these unfortunates filled the air with a low, queasy keen. Their faces were spotted and distorted, their eyes red, their sores pus-filled and running; they vomited and defecated and bled over themselves, and lay rotting in their own filth. I had not witnessed the devastation of the Yellow Ravager before, yet judging by what I saw around me, I knew it was well named: the poor wretches mewing and crying in their throes were uniformly cast in a lurid shade of yellow – as if their flesh had been tinted by noxious dye and wrung out while wet – their skin was bloated, and vile mucus ran from nose and eyes to choke them; they sweated and panted as if being consumed from within by fire.

Many reached out their hands to me, crying for help, for release, but I could do nothing for them.

I knew the plague had worsened in the south; I had heard the bleak tidings like everyone else, but had no idea it was this bad. If it did not end soon, I reckoned, there would be no one left in Londinium to even bury the victims, let alone care for them. Oppression hung over the camp like the nasty smoke from the smutty little fires that had been lit here and there to burn the plague sufferers' clothing. This served to heighten the feeling of gloom and foreboding and misery into a sensation so palpable that I could almost see Death hovering over the camp, black wings outspread, gliding slow.

I also saw scores of monks at work among the plague victims, for the church had shouldered the burden of caring for the diseased and dying. These stalwart clerics carried water to the fevered and warm cloaks to the shivering; they prayed with the distressed and comforted the dying. And though they strove valiantly against an insidiously powerful adversary, their struggle was in vain. There were far too few of them to sway the course of battle. The cause, so far as I could see, was lost – yet they fought on.

The good brothers had used the rubble stone of the fallen wall behind them to erect hundreds of small enclosures over which cloth and skins were placed to form hovels in which the more curable of the sick might lie. Need had far outstripped the monks' kindly provision, however, and they had begun laying the plague-struck toe-to-toe, rank upon rank in endless rows beneath the crumbling wall. Meanwhile, the busy brothers hastened among the sprawled bodies on urgent errands.

I caught one brown-robed cleric and asked of him where I might find Brother Paulus. The monk pointed to a tent beside the wall, not far from the gate, and I made directly for the place. Once, when stepping over a body of one I thought a corpse, I felt a hand reach out and snatch hold of my foot. A pitiful voice cried, 'Please!'

Revulsion swept over me. I jerked my foot free.

'Please…' the wretch moaned again. 'I thirst… I thirst.'

Ashamed of my harsh reaction, I glanced around to see where I might find some water to give the poor fellow, and saw a monk carrying two flasks. I ran to the brother, told him I had need of the jar, and returned to the man on the ground, then knelt beside him, put my hand beneath his head, and raised him up a little to drink. His hair was wet and his skin damp and cold; his rheumy eyes fluttered in his head when I put the jar to his lips. I watched in horror as a black tongue darted out to lap at the water.

'Bless you,' he whispered, his breath sighing out between his teeth.

'Drink,' I urged. 'Take a little more.'

It was only after entreating him a second time that I realized I was clutching a corpse. I put aside the jar, lowered his head to the ground, and stood, wiping my hands on the ground. Hardening my heart, I walked on, ignoring the pleas of those I passed. God help me, I walked on, lest through their defiling touch I should become like them.

What if Arthur is right, I thought, and the most Holy Grail can end this suffering? What if it could bring about the miracle Arthur believes? Then he must try. Anyone with half a heart would try. Indeed, the king would have to be either a coldhearted fiend or insane not to attempt anything that held out even the slightest hope for healing his people. Certainly, a king of Arthur's stamp must do everything in his power to bring this healing about.

These things I thought, and began, at last, to understand Arthur's obsession with the shrine. I regretted my doubt and mistrust, and repented of my disbelief. Who was I, an ignorant warrior, to question the things of God? Thus, as I walked along, I found myself praying: Great Light, let Arthur be right. Hasten the completion of the shrine, and let the Grail do its work. Let the Grail do its saving work, Merciful Lord, and let the healing begin.

I reached the tent and ducked gratefully inside, where I found Paulus hunched over a low table, pouring his healing potion from a large jar into smaller vessels for distribution to the afflicted. 'Brother Paulus,' I said, and he looked up, recognized me, and smiled. It was the tired, forlorn smile of an exhausted man. His hair was lank and his eyes were sunken; his flesh had the wan, pallid look of a person too long confined.

'God be praised, it is Gwalchavad!' he said, genuinely pleased to see me. 'Greetings!' He took two steps towards me, then caught himself. 'You should not be here,' he warned. 'Tell me quickly what you have to say, and then leave.'

Taking him at his word, I said, 'Greetings, Paulus. I bring supplies and provisions from your fellow monks. I also bring word that Lady Chads is required at the Tor. The Pendragon has sent me to fetch her. If you will tell me where she may be found, trust that we will depart as soon as the horses are unburdened.'

That would be best,' the haggard monk agreed, replacing the jar and drawing his sleeve across his damp forehead. 'Come, I will show you.'

'Please, I would not disturb you. Just tell me where she is, and I will find her myself.'

The dutiful monk waved aside my offer. 'It will be quicker to show you,' he insisted.

He led me out along the wall, passing the burning refuse heap on the way – where I saw to my horror that it was in fact an immense pit which had been dug in the earth, filled with logs, and set alight to burn the dead. By twos and threes the corpses were thrown onto the sputtering heap. The smoke stank and the corpses sizzled. Down in the lower depths of the pit, black, grinning skulls nestled among the red embers. I turned my face, held my breath, and hurried by.

'I am sorry,' Paulus said, calling over his shoulder; 'we have no other choice. The plague is far worse in the city, where people live close together – that makes it more virulent, I think.'

'Everything is worse in the city,' I concurred, then inhaled some of the stinking smoke and was overcome by a fit of coughing.

Paulus led me past the pit and along the wall to another section of the camp and still more hovels and still more bodies lying on the ground. But here, at least, robed monks passed among the plague-struck bearing jars of healing elixir. 'Not all die,' Paulus told me. 'Many of these may yet recover. Those who have that chance are brought here, where we can care for them.'

Just then a figure emerged from a nearby hovel, moved to one of the victims on the ground. I saw that it was Chads, Lady of the Lake, her fair hair bound in a length of cloth and wound around her head, her tall, elegant form clothed in a simple coarse robe such as the monks around her wore. Kneeling beside the sufferer – a young woman with waxy yellow skin -she placed her hand gently on the young woman's forehead. The stricken woman came awake at the touch and, seeing the one who attended her, smiled. Despite the agony of her distress, she smiled at Chads and I saw the killing plague retreat, if only for a moment.

Charis offered her charge a few words of comfort, at which the young woman closed her eyes and rested again, but more comfortably, I think, for her features appeared serene as Charis rose and continued on her way. Paulus made to call Charis, but I stopped him, saying, 'Please, no. I will go to her.'

I watched for a while as Charis moved among the stricken and suffering, here stooping to touch, there stopping to offer a word. Like the monks, she carried a jar of the elixir, which she gave out, pouring a few precious drops of Paulus' healing draught into the victims' bowls and cups, then helping the sufferer to drink. Wherever she went, I imagined peace and solace followed – a healing presence, like a light, clearer and finer than sunlight, which soothed and calmed, easing the pains of disease and death.

Upon reaching the last of her charges, Charis stood, smoothed her robe, turned, and looked back along the ranks of victims. She closed her eyes and stood there for a moment, head bowed, lips moving slightly. Then she opened her eyes and, glancing up, saw me and smiled in greeting. In that smile she became the Fair Folk queen I remembered. Oh, they are a handsome race, there is no doubt. I saw the light come up in her eyes, and the breath caught in my throat.

I watched as she approached, feeling both humble and proud to be accounted worthy to converse with such nobility. 'You have come from Arthur, I think,' she said upon joining us.

'I give you good greeting, Lady Chads,' I replied, inclining my head in respect. 'The Pendragon has indeed sent me to find you.'

'Have you come to help us?' she inquired with a smile. 'Or brought supplies, perhaps?'

'Bishop Elfodd has sent a fair store of provisions, but I have come to escort you back to Ynys Avallach.'

'I see.' The smile faded instantly, and I watched as grey fatigue repossessed her features.

'Forgive me,' I said, and explained about the Grail Shrine and Arthur's concern to have it consecrated at the Christ Mass observance. I must have told it poorly, for a frown appeared, grew, and darkened, like a shadow of apprehension, as she listened.

'So,' she said with crisp indignation when I had finished, 'Arthur deems the building of this shrine more important than the saving of lives. What of my son – does Merlin encourage this enterprise?'

'Lady,' I said, 'it is the king's hope that the consecration of the Grail Shrine will drive both disease and war from our land forever. Arthur believes it will be the saving of us. Myrddin, as ever, aids his king.'

Charis regarded me with a keen eye. 'You avoid my question. I wonder why.'

'Forgive me, Lady Charis, but the Wise Emrys does not often vouchsafe his confidences to me.'

'But you have eyes, do you not? You have a mind to question what you see. Do you think this Grail Shrine will end plague and war?' she demanded. 'Do you believe it will be the saving of Britain?'

My mind whirled, searching for a suitable reply. 'I believe,' I answered slowly, 'that the Swift Sure Hand is upon our king to accomplish many things. Who am I to say whether the Good God should bless Arthur's efforts?'

Charis relented. 'You are right, of course. My question was unkind. I am sorry, Gwalchavad.' She smiled again, and again I saw fatigue in her clear eyes; like Paulus, she was on the knife-edge of exhaustion. She glanced along the long row of hovels and shook her head. 'You see how it is here. I cannot leave.' She spoke softly, as if to herself. Then, turning to me, she said, 'At the risk of incurring the king's displeasure, I fear you must tell Arthur that I cannot attend the ceremony. I am needed here.'

Paulus stepped forward and laid his hand on her arm. 'You have been summoned by the High King; you must go.' His tone became quietly insistent. 'Go now, and return to us when you have rested.'

'I have brought a horse for you,' I told her, glad to have the monk's approval. I had seen enough of pestilence and death and was anxious to get away. 'If you are willing, we could leave at once.'

Charis hesitated. 'Go,' Paulus urged. 'Gwalchavad is right. Arthur's new shrine may be just as important in this battle as your presence here. He would not have summoned you otherwise.'

'Very well,' Charis decided. To me she said, 'Tend to the horses. It is best for you not to linger. I will join you as soon as I am ready.'

I thanked Paulus and asked him where he would like the supplies to be stored. 'Just leave them,' he advised. 'That would be best. We can collect them when you have gone.'

I hastened to the horses, removing myself from the hateful camp as swiftly as possible. I carefully stacked all the bundles and casks in a neat pile, and sat down to wait. In a little while, Charis joined me, and without a backward glance we were riding for Ynys Avallach. Earlier, I had marked a stream – one of the few I encountered that had not yet dried up completely -and stopped there for the night. I was heartily glad to have left the plague behind, though it was not until I had washed myself head to sole that I felt hale again.

While I kept watch, my companion slept soundly and well -grateful, I reckon, for a respite from her unendurable duties -and the next morning we journeyed on. The return took a little more time than the outward journey, for I chose another trail, which kept us well away from the forest. Having braved the unseen watcher once, I saw no need to do so again; besides, I thought it a reproach to tax the Heavenly Host with my protection when I could so easily avoid trouble in the first place.

Thus, we skirted the forest and arrived at the Tor by another way, passing within sight of the Grail Shrine. Though I had been away only a handful of days, I found the site altered beyond recognition.

Gone were the wagons and the heaps of rock-broken stone; gone, too, the ropes and lumber and ranks of workers swarming over a half-finished building. In place of all the clutter and activity stood a silent, graceful structure of whitewashed stone, glistening in the dawn light. Elegant in its simplicity – the Master Gall had done his work well – the shrine appeared to shimmer with an inner radiance. The drought heat had long since blasted the surrounding grass to thin, withered wisps of palest yellow, so that the whole place, with hill and shrine included, glowed in the early morning with the lustre and radiance of gold.

We stopped to marvel at the glorious sight. In all, it was a fitting house for the Christ's Holy Cup. What is more, for the first time since I had heard Arthur's plan, I thought he was right. It is magnificent, I thought; truly, it betokens a new and glorious reign of peace and well-being.

Upon our arrival at the Tor, we were greeted by Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, who appeared in the yard as we dismounted. Gwenhwyvar and Charis embraced one another warmly, and Arthur stood by, beaming his good pleasure. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the elusive Avallach standing beside a pillar, arms crossed over his chest. Since coming to the Tor, I had rarely seen him – most often in the long evening when he was fishing with Bedwyr or Myrddin – and then only from a distance.

I knew that the Fisher King suffered from an incurable malady which often kept him confined to his quarters. I assumed that was why we had not seen much of him since our arrival. Thus, I was surprised to see him standing in the shadows nearby. He stood for a moment, gazing at the tight group before him, then stepped out to join it.

'Chads!' he said, throwing his arms wide for his daughter. His voice boomed like friendly thunder, and he hugged his daughter and told her how much he had missed her. 'You are the sun of my happiness,' he said, 'and now it is summer again.'

'Have you seen the shrine?' asked Arthur, unable to rein in his curiosity any longer.

'I have indeed,' replied Lady Charis, and pronounced the shrine the work of a master who both knew and respected the object to be protected within.

'It is that,' affirmed the Fisher King – somewhat reluctantly, I thought.

'Arthur,' Charis said, 'are you certain this is the way?' She gripped Arthur by the arm as if to hold him to account.

'As certain as the sun and stars,' the Pendragon replied, his gaze as steady as his unwavering grip. 'The Summer Kingdom is here. We stand at the threshold of an age the like of which has never been seen since the beginning of our race. The nations will look up in wonder when they hear what we have done. The blessing begins here, and it will flow throughout all Britain and to the ends of the earth. People of lands far distant from these will come to witness the miracle. Britain will be foremost among the nations, and our people will be exalted."

Avallach nodded, resignation heavy in his eyes. Arthur reached out and squeezed the Fisher King's arm. 'We are so close, my friend. So very close. Have faith, and watch what God will do!'

Arthur spoke with such passion and assurance that it would have been a dead heart indeed not to beat more quickly at his words. His zeal was a flame, burning away the straw of opposition. Who could stand against the Pendragon when heart and will and mind were united in the pursuit of so lofty a purpose?

Who, indeed?

As we were yet talking, others of Arthur's court came to greet Avallach and welcome the Lady of the Lake: Cai and Bedwyr first, then Cador and Rhys. I looked for Llenlleawg but did not see him, and it was not until we were all gathered in the hall for our supper that the Irishman emerged from hiding.

The hall was prepared for the Lady of the Lake's return, and Avallach had already called for his guests to be seated and we were making way to our places – some of us more slowly as we hailed this one or another. Myrddin and Charis arrived and were talking quietly just inside the doorway while others entered the hall.

It was then I saw Llenlleawg appear in the doorway, Morgaws at his side. The two stepped into the hall and moved towards their places at one of the nearer boards. As I was slowly making my way to the board myself, I had opportunity to mark their entrance and observe what followed.

See, now: the Emrys, his head low and a little forward, is speaking earnestly to his mother, who listens intently. She senses a movement beside her, however, and glances to the side to see Llenlleawg pass by. She recognizes him, of course, for I see it in her eyes as her lips begin a smile – a smile that instantly freezes when she also takes in the sight of Morgaws.

It is only the merest glance, but the queerest thing happens: as if acutely mindful of Charis' attention, the young woman turns her head; their eyes meet. Morgaws falters, her foot catching in mid-step. She lurches sideways as if struck by a spear hurled from across the hall. She stumbles, her features twisted in pain, or rage, and I fear she will fall. But Llenlleawg's hand is at her elbow; he steadies her arm and bears her up. Incredibly, Morgaws recovers both balance and aplomb in her stride; the moment passes in a twinkling, and I, the only one to have seen it, am left to wonder at what I have witnessed.

The two latecomers turn away and lose themselves in the convivial mingling at the board. I look once more to where Myrddin and Charis stand. The Emrys is still speaking, but his mother is no longer listening. Instead, she stares at the place where Morgaws and Llenlleawg appeared, her expression one of horror, the colour drained from her face. Strange to say, but I am put in mind of the first time Peredur laid eyes on the woman when we found her in the wood – his expression combined the same shock and terror at her appearance.

Sensing that his words are no longer attended, Myrddin looks up; his mother's stark features halt the flow of his words and he touches her arm. The Lady of the Lake quickens at his touch; she comes to herself once more – as if suddenly starting from a dream – sees her son, and smiles, her hand rising to her face. Myrddin, ever alert, turns to see what has so shattered his mother's composure. But there is now nothing to see; Morgaws and her escort have disappeared in the crowd. Myrddin takes his mother by the arm and walks with her to their places at table with Arthur and Gwenhwyvar.

I settled in next to Bedwyr, and noticed his dark brow furrowed in serious rumination. Thinking to lighten his sombre mood, I said, 'It seems friend Llenlleawg has become champion to the mysterious Morgaws. I wonder if Arthur kens this shift of loyalty.'

'Never have I seen a man wear a more haunted look. He is sick with it, our Llenlleawg. I fear what may become of him.'

'Well, no doubt he will recover. Love seldom proves fatal – so I am told.'

Bedwyr gave a mirthless, scornful chuckle.

'What? Has something happened while I was away?'

'Ah,' he replied, his smile as bitter as his tone, 'Arthur's shrine races to its completion, and we are all deliriously happy, of course.'

One of the serving boys appeared just then and placed cups before us. Bedwyr raised his cup to me and took a deep draught.

'And yet?' I prodded, nudging him with an elbow.

'Yet,' Bedwyr continued, 'the Pendragon communes with God and the angels, and the concerns of earthly mortals are not to be mentioned.' Bedwyr's rueful smile turned sour. 'In short, our king stands with his head in the clouds and his feet on the dung heap. The odour, he imagines, is meadow-sweet, but it smells like manure to me.'

'You surprise me, brother. If anyone can bring the Summer Kingdom to fruition, it is Arthur. It could happen just as he says.'

Bedwyr drank again, put aside his cup, and said, 'Do not mind me, Gwalchavad, I am only mourning the past. Or maybe I am jealous – she is a beautiful young woman, is she not?' He laughed, forcing himself to rise above his melancholy, yet there was a bitter edge to his voice when he said, 'Two days, my friend – two days and all doubts and suspicions shall be swept away. In two days the shrine is consecrated and the Grail is established, and the Kingdom of Summer begins. I am certain all will be well.'

Despite his dubious assurance, Bedwyr's conviction appeared as shaky as my own, but after my harrowing visit to the plague camp, I had tried to believe the miracle could take place. What if, as Myrddin had said, the Swift Sure Hand was on Arthur to bring about the restoring of this worlds-realm? Who could oppose God?