Grail

THIRTY-SIX

The Grail is gone.

Morgaws telk me that it disappeared. The lying bitch insists she had it secured, and that from the moment Llenlleawg delivered it to her, the casket never left her sight. The casket she possesses still, but the cup is gone; what is more, she claims it vanished at the moment the king's champion attacked his king. Morgaws will pay for this blunder. Oh, yes, she will pay dearly. I taught her better than this. Could she not see how much they valued the Grail – that alone should have warned her to be on her guard. How could she be so blind?

The insolent cow insinuates that it is my fault for not warning her of the cup's true power. I remind her that whatever else it may be, the cup is just bait in a trap so far as she is concerned, and that whatever powers it might possess, the gaudy trinket certainly did not divert the doom which even now crushes our enemies in its cold embrace.

The disappearance of the cup makes not the slightest difference; it will not change anything. All is ordered as I have planned, and even now the end swiftly approaches. Already, events are hurtling towards the consummation of my plan: my crowntaking, and the reign of terror to follow. My triumph will be devastating.

Some monarch, upon accession to the throne, declare the pardon of their opponents, and the forgiveness of sins practised against them. I shall do the opposite, however. The blood will flow from one end of Britain to the other! I think I shall begin with bishops, and then… well, all in good time.

First, I must have that cup. Morgaws will devote her full attention to its recovery – before the fools somehow discover what it was they let slip away. The thought that they might get hold of it again does not sit well with me. It may be time for me to intervene.

'Brother,' said Peredur, dragging his feet, 'there is no need for this. You are anxious over nothing.'

I drew the young warrior forward a few paces, whereupon he stopped. 'Gereint,' he said, pleading, 'you are my kinsman. Tell them – tell them.'

Bors stepped behind us and prodded the reluctant warrior from behind with the sword point in the small of his back. 'Move along, friend.'

Peredur, outmanned and unarmed, seemed to accept his lot. He nodded and proceeded docilely. 'You are wise to be suspicious,' he said after a few steps. 'But you know me. What can you possibly hope to achieve? It is meaningless.'

At this I began to doubt. What did I hope to prove by making him swear his faith and loyalty before the altar? It was, as he had said, a meaningless exercise and would prove nothing.

I felt hard bone and muscle under my hand and doubt stole over me. Fool! What are you doing? Has the enemy so confused and deceived you that you can no longer tell the difference between friend and foe? Let him go!

As if echoing my thoughts, Peredur said, 'Let me go -1 will not think the worse of you. Trust me; we can still find the others, but we must hurry.'

If I had been alone, I believe I would have released him then and there. The urge to do so was stronger than my conviction to see the thing through. But Bors, when roused, is not easily put off. 'Save your breath,' he told the young warrior flatly. 'It is soon over, and no harm will come to you.'

With that we marched to the chapel door, whereupon I removed the knife from his throat and, shifting my free hand to the back of his head, pushed Peredur down so he could navigate the low entrance. He stooped and bent his back as he entered the narrow opening. But as his foot touched the threshold, he suddenly froze.

'No!' he shouted, and made to squirm away. I renewed my grip on his arm and held him tight. 'It proves nothing. I will not do it.'

Bors, close behind, put out a hand and pushed him further into the narrow opening. The young man arched his back and dug in his heels.

'Get on with it, man,' Bors urged roughly. There is nothing to fear.'

'No!' he cried again, almost frantic this time, his fingers raking at the pillar stones of the entrance. 'No!'

Bors, larger and stronger, pushed him further through the doorway. Twisting and turning, Peredur fought, resisting with all his strength. He shouted to be released, his distress turning quickly to rage. Bors, however, was growing ever more determined and would not be moved. He stooped and, with a mighty heave, shoved the struggling warrior through the low entrance and into the chapel.

Bors followed him through and I pushed quickly in behind them. Peredur had landed on hands and knees on the stone-flagged floor, and Bors stood over him, reaching down a hand to raise him up. I joined Bors and, taking hold of the young man's arm, said, 'Here, now – come stand before the altar.'

As I took his arm, I felt a tremor pass through his body. His head whipped around, mouth open to bite my hand. With but a fleeting glimpse of his face, I released my hold and leapt aside. 'Bors!' I cried. 'Get back!'

In the same instant, Peredur gave out a tremendous guttural growl and rose up, flinging Bors aside as if he were no more than a toddling child. Bors fell on his side, his head striking the stone floor. He made to rise and collapsed. I dove to his aid as Peredur, shaking in every limb, began howling like an animal.

'Bors!' I cried, trying to shake him awake. 'Can you hear me? Get up!'

A ragged snarl of rage filled the chapel. I glanced over my shoulder to where Peredur stood. I no longer recognized him at all: his neck was bent, forcing his head down low onto his chest; his lower jaw jutted out and his mouth gaped, revealing teeth both sharp and oddly curved; his shoulders and arms were thicker, his back more broad, with humps of powerful muscle. But it was his eyes that startled me most – red-rimmed and wild, they bulged out of their sockets as if they would burst from within.

Still howling, he turned and slowly stepped towards me, long hands with fingers like claws, twitching and reaching. Bors was still unconscious, and I could not leave him. I looked for his sword, but could not see it.

'Gereint!' I shouted.

He entered the chapel at a run. Without a quiver of hesitation, Gereint interposed himself between the monstrous Peredur and me, his blade drawn. Taking no heed, the thing lurched nearer, growling and slavering like a wolf for the kill.

Gereint held his ground; the blade in his hand never wavered. Heedless of the sword, the brute lunged and made a raking swipe, which the young warrior deftly deflected. The howling thing received a quick slash on the arm. 'In God's name, stay back!' warned Gereint.

At this the creature threw back its head and shrieked, gnashing its teeth and clawing at the air. Then, still shrieking, it started forth once more. Bors came awake at the sound. He pushed himself up from the floor and struggled to rise – only to slump back once more. 'I am with you, brother,' I said, holding to him so as to protect him.

On a sudden inspiration, Gereint grasped the naked blade and turned it in his hand, presenting the hilt upward in imitation of the Holy Cross – as Arthur had done at the consecration of the Grail Shrine. Taking the blade in both hands, he held the sword hilt before him, thrusting it at arm's length into the brute's face.

The creature roared, and staggered backward. Gereint advanced, holding the sword-cross and calling, 'In Jesu's holy name, be gone!'

The brute loosed a mind-freezing scream and began clawing at itself, as if to tear the ears from its own hideous head. It sank to its knees, wailing, keening, gnashing its teeth. Dauntless Gereint bore down upon it, calling upon Christ to drive the thing away.

The wicked thing shrieked and shrieked again to drown out all sound but that of its own torment. Then, even as we watched, the thing began to change again: its body stretched, growing thinner and taller, until its narrow head almost touched the rooftrees of the chapel – whereupon it could no longer support its height and fell, doubling over itself, to writhe and thrash, beating itself upon the floor.

Gereint, unyielding, his face hard as flint, clutched his improvised cross and stood implacable. Wailing pitifully, the creature continued its hideous transformation, its thin body becoming small and scaly and its terrible voice waning away to a high, hissing scream. It rolled in its writhing coils and then slithered for the chapel door, where, with the speed of a fleeing serpent, it slipped over the threshold and disappeared into the night beyond.

The young warrior, still clutching the sword-cross, hastened to where I knelt with Bors. 'It has gone,' he said, his voice hollow, his face drained.

'Well done, Gereint,' I told him, and noticed the blood dripping from his hands. He had gripped the sword blade so tightly, he had cut his palms and fingers. I reached for the hilt. 'You can let go now, son. The fight is over.'

Gereint released the sword, which I returned to its place at his side, then helped him cut strips from his cloak to bind his hands. I tied the strips in place, and we turned our attention to Bors. Between us, we rolled the big man onto his back, bunched up his cloak, and put it beneath his head to make him as comfortable as possible. Then Gereint and I sat down together; leaning against the stout wall, we rested and talked about what had happened.

'What do you think it was?' Gereint wondered. 'A shape-shifter?'

'A demon maybe,' I replied. 'I have heard Bishop Elfodd tell about such things.'

'Is that why you thought to bring it into the church?'

'Truly, I do not know what I thought,' I confessed. 'I only knew that Peredur was a devout man and it would be no hardship for him to take an oath before the altar.'

'But how did you know it was not Peredur?'

'Something about his manner made me suspicious. I cannot say what it was. But then' -1 shrugged – 'it seemed silly to hold such a small thing against him. I doubted myself and almost let him go.'

'But how did you know?' Gereint asked, then added ruefully, 'I was taken in completely.'

'There is no shame in it,' I assured him. 'As to what warned me, I can but say I did not like his manner. When I spoke of the Grail, he behaved as if it were a thing of no importance.'

'Yes!' agreed Gereint. 'The true Peredur would have wanted to see it.'

'So I thought to test him at the altar. It seemed to me no one given to evil could abide the presence of the Grail.'

Gereint nodded with sage admiration. 'You are a very Druid yourself, Lord Gwalchavad. I would never have thought of that.'

'I only wish it had been Peredur,' I replied, and thought again how very close we had come to believing the lie. It could easily have gone the other way, and now we would certainly be dead and the chapel undefended.

As if to draw me out of my unhappy reverie, Bors awoke just then with a groan and sat up holding his head. 'Be easy, brother,' I said, bending over him quickly. 'All is well. The wicked thing is gone. Rest a little.'

'Mmm,' he said, craning his neck around. 'It feels like a wall has fallen on my head. Here, help me stand.' I took him by the arm and he made to get up, but fell back again at once, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. 'Ahh! No, no – on second thought, I think I will sit here a little longer.'

'There is no hurry,' I told him. 'Let us fetch you a drink. Here, Gereint, take the bowl and bring Bors some water.'

The young warrior retrieved the bowl from beside the altar and started for the door. 'You should go with him,' Bors said, rubbing his neck.

'It is only outside,' Gereint protested.

'Go,' Bors insisted. 'I am well enough to sit here by myself. Go.'

'I could do with a drink, too,' I said, and told Gereint, 'Come, then, show me the well.'

Gereint led me out and around to the rear of the chapel. The ground was lumpy with mossy stones, and rose to a small, tidy outcropping a short distance away.

'Here!' called Gereint, springing up the rocks. 'The well is just here.'

The well, as Gereint called it, was actually a small pool; sometime in the past it had been edged with unshaped stones to form a low wall around its oval perimeter. From a metal peg driven into one of the stones dangled the bronze chain which had secured the bowl Gereint had used to fetch water to help clean the desecration from the altar.

We dipped water and, as we drank, began speculating about how the chapel and the well had come to be here. 'This must have been a joyous place once,' Gereint mused, gazing over the clearing.

'I would like to have seen it in happier times.'

'Was there ever such a time?' he wondered.

'The Grail was offered here,' I replied. 'Whoever built this church must have known it as a holy place.'

Oh, yes, I thought, but this is Llyonesse, the blighted land, desolate, barren, and beset with strange airs and weird creatures. Perhaps it was not always so. This little chapel still survives to tell a different tale, after all. Perhaps there is yet some better hope for Llyonesse.

'We should go back before Bors wonders what has happened to us,' I said and, leaning low over the water, refilled the bowl, and we hurried back to the chapel.

Bors had moved himself to the near wall and sat against it. Accepting the bowl, he drank his fill, set the vessel aside, and professed himself refreshed and ready to resume his duty as Grail Guardian.

As if in answer to this declaration, Gereint cocked his head to one side, half turned towards the door, and said, 'Did you hear that?'

'I heard nothing,' I confessed.

'Nor I,' said Bors.

'Listen!' Gereint whispered. Drawing his sword, he stepped lightly to the door and out. I followed close behind, and we scanned the chapel yard. I saw nothing, and was about to say as much when Gereint raised the point of his sword and said, 'There they are.'

Until he spoke, I had seen nothing but the dark shapes of the trees rising above the thick gloom of the encircling thorn wall. But even as he raised his sword I saw the heads and shoulders of three warriors emerge from the darkness of the hedge and step into the clearing. I saw the long spears rising above the large round yellow shields they carried, and knew we were in for a fight.