Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

  GRAIL

  Book Five of

  THE PENDRAGON CYCLE

  STEPHEN R.

  LAWHEAD

  For Bob and Lois

  Map

  Pronunciation Guide

  While many of the old British names may look odd to modern readers, they are not as difficult to pronounce as they seem at first glance. A little effort, and the following guide, will help you enjoy the sound of these ancient words.

  Consonants—as in English, but with a few exceptions:

  c: hard, as in cat (never soft as in cent)

  ch: hard, as in Scottish Loch, or Bach (never soft, as in church)

  dd: th, as in then (never as in thistle)

  f: v, as in of

  ff: f, as in off

  g: hard, as in girl (never gem)

  ll: a Welsh distinctive, sounded as “tl” or “hl” on the sides of the tongue

  r: trilled, lightly

  rh: as if hr, heavy on the “h” sound

  s: always as in sir (never his)

  th: as in thistle (never then)

  Vowels—as in English, but with the general lightness of short vowel sounds:

  a: as in father

  e: as in met (when long, as in late)

  i: as in pin (long, as in eat)

  o: as in not

  u: as in pin (long, as in eat)

  w: as “double-u,” as in vacuum or tool; but becomes a consonant before vowels, as in the name Gwen

  y: as in pin; or sometimes as “u” in but (long, as in eat)

  (As you can see, there is not much difference in i, u, and y—they are virtually identical to the beginner.)

  Accent—normally is on the next-to-last syllable, as in Gwalc-hav-ad

  Diphthongs—each vowel is pronounced individually, so Taliesin=Tally-essin

  Ten rings there are, and nine gold torcs

  on the battlechiefs of old;

  Eight princely virtues, and seven sins

  for which a soul is sold;

  Six is the sum of earth and sky,

  of all things meek and bold;

  Five is the number of ships that sailed

  from Atlantis lost and cold;

  Four kings of the Westerlands were saved,

  three kingdoms now behold;

  Two came together in love and fear,

  in Llyonesse stronghold;

  One world there is, one God, and one birth

  the Druid stars foretold.

  S.R.L.

  Oxford, 1987

  Contents

  E-book Extra:

  Stephen R. Lawhead on…

  Dedication

  Map of Britain

  Pronunciation Guide

  Epigraph

  “Ten rings there are, and nine gold torcs…”

  Prologue

  Men are such pathetic, lumpen things—so predictable in their…

  Chapter One

  I, Gwalchavad, Lord of Orcady, write this. And no gentle…

  Chapter Two

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

  Chapter Three

  The only person I ever loved did not love me.

  Chapter Four

  Hwyl appeared unsettled by the simple suggestion that the young…

  Chapter Five

  Rejoining the Cymbrogi next day, we found the entire lakeside…

  Chapter Six

  I remember lost Atlantis. Though I was but a babe…

  Chapter Seven

  Hwyl of Rheged was among the first of the noblemen…

  Chapter Eight

  We did not linger in the north a moment longer…

  Chapter Nine

  “I must have an infant—a child, my sweet. I…

  Chapter Ten

  The search for a suitable fording place took us far…

  Chapter Eleven

  Thunder cracked over our heads as if the sky itself…

  Chapter Twelve

  Power as I possess is not, as many believe, given…

  Chapter Thirteen

  My heart seized in my chest. I stared at the…

  Chapter Fourteen

  “No doubt this new shrine has everyone occupied,”Tallaght mumbled,…

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first of the stoneworkers’ tribe appeared three days later…

  Chapter Sixteen

  It is one of mortal humans’ more curious traits, that…

  Chapter Seventeen

  That evening at table, I watched for Llenlleawg and Morgaws,…

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Grail!

  Chapter Nineteen

  In Llyonesse I learned my art—Annubi possessed a great…

  Chapter Twenty

  Dreams of spitting cats and hissing snakes kept me thrashing…

  Chapter Twenty-one

  All night long, visitors streamed into the valley. To everyone’s…

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Rhys! Cai!” cried the Pendragon upon reaching the throng at…

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Now the battle begins. I have made the first strike.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  See, now: the Fisher King had two daughters—Charis, the…

  Chapter Twenty-five

  How many realms had Morgian ruined? How many men had…

  Chapter Twenty-six

  With every step closer to Llyonesse, apprehension mounted within me.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “When the dew of creation was still on the ground,”…

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Grail is mine! The single most potent talisman in…

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The next sound I heard was the sharp slap of…

  Chapter Thirty

  It was still dark when I awoke. Judging by the…

  Chapter Thirty-one

  We stood gazing into the darkness, the fire at our…

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Morgaws has her captives well in hand. Arthur has joined…

  Chapter Thirty-three

  My terrified mount reared, snapping the bridal strap that bound…

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I staggered behind Gereint into a wide clearing. Beyond the…

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Gereint saw her first. Still kneeling before the altar, he…

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Grail is gone.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Bring Bors,” I commanded. “Tell him to prepare for battle.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “Caldevwlch!”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Morgaws is showing signs of weakness. When I have established…

  Chapter Forty

  “Cut me free!” cried Arthur, struggling to his feet.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Thus we began our journey, walking in silent file behind…

  About the Author

  Praise for

  By Stephen R. Lawhead

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  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 endeavors. 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.

  Chapter One

  I, Gwalchavad, Lord of Orcady, write this. And no gentle labor 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 traveled 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 endeavor 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 favored 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 harken 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 savor 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 Ierna, 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 gray 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 labor 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.”