It was this that now, as he rode north, occupied his mind. The fresh sweet air of morning, the steady cantering of his good horse, the sense (whether admitted or not) of freedom, all this gradually conspired to clear his mind of the anger that the Lady Luned’s words had roused in him, and to calm him sufficiently to allow him to think back and weigh up what had happened in the Dark Tower. And as he did so, a sort of pattern began to emerge.
The hurt arm and the fever, the kind nursing of old Brigit, and his seeming recovery. Then the queen’s coming; the subsequent banishment of the old nurse and the maids who had attended him. The medicines, carefully mixed by the queen herself. The dreaming days of weakness that followed, explained as a reaction to the fever, dreams filled with her presence, her soft touch, swimming visions of her beauty and of the promise of love. The night, even now only remembered in feverish flashes of ecstasy, when she finally took him to her bed. And after that – yes, from that time onwards he had been her willing and lovesick slave.
It was not to be thought that he regretted it; it had been something he would not forget, nor would willingly have forgone, but now, as the chestnut stallion put the miles steadily behind him, the enchanted bonds loosened with every stride, and he found himself, without wishing to, going back over what Luned had told him.
The adultery with Accolon; well, she had been young, tied by an arranged marriage to an unhappy bed. It happened all the time. But treachery to the High King? Plotting, even in the imprisonment that followed, to damage the peace of the kingdom? The Young Celts, and this quest that she had been sending them on, Ferlas and Julian and who else, the quest for the grail of power. What kind of power? He was still young enough to think that she had all the kinds of power that a woman needs. What, then? Was he to be another Accolon, another Ferlas bribed as she had bribed him, Alexander, and then rewarded for his attempted quest? Or another Julian, who had perhaps resisted the bribe and so been sent to risk death?
The road drew clear at length of the forested valley, and stretched ahead in the open; smooth riding at last on green turf that bordered a lake. The early morning breeze had dropped, and the water lay mirror-bright and shining. There were swans in the shallows, guddling peacefully among the weeds. A sandpiper ran along the shingle with its sweet fluting call. Alexander halted his horse, and sat for a few minutes, watching the quiet scene, while his thoughts ran on.
So why was this grail worth so much to her? She would bring its power to her brother’s service, she had said, and of course he had believed her. Luned had denied it, and appealed to his loyalty to submit the quest to the High King. He remembered something else. Morgan herself had told him that Nimuë, the King’s enchantress, held what remained of Macsen’s treasure, which the King himself had handed to her for safe keeping. Surely, if that was so, then the King could have the grail brought to his hand at any time, just for the asking?
Which effectively gave Queen Morgan the lie. And so transparent a lie that only a fool too besotted to think would have failed to see it. So, Alexander, think …
First: she wanted the power for herself, she had said as much, to let her displace Nimuë. Very well; he could accept that, and understand the fears she had admitted about her fate in the long banishment from Arthur’s favour. Second: she had professed herself very sure that he, Alexander, young and untried as he was, could succeed where the others had failed. Why?
There was an obvious conclusion: he had not been (and, in spite of what she had said, never would be) admitted to the councils of the Young Celts, because he was known to be loyal to the High King, and whoever watched and reported what went on in the Dark Tower could confirm it. Consequently he might come near Nimuë where Morgan’s other emissaries, known to be members of Morgan’s court, could not.
Another conclusion sprang from this: that Luned had been right, and Queen Morgan was – wanted to be – Arthur’s enemy. She could not know that Luned would tell him about the secret council meetings, but even so, how could she, Morgan, be so sure that, once Alexander was away from her, and had had time to think, he would even go on with the quest, let alone carry the grail back to her?
He sat watching the swans, a knuckle to his lip. The chestnut, finding itself unheeded, pulled the reins through his slack fingers and lowered its head to graze. The sun was well above the hilltops now, and struck a glitter from the lake.
It was as if it had struck light somehow in the prince’s confused brain. Free he might be, but his mistress was a witch, so he could reckon himself to be free only as a falcon is free, at the end of a lure, to be twitched back to her service when she so willed it. And Luned had told him how it was done. He carried her magic with him, in the pretty silver flagon she had given him, with such care, and with so many kisses, as he had left her bed that morning.
He pulled it from the saddle-bag, unstoppered it, and held it to his nose. The heady fragrance, herbs, fruit, honey, all the sweet enchantments she had used came vividly back to mind. He thought of the Lady Luned and the wine brewed by the monks in the riverside monastery, and how he had flung it from him and left the poor lady to mount herself and ride back to face her unwelcome guest in the lonely castle.
The flagon’s stopper was made of a carved garnet. A flick of his hand sent it spinning into the water, startling the swans, which barked at him and oared away through the rushes, hissing. The flagon went after them, the cordial making a train of spilled drops that curved like a rainbow in the sunlight, then vanished into the lake.
“Drink that,” said Alexander to the swans, suddenly cheerful, “and have sweet dreams tonight!”
Five days later, at sunset-time, he came to a village set in a gently wooded valley, and asked for shelter for the night.
30
The village was no more than a huddle of peasants’ huts, but it boasted an ale-house, in front of which a couple of men were sitting with horns of beer.
He halted his horse and gave them good evening. One of them, a simpleton seemingly, merely stared and mumbled, but the other, an older man, returned the greeting civilly, setting his horn aside and getting to his feet.
“Are you the landlord?” asked Alexander.
“I am, sir.”
“As you see, I’ve come a fair way today, and my horse is weary. Can you give me food and a bed for the night?”
“As to that, sir, meaning no offence, but my house is not for such as you –”
“Let me be the judge of that.” Alexander, who was tired, spoke impatiently. “If you’ve bread and ale, and fodder for my horse, that will do. I can pay.”
He made as if to dismount, but the man came forward to his bridle. “Stay, sir. I said I meant no offence. I’ll give you shelter willingly if you want it, but if your horse has another half-mile in him, there’s food and lodging just a ways down the valley yonder, that’s fitter for a young lord such as yourself.” He pointed. “That way. You see yon big stone cross standing? Well, turn off there, and follow the track along by the oak wood and you’ll come to it. It’s a monastery, St Martin’s they call it. It’s a good house – a great one, you might say, and all sorts of folks get lodging there. They have a grand place for travellers. I know it well, for my son works there, a gardener he is, name of John, and works with Brother Peter himself.”
“I see. Well, my thanks. I’ll go on there. Half a mile, you said?”
“No more than that. Hark, you can hear the bell now. That’ll be for vespers, but the porter’ll be at the gate, and they’ll make you welcome.” He stepped back. “And don’t think you’ve missed the evening meal, neither, young master! They’re used to folks coming at all hours. Why, it’s only last week a great party came in not much short of midnight, noble folks they were, with a gift that’s fairly set the abbot up as high as a cock on a roof-top!”
“And what was that?” asked Alexander, not because he wanted to know, but because the fellow so obviously wanted to tell him.
“Why, a great treasure, by all accounts, some sort of reli
c, they say, that’s been brought over from foreign parts, and holy with it! Brother Peter told my John all about it. He’s not seen it yet, but he says that soon, maybe at the next feast day, as soon as they’ve settled on a place fit to house it, which they’ll be able to do, having one of the finest carvers working there in the chapel this past year or more, and him already started, so Brother Peter says, on a shrine that’s to hold a statue, that’ll do well enough to keep this precious cup safe, as long as it stays in St Martin’s –”
Alexander, who had already set his horse in motion, checked it again. “Cup? Did you say a precious cup?”
“Aye. A cup all gold and jewels, Brother Peter says, and came from somewhere out East, maybe even from Jerusalem! Imagine that, here in this valley of ours! Some foreign kind of name they gave it, but I couldn’t rightly say what.”
“A grail? Was that the word?”
“Grail? Grail? Aye, it could be that, if that’s a kind of cup.”
“And this grail is to be kept at the monastery down yonder?”
The man showed no surprise at Alexander’s sudden interest; no doubt he took it for the fervour of a devout Christian.
“Indeed, sir. But I doubt if you’ll get to see it. They’ve got it locked away, seemingly, till –”
“Yes, yes. But tell me, you said it was brought here last week? With a royal party?”
“As to that, I don’t know about royal, but they were grand folks, nobility, John said, good horses, and a train of servants, and a lady in a litter with silk curtains, and I don’t know what besides.”
“A lady,” said Alexander thoughtfully. “A lady brought this treasure with her?”
“That’s so, but it’s not really a gift, they say. It’s to be housed here for a while for safe keeping, that’s all. But to have such a treasure here, in our valley, why, there’ll be a mort of folks coming this way for that alone, and even a house like mine’ll profit from it!”
“Is the lady – is the royal party still here?”
“Aye. But there’s room and to spare for travellers, young master, and you’ll be made welcome, no fear of that!”
“Well, thanks. Here’s for your goodwill, landlord. I’ll be on my way.”
“God speed, young master, and a good night’s rest to you.”
The monastery lay, as was usual with such places, deep in the shelter of the valley where a river curved through pasture and woodland. It was a big place, seemingly important enough to have several courtyards, and its own farm buildings set among tilled fields and orchards. A mill-wheel turned in the river, and a sluice-gate let water through to feed a stewpond within the monastery walls.
Alexander, letting his tired horse make its own pace downhill towards the gate, saw it with satisfaction. He would have a comfortable night, and – by a stroke of luck that was barely believable, but the man had been positive about it – come within sight of his quest far sooner than he would have thought possible. He would hardly be able to lay hands on the grail while it was in the monastery’s safe keeping, but if Nimuë was travelling south with it, and seeking the monastery’s protection only while she rested on her journey, he might at the least have speech with her, or with some of her party, and find out from one of them where they were taking the treasure. And if he could by some ruse attach himself to her train, some sort of chance might come …
Luned’s words, and his own symbolic rejection of Morgan along with her flask of “magic” drugs, were for the moment forgotten. Tired as he was, it did not even occur to him that Nimuë might be travelling south to carry the precious cup herself to Arthur. The landlord’s words had come like a sudden stroke of fortune, a pointer, the touch of an enchanted wand. The grail, without his seeking, had crossed his path. Even had he already decided to abandon the quest, he would have been less than human to refuse even to look at it.
The chapel bell had stopped by the time he reached the gate, but the porter was there, and opened readily, pointing the way to the stableyard, beyond which, he said, lay the dormitory for male travellers. Supper? Indeed there would be supper. My lord (this with an expert, summing glance at the horse’s trappings and the glint of gold at the young man’s belt and sword-hilt) would be served in the refectory below the dormitory. Brother Magnus, who looked after the travellers, would show him the way. There would be supper served as soon as vespers was over. No doubt my lord would wish, later, to attend compline?
My lord wished only to eat, and to bespeak a bed, but he knew what was expected of guests in such a place, and besides, it was very probable that the grail’s guardians, too, would attend the service, so he assented, and, having seen his horse into the care of a lay-brother, made his way to the quarters reserved for the monastery’s guests.
As it turned out, he ate alone, but for a couple of other travellers on their way to Glannaventa to take ship for Ireland. They were foreigners, speaking only some outlandish Irish tongue, so he could not question them about the royal party, which presumably had supped earlier.
The supper was plain, but good, broth followed by a hot, thick stew with fresh-baked bread, and some sort of fish dish flavoured with herbs. After supper Alexander went to see how his horse fared, and found him comfortably housed, blanketed and busy at a full manger. Sharing the big stable-building with him were three sleek palfreys which must belong to the monastery, along with two span of sturdy working mules. No sign of the other party’s beasts; they were in the other stable – the one normally used for guests – and in the charge of the party’s own grooms and serving men. They had left no room for the young lord’s horse, so said the lay-brother who worked as groom, but the young lord need have no fear; his horse would be as well cared for as the abbot’s own.
This was plainly true. Alexander, thanking him, put a couple of hesitant queries about the other party, but met with no satisfaction. As to that, said the lay-brother, he knew nothing about them, except that one of their number – a young boy destined for noviceship – would stay after the party left. They had all, the lady and the rest, attended all the services; it seemed they were devout folks – (devout? the queen-enchantress Nimuë?) – so no doubt if the young lord meant to attend compline, he would have a chance to see them there, and maybe have speech with them afterwards. And no, he could not accept a gift for himself, but if the young lord would perhaps leave something in the offertory, God would bless the gift … And there was the chapel bell.
The chapel was a noble one. A high vaulted roof swallowed the light of the candles. The smell of fine wax burning mingled with the smoke of the incense that could be seen curling up into the shadowed roof. A stone screen, finely carved, cut off the rear of the building from the place where the monks worshipped. Behind this screen were the seats for the lay folk and travellers, the monastery’s guests. Through the fretted carving Alexander could just glimpse the crucifix above the high altar; it seemed to be floating in the smoky candle-light. None of the monks was visible, but the singing rose strong and true into the vaulting.
And yes, the royal party was there, across the central aisle from him, a dozen or so people. Alexander, his head apparently bent in prayer, looked sideways through his fingers, studying them.
First, the lady herself, queen, enchantress, devout or devious; she was there, demurely hidden behind a heavy veil. Her dress was of a rich russet-colour, and over it she wore a brown cloak against the chill which could strike, even on a summer evening, in a stone-built chapel. He caught a glimpse of a slender wrist encircled with gold, and the glint of a sapphire on the folded hands. Cloak and veil hid the rest.
Beside her knelt an elderly man, his noble old face lifted towards the high altar, his eyes closed in prayer. He was soberly dressed, but the grey stuff of his gown was good, and the crucifix he held in the fine, thin hands was of silver crusted with some deep red stones that could be rubies. Beyond him could just be glimpsed a slight figure, no more than a child, it seemed, but robed and cloaked like a monk. That would surely be the boy destined
for the novitiate. At the boy’s other side knelt a priest. The other men and women, kneeling at a little distance in the rear, must be their attendants.
The office came to an end. A long pause of quiet, then the slow shuffle of feet beyond the screen as the monks filed out. The lady, rising, helped the old man to his feet. The two of them, with the boy between them, left the chapel. The rest followed, Alexander close behind them.
Outside there was a pause, before the party broke up. The lady stood for a few minutes, talking to the other two women of the party – her waiting-women, no doubt. Alexander looked to see her take leave of the old man and go with the women towards the quarters reserved for female travellers, but when at length she turned away, she went, still holding the old man’s arm, towards an imposing building just beyond the chapel. The abbot’s house, presumably; and of course a lady as important as Nimuë would be lodged there, not housed with the common travellers … One of the women followed her, the other turning aside for the guests’ quarters. The priest had already vanished, with the boy, through a door into the main monastery buildings. Another boy in page’s uniform ran forward to speak with the old man, then, dismissed, followed the servants who were making for the men’s dormitory. But he went slowly, loitering some way behind the rest of the party, reluctant, perhaps, as one always was at that age, to be sent to bed.
Alexander went quickly after him, catching up with him some yards short of the dormitory door.
“It’s too good a night to be packed off at this hour, isn’t it? Tell me, do they lock the doors once they’ve got us in for the night?”
The boy laughed. “Yes, like hens in case the fox gets us! But at least they don’t wake us at dawn – though the chapel bell does!”