Robert Doherty
The Grail
PROLOGUE: THE PAST
Thick clouds were gathering over the island, lightning flickering, followed by thunder seconds later, as if the gods were displaying their displeasure over the scene below. A large plain in western England stretched as far as could be seen in all directions. In the center was a shallow lake out of which jutted a long, steep island like an earthen rampart, a magnificent Tor, over five hundred feet high. At the very top, a stone abbey with one tall tower dominated the land and water all about. Next to the abbey, a dozen men in armor were gathered round their leader who lay next to the tower’s east wall.
The king the knights called Arthur was dying, of that there was no doubt among the few surviving men. The wounds were too deep, the loss of blood too great. Despite the king’s weakened state, his right hand still firmly held the pommel of his sword Excalibur. A coating of blood failed to hide the bright sheen of the blade’s finely worked metal and the mystical runes carved on the surface.
Arthur lay on his back, his armor dented and battered. His bright blue eyes looked up toward the dark heavens. He was a large man, a fiercesome warrior, over six and a half feet tall and solidly built. Red hair streaked with gray topped his head. Despite spending most of his life in the field at war, his skin was fair and pale.
Several of the knights were looking to the east, in the direction of Camlann, where they had come from. The day had started with some hope of peace in the civil war splitting Britain. Arthur’s forces and those of Mordred had been drawn up on opposing sides of the plain at Camlann. Under a flag of truce the two leaders had met in the high grass in the middle of the field, out of earshot of their followers. What transpired between the two held the fate of all the other men who waited, sweaty hands on the pommels of their swords and the hafts of their spears.
It appeared to end well as the king and Mordred shook hands. As Arthur turned to return to his troops Mordred struck a dastardly blow with a hidden dagger, wounding the king. Arthur spun about, pulling Excalibur out of its sheath. He slashed down, striking Mordred on the shoulder, cleaving through the armor. The wounded men staggered back as both armies thundered forward into the fray.
Arthur’s knights drew him back from the front lines, as did Mordred’s. Again and again, the armies charged until the field was strewn with the dead and dying.
Few on either side were still alive when they left. War-hardened though they were, none of the knights had ever seen such a blood lust descend on both sides in a battle, not even when they had fought the crazed Scotsmen of the north — and this battle had been between Englishmen, knights who had sworn an oath to a code of conduct. But today no quarter had been given, wounded slain where they lay, unarmored auxiliaries hacked to pieces, suited knights dragged from their horses and pounded to death, blades slammed through visors or under the armpit where they could get through the armor.
At least Arthur had struck Mordred a grievous blow with Excalibur before going down; they had all seen that. They could only hope the boy-bastard was dying or already dead.
None on the Tor knew who had won or if the battle was even over yet. Shortly after the king had been seriously wounded, his inner circle of bodyguards, known as the core of the Round Table, had placed Arthur on a pallet and dragged him away while the battle still raged. No courier had come with word of victory or defeat.
They felt the dark, rolling clouds overhead threatening a vicious storm to be a portent even though Merlin was not there to read the signs. Where the sorcerer had gone in the days before the battle was a mystery, and there were many who now cursed his name. Regardless, they knew the Age of Camelot was done and the darkness of barbarism and ignorance would descend once more on England.
The knights turned in surprise as the thick wooden door in the side of the abbey creaked opened. They had pounded on the door without success when they’d first arrived by boat thirty minutes ago. They’d brought Arthur here because of the legend — that on the isle of Avalon dwelt the Fisher-King and his chosen knights; men who were immortal and who could bestow the healing gift on those they deemed worthy. And would not King Arthur, of all who walked the Earth, be worthy?
But on arrival they had found an apparently deserted island, with the tower locked tight.
In the now open doorway stood a man framed by light from behind. Robed in black, the man’s hands were empty of weapons, his face etched with age, his hair silver. He was breathing hard, as if he had come a long way. Despite his non-threatening appearance, the knights stepped aside as he gestured for them to part, allowing him access to the king — all except the knight closest to Arthur. “Are you the Fisher-King?” Percival asked as the man came close. He was always the boldest in strange situations or when the king was threatened. Percival’s armor was battered and blood seeped out from under his left arm where a dagger had struck just before Arthur sustained his final wound. Percival’s right hand gripped his sword, ready to defend Arthur, to amend for not taking the blow that had downed the king. He was a stout man, not tall but broad of shoulders, with dark hair plastered to his head with sweat. A thin red line ran along one cheek where a blade had struck a glancing blow. The stranger paused. “No, I am not a king.”
“Are you a monk?” Percival persisted, leery of allowing a stranger next to the king.
“You may call me that.”
Percival looked over the man’s cloak, noting the trim on the ends of the sleeves, the chain around his neck. “You dress like Merlin. Are you one of the priests of the old religion, the tree worshippers? A sorcerer of the dark arts?”
The man paused. “My line has been here on Yniswitrin, what you call Avalon, since the dawn of time. But we worship no gods and practice no sorcery.”
“You’re a Druid?” Percival persisted. “It is said the Druids have been on this island forever. That they sing the eternal song here, but we found no one when we arrived.”
“There is no time for questions.” The man knelt down, placing his wrinkled hands over the king’s bloodstained ones.
“Can you heal him?” Percival was now the only one close; the others stood near the edge of the Tor, attention split between what was happening to their king and the water to the east, from which news of victory or the promise of death in defeat would come. They had no doubt that if Mordred’s side won, there would be no mercy.
“The healers — such as they are — will arrive shortly, I believe,” the monk said.
“What healers?” Percival demanded.
“There are things beyond you. You waste precious time. Let me speak to the king in private for a moment — to give him absolution in a way only he will understand.”
“You said you worshipped no god,” Percival argued.
“You brought him here, now let me do what is necessary,” the monk snapped. He raised a hand toward Percival and struggled to control his voice. “I mean him no harm.”
Arthur spoke for the first time. “Leave us, Percival. There is nothing to fear from this man.”
Reluctantly, Percival joined the other knights.
The monk leaned close so that only Arthur could hear his words. “Give me the key.”
Arthur’s eyes turned to the man. They showed none of his pain. “I have heard of you. You are Brynn, are you not?”
The monk nodded.
Arthur continued. “You are the Watcher of this island. It was one of your people who started all this. Merlin.”
Brynn shook his head. “We called him Myrddin. He is a traitor to the oath he swore. He is not of my people any longer. You, of all people, should know well how there can be traitors among a close-knit group. My group has been scattered for many, many years.”