Peredur lay on his couch in the small house that he would never leave again. You could say he killed himself. He needn’t have gone into the well. Bors and the others scolded with tender exasperation to no avail. He would go down; that’s a note on his character. Only Eleyne approved and encouraged what was, in effect, his doom—a note on hers.

The reliquary rested on a small stand before his couch, closed and locked.

“Bors is confused,” Peredur labored in a broken whisper. “They all are. They wanted so much more. A miracle. Open it, Eleyne.”

She unlocked the chest and lifted its lid. Since it was expected of me, I knelt and crossed myself.

What rested in the box seemed hardly worth a genuflection. An ordinary shallow bowl of pitted bronze. Someone had taken great pains to scrape away the crust of centuries, working with the ardor of reverence, hoping the spiritual light of Christ would eventually blaze forth. Their industry produced a clean but pockmarked surface that shone with less enthusiasm than a common flower bowl. Frankly, I was disappointed. The palace dogs ate from more impressive service.

I asked obliquely, “What do you think, Peredur?”

Eleyne answered for him. “The Church of Britain has acknowledged it, We have found the Grail.”

“And who are we to say them nay,” Peredur added significantly. “Does that answer?”

“Not really. I know you, Peredur. How you think.”

“How I thought. And whatever we thought, this will be the Grail. For all of them.”

So mundane, so shabby. “You really think—?”

“Arthur, what I think’matters very little.”

“Or I,” Eleyne agreed. “So says the blood of St. Joseph of Arimathea, amen.”

336

Firelord

I reached for it. “May I?”

Peredur gestured slightly. “Of course. With you other inordinate titles, you are now good King Arthur, patron of the Grail quest.”

Peredur’s frail, reedy voice went on as I studied the object. “It’s the reaching, the hope and the faith that really count. How can any reality shine like the dream of it? They’re all confused, but they believe. That’s enough.”

He glanced up at Eleyne. I read the understanding between them.

“A common bronze bowl,” Peredur said. “Not very well made. Test the weight: more tin than copper. Must be thousands like it. Cheap enough for peasants and inns that catered to men of limited means. Look at the bottom.”

I turned the bowl over. There was no design at ail tooled into the age-dark metal at its manufacture, but someone with a crude point had scratched two simple arcs, one inverted, that crossed to form the rude outline of a fish.

“The earliest symbol of Christ,” Peredur breathed. “Interesting coincidence. But if there was a Grail, it would look like nothing so much as this.”

Nothing to say, then. Peredur and Eleyne were silent, arrived at a stillness of wisdom. I passed the bowl to Eleyne who locked it in the reliquary which she brought to me.

“My lord king, when he greets my husband, will please say that Eleyne of Astolat has lived and lives still in the sacred charge of her blood. And in the sanctity of my marriage vow—”

Something haunted her eyes for a flicker of time, like a shape moving under dark waters.

“—From which there is no loosing even in heaven. I send him the Holy Grail to heal his heart. And I will bide here by his friend whose feet should be washed by saints.”

I hoped it would heal more than Lancelot. Going north I needed all the help I could get.

Peredur held out his white hand. “You’ll be going soon?”

“In a day or so.”

His fingers spidered over mine, the grip of an infant. “I love you all. I’d see you at peace but for the absurd things we have to do. What do you think God does most, Arthur? Laugh or cry?”

He died in his sleep the night after I left. The Bishop of Caerleon said the mass himself and the requiem was sung by a choir of several dozen monks. Masses were ordered for each

Modred and a Grail

337

anniversary of Peredur’s death. The prince lay in state two full days, and I think more of die faithful knelt at his bier than will ever weep over mine. Why not? He touched an enduring need in their hearts. They saw him rise like a spirit bird, molting morality, ranks of angels guiding him to paradise, dona eis requiem, armies of welcoming seraphim, ranked saints eager to make him one of diem, his head suffused in holy light.

Peredur would have thought it all a bit thick. I knew him. His faith might have sent him down into the well, but a keen, critical mind led him there. And he always hated crowds. As for veneration on earth or apotheosis in heaven, he would be distracted by the noise and embarrassed by the adulation. Perhaps one friend to be waiting, the only one he ever wanted, at ease and casual, ready to take him home with a good chat along the way: ‘ ‘Come in, Perry-fach! What a mess they’ve made down there, when I meant it all to be so simple. Oh, the ideas were good but I’ve done so much better since. Come—walk with me.”

I rested my horse on the hilltop, looking out over the moor southwest of Eburacum. Bedivere whistled softly as he appraised the distant squadrons arrayed against us.

“All neat and proper, Artos. I thought Agrivaine would go for an ambush.”

“Guenevere has more sense. She wants results, not blood. Tell the commanders to join me here.”

Awaiting them, I scrutinized the terrain we might have to fight on. Agrivaine was not so eager to kill me that he chose his ground carelessly. Behind his forces the moor rose in a low, scalloped hill, the earthworks of an ancient fort. If necessary, it would give him good cover.

My commanders trotted up to me to take their places; Gareth, Gawain, Maelgwyn and Bedivere, each estimating the force in front of us.

“They’re all bunched up,” said Gareth. “Was not Lancelot drew up that order.”

Obviously not. Agrivaine was lord-milite of the Parisi and die more experienced Lancelot was too modest to assert himself. The squadrons were drawn up in blocks; impressive but not the best starting position for an attack. We’d deploy in a wedge headed by Gareth’s combrogi, narrow at the head, wider than Agrivaine’s line at the rear so we could turn his flank if we must.

338

Firelord

Modred and a Grail

If he attacked without warning, we’d be in the better position. I gave my orders.

“Make your dispositions and turn the squadrons over to your seconds-in-command. Tell them, once we’re on the field, I’ll draw my sword if Agrivaine tries to shift his position. On that signal—and only that—they’ll attack in formation.”

“And we?” Maeigwyn asked.

“Up front with me. Guenevere will see we’re ready to reason

first.”

They cantered away to transmit the orders. A few minutes later, when the first of the combrogi approached, I slapped Bedivere’s arm.

“Up the dragon, boyo. Let’s go to work.” When we reached our position on the level ground, I smiled a little at the sight of the three figures waiting in front of the northern forces. Guenevere in the center, Agrivaine on her right, Lancelot to the left. My queen set a heavy gray, dressed in a long mail coat that must have dragged cruelly on her thin shoulders. Over the mail was draped the purple robe she wore in state at Camelot. Her head was rounded with the coronet of the Parisi, A clear and formidable statement: she would have all her rights. I would strip her of nothing without dispute.

I turned to view the precise movements of my own squadrons, mindful that the impression was not lost on the forces opposite. The wedge formed with sure, economical movements, no noise or milling about. The finest weapon in the world.

Then, my commanders behind me, I paced forward until only a few yards separated me from Guenevere.

“Before any speaks,” I began, “let me say I’m in a better position to attack. And if there’s any shift in yours, I will.”

I caught the silent I-told-you-so Lancelot vented on Agrivaine.

“I came for my rights, Arthur,” said Guenevere. “Not for a fight.”

Trust Agrivaine to amend that. “But every bit of a fight if you want it. And Gawain, I’ll have no mercy on a brother.”

“Nor I, brother,” Gawain answered with still conviction. “The price is too dear now.”

“Hear, Pendragon!” Agrivaine shouted. “No bargains. The

north will—”

“/ will speak for the north,” Guenevere reminded him with cool authority. “Arthur, will you hear me out?”

Gladly. It was time to listen. Gamblers, we knew each other

339

too well to bluff. I might impress her men and had the means for it in my saddle-purse, but Gwen? Where was her weakness?

“I am here to listen, Guenevere.”

“The Parisi are to be sovereign again as they were under my father. And no reprisal for this honest rising.”

“No reprisal,” I agreed. “As for sovereignty, we’ve argued that for a hundred years. It’s never been codified but always depended on who was stronger, emperor or tribe. Let’s end it. Let there be a writ between us as to the legal rights of the Parisi under the crown.”

“All rights?” my shrewd queen asked.

“All rights saving separate treaties.”

“Not yet agreed,” Guenevere frowned, digesting the offer. “Hear me further. With my royal brother dead, I am to keep the crown of the Parisi and Brigantes if they choose me.”

If indeed. With Agrivaine and Lancelot behind her, it was a choice for the Parisi of being cooked or eaten raw. A good •move, since Gwen assumed I would never restore her as queen. She knew the game and the board.

But she’d given me the opening I needed. I knew Gwen; she’d always trade good for better and both for best. I muttered to Bedivere, “Cross your fingers. The fat’s going in the fire.”

I flicked the reins and moved out alone, beckoning Guenevere to come forward. We met alone in the open space between our commanders. Poor Gwen was sweating and miserable under the hot mail and heavy cloak.

“I’ve a better idea, Gwen.”

She lifted one eyebrow, wary. “It’d better be good. Right now I am the north.”