6.

 

 

 

MADOUC RAN AT A BRISK HALF-TROT along the main gallery: past statues of ancient heroes, urns taller than herself, alcoves furnished with ornate tables and tall-backed chairs. At intervals, men-at-arms in the scarlet and gold livery of Haidion stood with halberds at parade-rest. Only their eyes moved to follow Madouc as she passed them by.

At a pair of tall narrow doors Madouc stopped short. She hesitated, then, pushing open one of the doors, peered through the gap into a long dim chamber illuminated by a single narrow window in the far wall. This was the castle library. A shaft of light slanted down across a table; here sat Kerce the librarian, a man of advanced years though still tall and erect, with a gentle mouth and a dreamer’s forehead in a face otherwise austere. Madouc knew little of Kerce save that he was said to be the son of an Irish druithine, and a poet in his own right.

After a single side-glance toward the door, Kerce continued with his work. Madouc came slowly into the room. The air carried an aromatic reek, of old wood, wax, lavender oil, the soft sweet fusk of well-tanned leather. Tables to left and right supported librams two or three feet on a side and three inches thick, bound in limp leather or sometimes heavy black felt. Shelves were crammed with scrolls, parchments in cedar boxes, papers tied in bundles, books clamped between carefully-tooled boards of beechwood.

Madouc approached Kerce, step by demure step. At last he straightened in his chair, turned his head to watch her approach, and not without a trace of dubious speculation, for Madouc’s repute had penetrated even the far fastnesses of the library.

Madouc stopped beside the table, and looked down at the manuscript upon which Kerce had been working. She asked: “What are you doing?”

Kerce looked critically down at the parchment. “Two hundred years ago some nameless lout covered over this page with a paste of powdered chalk mixed with sour milk and seaweed gum. Then he attempted to indite the Morning Ode of Merosthenes, addressed to the nymph Laloe, upon his discovery of her one summer dawn plucking pomegranates in his orchard. The lout copied without care and his characters, as you see, are like bird-droppings. I expunge his scrawl and dissolve his vile compost, but delicately, since below there may be as many as five other layers of ever older and ever more enthralling mysteries. Or, to my sorrow, I might find more ineptitude. Still, I must examine each in turn. Who knows? I might uncover one of Jirolamo’s lost cantos. So there you have it: I am an explorer of ancient mysteries; such is my profession and my great adventure.”

Madouc examined the manuscript with new interest. “I had no idea you lived so exciting a life!”

Kerce spoke gravely: “I am intrepid and I defy every challenge! I scratch at this surface with the delicacy of a surgeon cutting the carbuncle of an angry king! But my hand is deft and my tools are true! See them, loyal comrades all: my stout badger-tail brush, my faithful oil of limpet, my obsidian edge and dangerous bone needles, my trusty range-wood rub-sticks! They are all paladins who have served me well! Together we have made far voyages and visited unknown lands!”

“And always you return safe and sound!”

Kerce turned her a quizzical glance, one eyebrow arched high, the other in a crooked twist. “I wonder what you mean by that.”

Madouc laughed. “You are the second today to ask me such a question.”

“And what was your response?”

“I told him that my words meant what I said they meant.”

“You have odd quirks in your mind for one so young.” Kerce turned in his seat and gave her his full attention. “And what brings you here? Is it caprice, or the work of Destiny?”

Madouc said soberly: “I have a question which I hope you will answer.”

“Ask away; I will lay out all my lore for your inspection.”

“There has been much talk of relics here at Haidion. I have become curious about what they call the ‘Holy Grail’. Is there indeed such a thing? If so, what does it look like, and where might it be found?”

“Of the ‘Holy Grail’ I can tell you only a few bare facts,” said Kerce. “While I know of a hundred religions, I give credence to none. The ‘Grail’ is reputedly the chalice used by Jesus Christos when last he dined with his disciples. The chalice came into the hands of Joseph of Arimathea, who, so it is said, caught blood in the chalice from the wounds of the crucified Christ. Subsequently, Joseph wandered across the world and at last visited Ireland, where he left the Grail on Isle Inchagoill in Lough Corrib north of Galway. A band of heathen Celts threatened the island chapel, and a monk named Father Sisembert brought the chalice to the Elder Isles, and from this point onward the stories go at variance. According to one account the chalice is buried in crypts on Whanish Isle. Another reports that as Father Sisembert passed through the Forest of Tantrevalles, he met a dreadful ogre, who put him to evil uses, claiming that Father Sisembert had neglected courtesy. One of the ogre’s three heads drank Sisembert’s blood; another ate his liver: the third head suffered from toothache and, lacking appetite, made dice of Sisembert’s knuckles. But perhaps that is only a story to be told around the fire on stormy nights.”

“And who would know the truth?”

Kerce made a pensive gesture. “Who can say? Perhaps in the end it is all no more than legend. Many knights of chivalry have sought the Grail across the length and breadth of Christendom, and many have wandered the Elder Isles on the quest. Some departed forlorn; others died in combat or suffered bewitchment; others disappeared and have been seen no more. In truth, it seems mortal peril to seek the Grail!”

“Why should that be—unless somewhere it is guarded with great jealousy?”

“As to that, I cannot say. And never forget that in the end, the quest may only be the pursuit of an ideal dream!”

“Do you believe so?”

“I have no beliefs in this regard, nor in many another. Why are you concerned?”

“Queen Sollace wants to grace her new cathedral with the Holy Grail. She has gone so far as to offer me in marriage to whomever brings her this object! My own wishes, needless to say, were not consulted.”

Kerce gave a dry chuckle. “I begin to understand your interest!”

“If I myself found the Grail, then I would be safe from such an annoyance.”

“So it would seem—still, the Grail may no longer exist.”

“If such is the case, a false Grail might be offered the queen. She would not know the difference.”

“But I would,” said Kerce. “The ploy would not succeed; I can assure you of this!”

Madouc looked at him sidewise. “How can you be so sure?”

Kerce compressed his lips, as if he had said more than he might have wished. “It is a secret. I will share it with you, if you hold it tightly to yourself.”

“I promise.”

Kerce rose to his feet and went to a cupboard. He removed a portfolio, extracted a drawing which he brought to the table. Madouc saw depicted a footed pale blue chalice eight inches tall, with handles at either side, slightly irregular. A dark blue band encircled the top rim; the base showed a ring of the same dark blue color.

“This is a drawing of the Grail. It was sent from Ireland to the monastery on Whanish Isle long ago, and rescued from the Goths by one of the monks. It is a true depiction, exact even to this nick in the base, and the differing length of the handles.” Kerce returned drawing and portfolio to the cupboard. “Now you know what there is to be known of the Grail. I prefer to keep the drawing secret, for several reasons.”

“I will keep silent,” said Madouc. “Unless the queen tries to marry me to someone who brings her a false Grail; then, if all else fails—”

Kerce waved his hand. “Say no more. I will make a true and accurate copy of the drawing, which may be used for attestation, if any such is needed.”

Madouc departed the library; then, taking pains to go unobserved, she went around to the stables. Sir Pom-pom was nowhere in evidence. Madouc looked in on Tyfer and rubbed his nose, then returned to the castle.

At noon Madouc dined in the Small Refectory with her six maids-in-waiting. Today they were unusually voluble, for there was much to discuss. King Casmir’s proclamation, however, came to dominate the conversation. Elissia remarked, perhaps with sincerity, that Madouc must now be considered a famous person, whose name would resound down centuries to come. “Think of it!” sighed Elissia. “Here is the sheer stuff of glamour! Legends will tell how handsome knights from far and near dared fire, ice, dragon and troll; how they fought crazed Celt and fierce Goth, all for love of the beautiful red-haired princess!”

Madouc offered a small correction. “My hair is not precisely red. It is a most unusual colour, as of copper alloyed with gold.”

Chlodys said: “Nevertheless, for purposes of the legend, you will be considered red-haired and beautiful, with no regard whatever for the truth.”

Devonet made a thoughtful comment. “As of now, we cannot be absolutely sure that this legend will come to pass.”

“How so?” asked Ydraint.

“Much depends upon circumstances. Assume that some valiant and handsome knight brings the Holy Grail to Queen Sollace. King Casmir asks as to what boon the brave knight desires. At this point events hang in the balance. If he decides that he is disinclined for marriage, he might ask the king for a fine horse or a pair of good hunting dogs—which of course provides small scope for a legend.”

Chlodys said sagaciously: “It is a chancy situation.”

Felice spoke. “Another matter! It is the best relic which wins the boon! So that after great efforts and far quests, the best relic brought to the queen might be, let us say, a hair from the tail of the lion who ate Saint Milicia in the Roman arena. Poor stuff, of course, but Madouc must still marry the lummox who submits such an article.”

Madouc tossed her head. “I am not so pliable as you might like to think.”

Devonet spoke with grave concern. “I will counsel you! Be meek, modest and patient! Yield gracefully to the king’s commands! It is not only your duty; it is also the way of prudence. That is my reasoned advice.”

Madouc listened with no great attention. “Naturally, you must do as you think proper.”

“One word more! The king has declared that if you cark or pout, or attempt to avoid his fiat, he will simply give you off into servitude!”

Chlodys turned to Madouc, who sat stolidly eating raisin pudding. “And what do you say to that?”

“Nothing.”

“But what will you do?”

“You shall see.”