Authors: Anne Eliot Crompton
In rudely plain language, Percival replied; “Sir, go back to the King. Tell him I will come to him shortly. I have a matter to attend here first.”
He glanced down into the grail. The magic, visionary blood was just beginning to seep away, turning the snow rosy.
Sir Cai snorted like a horse. “You venture to command me, Sir? Like a herald, a messenger? Look you to me, here!”
Straining, Percival drew his eyes and half his mind back to Sir Cai.
Cai took his lance in hand and shook it. “Mount and follow me, Sir. Or I drive you to the King at the point of this lance.”
Percival sighed. Not so easily would he be rid of Sir Cow Eyes. “You challenge me, Sir?”
Snort! “You know who I am. I know you not. Yet I honor you with my challenge. Aye! Mount and meet me.”
Sir Cai turned his gray and trotted far enough back to give space for a charge. There he faced Percival again and couched his lance.
Scenting action at last, the sleek, eager red nodded, blew, and pawed snow as Percival mounted.
He settled himself firmly, couched lance, raised shield. Across the snowy space Sir Cai's raised shield bloomed like a huge flower.
Lo. The gray charger started forward, great hooves tossing snow.
The red needed no nudge. It burst into an eager trot. Ears perked forward, it moved into a canter.
This was Percival's first true challenge. Often enough he had charged a dummy, or a friendly teacher. But now the thought touched his mind,
Cow Eyes means to run that lance through me. Hah! Goddamn!
Forward like thunder.
Under Sir Cai's helmet his ferocious grin came clear and close.
Gahart murmured in Percival's head,
Don't look at his face. Look at his shield.
Percival tilted his lance straight at the griffin.
Look to his point. Shift shield against it. Now, shift aim.
The horses charged together.
Percival's lance struck home. The impact knocked him back in his saddle. As the horses cantered past each other, precise as dancers, he swayed, caught the saddle horn, found his balance.
With no urging the red slowed and half circled and stopped.
Back there the gray waited quietly beside its master, who lay spread-eagled on the snow.
Percival trotted back, dismounted, and drew his bright new sword.
Should Another challenge you,
Seize sword or lance and run him through.
“Hey!” Sir Cai's brown cow eyes popped open. He held up a warding hand. “I yield! Hold off!”
Hampered by his heavy cuirass, he sat up and said in the low language of every day, “Have it your way. I'll go tell the King you'll come later.”
He's surprised. He didn't expect me to kill him.
Gahart murmured in Percival's head,
Go easier. Good men don't grow in gardens.
Hah. Aye. This is one of Arthur's good men. And a foster brother besides.
Percival sheathed his sword and stood back. “Very well. Take you my message to the King.”
Urgently, the snow grail called to him. He turned toward it, then back.
See Cow Eyes off, first. This one might rise up and strike from behind.
With difficulty, Sir Cai heaved himself up, brushed off snow, and mounted his gray. With no farewell, he rode past Percival and away north, along his own trail. His broken lance lay forgotten in the snow.
Instantly, Percival strode to his snow grail. The red ambled behind, blowing warm breath down his neck.
Thick, warm blood still half filled the snow grail.
Percival's mind sank into it, as a man sinks into a bog.
The Fey forest again, again under snow. Young Percy, almost grown, came upon two Fey boys dressing a young pig in a snowbank.
For a change, he saw them before they saw him, because they were deeply intent upon their work. He also saw, smelled, and heard three wolves slinking through thickets toward the blood.
Without thought, he moved to help the boys.
Poisoned darts found the two closest wolves. The third whirled and bounded away. And now the Fey boys looked up.
His interference surprised them. They themselves would have passed on and let the hunters fight off their own wolves.
But they were generous with their pig meat, if not with their friendship.
Percival sighed.
Nearby, the red muttered. It had moved off to graze through snow; now it stood alert, ears pricked, looking north. And now Percival heard the
creak!
and
clang!
of another horse and rider.
He turned north to see a tall, black-plumed Knight atop a great black stallion raise his shield in greeting. The shield was white, crossed by three red bands.
Argent, three bends gules! Goddamn, goddamn! Gahart said.
The Knight reined in his black, and said, loudly courteous, “Sir Knight, King Arthur requires your presence now at his hunting camp. I, Sir Lancelot, will escort you.”
Percival examined Sir Lancelot, Arthur's Best Knight. He liked the man's seat on his horse. He liked his manner, and open, almost friendly face.
A joust with Lancelot will test my best powers! Gahart said he is not allowed to joust because he cannot be overthrown.
Sir Lancelot said into Percival's silence, “Sir, of your courtesy, mount and ride with me now. Unless you wish to fight for your right to stand here and contemplate snow.”
Percival bowed his head to Sir Lancelot. Wordless, he went and mounted the red charger.
Sir Lancelot flashed a signal with his shield, turned, rode away, and turned back.
Percival settled himself firmly and couched his lance.
Saint George, give me victory now!
Lo, the black charger trotted forward, great hooves tossing snow. Lancelot leaned low and forward. Sharp sun glinted off the oncoming point of his lance.
The black reached a canter.
So did the red. Percival had moved into combat without full realization. Already he was halfway to a clash with Arthur's Best Knight.
Arthur will have no better Knight thanâ¦
Unknown, unguessed strength flooded Percival.
Look at his point. It aims low. He will strike high. Raise shield. Lower lance.
CRASH.
The impact lifted Percival wholly clear of his saddle.
With a stupendous
crack!
his lance broke and flew away in two parts.
He felt himself struck, low.
Heavy armor notwithstanding, he flew up in air.
He grabbed the saddle horn, swayed, found balance. The red slowed, half circled, and stopped.
Lance broke. We finish with swords. Hah! Goddamn!
Lancelot lay on his back in snow, under his broken lance.
Good men don't growâ¦Pray Heaven he is not hurt!
Snorting and prancing, the red trotted Percival back to Lancelot.
Holy Hubert! There was anger enough when I killed the Red Knightâ¦If I have harmed Arthur's Best Knightâ
Percival slung shield on saddle and dismounted.
Lancelot's gray eyes looked up, conscious.
He sat up. Shook his head. Gazed wonderingly at Percival.
Percival reached and grasped his hand. Slowly, he hauled large, armed Lancelot to his feet. Panting, they stood together. Percival's helmet still rang from the encounter.
But even now the snow grail called to him, louder than battle-echo.
Lancelot asked, “What message shall I take to the King?”
“That Iâ¦will come to him shortly.”
“And who shall I say sends him this message?”
“I amâ¦Sir Percival.”
Lancelot nodded, took off his helmet, and straightened its plume.
Fearing no treachery this time, Percival strode away to his snow grail.
Blood stood much lower in the grail.
In the few remaining drops shone the sky.
Percival stood in full, open sunlight on the North River Cliffs and stared up in the blue sky-depths. Deeper and deeper he stared, swaying where he stood. His soul soared, then drifted, higher and higher into blind blue. Silently, his soul called, “
Here am I! Where are You?
”
Silence answered from Silence.
Green snow fell and hid the sky.
A spell broke.
Percival awoke.
He was looking into a young, handsome faceâdark beard, gray, good-humored eyes.
The unknown Knight had cast his green cloak down over the snow grail! It lay there still, soaking up the last magic blood.
He said, “Sir Percival, you have been enchanted.”
“Goddamn! That must be so⦔
“That is why you twice refused to come to King Arthur at his command.”
“I did?⦔
The Knight smiled. “Are you spell-free now?”
Percival drew a deep breath and looked about him.
Here he stood with this strange Knight in a snowy meadow beside a stream. Ducks gabbled in reeds. Geese flew, calling, from the low northern hills to the southern.
Behind the western hill he would find his own camp. Maybe Lili was cooking, there.
Starving!
And behind the northern hill, he had been told, King Arthur rested in a hunting camp.
“Ayeâ¦Now I remember myselfâ¦and who came to me earlierâ¦and I told them I would go to the King later becauseâ¦because⦔
“Something under here enchanted you.” The Knight pulled his green cloak up out of snow. “Better you not look again. I'll tell you what is hereâ¦Nothing. A little bloody snow hole, with feathers. Looks like a harrier struck here.”
“Aye. A harrier struck. Yet it seemed⦔
The Knight swirled his stained cloak up about him and pinned it. “Sir Percival, let us ride to the King. I who invite you am Sir Gawain.”
Another known name! “Sir Gawain, I come.”
But before mounting his charger, Percival bent and plucked up a bloody teal feather from snow. He poked it into his pouch.
Riding north beside Sir Gawain, he said “I have been seeking the King. To ask him to make me a Knight.”
Sir Gawain turned an astonished face to him. “Sir! You are no Knight?”
“I am not yet knighted.”
“Ech! Holy Michael! God Himself must have knighted you, Sir Percival.” And Gawain muttered to himself, “What will Lancelot say to this!”
At the top of the hill they drew rein.
Arthur's hunting camp spread away below. Hobbled horses, hounds running loose, huntsmen, and unarmed Knights mingled among blue and red tents. Pennants flapped in a rising breeze.
And in the midst, over the largest, snow-white tent, Arthur's golden dragon swung in the wind.
I'll waste no word. No bard am I.
Righter than Roman road must lie
The trail we travel till we die;
The Knights' Road.
Meet you a maiden passing fair?
No husband, father, guardian there?
She is your prize, your jewel rare,
On the Knights' Road.
To church with others wend your way
To bend and bow, to plead and pray.
But to your sword true worship pay
On the Knights' Road.
Upon your way you hear a cry?
Rush to respond! There's riches nigh.
Gold or girl will satisfy,
On the Knights' Road.
Victor, slaver not to slay.
You'll have debts enough to pay
Should you ever lose the day,
On the Knights' Road.
Follow faithfully your King,
For in his gift lies everything
That war may win or bards may sing,
On the Knights' Road.
Beneath your breastplate beats a heart
That laughs and longs and breaks apart
Withered, withdrawn. Walk, by this art,
The Knights' Road.
Lost Knight
On the highest cliff over North River Alanna stood against a biting wind.
Far below, North River roared around ice-capped rocks. Ahead, the end of sunset streaked a gray, winter sky. Around and behind, firming ice sheathed the cliffs.
Within, as always, was Percy.
I sent him forth with a soup-kettle helmet, three-colored clothes and a headful of half-truths, a fool among thieves. I hoped the folk out there would take him for a God-touched madman and leave him alone.
And I thought he would learn that his truly crazed dream of being knighted was impossible.
And thenâ¦he would come home.
But here it is, half a year, and my Percy is not back.
Either he is dead; or he is a Knight.
So Percy is dead. My son is dead. Never coming home.
For days, Alanna had been thinking of ways to die.
Holy Mary, how I long for it! To fly free of this bone-aching, heart-broke body! No tears in Heaven.
Ivie must be in Heaven. How good to see my Ivie again! I never dreamed how I would miss her, till she went.
Sir Ogden is there, surely. Not by his fault, he raised his sons the only way he knew.
And my boys! Kimball and Locke, Owen and Oak, Chad and Brand, Powell and Olin!
And my Percy. If not now, then surely soon.
But Alanna could not simply hurl herself off the Cliffs like a sick old Fey. That was against God's Law. Taking her own life she would find herself in Hell.
Never see a loved face again! No love in Hell.
Dear God.
(As she still called the Fey “Good Folk,” Alanna called God “Dear,” hoping that the Creator of childbirth, sickness, death, human nature, and winter might be won over by blandishments.)
Dear God, now it is in Your hands.
So she had come here to the highest Cliff and walked out to the edge, across thin, crackling ice, to watch the winter sun set. Here, wind could topple her. She could fall on ice and whisk down over the edge in a breath. Turning to walk back, she could slip. Or, God could guide her feet safely back from the edge. Did He want her here in this Vale of Tears? The choice was His.
Not my will, but Thine, be done. Aye. Amen.
Lower sank sun over forest.
Time to go home, if I'm going. The trails must be almost dark now, back under the trees.
Heart within spoke
. Lo! Percy is alive! If not, I would have told you.
And were Percy still alive, there was still a chanceâ¦a small chanceâ¦that he might come home.
He might. And in that case, maybeâ¦right nowâ¦I don't want to die. Yet.
Time to go home.
Carefully, Alanna turned her back to wind and sunset.
Holy Mary! This ice firmed up while I stood here!
Glare ice shone sunset-rose for twelve, fourteen steps across sloping rock.
Glancing around for a foothold, Alanna caught movement in the corner of an eye.
Some God-forsaken Fey spying the way they doâ
He stepped out into last light and stretched a hand toward her.
âSir Edik! Kind, dear Sir Edik!
He caught hold of a birch and leaned as far forward as he could. Alanna leaned and stretched. But their reaching fingers grasped cold, empty wind.
“Sir Edik!” Alanna's cry was lost, wind-carried, drowned in North River's roar.
He raised his hands and finger-talked.
“Slower! Talk slower!”
He paused; nodded; began again.
Stay. There. Wait.
“Aye! I'll wait!” Vigorously, she nodded.
Dear Sir Edik vanished, Fey-like, into dark woods.
Alanna stood, frozen against the bitter wind that pushed at her back and billowed her cloak like a sail.
He reappeared, dragging a long, crotched pine branch. He hooked the crotch around the birch and pushed the branching, needled end across the ice to Alanna.
If her frozen hands could grasp itâ¦She gasped in a breath of wind, leaned, and grabbed for the pine needles.
They tore out in her hands.
Tottering, she grabbed the slender pine tips beneath. Holding on with all her strength, she took two steps up and forward. Her feet slithered on ice. She fell.
Ice burned through the length of her new wool gown that the Lady's own hands had carded, spun, woven, and sewn. North River echoed between her ears. She felt her feet swing out and down and over the edge. Freezing wind bit her ankles.
With numb hands she gripped the pine tips.
To Heaven with Percy!
Not yet. Not now.
Alanna began pulling herself up the branch.
And the branch itself dragged her, inch by inch, up the ice.
Must hold onâ¦
Fingers touched hers.
Dear Sir Edik, feet hooked around his birch, had dragged her so far up that he could reach her hand.
At the end of her strength, she let go the branch and caught his hand. Only after, creeping up the ice between his hand and the branch, did she realize what she had done.
Could have gone over in that instant!
Snow burned over her shoulder, under her breast.
That's snow. Not ice.
Snow under her hips.
Pull. Hang on. Creep.
Her feet sank into snow.
I'm off the ice. I'm up here with dear Sir Edik.
He caught her in his arms. Hers clasped his neck tight. Together, they rolled like youngsters in soft snow.