The Holy Grail of Winnifred

It was an early autumn’s afternoon when the two knights rode into Winnifred’s little corner of the world. They took her by surprise–the only warning she had was the sound of hooves clopping down the woodland trail. Moments later they stood before her, towering over her astride the finest horses that Winnifred had ever seen. 

“We have been given a quest by our king,” declared the younger one with golden hair and fair skin. “We seek the Sangreal.”

Winnifred stood dumbfounded, shin-deep in the creek with the day’s wash still in her hands. Her eyes tried to avoid looking at him but kept being drawn to the gleaming swords on the strangers’ waists. It wasn’t the swords herself that unnerved her–it was the jewels set in the pommels. Swords like those meant nobility. It meant knights in the service of the High King. 

Even she knew that.

“Pardon, my lords,” Winnifred stuttered. “I’ve never heard of a sangreal. I don’t know what it is.”

“You would not,” sneered the golden knight.

“It is a cup, Lady,” the older knight said, shooting a glare at his companion. This one had a ruddier complexion, his hair an ebony wave. “The cup that Joseph of Arimathea used to catch the blood of Christ while He was dying on the cross.”

“Oh.” Winnifred tried her best to keep the puzzlement from her face, but she knew that some shone through. What worth is a cup to a knight? To a king?

A moment of silence stretched longer before the first knight crossly asked, “Have you heard of it? Seen it?”

“Oh, no, my lords,” Winnifred replied. “I’ve never heard anything like that in these parts. Not in these woods. And I’ve lived here all my life.”

The golden knight scoffed and turned his horse away without a pause. The darker knight just frowned a little and thanked her for her time before riding away with his companion.

“That was quite odd,” Winnifred said to herself before turning back to the wash. “I wish I had someone to tell about it all.”

---

It was another three days before Winnifred found the knights again. This time, she was the one who snuck up on them. She was gathering blackberries, the juice staining her fingers, when she heard a clear voice drifting through the trees, singing a song. She stopped, considered it, and then made her way toward the singing.

She spotted the golden knight first, sitting atop his horse and scowling at his elder. Winnifred had to look around before she spotted the darker knight. He had dismounted, his armour tenderly piled beneath an oak tree. He stood shirtless in the creek, splashing water up his body as he sang. 

She didn’t think she made a sound, but she must have because she was only there a moment before the golden knight’s head swung in her direction. He cried out and urged his warhorse into action, plunging towards her as she fell and tripped backwards. She closed her eyes tight, feeling the rushing of air around her as the sword swept down to strike at her– 

“Galahad.” 

Winnifred opened one eye just a crack, just enough to see the older knight climbing out of the water and making his way towards her. He made no attempt to make himself modest, instead coming closer to see who was intruding on him and his companion.

He bowed to her. “I believe we met before, lady.” He smiled. “Gal, be a lad and let her be. You’ve scared her half to death with that beast of yours.” 

Galahad–the golden knight–scowled and clicked his tongue. Slowly, too slowly, his horse retreated. 

The unnamed knight spread his arms around the clearing. “Well, Lady...”

“Winnifred,” stammered the girl, dropping into a clumsy curtsy that caused the knight to grin. “But no ‘lady’, my lord. Just Winnifred.”

“Well, ‘Just Winnifred.’ I don’t believe in fate, but Sir Galahad does, and that must mean that fate is determined to connect us. I am Sir Lancelot du Lac, at your service.” He bowed low, and Winnifred was horrified to feel her cheeks get hot. Now that he was closer, Winnifred found that the older knight was quite dashing, even if he hadn’t shaved in days, and even if his nose had been broken in three places. 

“I wouldn’t know what to do with your service, Sir!”

“You could tell us where the Grail is,” called Galahad. “Or leave us to hunt it in peace. Our quest need not concern you.”

“What the boy is trying to say is, we’re having quite a time finding this thing. And nights with tree roots in the back do not make either of us our best selves.”

Winnifred gaped at them. “You don’t mean to say that you sirs have been sleeping out in these woods? In the cold?”

“Yes, in the cold,” Lancelot replied. “And the damp. And the aforementioned roots in the back.”

“Well, that can’t do!” Winnifred said, surprising herself. “I insist you come with me and use my cottage as shelter! It’s a humble place, sure, but better than the trees this time of year.”

“Can you offer that?” Lancelot asked. “We would seek permission from the master of the house.”

“There is no master,” Winnifred said, simply. “Only me.”

“Oh.” The knight’s voice was soft as he considered her. “In that case, fair lady, lead on. We graciously accept your hospitality.”

“Do we?” asked Galahad. 

“We do.” Lancelot replied firmly, putting his tunic back on and making to saddle his horse again. “Thank the nice lady–she is going to give us the best night sleep we’ve had in weeks.”

Winnifred blushed again.

---

Winnifred’s cottage was a small, low-built thing of piled stones with a thatched roof, but it could have been a castle the way Lancelot praised it. The host was momentarily worried about where the knights would sleep–there was just the one straw-filled bed in the dwelling–but she needn’t have fussed; the knights immediately rolled out their own rolls on the floor.

Each day, the knights would awake before dawn and exercise in the small clearing outside. They would saddle their horses and arm themselves before riding into the forest to search for their precious quarry. Winnifred would awaken later, after the sun had risen.

That first day, Winnifred took care to clean and scrub every inch of the cottage from the knotted floorboards to the rafters. She had to make three trips to the river to wash out her cloths of dirt and dust that she had let accumulate in her solitary life. “In my defense,” she said to herself while working on a particularly soot-filled fireplace, “why would I expect anyone to stay here with me?”

The sun was just setting as the knights rode back into the clearing. The golden light reflected off their armour, shining bright and blinding Winnifred as she gazed up at them. She understood now better than ever before why stories were told of knights such as these. 

Lancelot had a brace of rabbits draped over his saddle. “We can’t in good conscience eat you out of house and home, Lady Winnifred,” he said, passing them to her.

“Just Winnifred, please, Sir,” she replied, feeling her face growing hot. “I beg you.”

Lancelot just grinned at the torture he inflicted upon her and then brushed down his horse.

In the evenings, after night had fully arrived, Galahad would retreat to a corner of the cottage and take out a small book about the size of his palm to read. “A gospel,” Lancelot explained to his host. “Penned by some monks from Ireland that visited my King some seasons ago. He believes that by studying it each night, he may come closer to achieving the Grail.”

Winnifred chewed her lip considering what she was about to ask–surely, she was not worthy enough to do anything but serve these knights from the High King–before her curiosity took control. “Begging your pardon, my lord, I don’t understand...” She gulped her fear down, and then asked, “Why do you believe the Grail is here? In these woods?”

“You won’t believe me,” Lancelot replied. “But still, I will tell it to you: 

“Before we came to this country, Galahad and I visited an old castle, built on a cliff overlooking the sea. The lord there was lame, having suffered a wound in his leg during battle some time before. His beard was long, his castle crumbled as he fished each day for his own supper, and he was served by some dozen servants who never spoke a single word.

“We told the king of our mission, and he sat with us. ‘You must go east and north, into the old country,’ he told us. ‘And there in the woods flooded with silver and gold, the Sangreal lies waiting for one worthy to bear it.’”

Lancelot shrugged. “It was more than we had been told before, so we followed his directions until we reached these woods, with your birch trees alight in the autumn colours.”

“Ah,” Winnifred said, although she didn’t fully understand anything Lancelot had told her. Still, she thought that night as she tucked herself into bed, it was a good story.

---

Each night, while Galahad scowled in his corner struggling to read the handwriting of a Brother Aidan or Brother Brendan, Lancelot would tell another story. Of a fellow knight who fell in love with a Queen of Faerie, who was spirited away for a year and only returned to collect his sword before vanishing again. Of how five knights helped a cousin of the High King wed a giantess by completing her father’s impossible tasks. Of the mysterious wizard Merlin, who foresaw the birth of Arthur in a cave made of crystal.

“A pox on Merlin,” Galahad spat, making Winnifred jump. “He’s a devil, or a devil’s bastard, and a dark mark on the kingdom.”

“Merlin has done more for the King than any of us knights could ever,” Lancelot’s voice was low and dangerous. “He deserves your respect, even if he’s not here to hear it.”

Galahad jerked to his feet. “And that is why you will never achieve the Sangreal,” he announced. “You’re a lecherous knight who admires spellcasters and would trade the suffering required for greatness for nights with a lonely maid.”

“Watch your tone, boy,” Lancelot rose as well. “Or the King will hear of his knight who speaks so ill of his sire in noble company.”

“And I will speak to the King that his ‘finest’ knight shirks his duty and maligns his quest!”

“The King is well aware of my deficiencies, I assure you,” Lancelot replied. “Now, back to your studies. You’re scaring the Lady Winnifred.”

Galahad’s face was red and purple in the light of the fire, and his voice was laced with venom. “I am going to pray for you, Lancelot.” And he marched out the cottage and into the night.

Winnifred dared not speak the next word. Silence filled the cottage, the only sound the crackle of the fire in the hearth. At last, Lancelot sighed. “He’s the only knight that has ever beaten me in a duel,” he said. “I am so proud of him. He’s the greatest mistake I’ve ever made, though not in his making. I should have known him longer.”

“I didn’t know...” was Winnifred’s only reply, which made Lancelot scoff.

“We don’t bear much resemblance, no.” The knight’s voice was suddenly old and tired. “There’s much more of his mother in him than I, and for that I thank the Lord.”

“Is it true, then?” Winnifred asked. “Are you...”

“A lecherous old knight?” Lancelot grinned, despite himself. “Of course. I am cursed to love and never achieve, I’m afraid.”

“Surely, that’s not true,” Winnifred said, thinking of the noble knight, of his easy charm, his quick smile, of the way the sun glinted in his dark eyes...

“It is,” Lancelot replied. “Galahad’s mother loved me. But I did not love her. Not truly, though she was special to me. My heart belongs to one other, and her alone.”

“If that’s true, Lancelot,” Winnifred said, “then you must let her know. You are a brave and noble knight, surely she must feel the same way about you.”

“Oh, Lady Winnifred,” Lancelot sighed. “She knows. And unfortunately, so does the King.”

---

Galahad returned to the cottage late that night, having cooled off. Winnifred didn’t hear him say a word to the elder knight before the two rode off into the woods for their daily search. 

The nights began to arrive earlier and grow darker. A steady chill grew in the air, and most of the yellow-glowed leaves fell off their branches and turned brown on the hardening ground. Lancelot began returning to the cottage earlier, before sunset. Galahad would arrive later, at sunset, as usual. 

One day, he took Winnifred’s axe, sharpened it, and chopped firewood for her stores. For a week, he climbed to the top of the cottage and re-thatched her roof. Winnifred would always protest, but the knight would only laugh. 

On the third day of November, Lancelot returned with a stag slung across his horse’s back and set about dressing it for his host. “You’ll need the meat come winter,” he said. “And the pelt to keep away the cold.”

Winnifred looked up from her mending–she was fixing a pair of Galahad’s breeches. “My lord?”

“We must depart back to Caerleon tomorrow if we have a hope of reaching court by Christmastime.” Lancelot grimaced. “Our quest must end for the year.”

The next morning was cold. A thin layer of frost rimmed the grass outside and there was a low fog that hugged the trees. Lancelot was saddling his horse when Galahad approached Winnifred.

“He spent all day yesterday hunting that stag, you know,” he told her. “One of our precious days. But I suppose you should have been thanked for your hospitality.” He bowed to Winnifred and then mounted his horse.

“Take care, Lady Winnifred,” Lancelot held her hands as he bowed. “I hope we have purpose to meet again.”

“You are too kind, Sir Lancelot,” was her reply. It was all she could say.

“I am not,” Lancelot said. “Kindness is the barest requirement of a knight.” He brushed her fingers with his lips, and Winnifred felt her heart flutter. “Farewell, my lady of the silver and golden woods.”

---

A year passed, and then another, and Lancelot did not return to Winnifred’s forest. In time, she heard a tale spread through the country of a brave and fair and noble knight who had proven himself worthy and had found the Holy Grail. “The amazing Sir Galahad,” the stories said, “Pure of heart and soul, has held that sacred cup in his hands. Truly, he is the greatest of King Arthur’s knights!”

All Winnifred could do was smile at the stories and remember an autumn years before. If she had been in possession of the Grail, she thought, it would have been given to someone else.