This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press
Austin, Texas
www.greenleafbookgroup.com
Copyright ©2016 Sean A. O’Keefe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.
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Cover images: ©iStockphoto.com/Nneirda, ©shutterstock.com/amir bajrich
Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62634-309-2
EBook ISBN: 978-1-62634-310-8
Ebook Edition
TABLE OF CONTENTS
* * *
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Preface
Map
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1: The Passage to Albion
Chapter 2: Abbey Cwm Hir, Wales
Chapter 3: Morgana’s Castle
Chapter 4: The Road to Londinium
Chapter 5: The Road to Londinium
Chapter 6: The Road to Londinium
Chapter 7: Morgana’s Castle
Chapter 8: Abbey Cwm Hir
Chapter 9: The Home of Aelred, Royal Seneschal
Chapter 10: The Camp of Cynric the Archer
Chapter 11: Morgana’s Domain
Chapter 12: The Road to Londinium
Chapter 13: Pen Dinas, Wales
Chapter 14: Morgana’s Domain
Chapter 15: The Tournament Field in Londinium
Chapter 16: Abbey Cwm Hir
Chapter 17: Londinium
Chapter 18: The Wid River
Chapter 19: Camp on the River Wid
Chapter 20: The Battle of the River Wid
Chapter 21: Town of Cestreforda
Chapter 22: Abbey Cwm Hir
Chapter 23: Abbey Cwm Hir
Chapter 24: Abbey Cwm Hir
Chapter 25: Abbey Cwm Hir
Chapter 26: The Queen’s Sitting Room, Abbey Cwm Hir
Chapter 27: Abbey Cwm Hir
Chapter 28: The Marches
Chapter 29: Noviomagus Reginorum
Chapter 30: The Road from Noviomagus Reginorum to Londinium
Chapter 31: Guinevere’s Quarters, North of the Vale of Ashes
Chapter 32: The Vale of Ashes
Chapter 33: Guinevere’s Quarters, North of the Vale of Ashes
Chapter 34: Londinium, Three Weeks Later
Chapter 35: Pen Dinas
Epilogue
Reading Group Guide
Author Q & A
About the Author
Preface
even years have passed since the death of King Arthur and all but one of the Knights of the Round Table at the battle of Camlann, and Albion, the home of the Britons, has descended into a maelstrom of violence and chaos. A savage Norse warlord has seized Londinium and made it his personal fief, bands of brigands roam the roads and countryside, and the people in every town and village throughout the land live in perpetual fear. Morgana, the woman who wrought this nightmare of pain and suffering by destroying the Kingdom of Arthur the Pendragon, has one more life to take before she leaves Albion’s shores—that of Merlin the Wise, her hated enemy.
The destruction of the Pendragon’s legions and the fall of Camelot has forced Queen Guinevere, and two loyal retainers, to take shelter in a remote abbey in the forests to the north. There the Queen lives, all but bereft of wealth and defenses, under constant threat from mercenary bands, foreign raiders, and Morgana’s assassins. Yet, despite these hardships, the Queen valiantly struggles to keep hope alive for her people and to preserve some small vestige of Arthur’s dream.
In the midst of these dark times. Guinevere receives word that Sir Percival, a Knight of the Round Table who was thought to have died in the land of the Moors seeking the Holy Grail, has returned to Albion. As the faithful Knight travels to Guinevere’s distant sanctuary, he and his companion, a mysterious Numidian soldier, are drawn into the web of violence and intrigue that has descended upon the land.
Sir Percival’s return is like a ray of hope from heaven for the oppressed people of Albion, bringing back memories of a time of peace and prosperity that now seems so distant as to be just a dream. The Knight’s return also brings to the fore feelings that Guinevere and Percival held for each other but faithfully suppressed while Arthur was alive.
In time, Guinevere, Merlin, and the scheming Morgana will come to realize that Sir Percival is not the same man who left a decade earlier. The horrific trials the last Knight of the Round Table endured in the land of the Moors have forged him into the deadliest of weapons, and those unwise enough to take his measure will not find him wanting.
This Arthurian tale takes place in a fictional Briton roughly two hundred and fifty years after Rome relinquished control of the land. The cities and towns in the tale are referred to by their Roman place names or by their older Briton names, where possible. I have also made liberal use of the old Roman road system, based upon the assumption that these roads would have remained the best available in this time period. The map on the following page provides a guide for those who may desire to place the sequence of events in the story within their general geographic context.
When possible, I have used ancient landmarks that remain today as key locations in the story, such as the ruins of Abbey Cwm Hir in Wales; the tower at Pen Dinas in Wales; the site of the former Walton Castle in Felixstowe; and the Roman signal station in the town of Filey. In those instances where a historical or geographic fact was an impediment to the story, reality yielded to fantasy.
—S. Alexander O’Keefe
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my wife and children, my mother, and my brothers and sisters for their love and support. I particularly want to thank my now deceased father for insisting that I read A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, and Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini when I was ten years old, which I reluctantly did. Thousands of books later, those are still three of my favorites.
CHAPTER 1
THE PASSAGE TO ALBION
ldwyn Potter stared at the Frankish coast from the stern of the Mandragon, his eyes fixed on the walled settlement drifting in and out of the morning fog a league to the south. Despite the cold breeze, a river of sweat flowed down the old mariner’s weathered cheeks to the point of his chin, before falling to the deck below. Like a man in a trance. Potter murmured a prayer over and over again, in cadence with each sweep of the galley’s oars.
In each fervent chant, he thanked the Almighty for the fair wind and following sea and begged deliverance from the threat on the receding coast. The twenty rowers amidships, sensing their captain’s disquiet, pulled together in a strong, silent rhythm, seeking, with each stroke, the safety of Albion’s shores to the north. They, like Potter, lived in mortal fear of the men within those dark walls—the Norse raiders known as the seawolves.
When Potter had first gone to sea, three decades earlier, the Norse had raided the coasts of Albion and Francia from the late spring until the early fall and then returned to the northland until the next season. Alas, even this brief respite was now a thing of the past. In recent years, the seawolves had est
ablished settlements on the islands off western Hibernia and along the Frankish coast—settlements allowing them to prowl the surrounding seas from the first day of the sailing season to the last. In these fell times, a sailor from Albion was far more likely to die by a Norseman’s sword, or worse, to serve as a slave under his lash, than to die in the cruel embrace of the sea.
On this voyage, Potter had left his Frankish port-of-call to the south well before dawn, intending to sail past the seawolves’ settlement in the early hours of the morning. The day before had been a Norse feast day, and he knew the raiders would be slow to rise after a night of drinking and wenching. Thankfully, in this he had been right. The settlement was as quiet as a grave, and with each stroke of the oars, the threat from the savage men within its wooden walls receded.
After taking a last look at the coast, Potter allowed himself a moment of hope. On this, his last voyage, the bones had mercifully rolled his way again, as they had so many times in the past. As he turned and started toward the bow of the ship, the Mandragon passed through a patch of fog reluctantly yielding its grey cloak to the rays of the morning sun. The moment the ship emerged from its shelter, the sailor on watch in the ship’s prow screamed a warning.
“Seawolves!”
Potter scanned the sea and seized upon the long galley off the Mandragon’s port side. For a moment, he stood there transfixed by the sight of the black dragonprow cutting through the waves toward the Frankish coast and the wall of armed warriors standing amidships, returning his stare. As the captain watched, the galley wheeled in a slow and sure arc toward the Mandragon, and the cadence pounded out by the raiders’ oarsmaster—a red-haired giant in the stern—grew louder and more rapid.
As the ship drew closer, a desperate rage came over the old captain, and he broke free of the ice-cold tendrils of fear that were binding his feet to the deck. They will not take my ship without a fight. Seizing the iron-tipped cudgel lying on the deck a pace away, he ran toward the bow of the ship.
“Cadeyrn, Drust, Seisyll, Wade, and Ninian, grab your steel and make ready! The rest of you men, pull for your lives!” Potter roared.
Before Potter and his men could reach the forward rail, three Norsemen were already aboard. The leader was a fair-haired mountain of a man, easily twenty hands tall, clad in a foul-smelling bearskin. In one hand, the giant held a wooden shield nearly half as tall as Potter, and in the other, a short, wide sword designed for cutting flesh and smashing bones in close quarters fighting. The web of cuts and gashes in the thick leather helmet atop the giant’s head, along with the scars on his face and arms, marked him as a seasoned warrior.
As Potter and his sailors traded blows with the first wave of Norsemen, the old captain could see the growing stream of raiders climbing over the rail behind them, and he knew the battle for Mandragon was being lost. In a desperate effort to turn the tide, Potter dropped beneath the sweep of the blond giant’s sword and swung his cudgel at the man’s exposed knee.
A moment before the iron tip smashed into the bone, the giant realized the danger and raised his leg. The blow smashed into the primitive iron greave protecting the Norseman’s calf, drawing a howl of pain, but otherwise leaving him unharmed. The enraged giant retaliated by smashing his upraised heel into Potter’s chest, hurling him backward against the starboard rail.
As the dazed captain struggled futilely to stand and get back into the fight, a man sprang out of the starboard cargo hold. A second man followed on his heels, and the two raced across the deck to join the battle. For a moment, Potter stared at the men, bewildered, and then realized it was the two passengers who had come aboard at Lapurdum, a port in southern Francia. Potter had paid the men little heed, assuming they were wealthy merchants, based upon the quality of their traveling cloaks and their plentiful supply of silver coins. Now, he could see his judgment had been wide of the mark.
The first man out of the hold was nineteen hands tall, but he moved with the ease and speed of a man half his size. His chiseled face was framed by a mane of black hair that flowed past the ropes of muscle in his neck to the formidable shoulders below. He wore a mailed shirt over his torso, steel gauntlets on his forearms, and a gleaming steel buckler shield strapped to his left forearm. The steel sword he grasped in his right hand seemed merely a part of the far more lethal weapon that was the man, rather than a separate instrument of war.
The second man was a bald African, similarly clad. He was a head shorter than the tall man, but had the arms and chest of a blacksmith, and his sword was curved like that of a Moorish warrior. As the African ran across the deck with his companion, he wheeled his sword in a blinding circle, as if performing a ritual, and then his powerful hand enclosed the pommel in an iron grip.
When the two men waded into the Norsemen flooding the deck behind the blond giant, it was as if something terrible and magnificent had been unleashed. The pair weaved among their opponents like wind-borne scythes, working in unison, both masters of the same lethal dance. In moments, the second wave of raiders lay either dead or dying, and the third wave attempting to board had been driven back into the sea.
As the Norse giant and a second raider pressed forward to kill the last of the five sailors who had answered Potter’s call to battle, the scream of a dying companion drew his attention. The blond warrior glanced over his shoulder at the carnage on the deck behind him, and then he wheeled around, dragging his companion with him.
The tall, dark-haired man moved forward to engage the giant, leaving the African to hold the rail against further boarders. As soon as the man was within striking distance, the leader of the Norsemen shoved his smaller companion in front of him, using him as a shield. He then leaped forward, intending to strike his adversary down. His gambit failed. The dark-haired man sprang to the right with blinding speed and smashed his buckler shield against the smaller man’s head, dropping the stunned raider to the deck.
The blond warrior bellowed out a roar and swung his sword in a slashing blow at the other man’s neck, but his enemy dove under the strike, rolled, and came to his feet behind the giant. There, he struck the giant down with a single fluid stroke and stepped aside as the body fell heavily to the deck.
When the sailors threw the giant Norseman’s body over the rail, the oarsmaster on the dragonship roared out a command and began to pound out a different beat. As Potter watched, the galley moved away and once again headed toward the settlement on the Frankish coast. The captain of the raiders had decided the blood price for taking the Mandragon was not worth the expected treasure.
An hour after the battle ended, Potter walked the length of the raised quarterdeck, surveying the worn oak planks that ran the length of the ship. After a long moment, he nodded his silver-haired head in satisfaction. The crew had swabbed away all traces of the blood and gore, and the cold sea air had swept away the odor of death. Sadly, neither toil nor wind could resurrect the four sailors who’d breathed their last only steps away from where he stood, nor render the memory of the attack that had taken their lives any less painful.
Potter’s gaze scanned the rest of the ship and came to rest on the two passengers who were standing in the prow talking quietly, now innocuously clad in their traveling cloaks. He started toward them, intending to thank them once again for saving his ship, when he noticed Bede, the youngest sailor, staring at the two men as if they were monsters from the deep.
“Quit your gawking, boy, and get on with it,” he ordered. “We’re an hour out of port, and I want those ropes and barrels stowed.”
The young sailor jumped at Potter’s growl.
“Aye, Captain. I’ll be hard at it.”
The exchange drew a grin from Fulke, the bosun, as he lugged a barrel of wine up from the hold on his shoulder.
“You do that,” Potter said as he turned to Fulke. “And you, Fulke, don’t spill a drop of that wine. That barrel will go for a king’s ransom in Caer Ceint.”
“Not a drop, sir,” Fulke said, the grin on his hard, sea-worn
face widening.
Potter slowed as he approached the two men and stopped a respectful distance away. The dark-haired man turned to face him, and for a moment, the captain stood in silence, transfixed, as the memory of the battle with the Norsemen replayed in his mind yet again. Potter suppressed the recollection as he stared thoughtfully into the taller man’s face.
Potter was a trader, and a successful one. He’d bargained and parleyed with the Franks, Moors, Greeks, and yes, even the cursed Norsemen, from time to time. He prided himself on being able to quickly take the measure of a man from his mien—in particular, from his eyes—and to use those insights to gain an advantage. In this instance, the dark-haired man’s face remained a mystery. The confluence of the strong jaw, aquiline nose, and prominent forehead, all of which had been bronzed by the sun in some distant land, was more noble than handsome, but the enigma lay in the contrast between the eyes and the rest of the man’s face.
The striking blue eyes staring back at Potter were those of a man who had waded deep into the cauldron of life and borne the pain of its most scalding waters; the eyes of a soldier who’d oft engaged in battle and felt the near touch of death; and most surprising, the eyes of a man who had found, in spite of the ordeal, a path to the rarest of gifts—wisdom. What troubled Potter was the rest of the man’s face: His mien was unscarred and bereft of the burdens of age, and yet he was skilled in battle and wise in years.
The tall man waited patiently for a moment and then stepped toward Potter and extended his hand, revealing a web of scars running over the back of his hand and continuing across much of his heavily muscled forearm. The hand that closed upon Potter’s own was like a piece of worn iron, but at the same time, there was an honest warmth in the man’s grip and in the words he spoke.
“Captain Potter, it seems our voyage together will yet have a peaceful end.”
“That it will,” he said with a nod. “And I will thank the Lord and all his angels from this day until my last for sending you and your friend on this voyage. If not for your bravery and skill, we … we would all have been killed or sold into slavery, for that is the way of the seawolves.”
The Return of Sir Percival Page 1
