The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

THE ROAD TO LONDINIUM

  ercival’s eyes roved over the group of men, women, and children trudging down the dirt road twenty paces ahead of him, accompanied by a motley caravan of horse-drawn carts. Some of the carts held grain, others fruits, and still others livestock. Most of the men were farmers hoping to trade their excess crops and livestock for clothes, knives, candles, and other wares available in the larger town of Caer Ceint, two and a half leagues distant.

  The Knight had traveled the road years before in what now seemed like another life. He knew it wound its way through a deep forest and intersected with the Roman road north of Caer Ceint.

  Five of the younger farmers had formed an uneven perimeter around the column, but Percival could tell by the way they held their primitive cudgels, swords, and bows that none were skilled in their use. One of the men guarding the column on the right, a tall, thin man carrying a bow, glanced back at Percival and Capussa for a second time. The unease in the man’s eyes was plain to see, an unease shared by the other guards as well. Percival gave the man a friendly nod. The man returned his nod and turned his attention back to the verdant green wall of trees on his right.

  Percival suspected the guards feared an attack by brigands, and he scanned the forest ahead, seeking a sign of movement that might betray a waiting ambush. Capussa, riding on his right, seemed unconcerned by the threat. The Numidian gestured to the ancient stands of trees hemming in both sides of the road and spoke in a voice filled with awe.

  “I have plied the trade of war for more than two decades, in more lands than I can remember. Yet, in all my travels, I’ve never seen a place so green and full of life.”

  Percival nodded, his eyes returning to the forest wall. “Aye, it is that. At the end of each day in the arena, I would seek the Lord’s forgiveness for the lives taken and give thanks that mine had been spared. Then … then I prayed he would allow me to return home that I might one day ride through a forest such as this before I died. Now that I’m here, I fear I shall awake from this dream and find I must take up the sword once again to put coins in the pocket of Khalid El-Hashem.”

  Capussa shook his head. “It is no dream. We are free, and whether we die today or in a hundred years, we will die free men, my friend.” He glanced over at Percival, his dark eyes dancing with humor. “And as for your prayers, they didn’t keep you alive in the arena—my training did, and, maybe, some of your own limited fighting skills.”

  Percival raised an eyebrow. “I seem to recall that I learned a thing or two from Batukhan as well.”

  “Bah.” Capussa made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “He was good with the bow, and he knew his horses, but no more.” As if echoing his master’s umbrage, Capussa’s mount snorted and shook its head.

  For a moment, Percival recalled the hard, flat face of the indomitable Mongol warrior who had shared their fate in the gladiatorial arena— until he was killed trying to escape.

  Twenty paces ahead, a small blond girl in a brown woolen dress tried to dart into the forest, only to be thwarted by a stout woman wearing a larger version of the same dress. The woman shook her finger at the little girl and pointed toward the forest, as if it were a dark and dangerous place. As the caravan continued on, the little girl looked longingly at a patch of purple flowers just outside her reach.

  “Speaking of horses, Knight,” Capussa said, affectionately patting his black destrier, “you paid for these fine steeds with silver coins—coins that the stablemen recognized, no less. Surely the wealth that Jacob of Alexandria left for you, ample though it was, didn’t hold the coins of this land?”

  “No, the coins that Jacob left for me were gold solidi—the coin of the Romans in the east.”

  A guard on the right side of the column suddenly raised his cudgel to a striking position, and Percival instinctively reached for the hilt of the sword at his side. The man lowered his weapon a moment later as a rabbit raced from the protection of a nearby bush and into the forest beyond.

  “Then where,” Capussa said, raising an eyebrow, “did you find those fine silvers?”

  Percival hesitated for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “Do you remember when we passed through Aquileia?”

  His friend nodded.

  “It was there. Before I left on the Grail quest, Merlin told me to visit Maximus, the Bishop of Aquileia. I was told he had knowledge of the cup and would aid me in my search. Maximus died before I arrived. His successor, Bishop Severus, gave my quest his blessing and made a large donation, but he knew nothing of the cup’s whereabouts. He asked that I visit him on my return voyage and tell him of my search, and so I did.”

  Capussa nodded. “Yes, now I remember. He gave you coins from this land?”

  Percival shook his head. “No. Severus died a year after I left. It was his successor, Bishop Stephen. He said the King had left something for me. It was a small wooden chest.”

  “And?” Capussa said impatiently.

  “It was the same chest that Arthur had instructed me to give Bishop Maximus when I first came to Aquileia,” Percival said, glancing over at Capussa. “In the note, Arthur had asked the bishop to give me that same chest when I returned from my quest.”

  The Numidian nodded his approval. “A wise man, this King Arthur.”

  “Yes,” Percival said, “one would have to be wise indeed to predict one’s own death.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “There was a second note in the box, a note Arthur left for me,” Percival said quietly. “It had an unbroken wax seal. In the note, Arthur said he would be dead when I read it, and that I should return to Albion in haste, for his Kingdom was in need of my sword.”

  Percival looked into the distance; his eyes clouded before continuing. “I don’t know how he could have known … but in the end, it doesn’t matter. I have come too late. There’s no kingdom left for me to fight for.”

  Percival fell silent, and the two men rode on in the uneasy quiet for another furlong. As they rounded a bend in the road, Capussa glanced over at the compact bow strapped to Percival’s back.

  “When we left the village,” the African said, resting his hand on the Mongolian horse bow strapped to right side of his own horse, “you suggested that I string the Mongol’s bow, which I have done, and I see you have strung yours as well. Tell me, are we hunting game, or men?”

  Percival scanned a wooded rise to the west, his eyes focusing on a faint wisp of smoke hovering above the trees.

  “A man watched us leave from one of the hills overlooking the village. Once we started up the road, I looked back and he was gone. It may be nothing, but if he was a local brigand then—”

  “We shall meet him and his brethren up ahead. If so, once again my training will stand you in good stead,” Capussa said, gesturing to Percival’s bow.

  “I seem to remember that it was Batukhan who taught both of us how to use these bows.”

  “Bah! I just pretended to let him teach me. I am a humble man, as you know.”

  “Indeed?” Percival said, raising an eyebrow. “I must have missed that trait.”

  “That’s unfortunate. It is one of my finest,” Capussa said with a smile as he raised a warning finger. “You need to be more observant, my friend. Otherwise, you could well overlook both the good and the bad, such as that fellow hiding behind yonder tree, the one that looks like many trees growing into one.”

  Percival nodded without looking at the tree. “It’s called a yew, and I did see him some time back. I just happened to be more concerned about the rest of his band. I suspect they will spring their trap around the next bend.”

  Capussa’s face stiffened slightly, and his grip on the reins of the horse tightened.

  “How many?”

  “Eight, maybe ten.”

  “Then we should attack them, now, before they strike. With the horses and the bows, we can cut them down with ease.”

  Percival shook his head. “Your plan is sound, friend, but I’ve taken far too many lives already.
I will not take any more unless I have to. They’re probably just hungry peasants who’ve been led astray by one or two truly bad men. If I can—”

  “Cut off the head of the snake?” Capussa finished for him. “A risky strategy. It would be a shame to see a man who has killed a hundred champions in single combat die from a lucky blow struck by a wayward peasant.”

  “My fate is in God’s hands,” Percival said.

  “I would prefer if it were in mine,” Capussa growled under his breath.

  Percival slowed his horse as a band of eight men on the far side of the bend in the road ahead fanned out, blocking the travelers’ way. Four more men walked out onto the road behind him and Capussa, barring their retreat. The men to the rear were armed with clubs, cudgels, and long knives, as were the men in front, with the exception of the square, stout man in the center. He was carrying a rusty sword with a broken point.

  Capussa nodded toward the men behind them. “I will scatter these vermin and join you at the front. Wait until I get there, Knight. I would not have you striking down more men than I this day.”

  “I shall endeavor to leave you the greater share of the work, if it comes to that,” Percival said dryly as he cantered toward the front of the caravan.

  Capussa guided his horse in a slow turn and confronted the four men standing in the road behind him. The men were dressed in coarse, old woolens so filthy he could smell their foul odor thirty paces away. For a moment, the four brigands stared at the man, motionless, and then the largest of the four wiped his nose on his sleeve and stepped forward, waving a cudgel.

  “We’ll have the horse and whatever else ye got there, or kill you, we will.”

  Capussa reached over his left shoulder with his right hand and slowly pulled a long, curved sword from the sheath on his back, as if easing a lethal animal from its cage. When the sword was free of the sheath, he raised his arms, and the sleeves of his cloak fell away, revealing a gleaming pair of mailed gloves and gauntlets. He drew back the hood hiding his ebony features, and as the hood fell away, he wheeled the sword in a circle, in a movement as quick as it was effortless.

  “Come then, my friends,” he said, smiling down at them, “and take that which you seek.”

  As the four men watched this performance, their bluster was replaced by fear, and after a moment of hesitation, the man with the cudgel backed up slowly. When Capussa bared his teeth and urged his giant mount forward, the four men turned and sprinted into the forest. Capussa followed, swinging his sword over his head, as his horse pounded behind them.

  While Capussa took care of the rear guard, Percival rode past the terrified women and children and pulled up twenty paces short of the eight brigands barring the column’s passage. One of the brigands had struck down a young farmer, and their leader was poised to plunge his sword into the prone man’s chest.

  “Hold!” Percival roared.

  The brigand froze in midstroke, a look of shock on his broad, ugly face.

  “Kill him, and I will surely kill you,” Percival said in a voice that a wiser man would have both feared and heeded.

  For a moment, the man stared at the Knight and then rage flared in his eyes. “Will you, now?” he snarled. “There’s twelve of us and one of you.” He glanced scornfully at the four young farmers standing to the right of Percival’s horse. “Those sheep won’t help you any more than you can help this one.”

  “Take your leave,” Percival said, “and I shall ask these good people to leave some food on the road for you and your men. That is the only offer I will make.”

  The leader bared his blackened teeth and tightened his grip on his sword. “We’ll take it all, and your horse as well, if you don’t ride off. Move forward, boys, don’t mind—”

  An arrow suddenly sprouted from the man’s chest, and a second shaft appeared beside it an instant later. The man stood there for a moment, his eyes wide in shock, and then toppled backward, like a tree felled in the forest.

  Capussa drew his horse alongside Percival’s steed. “Your leader should have taken the offer,” he said in a cold, hard baritone.

  The other brigands stared in shock at the Numidian, as if he were a demon spawned from the bowels of the earth itself.

  “Now, would the rest of you like to make a wiser choice? If not, I will kill those that the Knight leaves alive after his first pass, although I wager there will be none.” Capussa leaned forward in his saddle, the promise of death in his eyes.

  The man standing beside the dead brigand stammered, “W-We take the offer; we take it!”

  “You are a wise man,” Percival said with an approving nod. “Now leave, and give thanks for the generosity of these good people.”

  The brigands backed away with shuffling steps before turning and running into the forest as one.

  “You men, see to this man,” Percival said, pointing to the thief lying in the road.

  Two men standing by a cart filled with apples ran forward, and a young woman followed them.

  Percival glanced over at Capussa and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “What?” Capussa said indignantly as he stowed his bow in a leather sleeve beside his saddle. “Just the head of the snake, as we agreed, no more,” Capussa said.

  “I suppose it had to be done,” Percival said. “But if Batukhan were here, he would tell you that your bow pulls slightly to the right.”

  “Bah!” Capussa scoffed. “I hit exactly where I aimed.”

  ABBEY CWM HIR

  Guinevere stood by the window overlooking the southern end of the abbey, where the church, convent, and the great hall were located on the east, west, and south sides of a broad green. The abbey held a special place in her heart. A century earlier, one of her ancestors had donated the gold needed to build the convent and the first chapel, and she had spent several summers here learning under the tutelage of the abbess, Beatrice Cynwood. After Camlann and the fall of Camelot, the abbey’s remote location and stout walls had offered her what she had thought would be only a temporary refuge. Alas, now it seemed as if she would spend the rest of her days here as a powerless and forgotten relic.

  In her first week at the abbey, Guinevere had sent out hundreds of messengers with orders directing the remnants of Arthur’s army to assemble at the small town of Tywyn, on the coast, in a month’s time. A third of the messengers never returned. Those that did make it back described a land awash in a maelstrom of violence.

  The coffer of gold Morgana had drawn upon to raise her disparate army of Norse, Saxon, and Pict sellswords had either been exhausted, or the death of the Pendragon and the breaking of the Table had slaked the witch’s seemingly unquenchable thirst for blood. Whatever the reason, Morgana had severed the golden tether binding her army together, and unleashed this disparate pack of human wolves upon the people of Albion.

  In the face of this kingdom-wide threat, Arthur’s surviving liegemen had returned home to defend their own estates and homes, leaving few to answer Guinevere’s call. In the end, less than one hundred men had trickled into Tywyn. Only five of these men were knights, and none were members of the Table. It was only after she’d seen this tattered remnant of what had once been Arthur’s proud and seemingly invincible legions that the Queen had come to fully understand the depth of disaster that had befallen the land.

  In the end, she bid the small group of faithful stalwarts to return to their homes, pledging to call them together again when the time was right. After returning to the abbey, Guinevere’s grief had been so great she’d wept until she was spent.

  The pain had ebbed with the years, but her impotence had spawned frustration. Her kingdom was now limited to the grounds of the abbey, and each month, she was forced to verbally joust with the insidious Bishop Verdino to protect even that modest dominion. Although Verdino would have welcomed a suspension of these monthly inquisitions, Guinevere knew they were important. She needed every excess farthing from the rents he collected on her behalf to support her small household and to pay
the hundreds of informers and messengers serving as her lifeline to what remained of the kingdom. Each meeting was also an opportunity to remind the bishop that she was still Albion’s sovereign.

  A knock on the door to the library interrupted Guinevere’s reverie, and a moment later, Cadwyn slipped inside.

  “Milady, the bishop is here.”

  The undercurrent of loathing in Cadwyn’s voice was palpable. Guinevere nodded.

  “Thank you. I shall be there in a moment.”

  Before leaving the room, Guinevere looked in the mirror above her desk and touched her right cheek with her hand. She knew that she was in the last hours of her beauty, and that time would quickly leave her with nothing but memories of a time when—

  “Milady?”

  Guinevere turned to Cadwyn, who was peering through the partially opened door.

  “Are you well? We can—”

  “I am fine, Cadwyn. Let us greet our guest.”

  The Queen walked into the sitting room, where three chairs faced a fourth that was noticeably closer to the fire burning in the hearth.

  Sister Aranwen bowed respectfully and gestured to the chair near the fire. “Do you think the bishop’s chair is too close to the fire, Milady? We don’t want him to be uncomfortable.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it should be placed in the flames,” Cadwyn said.

  Sister Aranwen’s face turned a shade of red, and Guinevere, repressing a smile, intervened before the nun could scold the younger woman.

  “It’s fine, Sister,” Guinevere said as she sat down in the middle chair. “The bishop will appreciate the warmth after his journey. Please invite him in.”

  “You are so kind, Milady,” Sister Aranwen said, giving Cadwyn a reproachful look as she walked over to the door. The unrepentant Cadwyn sat down in the chair to Guinevere’s right.

  The stooped figure waiting outside the door was dressed in a traditional black alb of fine Umbrian wool almost reaching the floor. The black wimple covering Verdino’s head was so large and deep that it was difficult to see his facial features. Much of what could be seen was obscured by his bushy grey beard and huge mustache. The only clearly visible feature within the hood’s recess was the bishop’s modest, falconlike nose.