“Yes, Milady.” Seneas bowed and quickly retreated through the archway behind him.
Morgana waited until the old man had made his way back down the steep stairs that spiraled down to the second floor of the castle, before turning to follow him. She hesitated for a moment before passing through the archway, and looked back at the grey sea visible in the distance. A lone shaft of sunlight had found an opening in the otherwise seamless grey canopy above and painted a ghostly path across the bleak estuary heading east. After a moment, the path of light vanished, and Morgana stepped downward into the darkness below.
* * *
MORGANA SCANNED THE spacious room from her place on the silk-covered divan, positioned three paces from the fire in the hearth. She had spent a small fortune converting the formerly stark and cold stone space into a room where she could greet her guests. The walls were adorned with paintings and silks imported from her homeland, the floors were covered with the finest Persian carpets, and every window and portal was fitted with glass. Although the room was still modest when compared to her former quarters in Constantinople, it was at least bearable, and that was all she could hope for in this primitive country.
The servants had followed her instructions most carefully, but then, they knew all too well the agony they would suffer if they did otherwise. The divan had been situated so the illumination from the fire and the oil lamps affixed to the columns to her right and left displayed her body in an alluring glow. She glanced across the room at the silver mirror positioned unobtrusively on a table across from her and admired the beautiful face and the cold, calculating lavender eyes staring back at her.
She reached up and positioned her long auburn tresses so they spilled over her right shoulder, past her partially exposed breasts, to her silken blue dress below. Once she was satisfied with her hair, Morgana looked down and caressed the row of sapphires in the gold chatelaine encircling her waist, each perfectly complementing the color of her dress. She was ready for her meeting with Lord Aeron.
Moments later, there was a knock at the door to her chambers, and a lean figure of medium height clad in a black hooded tunic, dark breeches, and worn leather boots walked into the room. The only armament he bore was the short sword at his waist, but the modest weapon and his common clothing did nothing to diminish the threat radiating from the silent figure. It was as if a storm of violence raged within, seeking a way out—a rage restrained only by the bands of his iron discipline. The two guards reluctantly following Lord Aeron into the room made a point of keeping their hands away from the swords at their hips, and they were visibly relieved when Morgana waved them away.
“Leave us.”
For a moment, Morgana said nothing more, and the man stood as still as a statue, his face hidden within the cowl. Then she gestured to an open spot on the long divan beside her.
“Lord Aeron, come, sit, and tell me of your day.” The hint of a smile touched Morgana’s lips when she said his name.
The hooded figure walked over to a wooden chair positioned against a far wall and carried it to an open space two strides from Morgana. The Roman princess smiled as the knight sat down. She had known he would not sit beside her, but she found pleasure in his discomfort. No one had resisted her charms before, even those who despised her. Lord Aeron had proven to be an exception, one that she found most galling, for she knew he prized another’s beauty above her own.
“May I at least see the face of the soldier who so faithfully defends my modest lands from the ravages of my enemies?” she asked.
The man hesitated a moment, and then reached up and eased back the hood of his cloak, revealing a head of golden hair cropped unnaturally short, a broad forehead, piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, a modest but perfectly formed nose, and a strong chin with a pronounced cleft in the center. The knight’s face would have been mesmerizingly handsome but for the cruel scar that ran the length of his right cheek to his jawline and the second scar marring his forehead.
A decade ago, the man sitting across from her had been known as Sir Galahad of the Round Table, and his heroic deeds, near godlike mien, and perennial roguish grin had stirred the passions of women the length and breadth of Albion. That man, Morgana knew, was no more. She had killed him as surely as if she had plunged a knife into his heart on the day that she’d captured him as he lay senseless and severely wounded outside the Pendragon’s lines at Camlann.
The knight now served under her command. He’d rechristened himself Lord Aeron, after the god of battle and slaughter, worshiped by the early Britons. After bowing to her demands, he had swept away all vestiges of his past life. The gleaming armor the former Sir Galahad had once worn with pride now bore a cold blue-black hue, and his signature white stallion had been exchanged for a black destrier. Even the sword he carried into battle was new, acquired after he gave her his oath of fealty. His former blade, the one imprinted with the mark of the Table, was stored in his quarters on the far side of the castle.
Although Morgana had allowed the knight to bury his former identity and remain a stranger to all but herself, she’d assumed his desire for secrecy was motivated by vanity. She could understand how a man who had lost his near godlike beauty to the wounds of war would seek to hide his face. Later, she had realized her mistake: Galahad had not buried his former self out of pride or conceit, but to avoid bringing dishonor to the Table. Morgana found this sentiment to be as amusing as it was foolish; however, it was of no matter to her, as long as he followed her orders.
As she looked at the cold, hard face across from her, she remembered the day she first saw the knight. Galahad and another Knight of the Table had been defending a downed archer on a bridge, far to the north, against a force many times their number. The taller of the two knights had lost his helmet in the fray, and his noble visage, framed by a head of raven hair, was a mask of iron determination as he struck down attacker after attacker with controlled fury.
In contrast, Galahad’s face—a face that would have put to shame the magnificent bust of Apollo outside the Hippodrome—bore a rogue’s grin as the golden-haired knight waded into his enemies with reckless abandon. Where the raven-haired knight was waging a life and death struggle, Galahad seemed to be playing a game, one he was enjoying to the fullest.
As the memory faded, a small part of Morgana felt an instant of sorrow that the smiling god-come-to-earth who’d held the bridge that day with his fellow knight was now gone, leaving only the cold, hard man who served at her pleasure.
“So tell me of your victory,” she finally said.
“It was less of a victory than a slaughter,” Lord Aeron answered, his eyes now fixed on a point over Morgana’s left shoulder. “We lured the brigands into a trap and killed them to a man, as you ordered. The body of their leader—Einarr—now adorns a tree on the border you share with Hengst the Butcher. The warning may stay further raids for a while, but only that. Hengst is behind the attacks. Einarr was just the wolf doing his bidding.”
Morgana knew that Hengst, the feared Butcher of Londinium, was indeed the driving force behind the attacks on her lands. He and his brother, Ivarr the Red, had so ravaged Londinium and the surrounding area that the people there were now perpetually short of grain. Hengst had ignored the problem until hunger’s bite had reached the bellies of his own reavers. Now the fool had been compelled to seek out more food and fodder or risk a revolt. Of late, Hengst’s quest for sustenance had led one of his bands of pet brigands into the lands held by Morgana, more than twenty leagues to the north of his so-called kingdom.
A momentary flash of irritation crossed Morgana’s brow. The emperor’s gold, and some of her own, had brought Hengst and his legion of foul sellswords to this land. A dog shouldn’t bite the hand that had not only fed him for years but also made him rich.
She had considered having the Norse war leader killed by one of her spies, but had decided against it. Killing Hengst would leave his brother Ivarr in control, and unlike his sibling, Ivarr was no fool. He woul
d know that she was behind the assassination, and a costly war could follow, a war she could ill afford, and one that would play into the hands of Melitas.
Morgana set aside the conundrum for another day and turned her attention back to Lord Aeron. “And what, Lord Aeron, do you suggest?”
“I am a soldier, not a strategist.”
Morgana laughed. “You have put hundreds of men to the sword and won a host of battles under my banner, Knight, and in most of those battles, your force was the lesser. I think you underrate your skills.”
Lord Aeron’s face froze at the mention of the word knight—a reaction Morgana had anticipated.
“I am not a knight, Milady. I am just a sellsword, like the rest.”
“No, Lord Aeron, you are not like the others. Your wages are not paid in coin, but in mercy. I wonder if that coinage will lose its glitter as she loses her beauty to the ravages of age?”
The man’s face showed no reaction to the wound inflicted by Morgana’s verbal knife, other than an involuntary tightening of his jaw muscle, but she knew she had drawn blood.
The man’s mesmerizing blue eyes found her, and he spoke in a quiet voice, as cold as ice. “Does Milady have further need of me tonight?”
Morgana held the man’s gaze for a long moment and then made a small gesture of dismissal.
“No, Lord Aeron, you may leave.”
The man stood, bowed respectfully, and walked to the door, easing the hood up over his head once again.
As he reached for the door, Morgana spoke again. “Lord Aeron, do you know a knight called Sir Percival?” She kept her tone casual, suggesting the matter was of no importance.
The knight froze, his hand on the door handle. Without turning, he answered in a flat, emotionless voice. “Yes. He was a Knight of the Table.”
“And what became of this man?” Morgana said quietly.
“He died in the Holy Land.”
“You are sure of this?” she asked, the hint of a threat in her voice.
“Quite,” Lord Aeron answered and left the room.
Morgana lifted the glass of wine on the table beside her and swirled the red liquid in the silver goblet, a cruel smile easing across her face.
“I believe you are right, Lord Aeron. You are indeed the last Knight of the Table.”
CHAPTER 8
ABBEY CWM HIR
uinevere gently rolled up the scroll of parchment on the desk and placed it in the basket sitting on the nearby shelf, along with a stack of other messages. After staring at the basket for a moment, she walked across her personal quarters, opened a window, and drew in the cool evening air. The sun had set two hours earlier, and the small band of guards that served under Bishop Verdino’s orders—men whose wages were paid from the revenues generated from her lands—were roasting a rabbit and a small pig over a fire in the courtyard below.
As she watched one of the men turn the spit, she thought of the message she had just read. It was from the wife of a blacksmith living in Londinium. In the message, the woman said Hengst and his reavers had so ravaged the city and the surrounding area that many of the common people were surviving on rats, mice, and other vermin. The meat the guards were roasting in the courtyard would have been considered a bounteous feast by such folk.
“And I remember when it was the richest city in the kingdom,” Guinevere said softly.
“Milady?”
Guinevere turned to Cadwyn. Her young handmaiden was sitting in a chair by the small hearth at the other end of the room, reading a second basket of parchments by the light of the fire.
“It’s nothing. Are there any good tidings in those messages?”
“No, Milady, I’m sorry,” Cadwyn said as she pored over a water-stained parchment. “But, this … is interesting.”
“What does it say?”
Cadwyn frowned slightly. “It’s from a woman in Whitstable. Her husband is a farrier, and he owns a stable. The message says that a tall man came ashore a fortnight ago with … with a man whose skin was as black as coal. They traveled on a galley carrying cargo from Francia. The captain of the ship, a man named Aldwyn Potter, told her husband the vessel had been attacked by Norse raiders. He said the tall man and his companion cut down the raiders like two avenging angels. He said they were invincible!” Cadwyn said, her voice rising in excitement.
“Indeed,” Guinevere said, a wry smile coming to her face. “I wish we had an army of such men.”
“Milady, forgive me, there is more.”
“Read on, my young friend.”
“The woman’s husband said—”
Suddenly, Cadwyn shot to her feet and looked over at Guinevere, her eyes wide.
“Milady! The woman’s husband said that the tall man was Sir Percival of the Round Table.” When Cadwyn’s eyes returned to the yellowed scroll, it was as if the parchment were a holy relic.
Guinevere drew in a sharp breath and, for a moment, stood motionless. Then she slowly shook her head.
“No. He must be mistaken. It has been too many years.”
Cadwyn walked around the table and spread the scroll out for Guinevere to read.
“Milady, the woman says that she didn’t believe her husband at first, but he insisted. He said he had seen Sir Percival in Londinium a decade earlier, and he could never forget him.”
Guinevere leaned over and read the message, which had been penned in careful strokes, if common words. Then she read it through two more times. Cadwyn pointed to the name of the woman at the bottom of the missive. “Milady, do you know this woman?”
The Queen looked down at the name written on the bottom of the scroll and then slowly nodded her head.
“Yes … yes, I do remember her, Ada. She served Lady Evelynn … as a handmaiden. She is an honest woman of keen wit, but I still … it must be a mistake.”
Guinevere read the message a fourth time and slowly sat down at the table. The words in the missive brought back a memory, something Arthur had said after he’d performed the solemn ceremony raising Sir Percival to the Table. “He’s not the most handsome of the lot. Galahad takes that laurel, much to the ire of Lancelot, but this man … there’s a power in him. He will bear watching.”
“Milady?”
Guinevere slowly turned to Cadwyn, a distant look in her eyes.
“Milady, are you unwell?”
She shook her head. “No, forgive me. I am fine.”
“Did you know Sir Percival? I mean … can you tell me of him, Milady?” Cadwyn asked softly, sitting in a chair across from her.
Guinevere nodded, smiling wistfully. “Oh yes, I knew Sir Percival. How could I not; he saved my life.”
“What! Oh, please tell me of this, Milady.”
“As you wish,” Guinevere said, smiling at her young friend’s fervor. “Sir Percival … he was different from the other knights. The older knights had been raised to the Table for standing with Arthur during the early years, when he was struggling to tame the land. Others, like Lancelot, were great champions, men who had achieved fame fighting other knights in individual duels. Sir Percival achieved his fame through his battles with the Norse raiders.”
She paused for a moment, trying to wade through the memories unleashed by the letter, before continuing.
“In the early years, Arthur and the other members of the Table thought of the raiders as mere pirates, a nuisance the local lords and their liegemen should handle, but over time, that began to change. Traveling merchants, and then the men of the King’s post, began to tell tales of fierce battles on the northeastern coast—battles where hundreds, and some said as many as a thousand men, clashed. As these tidings increased over time, it came to be known that a young knight by the name of Sir Percival was always in the thick of these battles, leading a small army against the Norse when they came ashore.”
Guinevere hesitated for a moment, gently touching the parchment lying on the table in front of her.
“Milady,” Cadwyn said with a frown, “why didn’t the royal
army march north to aid Sir Percival and his men in their fight?”
“That is a good question, my young friend,” she said with a hint of regret. “Lancelot and some of the older knights insisted the threat from the Norse was overstated, and the real threat continued to be an invasion from the Saxons in the south. Those opinions changed after the attack on Eburacum.”
“Eburacum? The Norse attacked Eburacum?” Cadwyn said incredulously. “I have never heard of this attack.”
“Oh yes, attack they did. One summer, a fleet of more than a hundred Norse ships sailed up the Humber River and landed a force of a thousand or more raiders. Once ashore, they marched on Eburacum, intending to sack the city.”
Guinevere leaned back in her chair and drew her arms across her chest, as if warding off a momentary shiver, before continuing in a quiet voice.
“I remember, as if it were yesterday, watching them come over the hill and run toward an open postern gate in the city’s wall, cutting down everyone in their way—men, women, and children. I had never seen such fearsome men before, and I would not again until—”
“You were there, Milady? You were inside the city?” Cadwyn interrupted, half standing, her eyes wide.
Guinevere nodded. “Yes. I was visiting one of my cousins. She had just given birth. Very few people knew that I was there. Sir Tristan and a group of fifty men-at-arms had escorted me into the city after dark, with no fanfare.”
“What happened?”
“When the attack came, Sir Tristan and his men, along with the city guard, raced to close the open gate, but some of the raiders were already within the walls. A fierce battle raged, but I could see from a window that Tristan and his force were losing the fight. As more and more of the Norsemen pushed through the gate, the breach began to widen. That’s when Sir Percival arrived with his small legion.”
“Legion, Milady?” Cadwyn looked confused.
“Well, yes, it was like one of the Roman legions I read about in the old Latin texts as a young girl,” Guinevere said hesitantly as she recalled the scene in her mind. “The men marched in near perfect order and wheeled into line to the beat of a drum in squares. When the Norse raiders saw them, at first they were surprised, but then they charged. I thought Sir Percival’s lines would break. There were so many Norse warriors, and they attacked with such ferocity.”
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