The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  Aelred leaned back in his chair and frowned. “And how would you know of that?”

  Merlin just looked up at the ceiling, steepling his fingers together.

  “Cuthburt!” Aelred said scornfully. “I should have known he couldn’t keep a secret. Well, if that’s the price I have to pay for your tale, so be it.”

  The Seneschal leaned over and lovingly drew a pewter tankard out of a nearby cupboard and filled both empty mugs with a golden mead. Merlin noted that Aelred’s cup was noticeably fuller than his own.

  “There’s your payment,” Aelred said grudgingly. “I’m sure you shall find it to your liking. The pot of honey that yielded this batch was quite wonderful.”

  Merlin took a sip and nodded his approval. “It is truly a fine mead. This reminds me of the map room in Camelot’s old west tower. Why, we enjoyed many a fine cup of mead there. Yes, we would argue about one matter or another long into the night. Do you remember the night that Arthur came by, and we spoke until near dawn of what the future would bring?”

  “Yes, I do remember,” Aelred said quietly.

  “He was the rarest of men—a just King. I miss him,” Merlin said, the memories bringing a new depth of sadness to his voice.

  “To Arthur Pendragon,” Aelred said solemnly, lifting his mug.

  “To Arthur,” Merlin repeated, and the two men drank a long draught.

  “Now,” Aelred said, lowering his voice and leaning forward, “tell me your secret, Merlin.”

  Merlin put his mug back down on the table and clasped his hands together.

  “It happened two or maybe three years before the fall. Arthur had a dream. At first, he ignored it, but when the same dream returned a second and a third time, he told me of it.” Merlin stopped for a moment, took a drink from his mug, and nodded in appreciation.

  “Well, go on,” Aelred said impatiently.

  Merlin held up a hand. “Patience. In the dream, Arthur was standing in a verdant glade, deep in the forest. In the center of the glade stood a magnificent oak. Its mighty plume was alit by the golden rays of the morning sun. As Arthur watched, a black vine burst from the ground and wove its way up the tree’s mighty trunk, spreading its tendrils to even the smallest of branches. In time, the vine deprived the oak of the sustenance of the sun, slowly killing the forest titan. Arthur’s soul was laid low by the death of the beautiful tree, for he knew it was an omen of things to come, and he grieved for his people. But all was not lost. Just before the light of the sun yielded to night, a beautiful woman emerged from the trunk of the dying oak.”

  Merlin paused for a moment and took another long draught from his mug. Then he examined the finely crafted sigil on the side of the cup, as if seeing it for the first time. Aelred stared at Merlin, his eyes narrowing.

  “That is fine mead,” Merlin said, “but let me continue … the forest—”

  “No, we are past the forest, the vine and tree. We are watching the woman,” Aelred said in quiet exasperation.

  “So we are,” Merlin said, nodding. “The woman crossed the glade and stared into Arthur’s grief-stricken face for a moment, and then she handed him a sprig from the oak and said, ‘Send the Knight who forges the many into an army of one from the shores of Albion. Upon his return, he will replant the oak.’”

  “A foretelling,” Aelred whispered. “Why didn’t you speak of this?”

  “It was Arthur’s wish that I remain silent.”

  “But why choose Percival? Why not Tristan, or one of the others?” Aelred asked.

  “Arthur … we both struggled with that. We had to be sure of our reading of the dream, or all was lost. In the end, we knew. You will remember what Percival did with the men of the border marches.”

  “Oh yes, I read the reports … I still have many of them in my library. My God, that was masterful,” Aelred said, striking the table softly with his gnarled fist. “Forging a motley group of dirty, poor, illiterate peasants into an army that marched and fought with Roman precision. That little army thrashed Morgana’s raiders so soundly they stopped attacking on that front. I remember what that arrogant fool Lancelot called them—”

  “‘Percival’s band of vermin,’” Merlin interrupted, shaking his head in regret. “He was wrong. We were all wrong not to see that Morgana’s foul host was too mighty to be defeated without the help of the common people. I’m not a soldier, Aelred, but even I could see that Arthur and Lancelot placed too much faith in the power of mounted knights. Yet,” Merlin said in a heartfelt voice, “for all his arrogance, Lance was magnificent at Camlann.”

  Aelred nodded. “That he was. He led the charge with Arthur that broke their lines, and he died from his wounds, moments after Arthur.”

  Aelred took a long draught of mead and gestured sadly to his small library. “And all we have left is the memory of what once was.”

  Merlin leaned forward and spoke with an intensity that drew a look of surprise from his friend. “I do not believe that. I know it has been years, Aelred, but Arthur’s foretelling … he believed in it. I believed in it. That’s why we sent Percival away on the Grail quest.”

  “The quest!” Aelred scoffed. “That wasn’t a quest, Merlin, it was madness. Sending a Christian knight into the land of the Moors, alone, in search of a cup that disappeared over five centuries ago. What was Arthur thinking?”

  “Contrary to what you believe, my friend, the King and I, his humble councilor, possessed at least a thimble’s worth of wisdom when we made that decision,” Merlin said.

  Aelred harrumphed, “Humble, indeed. Well then, enlighten me, if you will. I suspect that’s quite a tale as well.”

  Merlin smiled and leaned back in his chair. “It surely is, but alas, my old throat is dry and my spirit is flagging. Another day perhaps.” Aelred’s face took on a reddish hue, but Merlin interrupted him before the explosion came. “Perhaps,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “another cup of that glorious mead might give me the strength to go on.”

  “Oh, very well!” Aelred growled. “I suppose I could drink in worse company, although I cannot imagine who that would be.”

  Merlin smiled as Aelred grudgingly poured him another cup of mead. He took a long drink. After putting his mug down, he silently stared at the scroll on the table. The burden of the decisions he had made so long ago had grown heavier with each year the Knight had remained absent from the land, but now it seemed at long last his prayers had been answered.

  “It was,” Merlin began hesitantly, “a complicated matter. Arthur knew that Percival wouldn’t leave the country without good cause, in the face of Morgana’s growing strength, and telling him of the dream was deemed unwise.”

  “Why? He … had … a … right … to … know,” Aelred said, rapping his knuckles on the table in time with each word.

  Merlin raised his hands in frustration. “Know what? That his liege had experienced a mysterious vision, one that foretold the breaking of the Table? Once he heard that, Percival would most certainly have refused to depart. Or worse—the knowledge of what was to come could have led him to follow a different path, undoing the skein that fate had spun for him.” He shook his head. “Sadly, the truth is not always the best course in matters of state.”

  “The skein of fate? That’s no way for a Christian to talk. So let me guess,” Aelred said, folding his arms across his chest, “you lied to him.”

  Merlin frowned and waved off the accusation. “That’s a rather harsh way of putting it. Let’s just say that I devised a plan—a plan Arthur embraced and one that threaded the needle presented. Unfortunately, fate, or Divine Providence, if you will, intervened, as it is wont to do.”

  “I see,” Aelred said in a voice laced with skepticism.

  “We … Arthur … told Percival that the Archbishop of Aquileia, Maximus, was embarking on a quest to find the Holy Grail, and the assistance of a Knight of the Table was requested. Arthur told Percival he had been chosen to serve as one Maximus’s guards. Arthur wouldn’t countenance the schem
e unless Percival had the right to decline the honor, which unfortunately he did. He insisted that he, the least of his knightly brethren, should not be accorded this great honor. Although Arthur tried to persuade him, he was adamant, insisting that his place was at home, fighting Morgana’s legions, but—”

  “You managed to change his mind on the matter,” Aelred said with more than a hint of condemnation.

  Merlin nodded reluctantly. “Yes. That I did.”

  “And what ruse did you employ in that endeavor?”

  Merlin looked up at the curved ceiling of the cave, unwilling to bear Aelred’s accusatory stare. “A rather base one, I fear. I told him that he was right. That he was, alas, the least of his brethren, and none of the others could be spared for this quest. I told him that the whole matter could be just a fool’s errand, but I also told him there was some evidence that the whereabouts of the cup had been discovered. Still, he was unpersuaded.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I took him aside and told him … that Arthur was dying and that—”

  “Only a drink from the Grail could save him.” Aelred finished, his voice full of scorn. “Merlin, that was indeed a most base deception.”

  “And, what pray tell, would you have done?” Merlin said, glaring at the other man. “The loathsome deed had to be done, and I, my sophistic friend, was assigned that burden, so I bore it.”

  “Did Arthur know of this?”

  “No, of course not,” Merlin said, recovering his composure. “He would never have consented, and it wasn’t as much of an untruth as you charge. Arthur was dying.”

  “What? How can you say that?” Aelred said incredulously.

  “You forget, Aelred, I was the first physician to the Roman Emperor in Constantinople, before my exile. It was an ague that I had seen before. The pain started in the King’s stomach and grew over time. He hid the affliction well, but by the last battle, he only had months left to live.”

  “That does not excuse what you did,” Aelred said.

  “I do not offer excuses,” Merlin said, feeling suddenly weary. “Nor do I seek forgiveness. It had to be done.”

  “Because of a dream that haunted a dying king?”

  Merlin stared at his friend in silence for a moment, and then lowered his voice. “Not just the King, Aelred.”

  “What do you mean?” the man asked.

  Merlin remembered waking up bathed in sweat, with the dream burned into his memory. When he opened his eyes, Aelred was staring at him, his brows furrowed. Merlin waved off his concern.

  “To quote a friend, ‘I am not dead yet.’”

  “Thank the Lord. For a moment there, I thought you would die before you finished your tale,” Aelred said with a chuckle.

  “Such a thoughtful fellow,” Merlin said dryly. “To continue … after Percival’s first refusal, a week passed as I contemplated how to make him accept the ‘honor.’ During that week, I had the same dream—but in my dream, the oak was already dead, and the surrounding forest was dead as well. In my dream, no one came to offer the promise of life. It was just death. When I awoke, it was just before dawn. I remember looking out upon the forest to the west of the castle and listening to it come to life with the morning light. Then I went to see Sir Percival, and I did what had to be done.”

  “You are the wisest man I have ever known, Merlin, but sometimes I think you take too much upon yourself.”

  “You may be right, Aelred the Seneschal, but if I have come to know anything in this life, it is that evil cannot always be defeated through the good and noble, and I would have you know my deed was not as foul, nor the quest as foolhardy as you suppose; at least it was not intended to be. A courier traveled to Aquileia months before Sir Percival’s arrival with a message to the Archbishop, Maximus, a man I had met and befriended in my travels. In the message, I told Maximus that Percival was coming and that a Grail quest was to be arranged, in and around Rome only, to satisfy his knightly ardor.”

  “Another ruse,” Aelred said with a scowl.

  “You are quite insufferable at times, old man,” Merlin said.

  “That would make two of us then,” the Seneschal retorted.

  Merlin made a dismissive gesture with his hand and continued with the tale. “I told Maximus that I would send word when Percival was to be released from his service. Alas, Maximus died when Percival was aship, and his successor, Severus, quite the fool, embraced Percival’s quest and sent him to the Holy Land. When I learned of this, I sent a second messenger, but Percival had already left, and the messenger’s ship, which followed in pursuit, was lost in a storm.”

  Aelred’s stern glance softened, as did his voice. “And so, for the past ten years, Percival has been scouring the lands of the Moor, looking for the Grail.”

  “I sought information from every source,” Merlin said, staring down at the table, “anyone who might know of his whereabouts, but little came of it. In truth, I do not want to dwell on the travails Sir Percival may have borne in the past decade, for I fear I would be unable to bear the burden of this guilt. All I can do is rejoice at his return.”

  Aelred’s face had grown solemn. “Alas, my friend, the last line of the message suggests otherwise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pulled the piece of parchment from his pocket and read the last sentence. “The man who stepped off that ship was Sir Percival, of that I am sure, but he is not the man who left a decade ago.’”

  Merlin stared at Aelred for a moment and then looked at the flag hanging from a wall in the library. It was the flag that had been carried in the last charge at Camlann.

  “We cannot know what Sir Percival has endured, Aelred,” Merlin said, “or how he may have changed during the past decade, but I can tell you this: Once he learns that Arthur is dead, he will seek out his only remaining sovereign.”

  “Queen Guinevere? How can you be sure?”

  Merlin leaned back in his chair. His cup was empty. “I know this,” he said, “as surely as I know the sun will rise in the east tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE CAMP OF CYNRIC THE ARCHER

  ynric emerged from the primitive wood and stone shelter, one of the twenty or so structures encircling the small clearing, and looked around at his motley band of followers. Most of the men had escaped with him from Londinium after the city fell to Hengst the Butcher, although a few had joined the band from the local villages. They had never intended to stay there for any length of time.

  The plan had been to assemble a force and retake the city, with the help of the people still living within Londinium’s walls. Alas, this hope had never come to fruition. Hengst and his brother Ivarr had quickly broken the will of the people in the city and ravaged the surrounding land so thoroughly there were few left to aid their cause.

  With Londinium denied to him, Cynric had focused his efforts on barring Hengst from expanding his territory. His men attacked every Norse patrol that strayed too far south and also protected the local villages from Hengst’s raiders. It was a hard life. When they were not attacking the Norse, Cynric’s small band of men were scratching out a living trapping and hunting, and smuggling the farmers’ excess food into Londinium. Still, the archer knew their lot was better than the slavery and starvation being endured by those who had remained in the once proud city.

  Cynric’s eyes were drawn to the trail at the southern end of the camp by a flash of movement. A moment later, Keil raced into the camp and ran toward him. The archer instinctively grabbed the bow and quiver just inside the door of the shelter and checked the long knife at his hip before turning back to the younger man.

  “Sir,” Keil gasped, pulling up short five yards away, “it’s not an attack, but Tylan said you should come. He said you have to see this.”

  Cynric hesitated for a moment and then gestured in the direction that Keil had come from. “Lead on.” He knew Tylan wouldn’t ask him to make haste without a good reason.

  Keil started out at a fast
jog, and Cynric followed. The sight of Cynric loping through the camp, armed with his long bow, drew the attention of the half-dozen men who had risen with the sun, and by the time Keil had reached the trail, half of the men in camp were in tow.

  The trail ran along the edge of the meadow and wound its way up to the top of a hill where a guard was posted at all times. As they neared the crest, Cynric could see Tylan, his short, muscular second-in-command, crouching there with six or seven other men. A row of bushes and thick ferns hid the men from whatever they were staring at on the far side of the bluff.

  When Cynric and Keil were thirty paces distant, Tylan turned and raised a finger to his lips, calling for silence, and made a sign directing the approaching men to crouch down like the rest of the watchers. Cynric dropped into a crouch and made his way to his friend’s side, followed by the other men. Tylan pointed downward and Cynric stared through a gap in the bushes at two men on the bank of the river below. They were fighting.

  For a moment, Cynric was so mesmerized by the combatants’ blinding speed and the ferocity of their attacks, he didn’t recognize them. Then he realized the combatants were Sir Percival and Capussa. They were naked to the waist, except for the gauntlets covering their hands and forearms, and bathed in sweat, despite the chill in the air. Muscles like ropes of steel writhed in their arms and torsos as they moved back and forth across the sand in a deadly dance, giving life to the web of scars that marred each man’s chest, back, and arms.

  From the waist down, the men were clad in black cloth breeches cut short just above the knees, and their feet were shod with heavy sandals laced to the calf. Each man wielded a practice sword, a wooden weapon precisely leaded to have the weight and feel of a steel sword. As Cynric watched, the Numidian attacked Percival and called out a series of commands in a language the archer had never heard before. With each command, Percival would execute a counterattack or defensive maneuver. Although Cynric had been a soldier for two decades, most of the attacks and defenses were unknown to him, and he had never seen two foes move with such speed and precision.