The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  As the battle raged on without respite, Cynric expected one or both men to collapse from exhaustion, but neither man slowed nor yielded ground to the other for more than an instant. The only concession they afforded themselves was a guttural grunt of pain after a rare blow was landed. Finally, Capussa called out a command, and both men stepped back, sheathed their swords, and bowed to one another.

  Percival turned, took off his sword belt, laid it on a nearby rock, and walked into the river, exposing his back to the men on the ridge. Cynric heard Keil’s intake of breath and glanced over at the younger man. He was making the sign of the cross.

  The archer tapped Tylan on the shoulder and gestured for the men on the bluff to follow him back down the hill. Tylan passed the signal down the line, and the men quietly eased their way down the slope. When they reached the bottom of the hill, Keil ran up alongside Cynric.

  “Sir,” Keil said in a hoarse voice, “did you see his back? I’ve never seen … what could have done that?”

  Cynric walked in silence for a moment toward the camp, and then he looked over at the visibly shaken younger man. “He was flogged with something … something terrible, many times,” he said, an undercurrent of anger in his voice.

  Tylan nodded, his face grim. “The scars on their chests and arms, those I recognize as the work of a sword and a spear, but that set of three marks on Percival’s chest and on the African’s right arm, I’ve never—”

  “A trident,” Cynric said quietly.

  Tylan eyes widened. “Heard of those, but I’ve never seen one.”

  Keil slowed and walked behind the two other men, apparently lost in his own thoughts. As they neared a bend in the trail, he ran forward and caught up with Cynric.

  “Sir, is that how they fought? Is that how the Knights of the Round Table fought?” he asked.

  Cynric stopped and looked back up the hill for a moment before turning to the younger man, his face grim. “No, Keil, they didn’t fight like that. I’ve never seen anyone fight like that in my life.” After a final glance back up the hill, Cynric turned and started back toward the camp. Tylan kept pace with him.

  “Before they started in with the swords,” Tylan said, “the two of them ran up and down that hill, over and over again. Then they spent nearly an hour doing all sorts of other things—lifting heavy rocks from the stream, pushing up off the ground with their arms. Each one squatted up and down with the other one on his back more times than I could count! It’s like … well this is what they do all the time.” Tylan was silent for a moment.

  “Who does that?”

  “Someone who fights for a living,” Cynric answered curtly.

  Tylan slowly shook his head, a frown on this face.

  “Cynric, I’m a blacksmith, not a soldier, but I have made shields, swords, axes, and knives for knights and other men of the sword for two decades. When you work such a trade … over time, you get to know what they want and how they live and train. Well, I can tell you, I have never seen anyone train like that.”

  Cynric glanced over his shoulder at Keil. The young man had veered off the trail to stalk a rabbit that had crossed their path a moment earlier.

  Tylan’s frown deepened. “I suppose,” he said hesitantly, “what I’m trying to find out is how well do you know Sir Percival? Is he going to join us or fight for someone else? I just would like to know,” Tylan said, looking back toward the bluff.

  “So would I,” Cynric said.

  “And so?”

  Cynric smiled at his friend’s persistence.

  “And so,” Tylan went on, “maybe we can have a word with them once they are done trying to kill each other.”

  “We?” Cynric questioned, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well,” Tylan said with a rare smile, “you do know him.”

  “No, Tylan,” Cynric said quietly, glancing over at his friend. “I do not know this man. I don’t think anyone alive truly knows him other than Capussa. But we shall have a talk when he returns to camp.”

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Cynric watched Percival and Capussa lead their horses into the camp. Cynric stood, walked over to the two men, and nodded respectfully.

  “Sir Percival, Capussa, may I offer you food and drink?”

  “Thank you, Cynric,” Percival answered, “but we have already broken our fast. We would not burden you with our needs, but, if you have a moment, my companion and I would have a word with you.”

  Cynric nodded and gestured to a giant stump someone had hewn into a primitive table. Two long benches were drawn up on either side of the table.

  “Please, you are welcome at my table. It is not much, but it serves my needs.”

  “Why, it is a table fit for a king, friend,” Capussa said with smile.

  “Lead on.”

  Cynric hesitated. “Would it be acceptable if Tylan joins us? He’s the master-of-arms for our little band.”

  “We would welcome his company,” Percival said.

  Cynric gestured to Tylan, waiting a short distance away, and the four men sat down at the crude table. Tylan nodded to the two men as he sat down.

  Percival looked across the table at Cynric. “Cynric the Archer, I have one last duty that I must honor before my service to the Pendragon is at an end. I must find the Queen and tell her of my quest. If you can tell me of her whereabouts and the safest road to this place, I would be in your debt.”

  Cynric was silent. He had feared this moment would come. The moment when he would be forced to tell the last surviving Knight of the Round Table that all he had known and loved was gone, washed away by a tide of violence, misery, and death.

  “That road, Sir Percival,” Cynric said hesitantly, “will be a most treacherous one.”

  Percival nodded. “That may be, but it is one I must travel.”

  “Sir, the Pendragon is long dead and the Table is gone. The land … is broken,” Cynric said, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him.

  “I know of the King’s death, Cynric,” the Knight said patiently. “That is why I must give my report to the Queen.”

  There was a long silence.

  Percival leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “Please. Tell me she yet lives,” he said.

  Cynric looked up and nodded. “Yes, the Queen is still alive, thank the Almighty, but the Kingdom, you must understand … all that we … all that you knew, it is gone.”

  “Now,” Cynric said with a mixture of anger, despair, and guilt, “Albion is a place where death waits behind every tree and around every bend in the road.”

  “Cynric,” Percival said in a voice filled with regret, “I was a Knight of the Table. If anyone should bear a measure of guilt for the Pendragon’s fall, it is I, not you. I was not here in the King’s hour of need.”

  There was a long silence as Cynric remembered what once had been and what had been lost. From the look on the Knight’s face, he too was remembering a time that was now gone.

  “My friends, let me show you something,” Capussa said gently as he drew three small coins from a pocket in his jerkin. He placed the coins on the table and pointed to a small coin with a reddish hue.

  “The home of my people lies outside the ruins of a great city by the sea that separates my land from the land of the Romans. This coin was forged by the kings of the great empire that first seized that ground from my people and built the great city.”

  Then the Numidian’s finger lightly touched a second, larger coin. “This one was forged by those who conquered this great empire and took the city for themselves. This last coin,” Capussa said, his finger moving to the largest and brightest of the coins, “is the work of the Romans. In their time of power, they razed the great city to the ground, and now, the City of Rome labors under the heel of its own conqueror. You see, great kingdoms rise and fall; that is the way of it. All that we—” Capussa said, gesturing to the men and women in the camp, “—can do is bear our burdens each day with honor and thank the gods for what little
we have.”

  Tylan nodded and said gruffly, “I think you have the right of it. We did what we could.”

  Cynric nodded to Capussa. “Your words are kind, my friend.” Then he turned to Percival. “I will tell what I can, Sir Percival. It is little enough.”

  The archer stood and walked over to a stick lying next to a patch of dirt by the table and quickly drew a crude map. When he finished, he pointed to a small circle at the top of the map.

  “This is to the northwest. It’s Queen Guinevere’s ancestral land. An old monk, a friend, told me she took refuge there after the fall, in an abbey.”

  Cynric then moved the point of the stick to a second line. “This is the road between Caer Ceint and Londinium. Our camp is here, about three or four day’s travel south of Londinium,” he said, resting the point on a circle.

  Percival interrupted, his brow furrowed, “Why will it take so long? I can recall covering the entire distance between the port and Londinium in four days, and Capussa and I have already been on the road for two.”

  “The road isn’t safe now,” Tylan said, shaking his head. “You should count yourself lucky that you didn’t meet Korth and his foul band of brigands on the way here.”

  Capussa looked over at Tylan and drew a line with his finger from his right temple to his jawline. “Would this Korth have a scar that runs thus?”

  “Aye, that’s Korth,” Tylan said.

  “We did ‘meet’ this man, as you say,” Capussa said with a small smile. “He will not trouble anyone ever again.”

  A slow smile came to Tylan’s face. “That was a good day’s work.”

  Capussa nodded. “Indeed it was.”

  Cynric glanced over at the Numidian, remembering the ferocity of the battle by the river an hour earlier. He suspected Korth was not the only brigand lying dead on the road to Caer Ceint.

  Cynric turned back to the map and pointed to the circle designating Londinium.

  “Londinium and its surroundings are controlled by Hengst, a Norse chieftain, and his foul raiders. Most travelers making their way past the city stay off the road. They use the forest paths to get around it. There are guides that make a living helping people stay clear of the raiders; some are honest, some not. There are two forest paths. We will use this path,” he said, pointing to an arc on the south side of the Tamesis River. “It is a longer journey, but it is usually safer.”

  Percival frowned. “I would not burden you or any of your people with this journey.”

  “You won’t make it without a guide,” Cynric said, shaking his head, “and Tylan and I have business there. We live off the forest, but we get help from the local farmers. In return for food, we smuggle their grain and vegetables into Londinium and barter for the goods they need in return. Since food is short in the city, the people pay well for what we bring.”

  “I’m in your debt, Archer.”

  “No, sir, I am in yours,” Cynric said quietly, remembering for an instant the battle on the Aelius Bridge in what seemed like a different lifetime.

  “When would you leave on this journey?” Tylan asked.

  “As soon as you are able,” Percival said as he stood up.

  Cynric turned to Tylan. “What say you?”

  Tylan shrugged. “The grain hut is near full. So, tomorrow is as good a day as any.”

  The archer nodded. “Then tomorrow it is. We should leave by first light.”

  CHAPTER 11

  MORGANA’S DOMAIN

  organa idly caressed the haft of the bejeweled knife resting on the table in front of her before spinning it again with a tap of her finger. When the knife came to rest, the tip of the blade was pointing at the chair across from her—the chair awaiting Ivarr the Red. She smiled and then lifted the hem of her ankle-length white tunic and restored the blade to the sheath on her leg. The hidden knife violated the rules of the parley, but she was untroubled by the risk. Her transgression would only be discovered if it became necessary to slit Ivarr’s throat, and if it came to that, the knife could mean the difference between life and death.

  She scanned the broad, open field encircling the table in satisfaction. Lord Aeron had chosen a strategically good site for the parley with the Norsemen. The ground offered both parties a clear view of the other’s approach, making any attempted ambush a difficult and bloody choice.

  A movement on left side of the field drew her attention, and a moment later, Lord Aeron and six other riders emerged from the forest line, returning from their second patrol of the morning. As she watched the knight cross the field toward her, clad in his blackened armor and helmet, she once again found herself mystified by the knight’s honesty. The noble fool despised her, and yet, he dutifully honored every promise she had extracted from him, even his promise to keep her safe.

  “One day, I will ask your beloved Guinevere what magic she used to ensorcell you. Then I will take it for myself, along with her life,” Morgana whispered.

  When the riders were within fifty paces of the table, Lord Aeron gestured for the rest of the soldiers to join the line of mounted men waiting fifty paces behind her. Then he continued forward alone, bringing his horse to a halt five paces from the table.

  “He comes,” the knight said, gesturing to the forest wall to the south.

  “And how many men does he bring with him?” Morgana asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Fifty men accompany him, as agreed, but there is a second column with at least twice that many men following not far behind.”

  Morgana smiled at the anger in Lord Aeron’s voice. “But of course. You didn’t expect Ivarr to honor the rules of this parley, did you, Lord Aeron?”

  Lord Aeron rode his horse a step closer to the table. “You will not find it amusing if the Norseman attacks with that many—”

  “He won’t,” Morgana interrupted, waving his retort away with a flick of her hand. “Ivarr is not Hengst. Yes, his thirst for gold and power is equally insatiable, but Ivarr is a clever man, a man who seeks power in his own right. He will wait to hear what I have to offer before he reaches for his sword.”

  “And what if your words are not to his liking?” Lord Aeron asked coldly.

  “Why then, I have you to protect me,” Morgana said, a quiet threat in her voice. The sound of a horse pounding across the field stilled Lord Aeron’s reply. He wheeled his horse to face the rider and, after a moment’s hesitation, galloped to meet him. Morgana recognized the man as one of the scouts.

  Seneas walked over to Morgana and refilled the silver goblet in front of her with more wine. Morgana glanced up at the old man’s face and said coldly, “Do you have something to say, Seneas?”

  The old man hesitated and then spoke in a low voice. “Princess, is it wise to goad him so? If we are attacked, your life is in his hands. Surely, he must see that your death will—”

  “Release him from his bondage?” Morgana interrupted with a cruel laugh. “It might, but at a price he will never pay. You see, Lord Aeron knows that his precious Queen will be killed by one of my spies within the abbey upon my passing.”

  Morgana was quiet for a moment as she watched the knight talking with the scout. Then she shook her head and spoke in a tone laced in scorn and a touch of regret.

  “In the end … that’s not why he will protect me from the Norse dogs. You see, Seneas, his precious honor wouldn’t let him do anything else. Alas, if I had a thousand such fools to manipulate, I would wear the purple in Constantinople.”

  Before Seneas could reply, Lord Aeron wheeled his horse and rode toward the table at a full gallop, pulling up short a few feet away. As if sensing Lord Aeron’s tension, his giant black steed strained at the firm hand holding the reins.

  “The Norseman approaches with fifty riders, but the second column waits just behind the tree line. We cannot withstand an attack from that many men,” Lord Aeron said urgently.

  Morgana stared at the knight for a moment, swirling the wine in her silver goblet, and then said with a smile, “Be at ease,
Lord Aeron. Cinioch and his band of Picts await just behind that hillock over there. They will join your line if we are attacked.”

  The muscles in Lord Aeron’s jaw visibly tightened. Morgana had expected the reaction. The Pict and his band had raided a farmstead within the borders of her domain, killing the farmer and selling the remainder of his family into slavery. In the midst of Lord Aeron’s preparation for a retributive attack on the Pict war leader, Morgana had secretly negotiated a pact with the raider. In return for a monthly stipend of silver, the Pict and his band had agreed to plunder the lands claimed by Hengst, instead of those within her control.

  “I know you think I should have let you put the Pict and his band of reavers to the sword,” Morgana said, brushing off the rebuke in his eyes, “but had I done so, they would not be here to meet your needs today. Using one group of barbarians to counter another is a very old and wise Roman tradition, Lord Aeron. Their blood is cheap. Now, stop scowling at me and arrange your men so that we can provide a proper welcome for our guest.”

  The knight turned to the man in the center of the line of mounted men behind him and gave a terse order. “Finn, half of the men to the right, there, half to the left, there.”

  The line of horsemen divided and flanked either side of the table. When the movement was complete, Lord Aeron turned to Morgana and said in a quiet voice that only she could hear, “I know of your knife, Morgana. Ivarr the Red will know of it as well. If this matter does not go well, do not engage him. Throw yourself to the ground. I will take the Norseman with a throw of my lance.”

  Then he turned his horse without another word and rode to a position thirty paces in front of the table and waited for the approaching Norseman.

  Moments later, a column of fifty mounted Norse warriors emerged from the forest and advanced across the open field. Morgana watched their approach with interest, but her eyes were drawn to the tree line, where the larger force of warriors was hiding. Her gaze came to rest upon the knight standing between her and the men approaching. Seneas had been right, if an attack was made, her life would be in the hands of Lord Aeron.