The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  The Norseman riding the lead horse was a tall, rangy man with sunken cheeks and a long nose that looked as if it had been broken several times, giving him a hard, cruel look. Unlike the men riding behind him, whose hair fell to their shoulders, the lead warrior’s reddish-brown hair was cropped short, and he wasn’t wearing a helmet. His red woolen shirt was sleeveless, revealing arms with iron-hard muscles that were marred by a patchwork of scars.

  The Norseman stopped at the white flag that stood a hundred paces from the table, his eyes moving from Lord Aeron to the soldiers lined up on either side of the table and finally to Morgana. She returned the Norseman’s stare for a moment and then called to Lord Aeron.

  “Have your men fall back to the flag.”

  “Finn!” Lord Aeron called out, without taking his eyes off the line of Norsemen in front of him. “Move the line in groups of ten from the outside in.”

  Ten men on the end of each line wheeled and rode back to the white flag, one hundred paces behind the table, and formed a new line. When the entire line of horsemen had moved to the new position, Ivarr dismounted, along with a second Norseman. The other man was as tall as Ivarr but broader in the shoulders and neck, and his long, black hair was streaked with grey. The older Norseman scanned the soldiers behind the table and the surrounding forest for a moment and then said something to Ivarr. The Norse leader nodded, and the two men walked toward the table, their eyes wary.

  Lord Aeron waited until the two had covered half the distance to the table before he rode his horse around behind it, dismounted, and took up a position behind Morgana’s chair.

  Ivarr the Red stopped just behind the chair on his side of the table and nodded to Morgana.

  “May I join your table, Roman?” he said, his voice a deep rasp.

  “Sit. My table is yours this day,” Morgana answered solemnly.

  Ivarr eased into the chair across from her, his eyes moving from Morgana to Lord Aeron.

  “The road from Londinium is a long one. May I have Seneas pour us some mead?” Morgana said, gesturing to the old Greek servant.

  Although the expression on the Norseman’s face didn’t change, Morgana had anticipated his suspicion. He was well aware that she was not only skilled in the use of poisons, but had used the noxious weapon to kill at least two of the Knights of the Table.

  The ghost of a smile crossed Morgana’s face, and she turned to Seneas.

  “Seneas, bring two cups of mead, and place them in front of me.”

  Seneas filled two silver mugs and placed them in front of Morgana. She took an ample drink from each cup and then pushed the two mugs into the center of the table.

  “We fought side by side against the Pendragon, Ivarr the Red. You have nothing to fear at my table.”

  The Norseman’s reaction was quick and laced with a threat.

  “I fear nothing, Roman.”

  Morgana leaned forward, picked up one of the cups, and drank deeply, her eyes locked on those of the Norseman. Then she took a long drink from the second cup.

  “Of course you don’t, Ivarr,” Morgana said as she set down the second cup and pushed it across the table to him.

  “Now, let us discuss the matter of our borders.”

  The Norseman grasped the cup with a scarred hand and took a long draught. After lowering the cup, he nodded appreciatively.

  “A good mead. Talk.”

  “We will, but we shall talk alone,” Morgana answered and turned to Lord Aeron and Seneas.

  “You will step back fifteen full paces.”

  The two men hesitated, and then both moved backward.

  Ivarr stared at Morgana for a moment and then, without turning, spoke in his own language to the man behind him. The warrior nodded and also took fifteen paces back.

  Morgana leaned forward and spoke in a quiet voice as cold and hard as steel.

  “I will speak plainly, Norseman. Your brother’s ravages have driven the farmers and the shepherds and their flocks from the lands around Londinium, so the people are starving. I know Hengst could care less if the people die—he may even enjoy it—but now hunger’s bite has begun to reach his soldiers, and that is not something they will abide. So, in desperation, the fool seeks to take from my—”

  “You go too far, Roman,” Ivarr growled, his eyes blazing.

  Morgana leaned back in her chair and stared at the Norseman in silence for a moment and then leaned forward again and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion. “Do I? You know the truth of what I say. Having turned his own holdings into a wasteland, he seeks to feed his wolves from the fruit of my lands.”

  Ivarr put his forearms on the table and leaned forward, putting his face within two feet of Morgana’s.

  “And what of it? If Hengst wants your land, he—”

  “Could take nothing,” Morgana finished coldly, unmoved by the Norseman’s attempt to intimidate her. “I know of your plight, Norseman. In the last year, Hengst has lost more than half of his men, and those who remain are living on half rations. Many have not been paid for months. Such men are for sale, and I, Ivarr, have the money to buy them.”

  Morgana hesitated for a moment and leisurely took a drink of mead. For a moment, she feared she had overplayed her hand, but the rage in the Norseman’s eyes remained under control.

  When she continued, her tone was softer, and her words were laced with flattery.

  “Unlike your brother, you are a wise man. You know that it’s just a matter of time before Hengst loses all that you both have bled to gain. But … there is an alternative, one that offers Ivarr the Red the power and wealth he has been so unjustly denied.”

  The rage in Ivarr’s eyes ebbed as she spoke. When she finished, the Norseman leaned back in his chair for a moment and looked at her impassively, weighing what she had said. “I listen, Roman,” he said with a scowl.

  As Morgana watched the seed of avarice grow within the Norseman, she knew the game was hers. Her people had been bribing and manipulating barbarians for over six centuries, and the outcome was always the same—greed always triumphed over loyalty and, in this case, familial bonds. Ivarr could be bought. All that remained was the price.

  “Your men are hungry, including the hundred or so that you have hidden in the forest.”

  Ivarr’s jaw muscle tightened, but his expression didn’t change.

  Morgana leaned forward and spoke in a quiet, conspiratorial tone.

  “There is a meadow at the foot of that hill to the southeast. I left enough food and fodder there to feed your men for a week. There is a compartment built into the bottom of the third wagon. You cannot see it unless you crawl beneath it. There, you will find a bag of silver coins.”

  “Silver?” the Norseman questioned, his voice lowering as well.

  “Silver,” Morgana answered firmly. “A wise man would dole that money out to his most loyal men and not disclose its existence to … others. A week hence, or thereabouts, Hengst will go to sleep, and he will not awake. None will know the cause, and most will celebrate his death. You, Ivarr the Red, will then be the Lord of Londinium. Once you are in control, you must do what is necessary to restore the wealth of the land. You must—”

  “I know what must be done, Roman,” the Norseman interrupted, waving off her advice. “But I will need time. It will take a season or two. In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime, you will receive the grain and silver you need to pay your men.”

  The Norseman stared at Morgana for a moment and then leaned forward again, suspicion in his eyes. “And what does the empire of the East Romans want in return?”

  Morgana smiled. “Why, peace and friendship, what we have always sought.”

  Ivarr’s eyes widened, and then he threw his head back and roared with laughter. Morgana’s smile widened.

  “Peace! Yes, you have brought so much of that to this island, Roman, I dare say Odin himself is laughing this morning,” the Norseman said scornfully.

  “Peace, Ivarr the Red, is a child of th
e sword,” Morgana said coolly, her smile vanishing.

  For a moment, the Norseman stared at her and then clasped his calloused and scarred hands together, inches from her own. “Tell me, Roman Princess, what you truly seek from Ivarr the Red, in return for your … gifts?”

  Morgana lifted her cup of mead and took a sip, savoring it for a moment, before answering. “I want the raids to cease.”

  “Agreed. What else?”

  “I am looking for a man,” Morgana said, in a tone suggesting the matter was of little importance. “A man of the empire. He is about my height and nearing his sixtieth year, a man of learning. If you find such a man, I will pay you well if he is brought to me alive.”

  The Norseman made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “There are few enough of your kind in this land. If one is found … you will be told.”

  Morgana did not react to the man’s answer, but she knew what he was saying. She would have to pay for Melitas if they found him. The price was a matter for another day.

  She set her cup down on the table and nodded to the Norseman.

  “Then we are agreed. It would seem, Ivarr the Red, that our meeting is at an end.”

  Ivarr stood up and nodded solemnly. “So it is.”

  As the Norseman turned to leave, Morgana said in a veiled tone, “There is one more matter … a small thing. I have heard that a Knight of the Table, Sir Percival, may be returning to this land from the east. He may already be here. Have you heard any tidings of this?”

  “The Knights of Pendragon’s Table,” Ivarr said with a cruel smile, “are all dead. The last was fool enough to challenge Hengst to battle. His rotting body hangs on the east wall of the tournament field. I will introduce you to this great man when you come for a visit.” Ivarr chuckled at his own joke, and then he turned and strode away.

  As Morgana watched the Norseman mount his horse and ride south with his men, she leaned her chin upon her palms, wondering if she should order the spy within his camp to poison both Hengst and Ivarr. After a moment, she rejected the thought. She could control Ivarr as long as he needed her coin.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE ROAD TO LONDINIUM

  apussa leaned back against the wall of the cave, enjoying the warmth of the fire burning two steps away. The cavern was located in the hills above a small village, a day’s ride south of Londinium. Thankfully, the cave’s expansive interior was large enough to shelter all fourteen men in the party, as well as their horses, from the intermittent rain that had fallen during much of the day.

  Cynric and Percival had left to climb a nearby hill to look for campfires indicating the nearby presence of brigands or a Norse patrol, leaving Capussa alone with Tylan, Keil, and the other nine from Cynric’s band. The Numidian was tired from the day’s ride, but he sensed the men on the other side of the fire wanted to ask him something. He watched with a smile as a short whispered argument ensued between the men, and the group reached a decision. A moment later, a rotund fellow wearing an oversize traveling cloak, with more than its share of rips and holes, stood up and walked toward him.

  The Numidian had never spoken to the man, but they had traveled together for the past two days, and he knew his name was Bray. He also knew the man was affable, drank liberally from a wineskin throughout the day, and was inclined to hoard more than his share of the company’s mead. Earlier in the day, Cynric had sent Bray into the local village to trade a bag of wool for a sack of hard bread and smoked venison, supplying the company with the evening’s meal. Although Bray had turned over most his bounty, he had attempted, unsuccessfully, to keep a large jug of mead to himself.

  After reinforcing his courage with another draught from his wineskin, Bray stopped a respectful distance of away and said, “Sir, might I sit down and ask after a matter or two?”

  “Sit, my friend, and ask what you will,” Capussa said, gesturing to a nearby log.

  Bray sat down on the log and, after a moment’s hesitation, said, “I’d … well, we’d all would know some things. We watched you and Sir Percival practicing by the river the other morning, and we’d like to know where you learned to fight like that. We’ve never seen the like. And, the two of you have enough scars for ten men … and those scars on Sir Percival’s back … how, I mean, what—”

  “That was the work of a scourge,” Capussa said in a quiet voice. When he spoke, the men on the other side leaned forward to hear his words. He waved them over.

  “Come, friends, draw near. I will tell you a tale, one that is true, mind you. This is a story you will tell your children, and one that they will tell theirs as well.”

  He waited until the men walked over and joined Bray on the log, or found a comfortable rock to sit on. Keil sat on the rock closest to the Numidian, drawing a frown from Tylan.

  When the men were seated, Capussa stared into the fire for a moment, as if returning to a distant place, and then began to speak.

  “Sir Percival and I were the prisoners of a powerful Moorish lord in the ancient City of Syene, in the land of Egypt. It is a cruel place—a sea of sand, where the days are like fire and the nights are like ice. But, Syene is also a place of great wealth, for the nearby mines yield beautiful gems, and traders from the southern peoples come there to sell their wares to the Moors.

  “There is an evil emir in Syene called Khalid El-Hashem, who found a way, a terrible way, to extract some of the great wealth that flowed through Syene for himself. He restored an old Roman arena outside the city, and there … there he holds the most celebrated gladiatorial games in all the land. People would come from near and far to see men fight to the death, to see them die in agony.” Capussa paused, remembering for a fleeting instant the acrid taste of blood and dust in his mouth, the screams of agony, and the hated roar of the crowd. Then he continued.

  “At first, Khalid grew rich from this slaughter, but over time, interest began to wane. So Khalid, like the Romans before him, had to bring new and different blood to the games in order to draw the crowds. That, my friends, is why he paid a small fortune to enslave Sir Percival, who was serving a one-year sentence of imprisonment.”

  “Sir Percival? Why was he a prisoner, if I may ask, sir?” Keil burst out in a rush.

  “That is a story for another night, my young friend, but I will tell you this: Sir Percival did no wrong. A one-year jail term was unjustly imposed upon the son of Jacob the Healer, a man from the City of Alexandria. Jacob had saved Sir Percival’s life, and so when this injustice was imposed upon Jacob’s only son, Sir Percival served the prison term in his place.”

  “Jacob saved the Knight’s life?” Bray interjected.

  Capussa nodded. “Sir Percival was traveling across a great desert with a caravan on the way to the City of Alexandria, in Egypt. He had been told there were men of wisdom and learning there … men who might know the whereabouts of the Holy Grail.”

  The eyes of the men watching widened, and Keil whispered, “The Grail!”

  “When the caravan was attacked,” Capussa continued, as if there had been no interruption, “most of the men guarding the travelers fled, leaving Sir Percival and several other men to fight off the brigands. The caravan was saved, but Sir Percival had been sorely wounded in the fight. When the caravan arrived in Alexandria, the Knight was brought to Jacob, a man with great skill in the healing arts. This man saved his life, and in time, he and Sir Percival became friends. When Jacob’s son was falsely accused and convicted of stealing, by a Moor of wealth and power in the city, the Knight volunteered to serve in his place. And so it was that my friend came to fight as a gladiator, in the arena of Khalid El-Hashem.”

  “And you, sir, why were you there?” Keil asked.

  Capussa forestalled Tylan’s growl of irritation with a smile, and turned to Keil. “I, my inquisitive friend, fought on the losing side of a border war to the south of Syene and lacked the gold to ransom my freedom from the victor. Khalid offered to buy my freedom if I served as a gladiator in his arena for a year. Since the alterna
tive was a decade of slave labor in the mines, I accepted. As fate would have it, I was tasked with fighting alongside a Christian knight from a faraway land called Albion.”

  Bray took a long draught from his wineskin and offered a drink to Capussa, who declined. After a nudge from Tylan, Bray reluctantly passed the skin around to the rest of the men.

  “Sir, the wounds on Sir Percival’s back—why … why was he scourged?” Keil asked.

  Tylan leaned forward and glared at Keil. “He might get to that, Keil, if ye’d stop badgering him.”

  “Aye, sir,” Keil said sheepishly.

  Capussa hid a smile and then continued. “Now, Khalid paid a handsome sum for Percival in the belief that people would come in droves to see a Christian Knight from a distant land fight in his arena, but it was not to be. The Knight had agreed to serve a prison term. He had not agreed to draw his sword and kill for the pleasure of others, and so, he refused to fight. This enraged Khalid, and he had Percival scourged and tortured in an attempt to force him to yield to his will, but he would not.”

  When Capussa hesitated for a moment, Keil sprang up and burst out, “So what happened?”

  Tylan started to stand up, “Why, if I have to knock—”

  Capussa smiled and raised a conciliating hand before turning to Keil. “One night, my anxious young friend, Khalid was having dinner with a clever Venetian trader. He told the Venetian of his troubles with the unyielding Christian Knight, who served the Round Table. The trader told Khalid he had heard of these Knights, and for them, honor was everything. Such a man would not fight for the pleasure of others, but he would, the trader suggested, fight with all his heart to protect an innocent. And so it came to pass that Khalid was given a weapon more potent than pain to use against the Knight.”

  Capussa hesitated for a moment, drew out the silver flask from his cloak, took a measured sip, and then closed his eyes in appreciation as the fiery liquid coursed down his throat.