The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  “I understand, Milady,” Cadwyn said softly.

  “I sent a messenger racing to find Arthur, but I feared it would be too late. Over a hundred of Morgana’s men were on the bridge, and although only a few could reach Sir Percival at one time through the narrow gap, I knew he couldn’t stand against so many for long. And that,” Guinevere said with a smile, “was when Sir Galahad threw a rope over the wall of the castle, climbed down, and raced out to join the fight.”

  “Yes!” Cadwyn said triumphantly, striking her small fist into the table.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, child, are you trying to wake the dead?” Sister Aranwen whispered in exasperation.

  Guinevere couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, it was a wonderful thing. I could see the smile on Galahad’s face as he raced toward that bloody melee; and when Lancelot bellowed over the wall for him to come back, he laughed and ran faster. What a magnificent rogue he was,” she finished.

  “And so the two of them, Percival and Galahad, fought together, side by side, on that bridge. At first, they just held the narrow position in the center, but then they began to drive the enemy back. It was … truly a wondrous thing.

  “When Arthur arrived on the battlement, he raced to the wall and watched the fight for a moment, mesmerized, and then turned to Lancelot, who had followed him. He ordered Lancelot to assemble a force of six knights and a score of archers in the bailey. He told him that he intended to drive the attackers from the bridge.

  “When Lancelot told him it could be a trap and they could lose the entire castle, I remember his words as if they were spoken yesterday. He said, ‘Lance, if we don’t ride out, we will lose far more than that.’”

  The room was quiet as a tomb for a moment, and then Guinevere reached a hand into the vanishing stream of moonlight, closed her fist, and said, “And he did as he promised. He drove Morgana’s force from the bridge. By nightfall, they’d retreated into the forest.”

  Guinevere closed her eyes for a long moment, remembering the two young knights covered in blood, walking back across the bridge together after the battle. Galahad had cuffed Percival on the shoulder as they walked and said something. Percival had stopped and looked at him incredulously, and then a moment later, the two men had broken into a fit of laughter. She smiled, remembering how much she had wanted to know what Galahad had said. “So you see, when Captain Potter said the man on the ship had asked after Galahad, I knew it was Sir Percival.”

  “I knew it had to be him,” Cadwyn said, clasping her hands together.

  Sister Aranwen, whose expression was more reserved, leaned forward. “Milady, there’s something that vexes you … perhaps something the captain said?”

  Guinevere hesitated for a moment. “There is. Sir Percival and I were born in the same year. So he would be in his thirtieth or thirty-first year, but the captain said his face was that of a man in his early twenties. It is … odd.”

  “Milady,” Cadwyn said, “the captain only met him for a moment, and who knows what potions they may have in the faraway places Sir Percival has visited? Why, Sir Percival may have found the fountain of youth!”

  Sister Aranwen scoffed. “The fountain of youth! How ridiculous. You are surely in need of rest if that is—”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Sister,” Cadwyn responded tartly.

  Guinevere reached across the table and rested a hand on the arm of each woman.

  “It’s late, my loyal friends, and we have a hard day’s ride in the morn. So we should get what sleep we can before then.”

  CHAPTER 14

  MORGANA’S DOMAIN

  organa tied the reins of her horse to a yew tree just below the crest of a hill and continued her ascent to the top on foot. She scanned the thick, virgin forest surrounding the narrow trail with a measure of unease. The Pict warrior hidden in the woods at the top of the hill was a merciless killer, and this was his domain. He lived in the forest, like any other animal—eating, sleeping, and hunting for his daily fare.

  Although she detested the man, Morgana had used the Pict’s services before. He was a useful tool. He was also a very dangerous one. Unlike other men, the Pict had little interest in silver or gold and even less interest in power. He followed his own set of rules, and if you transgressed them, death was immediate.

  Morgana paused just below the crest and nocked an arrow in her bow before walking up to the clearing above. She knew her guards would never get there in time if the meeting did not go as planned. She stood at the edge of the small clearing and waited in silence. She could feel the Pict’s eyes on her, but she could not see him. Suddenly, a wiry man of middle height, dressed in animal skins, emerged from the forest wall thirty yards away, as if emerging from an unseen door. Brown, black, and green markings adorned almost every patch of the Pict’s exposed skin, including his bald head.

  Two knives were sheathed in the leather belt at his waist. The Pict used the long knife for killing and the shorter knife for skinning his kills, both animal and human. Morgana had seen his handiwork. The hunter’s bow gripped in the warrior’s right hand was painted black, as was the arrow nocked loosely in its bowstring. The fletching at the end of each of the Pict’s arrows was dyed a bright blue.

  The warrior hesitated a step outside the forest wall, sniffing the air like an animal and extending his tongue, as if he could taste the presence of an enemy, before walking across the space that separated them. He stopped five paces from Morgana, his coal black eyes sweeping every inch of her body. After finishing his inspection, the Pict nodded and spoke in a quiet, heavily accented voice, “You have need of me, Roman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you prepared to pay my price?”

  “And what is that?”

  “The same as before, two wagons of grain for my people, and … a life, for sacrifice.”

  Morgana could care less about the blood price demanded by the Pict, but she decided to resist the demand. An animal had no right to bargain for human blood.

  “You can have the grain, and then some, but not the life.”

  The Pict smiled, exposing teeth that had been dyed black and filed to points.

  “Then our time is at an end,” he said and began to back away, his eyes never leaving Morgana’s.

  “Why, Pict,” Morgana said coldly, irritated by the man’s temerity, “do you need a human sacrifice?”

  The Pict smiled again. “Why do you care, Roman? You have sent many souls into the darkness. What is one more?”

  Morgana’s eyes narrowed, and the two stared at each other in silence. Then the Pict’s smile vanished, and he spoke in a quiet voice laced with anger.

  “When your legions first invaded our lands, the rivers ran red with the blood of my people. Their spirits will haunt me if I perform a service for you. Only the sacrifice of a man or woman will suffice to atone for my wrong.”

  Morgana stared at the man, wondering idly if she could draw and release the arrow nocked in her bow and kill him before he reached her. For some reason, she suspected the Pict would win the contest, and his eyes told her that he knew this as well.

  “The price will be paid, Talorc.”

  A flash of rage rippled across the Pict’s face, and he spoke in a hiss, “Do not say my name, Roman. My ancestors will hear you, and they will curse me for not killing you. The blood price for lifting that curse would be far higher than even you can bear.”

  “Threaten me again,” Morgana said slowly and softly, emphasizing each word, “and I will see that you join those precious ancestors of yours before the sun sets.”

  For a moment, the Roman princess thought the Pict would attack her, and she tightened her grip on her nocked bow, but then he smiled without humor.

  “I will join them soon enough. Now, tell me what you would have me do. I have far to travel before the sun sets.”

  * * *

  LORD AERON HAD learned of Morgana’s secret meeting in the usual way. Whenever his master intended to secretly leave the castle before dawn, L
eofric, Morgana’s Saxon guard, would order old Tom to wake him when he rose to milk the cows. Once Lord Aeron had discovered this practice, he’d offered Tom a silver coin if he would leave his staff outside his hut on the night before, instead of taking it inside.

  Lord Aeron had left the castle four hours before dawn, through a passage unknown to Morgana, a passage he’d learned of more than a decade earlier from the lord of the castle’s daughter. After emerging from the passageway on the far side of the wall, clothed in the simple attire of a woodsman, he’d traveled on foot to a nearby farmhouse, where a horse was waiting for him.

  From there, the knight rode to the crest of a hill, half a league distant, and waited. He knew Morgana had a practice of meeting with her spies in one of two locations. One was visible from the north side of the hill, the other from the south. He would not know which slope to ascend until she passed this spot.

  After dismounting from his horse, the knight took a seat on a rock that gave him a view of the trail below. As he watched the stars descend in the clear night sky, the memory of a distant summer night drifted through the iron bars he’d forged around the past, like a cool morning fog.

  It was the summer Guinevere had come to stay in her uncle’s manor, a half league away from his family’s ancestral home. He remembered being surprised at her beauty when they were first introduced at the formal welcoming dinner, but he had kept his distance. Like everyone else in the kingdom, he knew she was betrothed to the King, and he had known many beautiful women, some more beautiful than Guinevere. They had always been at his beck and call. Being denied this one woman had seemed a matter of no moment at the time.

  Over the next three months, his feelings had changed. A flame had begun to grow inside him with each outing and social gathering, one he had never felt before—one that shook him to the core of his being. In an effort to extinguish the growing maelstrom within, he had thrown himself into his training, caroused with his friends until dawn, and spent many a night abed with other women. It had all been for naught. His days and nights were haunted by her enchanting laugh, mesmerizing smile, and noble soul.

  On the night before her parting, he remembered sitting on a hill like this one, hidden in the shadows, watching her stroll alone through her uncle’s walled gardens in the moonlight. He could hear the soft notes from an old melody being played within the manor as they drifted over the wall and into the forest, carried on the warm breeze.

  When the golden-haired Queen-to-be reached a marble circle hidden from the sight of those within the manor by a fountain, she paused to listen to the music. After swaying back and forth for a moment, she turned, bowed to an imaginary partner, a sad smile on her face, and began to dance. He remembered standing, as if in a trance, and matching her graceful steps and pirouettes on the worn forest path in front of him, as if he were her partner in the dance below.

  When the song ended, Guinevere bowed in his direction, unaware of his presence, less than a stone’s throw distant, but an eternity away. He had made the answering bow and watched her walk back into the manor, knowing it would be the last time he would see her before the royal wedding. The flame within had begged him to scale the wall and to take her to some faraway place, where they could be together, but in the end, he had done nothing. There was nothing to be done. Fate had already chosen Guinevere’s path, and he was powerless to change it.

  An hour before dawn, the pounding of hooves drew the knight’s mind back to the present, and he watched Morgana, accompanied by Leofric and five other men, veer northward. He took a final look at the sky before leading his horse down the trail toward the north slope of the hill.

  An hour later, Lord Aeron saw Morgana proceeding to the meeting place alone. As he watched from his vantage point atop the hill, a Pict warrior emerged from the far side of the clearing wearing a patchwork of animal skins. The knight noticed that both Morgana and the Pict were carrying bows, and arrows had been nocked in both weapons. The two talked for a quarter of an hour, and then the Pict left. As the painted warrior walked back into the forest, Lord Aeron noticed that the fletching on the arrows in the quiver on his back were a bright blue.

  THE ROAD TO LONDINIUM

  Percival checked his saddle one last time and turned back to the campsite. Cynric was talking to four of his men on the other side of the clearing. In the hour after sunrise, the archer and some of his men had met with a group of merchants in the forest south of Londinium and sold the bags of flour and beans they had carried with them on their trip. Now that the trade was done, Percival expected Cynric and his men to return to their camp to the south with the goods they had acquired from Londinium’s tradesmen.

  As Percival watched, four of Cynric’s men mounted and headed south down the forest trail. The rest walked their horses over toward the Knight, with Cynric in the lead. Percival frowned and walked over to Capussa. The Numidian was sitting on a nearby rock sharpening his sword.

  “What is this?” he asked, gesturing to the four horsemen leaving the camp. “Cynric and the rest of the men should be leaving as well. This is our agreed place of parting.”

  Capussa smiled but didn’t look up.

  A moment later, Cynric and seven of his men stopped a pace away. “Why aren’t you returning home with your other men?” Percival asked.

  Cynric glanced at the departing men and then looked back at Percival. “We will return home, but later. We travel with you to find the Queen.”

  Percival shook his head. “Archer, I cannot burden you and your men with the perils and hardships of this journey.”

  Cynric nodded, his face set. “I know that, Sir Knight, but each of us has made our decision. We will travel with you.”

  Capussa sheathed his sharpened sword, walked over to Percival, and gripped him by the shoulder.

  “Well, then, we are a party of ten. A good number, I think.”

  Percival looked over at the Numidian skeptically. “And you, of course, knew nothing of this?”

  Capussa shrugged, barely restraining a smile, then he turned to the archer, ending further argument. “So, my friend, shall we get started on our quest to find Queen Guinevere?”

  Cynric and Capussa exchanged amused looks, and the archer turned to Percival.

  “Is that acceptable to you, sir?”

  Percival looked at each of the men who’d volunteered to share the perils of such a journey and then answered, “I would be proud to travel in such company.”

  Cynric turned to Tylan. The other man stepped forward.

  “We had planned to take the road just ahead, on the south side of the Tamesis past the city, but the men from Londinium we bartered with this morn said two bands of Hengst’s reavers are spread out along the road collecting taxes. So we must cross the Tamesis and take the road and trails on the north side of the city. We’ll pass within sight of the north wall.”

  “Is it wise to travel so close to the city?” Percival questioned. “Today is tournament day,” Tylan said, glancing at Cynric. “We should be able to pass by without being noticed.”

  “Tournament day?”

  “It’s something that Hengst holds in the old tournament stadium every month,” Cynric answered, his face tight. “He forces the people of the city to attend. The distraction will help us.” Then he nodded for Tylan to continue.

  “There is a boatman awaiting us. He will take us to the north side of the river. The fog is heavy this morning, so we should be able to get across without being seen. Once we’re north of Londinium, we’ll stay off the main roads until we reach Corinium. We should be able to avoid the bands of brigands that serve as Hengst’s tax collectors in that area. From there, we can take the Roman roads most of the way to the abbey.”

  Percival gave Tylan a solemn nod and said, “Then let us pray for a safe passage and begin our journey.”

  FOREST ROAD EAST OF LONDINIUM

  Percival eased his horse down the forest trail, following Cynric and Tylan. Capussa and the rest of Cynric’s men followed behin
d. The winding trail was so narrow they had to ride in single file, and on one long stretch they had been forced to dismount and lead their horses to avoid the thick canopy of branches and foliage overhanging the path.

  Four hours after dawn, Tylan led the party of men to a small clearing hidden from the trail and dismounted. He walked over to the other men and pointed to the north. “Ten or so of Hengst’s men are on the road about a furlong up ahead. The trail is visible from the road there. We can wait and hope they move on, or we can try to climb over that hill.”

  Percival looked over at the hill on their right. The slope was steep and thickly wooded at the bottom, but the tree line ended sixty or more paces from the crest. The Knight shook his head. “Let’s wait and see if they move along.”

  Cynric and Capussa nodded in agreement. After the party had dismounted and tied their horses to a nearby tree, Tylan glanced around the clearing and growled, “Where is that boy? I swear—”

  His tirade was cut off by the sight of one of Cynric’s men sprinting up the trail toward the clearing, fear etched across his face. Capussa and Cynric reached for their bows at the same time, and Percival grasped the hilt of his sword. The man stumbled to a stop a pace away from Tylan, gasping for breath.

  “The Norsemen have taken Keil! He … went after a rabbit … they saw him … ran him down with the horses. He’s alive … but I heard them talking … they’re taking him to the tournament.”

  A wave of emotions crossed Tylan’s face from rage, to fear, and finally to anguish.

  Cynric stared at his friend for a long moment and then looked off into the forest when he spoke. “Tylan, I know the boy is your brother’s son, but—”

  Tylan lowered his head and nodded, his face ashen.

  Percival stepped over to the two men. “What is this ‘tournament’ of which you speak?”

  Cynric gestured toward a small rise on the far side of the clearing, his face grim. “Come, you can see the tournament field from up there.”