The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  The Norseman watched in satisfaction as his men piled logs, branches, and hay around the base of the tower. The village had nothing of value other than the villagers themselves. Those who surrendered when the fire and smoke made their refuge unbearable would be taken to Londinium and sold into slavery. The others would die in the flames.

  Ivarr knew the village’s half-starved peasants would not sell for much, but then he hadn’t laid waste to the village for coin. He was sending a message. The village was located just across the river, marking the border between Morgana’s lands and those claimed by Hengst. He wanted Morgana to know he could ravage her lands as well, any time he desired.

  “Ivarr!”

  The Norse warlord took another leisurely drink from the pitcher of mead before turning to the tall, blond warrior walking toward him—Ulf. Ivarr disliked the man, but he had made him second-in-command. His fellow countryman was both a doughty fighter and a shrewd tactician. Smart men, Ivarr knew, were dangerous men. Keeping the other man close made it easier to keep an eye on him, and to kill him if it became necessary.

  “Speak,” he ordered.

  “A messenger has come from Londinium. He killed two horses getting here. He says … he says …” The man’s voice trailed off.

  “Speak, or I shall have your tongue!” Ivarr growled.

  The man swallowed heavily and continued, “He says Hengst is dead, and Londinium has fallen, my lord.”

  Ivarr exploded out of his seat and faced the scarred warrior, his face a mask of incredulity and rage. “What! Bring this man to me!” he roared.

  Ulf pointed toward the center of the village. “He cannot walk. We must go to him.”

  Ivarr brushed the other man aside and walked toward the circle of men gathered around the village well. The crowd parted as the Norseman approached.

  A small, filthy man was sitting on the ground gasping for breath. His face was battered and swollen and covered in a heavy patina of dust mixed with blood. Ivarr recognized the man. He was one of the brigands his brother used to collect taxes. He strode over to the man and kicked the ladle of water he held from his hands.

  “Speak, dog! What is this about my brother?”

  “He’s dead … slain by a Knight of the Table,” the man said in hoarse gasps.

  Ivarr kicked the man viciously in the side. “You lie, dog. The Knights are all dead.”

  The man groaned and held up his hands in fear. “Please, Lord Ivarr … I speak the truth. One lives. I saw him. He challenged Hengst on tournament day … and killed him. Then he called upon the people of the city to rise.”

  “Rise? What do you mean, rise?” Ivarr demanded.

  “To rise up against us, and they did. It happened so fast … there were too many of them—we were slaughtered.”

  Ivarr stared at the man, struggling to contain his rage. “What say you? The city is taken? Who is this knight? How many men did he have?”

  “They say he is Sir Percival. They say he returned from the Holy Land. I have never seen a man fight like that. I—”

  Ivarr ripped his sword from its sheath and pressed it against the man’s throat.

  “I asked you, how many men did he have?”

  The brigand’s eyes widened as he gasped out his reply. “T-ten, m-maybe twenty, mostly bowmen.”

  “When? How many days have passed since the town was taken?”

  The man hesitated and Ivarr pressed the tip of the sword into his flesh, drawing blood. The man frantically tried to move away from the pointed sword as he answered in a raspy whisper. “T-two days ago, maybe t-three. Been riding for so l-long, I—”

  Ivarr’s boot smashed into the side of the man’s head, and he slumped to the ground. The Norseman turned to Ulf, his face a mask of rage. “Every man with a horse will ride with me to Londinium, now. The men afoot will follow at a forced march.”

  “But it is late in the day and the fortress—”

  “We ride and march, now!” Ivarr shouted, putting the point of his sword against Ulf’s chest.

  “So it shall be,” Ulf answered, a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes.

  Ivarr turned to the men watching the tense confrontation and roared, “Abandon the siege! We ride and march for Londinium, now! Riders, mount your horses! All others prepare to march. You will leave your booty.”

  Howls of protest followed the order.

  Ivarr stepped past Ulf and jumped up on the stone wall encircling the well, so all of his men could see and hear him.

  “Heed my words well, you fools! Hengst is dead! Londinium has been retaken by the Britons!”

  The rumblings from the men ceased, and for the first time in hours, the small village was deathly quiet.

  “You want your booty? Slaves to sell? Where will you sell them? Londinium is the slavers’ port, Londinium is where you spend your coin, and Londinium is where you sleep. Without that city you have no home, unless you would return to your cold, hard villages in the north, like a pack of cowardly beggars.”

  The men were silent for a moment, and then a man in the front roared, “Never!” Others in the back took up the cry.

  “Then we take back Londinium, and we shall show no mercy! Any man who stands against us shall be put to the sword, and his wife and children shall be sold as slaves!”

  The Norsemen roared their approval.

  “Now, mount! We ride for Londinium!”

  CHAPTER 17

  LONDINIUM

  ir Percival watched the raucous celebration in the town square from a block away, on the second floor of a three-story stone tower. In the middle of the square, four men were playing a lively tune on an assortment of pipes, flutes, and stringed instruments, and several hundred men and women were dancing a simple step to the rhythm. Hundreds more were outside the circle clapping and keeping time, while drinking what Percival suspected was beer or mead.

  Two pigs were being roasted over fires that had been built at each end of the square. The people of Londinium had apparently decided to put the ample stores stolen from them by Hengst and his men to good use.

  Percival’s gaze traveled from the square to the piles of burned and rotted timbers at the base of the tower—the remains of what had once been Londinium’s great cathedral. The Knight remembered attending a mass in the church on a Sunday morning in another world, in another time.

  Arthur, Guinevere, Londinium’s Lord Mayor, and their retainers had been seated in the first pew on the right side of the church, and the Knights of the Table had occupied the pews behind them, in order of seniority. Percival and Galahad, as the Table’s youngest knights, had been seated in the last pew. The lesser knights were seated behind them. The pews on the left side of the church were occupied by the bishops and the great lords and ladies of the land.

  Throughout the mass, Galahad’s blue eyes had roamed over the adoring women in the pews to the left, drawing smiles and twitters of laughter. Percival remembered surreptitiously striking his elbow into Galahad’s side during the reading of the gospel, after the young knight winked at a particularly attractive and attentive young noblewoman. Galahad’s grunt of pain had drawn an amused look from Sir Dinadan, the Knight of the Table killed by Hengst and left to rot in the stadium. He had been sitting in the pew ahead of them. Percival had buried the knight’s remains in the church cemetery just an hour earlier.

  The bittersweet remembrances were chased away by a respectful knock on the old oak door separating the room from the corridor beyond. Percival walked to the door and opened it, revealing Capussa, Cynric, and a smaller man, whose face was all but hidden in the cowl of his cloak.

  Capussa stood behind the man, and Percival noted his friend had his right hand resting on his belt, an inch from the haft of his dagger. Cynric stood to Capussa’s right, his eyes also wary. The archer nodded to Percival and spoke in a tone tinged with suspicion.

  “Sir Percival, this man says that you know him. He says—”

  “It is imperative that I see you,” the man in the co
wl finished.

  Percival’s face froze at the sound of the man’s voice, and then he stepped to one side and waved the men into the chamber.

  “Please, come in and close the door.”

  Capussa, his eyes still on the man in the cloak, followed him into the room along with Cynric. The archer closed the door behind them.

  Percival turned to Capussa and Cynric and gestured to the man in the cloak. “Capussa, Cynric, meet Merlin the Wise, or should I say, Melitas Komnenos.”

  There was an audible intake of breath from Cynric as the man in the cloak reached up and lowered the cowl from his head, revealing a full head of grey hair and a face that was all but obscured by a bushy grey beard and mustache.

  Merlin turned to Capussa, his intelligent grey eyes scanning the man’s features with interest. “Numidian?” he asked.

  Capussa raised an eyebrow and nodded. Merlin inclined his head and turned to Cynric.

  “Cynric the Archer … you were in the Royal Fifth as I recall.”

  “Yes, I was,” Cynric said, surprise in his voice.

  “An exceptional outfit. You won the silver archer’s cup at the royal fair one year. A fine shot that was.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Cynric replied, his eyes widening.

  The grey-haired man turned to Percival. “As for the name, Sir Percival, if you don’t mind, just Merlin will do. It … reminds this old man of a happier time.”

  Percival stared in silence at Merlin for a moment and then nodded respectfully. “Then Merlin it is.”

  Merlin raised a quizzical eyebrow. “How did you know it was me? Even the Queen doesn’t recognize me with all this wretched hair.”

  “In truth, I wouldn’t have recognized you but for your voice. You were clean-shaven and your hair was black, not grey, when I left.” Percival hesitated and glanced out the window at the crowd dancing in the street. “I only knew one Roman from the City of Constantine before I left. I met quite a few more on my … recent travels. Although you hide it well, you share the accent of your countrymen.”

  Merlin looked at Percival for a long moment in silence.

  “I fear you have every reason to bear me ill will, Knight, but there were reasons for the path we chose,” Merlin said in a voice laden with a thousand burdens.

  Percival reached over and rested his hand on the older man’s shoulder.

  “I am sure there were, Merlin, and I would like to know them one day. As for ill will, I bear you none. I followed the orders of my King. What befell me on my travels was the will of God.”

  A sad smile came to Merlin’s face. “I so wish I had your faith, Sir Percival. As for what I would tell you of yesteryear, it must wait. Today, we face imminent peril.”

  Percival gestured to a small table in the corner of the room that was surrounded by four chairs. “Please. Let us sit.”

  As soon as they were seated, Merlin pulled a scroll of parchment from beneath the folds of his cloak and unrolled it on the table. It was a detailed map of Londinium and the surrounding area for forty leagues.

  He tapped the map with one finger, indicating a square drawn beside the river Tamesis.

  “You and your men, and the people of Londinium, achieved a great victory today, but it will all be for naught if you do not prepare for what is to come. Ivarr the Red, Hengst’s brother, is two, maybe three days’ march to the north. He returns from a parley with Morgana.”

  The room was silent. It was as if the name had poisoned the air, and no one was willing to take the first breath.

  “Morgana,” Percival said quietly. “What was the purpose of this parley?”

  “A border dispute,” Merlin answered with a dismissive wave of his hand, “a matter of no moment. The threat we face today is from Ivarr the Red. He has two hundred men, all hardened Norse warriors. Possibly seventy-five are mounted and the rest are afoot. As soon as he learns of—”

  “The death of his brother, he will seek vengeance,” Capussa finished.

  “Mm … not quite,” Merlin said, leaning back in his chair. “I suspect Ivarr will welcome the passing of his brother. My spies tell me that he hated him as much as everyone else. No, what Ivarr cannot accept is the fall of Londinium. He and his fellow Norsemen have turned Londinium’s port into a slaver’s paradise. Every month, they round up and sell hundreds of souls into bondage and collect enough coin, along with the local taxes that they levy, to keep their coffers full of silver. Without Londinium, they have nothing.”

  “We can fortify the town and hold him off,” Cynric said with conviction. “The people here will fight.”

  “And what say you, my friend?” Percival asked Capussa, who was studying the map intently. The Numidian shook his head.

  “If we had a month to prepare, I would agree with the Archer, but we have what, a day, maybe two? The walls that I have seen have not been maintained, and I fear the Norse still have friends in this town—friends who will open one of the city’s many gates while we sleep.”

  “And so what do you propose to do?” Merlin asked, stroking his long beard.

  Capussa turned to Cynric. “How will they come?”

  Cynric traced his finger along a line on the map that began north of Londinium and ran south to the city. “Here. Ivarr will come down the Roman road. It is the quickest way.”

  “Who controls these lands?” Percival asked, pointing to the lands alongside the road running north from the city.

  “Local brigands and outlaws. They swore fealty to Hengst. He used them as tax collectors and sheriffs. The people in the area hate them, and but for the Norse, they would have put them to the sword long ago.”

  “Ivarr,” Merlin corrected, “not Hengst, controls the men along this stretch of road, and they will surely join his force as he moves south.”

  Capussa nodded and traced his finger along the Roman road to a place where it crossed a shaded area. “Archer, tell me of this ground, if you know it.”

  “I know it,” Cynric said. “The road here crosses the Wid River. The surrounding area is a fen.”

  “Fen?” Capussa questioned.

  “A lowland area where the land is flooded. Passage on horseback is difficult and in some places, impossible.” The archer tapped a spot on the map. “There is a bridge here. Ivarr will have to cross the river there on his way to the city.”

  “Many of the rivers we have passed have been shrouded in fog in the early morning,” the Numidian said thoughtfully. “Would this river be thus as well?”

  Cynric nodded. “Yes, but it burns off by late morning.”

  Capussa turned to Percival. “If you await this Ivarr, he will pick the time and place of battle, and his strength will grow as he nears the city. He is weakest now, and he will not expect you to attack him.”

  Percival looked over at his friend, and their eyes met. Then he slowly stood up. “I agree. We must march north, in all haste, and take them unawares.”

  “Do we march in the morning?” Merlin asked.

  Percival looked out at the celebratory crowd and shook his head. “No, today, within the hour, if it can be done. I will speak to the people of Londinium. They must take the field with us in strength, or, as Merlin has said, all will be lost.”

  “That,” Merlin said with a smile, “will just give me enough time to shave, which is something I’ve been waiting to do for a long, long time.”

  MORGANA’S CASTLE

  The persistent knocking on the outer door to her chambers drew Morgana out of a deep sleep. After glancing at the angle of the light flowing through the window, she climbed out of bed, pulled on a luxuriant white silk robe, and slid the bejeweled knife on her night table into one of the robe’s pockets. When she opened the outer door, Seneas was standing there, breathing heavily, a look of trepidation on his face.

  “I trust you have a good reason for waking me?” Morgana said coldly.

  Seneas nodded submissively. “Forgive my intrusion, Milady, but yes. It is a matter of urgency.”

  Morgana s
tared at him, glanced past him into the hall, and then curtly waved him into her chambers.

  “Come in.”

  She walked across the anteroom, followed by Seneas, and sat down on a divan in the center of the room. She gestured to a chair across from her.

  “Sit. Tell me what is so important that I must be awakened at this ungodly hour.”

  Seneas bowed his head and quickly sat down. “Yes, Milady. One of your spies just brought word from Londinium. The man rode for almost two days without—”

  “The message, Seneas,” Morgana said curtly.

  “Hengst is dead, and Londinium has been retaken by the people.”

  Morgana’s eyes widened. “What? Tell me of this—no, bring this man to me, now,” she said as she stood up.

  “Milady, he is in need of—”

  “I don’t care about his needs! I will have him tortured if he cannot rouse himself.”

  “Yes, yes, Milady, a moment only, please,” Seneas said as he stood, bowed, and walked hurriedly to the door.

  Minutes later, two guards came into her chambers, half carrying, half dragging a small man whose boots and woolens were caked in mud from his feet to his waist. Morgana looked at him in disgust. The man reeked of sweat and horse dung, and although she suspected he was barely twenty years of age, his drawn and pale face made him look ten years older. One of the guards started to shove the man to his knees, but he froze when Morgana spoke, her voice as sharp as a knife.

  “Stop, fool! Have him sit on that wooden bench. I will not have him befoul my silken rug. Seneas, get him a drink of that wine there. Use the wooden cup.”

  Morgana waited until the man was seated and had taken a long drink of the wine before she spoke. “Your name?”

  “Ulric, Milady,” the man croaked in a hoarse voice.

  “Take another drink of the wine,” Morgana ordered, reluctantly moving closer to the foul-smelling man. “You will tell me, Ulric,” she said in a tone laced with threat, “all that you know of recent events in Londinium. If you can do this, you will be well paid for your loyal service. If not, you will die this day. Do you understand?”