The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  Morgana made a disdainful gesture with her hand. “Men taken in battle are slaves, as are those bought in the slave markets. Their deaths are a thing of no moment. Now leave, and wash off their foul blood before it stains my floors.”

  Lord Aeron stared at her and spoke in a quiet tone, as cold as the grave, “And will I wash the stain from my soul as easily?” Then he wheeled around and walked out the door, the sound of his steel-clad feet echoing through the stone corridor.

  Morgana looked over at the Saxon guard. “Go, and close the door.”

  When the door closed, Seneas spoke in a cautious tone, “He is a useful tool, Milady, but he is also a dangerous one.”

  Morgana turned her attention back to the map. “I have a tight hold on his leash, Seneas. Do not worry yourself.”

  “Yes, Milady, but he has changed since the other knight returned. I fear that he remembers what he once was and loathes what he has been forced to—”

  She spun toward the older man and spoke in a hiss, “Enough! Lord Aeron will heed my commands, as he has in the past, for I hold the life of the woman he loves in the palm of my hand. As for the future, I only have need of his sword in one more battle, then … then the man who was Sir Galahad will die, but not before he knows that I have killed his precious Queen and brother Knight.”

  “Yes, Milady,” Seneas said, nodding submissively.

  Morgana turned back to the map in front of her and traced a line across the middle of Albion from her castle on the island’s east coast to a circle on the southwestern coast.

  “Ivarr has sent word. He joined forces with Sveinn the Reaver, another Norse warlord. Between the two of them, they have more than one hundred dragonships and can field a thousand fighting men. They will land near the old Roman city of Noviomagus Reginorum, southwest of Londinium. I will meet them there with near a thousand Saxon sellswords. The Pict, Cinioch, has promised to meet us there with three hundred warriors, who will also be under my command.”

  Morgana’s finger traced a second line, from the southwestern port to a circle on the Tamesis River. “Our combined force will then march toward Londinium, ravaging everything in our path. This havoc,” she said with a smile, “will draw that noble fool, Sir Percival, south, with his army of farmers, and with him will come Melitas.”

  “Milady,” Seneas said hesitantly, glancing over at Morgana, “we only have a hundred and fifty men under arms in and around the castle, and some of those men will have to remain here as a defense force. Where will you find the additional men?”

  Morgana brushed off his question. “Sellswords are always available, Seneas, if you have the coin to pay them. I sent a messenger to the land of the Saxons seeking more warriors. They will come. I will also hire some of the brigands that grew fat eating the scraps off Hengst’s table. They’re desperate now that their patron is dead.”

  “Yes, Milady.”

  Morgana took one final look at the map and then turned to the older man. “Now go, and, Seneas, say nothing to anyone else and assign a spy to watch Lord Aeron. I would not have him discover my plans until it is too late.”

  * * *

  AFTER LEAVING MORGANA’S map room, Lord Aeron walked across the bailey toward his quarters in the westernmost corner of the castle. The memory of the day’s slaughter weighed heavily on his mind. When the half-starved slaves laboring each day in the black hell of the silver mines heard of Sir Percival’s return and the fall of Londinium, they rose up and killed their guards.

  He and Morgana’s cadre of sellswords had caught up with the sorry column of men, women, and children the next day as they were walking toward Londinium seeking safety. After a sharp, bloody, but sadly futile fight, the survivors had been herded back to their lives of misery and death.

  As he rode past the bodies of the slaughtered miners after the battle, the knight had come upon a group of ten men. They had fought to the death, side by side, rather than yield and return to slavery. The body of the leader of the uprising was among the ten. He wore a ragged brown jerkin with a patch on the right shoulder—a patch bearing a red dragon with a pike underneath it.

  At the sight of the insignia, the knight had dismounted and dropped to his knees, tears flowing down his face. This man—and possibly the others lying there beside him—had been a pikeman in the Pendragon’s army, one of his brothers-in-arms. These men could well have fought by his side at Camlann.

  As he walked by the open door of the storehouse at the far end of the bailey, Lord Aeron stopped and drew off his helmet. A motion in the storehouse caused him to wheel and reach for his sword. He froze when his eyes came to rest on the terrifying figure staring back at him from a full-length silver mirror resting against the far wall. The mirror had been scored and dented by Morgana’s Saxon sellswords when they first seized the castle, but he could still recognize the visage.

  It was a face that had once been adjudged by many to be the most handsome in the realm. The knight recognized the scars that had deprived him of that laurel, but what he didn’t recognize were the empty blue eyes staring back at him—the eyes of a man who was already dead.

  As he turned to leave, Lord Aeron’s gaze drifted to the right side of the cracked mirror, and for a moment, another figure appeared—a knight with a mane of gold riding on a magnificent white steed through the streets of Londinium in a long parade, surrounded on both sides by cheering crowds. As he watched the strikingly handsome man ride past, with a roguish smile on his face, the laughter in the knight’s sparkling blue eyes wounded Lord Aeron to the core.

  In that instant, a hundred memories raced through his mind: the parties at court, the victories on the tournament fields, the battle at the Aelius Bridge, and finally … Guinevere’s face. And then they were gone.

  Lord Aeron stumbled away from the storehouse, through the arched stone door that led to the bleak corner tower where he’d lived for what seemed an eternity. He stopped just inside the door and sat down heavily on a cold stone bench and lowered his face into his hands.

  CHAPTER 23

  ABBEY CWM HIR

  ne of two new guards now posted outside of Guinevere’s quarters walked into the sitting room where she was waiting, along with Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen. Guinevere sat in a chair in the center of the room, while Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen were seated at a small table to her left. Each woman had a stack of parchment, several quill pens, and an inkpot in front of her. A third chair faced Guinevere, a few feet away.

  Much argument had ensued over the seating arrangements, with Cadwyn wanting Sir Percival’s chair to be closer to the Queen, and Sister Aranwen insisting it had to be against the far wall to be proper. Guinevere had chosen a compromise location that would allow the Knight to tell his tale without having to raise his voice every time he spoke.

  “Your Highness, Sir Percival is here for his audience,” the guard said formally as he bowed.

  “Very well. It would be our pleasure to see him now,” Guinevere said with a small smile.

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  A moment later, Sir Percival entered the room. He wore a clean, full-length white tabard bearing the crest of the Table, a fine black leather belt, and worn leather boots. The Knight bowed to Guinevere.

  “My Queen,” he said. Then he turned to Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen and made a slightly less formal bow. “Ladies of the Court.”

  Guinevere smiled, amused at the expression of pleasure on Cadwyn’s face. She gestured to the chair across from her.

  “Sir Percival, please sit. We have much to talk about. And, as you can see, we are not at court. That … is no more, and I … am Queen in name only. So I would ask that you address me, Sister Aranwen, and Cadwyn less formally and that you speak today as freely as you would with, say … your friend, Capussa.”

  Percival’s eyes met hers, and he spoke with quiet sincerity.

  “For me, you are the Queen of all the Britons, and you shall always be thus, and your wish for less … formality in our conversation is my command. Ho
wever,” Percival said hesitantly, “I would ask that you relieve me of the burden of speaking with you as freely as I would with my Numidian friend. That might be a bit … awkward.”

  “I see,” Guinevere said with a small smile. “Then you are so relieved. Now, if you would be so kind, I, and my good friends, would hear of your travels, both the good and ill. Sister Aranwen and Cadwyn shall endeavor to keep an accurate record of everything that you say.”

  Percival nodded, his eyes meeting hers for a moment. “Yes, my Queen.”

  * * *

  MERLIN AND AELRED sat at a table in a small stone room on the third floor of the abbey’s southernmost tower. Merlin glanced down at the plate of cheese, sausage, and dark brown loaf of bread on the table and decided to wait until their guest came before eating. He stood and walked over to a window on the north side of the room and looked across the green to the tower where he knew Guinevere was meeting with Sir Percival. After listening to Capussa’s telling of only a part of the Knight’s saga, he suspected the Queen was about to hear a story like no other.

  Aelred looked across at the crackling fire warming the room, and then turned to Merlin. “You trust this Numidian?”

  Merlin shook his head in mild exasperation. “You have asked me that before, Aelred, and the answer is the same—yes.”

  “I am just being—”

  “Certain, I know, and I also know that if I am in error, it may well cost all of our lives, but I am certain. This man has laid down his life for

  Sir Percival many times, and he has traveled across half the world with him. He can be trusted, and he is a man, like us.”

  Aelred harrumphed, “You mean like you, a man of secrets and a consummate schemer.”

  “You have done your share of scheming, my friend,” Merlin said with a smile.

  Aelred nodded his head in reluctant assent. “Yet, but of necessity, not choice. That’s the difference between us.”

  Merlin shrugged. “If you wish. The Numidian is like us in that he sees the world as it is—a cruel and merciless place, where evil will thrive and the weak will be persecuted unless men of goodwill are prepared to do what is necessary to defeat it.”

  “To be equally cruel and merciless, you mean,” Aelred said dryly.

  Merlin nodded. “Sometimes, yes, but, to quote a wise man, the difference is we do it of ‘necessity, not choice,’” Merlin finished with a smile.

  “Bah, I don’t know why I put up—”

  A knock on the door interrupted what Merlin suspected was going to be another of Aelred’s frequent tirades.

  “Come in,” Merlin called.

  Capussa opened the door and walked into the room, his right hand resting on the pommel of the sword by his side. He gave a slight bow. “Noble sirs, to what do I owe the honor of this invitation?”

  Merlin stood up and returned his bow. “The honor, my friend, is ours. May I introduce Aelred, the Pendragon’s Seneschal.”

  Aelred stood up slowly and spoke in his usual irascible tone. “The Pendragon, bless his noble soul, has long passed, so I’m not Seneschal of very much, but I’m honored to meet Sir Percival’s comrade in arms, and, I am told, the man who planned the battle that laid low the barbarian, Ivarr the Red.”

  Capussa nodded to Aelred. “And I am honored to meet the Seneschal of such a mighty king.”

  “Please, sit,” Merlin said, gesturing to the available chair at the table, “and have a mug of Aelred’s mead. It is the finest in all the land.”

  Capussa sat down, poured himself a mug of mead, and after taking a draught, turned to Aelred. “I tasted a thousand cups of mead, in a hundred cities and towns, and this is surely one of the finest, sir.”

  A rare smile came to Aelred’s face. Merlin waited for Capussa to enjoy another drink before rolling a map out on the table.

  “Good Sir, you and Sir Percival have managed to retake Londinium and to defeat the forces of Ivarr the Red, but that will not be the end of it.”

  “Are you suggesting that more battles loom on the horizon?”

  “Sadly, yes,” Merlin said.

  “Well then, we have something to celebrate. For a while there, I thought I was going to be condemned to live the life of a country squire,” Capussa said with a smile.

  Aelred struck the table with his fist. “That’s the spirit! This time we will crush Morgana and lay waste to—”

  “Patience, Aelred,” Merlin interrupted. “Let us first find a way to survive until the next full moon. Now, here is what my spies tell me is afoot.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “After his defeat, Ivarr marched north to Morgana’s castle, where the two of them—”

  Merlin paused when Capussa politely gestured for him to stop.

  “Merlin the Wise, I do not know of this Morgana, and all I know of the Norse warrior, Ivarr the Red, is that Sir Percival unhorsed him on the bank of the River Wid. To defeat these enemies, I must know more of who they are and what they seek.”

  Merlin nodded. “You are wise, my friend. Very well, let me tell you of the people we fight. Ivarr … his story is a simple one. He is a Norse warlord. He came here seeking power and wealth, and he will put to the sword anyone—man, woman, or child—who stands between him and those desires. That is not to say he will be a foe of no moment in the contest to come. To the contrary, Ivarr is a savage and cunning enemy in his own way, but his desires, they are simple.”

  Merlin hesitated long enough to take a drink of mead, and then he continued.

  Morgana, however, is the most formidable enemy I have ever faced. She is learned, ruthless, disciplined, patient, and merciless.”

  “It seems,” Capussa mused, “you know this woman well.”

  “Indeed, I do. She was the second most gifted student that I ever taught.”

  Aelred choked on the mead he was swallowing. When he recovered, he pointed an accusing finger at Merlin. “You taught that foul witch? Now I know why she is such a human scourge!”

  Capussa smiled and gestured for Merlin to continue.

  “Yes, I bear much of the blame for this ‘scourge,’ as you say, but hear the whole story before you condemn me, old friend. In another life, I was a healer in the City of Constantine, and I also taught the healing arts to the students of the wealthy and powerful. One night, the imperial guards came to my door, and I was rushed to the bedside of the emperor. His body was wracked with a fever, and his physician—a fool—had nearly bled him white in an effort to save him. I was told that if I saved the emperor’s life, I would be accorded great power and status, but if he died, I would die a moment later.”

  “Seems rather unfair,” Aelred said. “Why you, and not his own physician?”

  “He’d already been killed, so they couldn’t kill him twice,” Merlin replied, “and yes, it was unfair, but the emperor … well, he was the emperor. Thanks be to almighty God, the fever afflicting him was one I had treated before with some success. So, I was able to cure him. From that day on, I was made the court physician, and I was also assigned to teach the emperor’s heir, Alexios, and the other children of the city’s most powerful nobles. It was in this role,” Merlin said with regret, “that I met Megaera Igaris—the woman you know as Morgana. She is a distant relative of the emperor, and her father served as the head of the palace guard.

  “Alexios and Morgana were the most gifted students that I ever taught, but they were also very different. Alexios was a kind and honest young man. He loved learning for its own sake, and he truly aspired to be a man of wisdom. For Morgana, knowledge was just a means to an end—power.”

  “Sounds like a typical Roman, always seeking power,” Aelred said in a slurred growl.

  “Alas, good Seneschal, all men seek it in some measure or another, that is, excepting myself,” Capussa said and then drained his cup of mead.

  “Indeed?” Aelred said skeptically. “And what do you seek?”

  “Another cup of mead,” Capussa said, drawing laughs from the other two men.

  Aelred refill
ed all of their cups, and the Numidian nodded toward Merlin. “Please, continue with your tale. I would know more of this woman.”

  Merlin nodded. “Intrigue and the pursuit of power are obsessions at the imperial court, and Morgana not only loved the game, she played it with consummate skill, despite her youth.”

  Merlin hesitated as a vivid picture of Morgana walking through the palace grounds with one of the emperor’s courtiers flashed through his mind. He remembered her courteous nod as they passed on that day. In that instant, he knew she was arranging his death. It was a just a matter of when. The old Roman took a draught of mead before he continued, trying to wash down the fear the memory had resurrected.

  “When the emperor took a new wife, Eudokia, upon the death of Alexios’s mother, Morgana managed to become one of her closest friends and confidantes. A year later, Eudokia gave birth to a son, Leo, and Eudokia, at Morgana’s urging, attempted to persuade the emperor to name Leo as his successor instead of Alexios. The emperor declined to do so. Several months later, the emperor suddenly died. The day after his death, his brother, an ambitious and dissolute man, seized the imperial throne. A month later, he married Eudokia and named Leo as his heir.”

  Capussa raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Merlin sighed. “The scheme was Morgana’s, and like all of her schemes, it was well planned and executed. All that remained was Alexios’s claim to the throne. That had to be eliminated, and so it was. The day after the wedding, Alexios was seized and blinded—that was the accepted, if barbaric, way of rendering an heir to the throne ineligible without killing him. Alas, the blinding was crudely done and the boy died three days later, in agony.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Since I knew that I was next on Eudokia and Morgana’s list, I planned my escape, but,” Merlin said, shaking his head with regret, “foolishly, I felt compelled to take revenge for the wrong done to the boy. I laced Eudokia’s and the new emperor’s meal with a potion that should have killed them both after a night of suffering, but I was only partly successful. Eudokia died, but the emperor did not. He’d drunk heavily before he supped and only ate a bite or two, so the effect of the poison was diluted. Still, he didn’t escape unharmed. His left arm and the left side of his face were paralyzed by the effect of the poison.”