The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  “Well, some vengeance is better than none,” Aelred said with a sniff, “but I do wish you could have piped the three of them into hell for their heinous deed.”

  Capussa laughed. “I am thankful we fight under the same banner, Seneschal. Were it otherwise, I suspect I would be denied both the pleasure of this fine mead and my life.”

  Aelred joined in the Numidian’s laughter, but Merlin only smiled.

  “I have now come to regret what I did,” Merlin said when the two other men fell silent, “for as is the way of things, it has begat far more pain and suffering than I could ever have imagined.”

  “Bah. It was a good thing, I say,” Aelred scoffed.

  “And so I thought at the time,” Merlin replied, “but as I say, much ill came of it. You see, the new emperor lashed out at those around him. He ordered Morgana, and many others, put to death for failing to protect Eudokia. Morgana evaded the death sentence by persuading the emperor that her father, the head of the palace guard, was my coconspirator in the killing. And so, he was put to death in her stead.”

  “A noble wench, this Morgana,” Capussa said dryly.

  “Well, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Her father was a vicious man of no scruples. I suspect his dying regret was that he’d failed to cast suspicion upon her, before she did upon him. Be that as it may, Morgana offered to hunt me down for the emperor and to bring him back my head.” He took a deep drink of his mead and then shook his head. “For the past decade, she has sought to make good on that promise.”

  “This Morgana must be a woman of great wealth to pay for so many sellswords, for so long,” Capussa said.

  Merlin nodded. “Her family was not without means, but most of the gold used to hire the Norsemen, Picts, and others during the war against the Pendragon was provided by the empire. The small cadre of sellswords that protect her castle are now paid from the silver she extracts from the royal mines—she seized them after the fall—although, I am told that most of their yield is now shipped to the emperor.”

  Capussa stared at Merlin for a long moment before speaking, “So we face a woman who has sworn a blood oath to kill you and who will not be denied. This is not something you should spread about, my friend. There are those who would kill you and end the matter.”

  A tired look came upon Merlin’s face. “If that would have saved Arthur, then I would have drunk a cup of poison many years ago and spared this land the maelstrom of violence that has descended upon it. But my death would not suffice. Once the emperor came to know of this country’s great mineral wealth, he would not let it go. He is once again at war with the king of Persia, and he needs every coin he can find to pay his armies.”

  Capussa nodded and then tapped the map in front of him. “Now that I know something of who our enemies are, tell me what you know of their forces and what they mean to do with them. For I can tell you this, my friends—Sir Percival and I have not crossed half the world to die by the sword of a Norse pillager or by the knife of a Roman assassin.”

  CHAPTER 24

  ABBEY CWM HIR

  uinevere stood at the window, looking out upon the emerald green hills to the west, but their beauty was lost on her. All she could see were the images Percival described in his enthralling narrative: the sea battles with pirates on the long voyage from Venice to Joppa, fighting off the raids by thieves and slavers on the overland journey from Joppa to Jerusalem, and his relentless but fruitless search for the Grail—a search that had taken him to nearly every city from Constantinople in the east to Alexandria in the west. Guinevere marveled at his perseverance.

  During the course of his tale, Guinevere had sensed when Percival had been reluctant to speak of the more painful hardships, bloody battles, and the near-death escapes, and she had gently insisted he tell the entire story. Although the Knight had honored her request, in many instances, she almost wished that he had not. Many of the incidents were either heartbreaking or horrific.

  After the Knight had left, the three women had retired to their separate quarters and taken their midday repasts alone. It was as if each woman had needed a measure of solitude to recover from the captivating but heart-wrenching story.

  As she turned away from the window, Guinevere glanced at the untouched plate of grapes, cheese, and bread sitting on the small table in her room but ignored it and walked to the door. She would eat later. A meeting with Merlin the Wise could wait no longer.

  When Guinevere walked into the sitting room, she found Sister Aranwen knitting quietly in the corner and Cadwyn writing in the parchment book where Sir Percival’s story was being recorded. She could tell Cadwyn had been crying. The two women stood up and curtsied as she entered.

  “Cadwyn, please have one of the guards find Merlin,” the Queen said. “I would have words with him about many a matter.”

  “Yes, Milady,” the young woman said and began to gather up her writing utensils. Guinevere turned to Sister Aranwen.

  “Sister, please ask the abbess if we may convene with her after morning mass. I would know what has happened to the ever-meddlesome Bishop Verdino.”

  “I suspect the coward is in hiding,” Cadwyn scoffed as she rolled up a parchment. “He’s probably worried Sir Percival will learn of his thieving ways and take off his head.”

  “Cadwyn Hydwell, he is a man of God; you cannot say such terrible things!” Sister Aranwen sputtered.

  Guinevere raised a calming hand, gently cutting short Sister Aranwen’s coming tirade.

  “Sister, Cadwyn, we cannot squabble among ourselves. Sir Percival is right. I am the Queen, and you are my court, and we must serve the needs of the kingdom, however small it might be. So please, see to your duties.”

  “Yes, my Queen,” the two women said in unison and hurried out the door.

  MORGANA’S CASTLE

  Morgana stared down from one of the windows in her quarters at the Saxon war galley docked below, at the far end of the stone pier. Over seventy more warriors had arrived on the ship, bringing her growing army to over six hundred men. Although Garr, the leader of the largest Saxon war band, had been displeased with the order, she had insisted the men camp outside the castle walls under the watchful eye of the castle guard. She had learned early in life that trust was the gift of a fool.

  Morgana weighed her agreement with Ivarr the Red and his new ally, Sveinn the Reaver, calculating each opportunity for treachery with extreme care. She turned at the sound of Seneas’s light tread, and he handed her a glass of wine.

  “Milady, I sense you are not at ease with the … pact you have reached with Ivarr the Red,” Seneas said respectfully.

  Morgana took a sip of wine and walked over to the map of Albion pinned on the wall before answering.

  “We are about to play a very dangerous game, Seneas. Ivarr is the snake, I the mongoose. Each of us would kill the other without mercy, given the chance. The pact between us merely defers our enmity until we have killed a third common enemy—Sir Percival and his forces.”

  Seneas followed Morgana over to the map. “You suspect the Norseman will betray you before the battle?”

  Morgana laughed. “I do not suspect. I know he will, if it is to his advantage, and not just before but during the battle as well. And most certainly after it is over, as I would him. Yes, the days ahead will be most dangerous ones, indeed.”

  “When will the forces of Ivarr and this Sveinn land?”

  “Forty days hence.”

  Seneas drew closer to the map and pointed to the circle on the southeastern coast. “May I ask why the Norse land at Noviomagus, instead of sailing up the Tamesis and landing south of Londinium? You could meet them there. That would save you—”

  “No, it would not,” Morgana interrupted.

  She took another sip of wine and stared at the circle denoting Londinium. “Remember, the objective is to force Sir Percival to race to the aid of Londinium, and then to defeat his tired and unprepared army at a place of our choosing. If the Norse sail up the Tam
esis and land on Londinium’s doorstep, we could well take the city before he knows that it’s under attack. Once the city is taken, many of the Norse will leave with their human booty. Ivarr and I will then be forced to fight Sir Percival’s army alone, at the time and place of his choosing.”

  Seneas nodded respectfully. “You are wise, Milady. May I ask how you persuaded Sveinn the Reaver to accept this plan? Surely he would have demanded a direct attack up the Tamesis River?”

  Morgana smiled. “He did, indeed, but I played on his fears. You see, Sveinn and his raiders sailed into the Roman Sea two years ago, intending to raid the empire’s cities throughout Italy. His force was almost annihilated by a much smaller fleet of imperial ships armed with clay pots—pots filled with Greek fire. Knowing Sveinn and his men fear this weapon, I told them the Roman named Merlin the Wise had armed hundreds of ballistae within the City of Londinium with this terrible fire, and this fire would rain down on his ships as they approached. The fool accepted the story.”

  “What will happen when he discovers the ruse?” Seneas said with unease.

  Morgana made a dismissive gesture with her free hand. “It will be too late. We will meet Sir Percival’s forces in battle somewhere between Noviomagus and Londinium. Sveinn’s forces will be in the van. They will suffer the most losses. After Sir Percival’s force is crushed, Sveinn will die by poison. If his followers refuse to submit, they will be killed by my forces and those of Ivarr’s acting together. We will then march on Londinium unopposed.”

  “And the city, Milady, what of that?”

  Morgana stepped closer to the map and drew a circle around Londinium with one finger. “It will be sacked. I will be allotted one of every three survivors as slaves. This will replenish my losses in the mines. The rest will be sold. I almost pity the people there.”

  “Milady, you will surely be leaving Lord Aeron behind when you march upon Londinium?”

  “No, he will come. He has a part to play in this drama. It will not be one to his liking, but play it, he will,” Morgana said with a cunning smile.

  * * *

  IN A SECLUDED courtyard on the far side of the castle, Lord Aeron laid his sword and belt down on a wooden bench with the rest of his armor and pulled the coarse wool shirt he wore over his head, revealing a sweat-soaked chest and abdomen striated with cords of muscle. He trained alone each day for several hours, practicing over and over again the drills and moves he’d been taught over a decade ago by the finest knights in the land. The regimen was grueling and exhausting, but he savored every moment of it, for the physical challenge and pain gave him a respite from the mental torment that was his constant companion.

  As Lord Aeron reached for the pitcher of water on the bench, the last rays of the sun struck the four crude training dummies tied to wooden stakes in the center of the courtyard, and for a moment, their slashed and battered bodies were real. The gruesome scene conjured up the memory of the battle at Camlann. Although the bloody scenes had haunted his dreams for years, the pain of the remembrance had not waned with time.

  Arthur had anchored the center of his line with the Knights of the Table and his stoutest foot soldiers, intending to break Morgana’s force with a charge when the two armies engaged. Morgana had anticipated the tactic. She knew her army of sellswords, although twice as large as Arthur’s force, could not withstand a charge led by the Table, so she’d positioned almost a thousand pikemen across from the Knights. This wall of steel had rendered an early charge futile, and it had also allowed Morgana the time to use her greater numbers to wear down Arthur’s weaker flanks.

  As the greater weight of Morgana’s numbers began to take its toll, Arthur had been forced to dispatch contingents of knights to shore up the weaknesses in his army’s flanks, dispersing their combined striking power. Over time, the battle turned into a bloody contest of endurance.

  Although Morgana had undoubtedly assumed her larger force would eventually grind down and overwhelm Arthur’s forces, as the day grew longer and bloodier, the ardor of the sellswords within her ranks began to fade. The price being paid for the promised spoils had become too high. When Arthur, whose forces were nearly spent, sensed this change, he’d assembled what was left of the Knights of the Table and prepared to charge a weakened area in Morgana’s right flank.

  As the man who had been known as Sir Galahad rode forward to join the line of riders preparing for the charge, Lancelot had raced over to him on his black charger, yanked up the face plate of his helmet, and seized Galahad’s arm. Blood was flowing freely down the older knight’s face from a wound in his scalp, and small rivers of blood flowed down the back of the hand that gripped Galahad’s arm.

  “Morgana has sent a force around our left. We have no one to stand against it. Go to the tent with the wounded and take every man who can mount a horse or bear a sword and hold them off.”

  “But the charge—”

  “Galahad,” Lancelot interrupted, his voice hoarse and laced desperation, “there is no one left but you and the wounded! If they break through the line, we are lost, and the charge will yield us nothing. You must be our left flank. Do you understand? You must hold that line.”

  As Galahad nodded grimly and began to wheel his horse away, Lancelot called out to him, “Brother, forgive me, and … if Percival returns, ask that of him for me, as well.”

  Then the Table’s first Knight wheeled his own horse and raced to join the battered line of Knights gathering around Arthur for a final charge. Until that moment, Galahad’s faith in the invincibility of the King and the Table had been so complete that the possibility of defeat and annihilation had never crossed his mind. In that instant, his world changed forever. He suddenly realized Arthur’s army was dying, and unless it was saved, all that he knew and loved would pass into the night.

  As the young knight raced around the camp, gathering the wounded men still capable of wielding a sword, a terrible wrath had overtaken him. Who were these foul creatures to think that they could pull down the mighty Arthur Pendragon and the Table? The men who followed Galahad seemed to sense this rage, and they drew strength from it, as they approached the boiling melee ahead.

  When the knight saw the line of Picts and Norsemen pouring through a gap in the line, he had bellowed out his defiance and galloped into their midst, striking men down to his left and right with each crushing downstroke of his sword. In what seemed the blink of an eye, but what was in reality an hour of savage fighting, the enemy had broken and fled.

  The knight’s fury had been so all consuming that he’d pursued the fleeing men down the hill and into a wooded ravine beyond, a place well outside his own army’s lines. As he wheeled about, seeking other opponents to strike down, Galahad suddenly realized his own peril and turned to gallop back to safety. In that instant, a Pict archer hiding in the wood released his arrow, and it flew across the intervening space, striking the young knight in the face with the force of a mace. As the knight slipped off his horse and slid into blackness, he could see the last rays of the sun slipping behind the hills in the distance. The battle of Camlann was over, for good or ill.

  As the memory faded, Lord Aeron found himself standing alone in the empty courtyard, in the cold darkness.

  He’d been in captivity since that terrible day, the prisoner of an oath he’d given to Morgana of his own free will, but a prisoner nonetheless. Although he’d prayed every day to be relieved of the burden he had undertaken, his prayers had not been answered, until now. He sensed, with the coming of his brother Knight, his time of bondage was nearing an end.

  CHAPTER 25

  ABBEY CWM HIR

  erlin the Wise sat in the same chair Sir Percival had vacated two hours earlier, facing the Queen, Cadwyn, and Sister Aranwen. As Guinevere stared at the diminutive man who had been her husband’s closest advisor for over two decades, she recalled the anger she had felt toward him, particularly in the last years of Arthur’s reign. Arthur had taken the Roman into his confidence and relied upon his advice t
hroughout the war, but he had declined to tell her the true state of affairs.

  Although she knew Arthur had not wanted her to bear any of the burdens imposed by the war, in the end, this had made matters worse. After his death at Camlann, all of those burdens had come to rest upon her shoulders alone. Her ignorance had only made them more difficult to carry.

  Now, however, the old antipathy she had felt toward this man in the past was gone. She couldn’t change what had been, but she could learn from it, and that she intended to do. The man in front of her knew more about Morgana than anyone in Albion, and she suspected he also had stores of knowledge about many other things that could bring relief to the people. She intended to make use of every scrap of that knowledge.

  “We have much to talk about, Merlin, and in another time and place, I would, in accord with court etiquette, exchange niceties with you for a while before addressing the most pressing matters, but I do not have that leisure. I must know certain things today, so that what is left of this Kingdom will survive the morrow.”

  “My Queen, I am, and I always have been, your loyal servant,” Merlin said, bowing his head. “Please ask me what you will.”

  “That I will surely do, but I would ask more of you. I would have you tell me what I need to know—the whole truth of the matter—even if you believe I am not wise enough to see the gravity of the matter, even if you feel that I would not like to hear of it. Do you fully understand this?” Guinevere said with quiet intensity.

  Merlin’s eyebrows rose and he nodded his assent. “Yes. You have my word, my Queen.”

  “Very well then, the first thing that I need to know is how I am going to feed, clothe, and outfit that army outside the abbey’s wall—an army that seems to grow with each passing day.”