The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  “Sir Percival, I have watched you and General Capussa, and yes, Merlin as well, engage in quite lively conversation when you are together.”

  “You have? I mean, yes, my Queen, at times we do talk thus,” Percival answered.

  “And I have watched you laugh and smile with those men, and with the men in the camp as well.”

  “Yes, that is also true,” Percival said, his brow furrowing in confusion.

  “Then why, Sir Percival,” Guinevere said, with a smile in her voice, “do you find no occasion for mirth and joy when we talk? Since you do not converse thus with me, should I fear that you find me dull and dreary?”

  Percival’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he was at a loss for words. “No, my Queen,” he said at last. “You are not dull or dreary in the least. In truth, I have never met a more interesting woman,” he said, struggling with each word. “It’s just that you are the Queen, and they—those you speak of—are my friends and brethren-in-arms.”

  “Then I shall do away with that difference, with a royal command.”

  “A command, my Queen?”

  “Yes, tonight you shall address me, see me, and think of me, in all ways, as if I was just Guinevere—the daughter of the mayor of the local town yonder, or even that of a farmer, baker, or cooper. I would have us talk together … as we did on those morning rides so long ago.”

  “But, my Queen—”

  “Guinevere—just Guinevere,” she corrected, lifting a finger in a delicate remonstrance. “And you, you are just Percival, for the remainder of this night.”

  Percival stared at the Queen for a moment in silence and then smiled. “Yes … Guinevere.”

  “Now, Percival, I saw you, Merlin, and General Capussa laughing together today at the midday meal. Please do tell me what was so amusing that we might laugh together as well.”

  Percival’s brow furrowed as he recalled the moment, and then a look of amusement came to his face.

  “I was in the nearby town with General Capussa today, buying supplies, and one of the men from the town, a man who was as cruel as he was ugly, took it upon himself to bully one of our wagon drivers, young James. He told the lad that Morgana was a witch and that James had better run home to his mother before Morgana turned him into a frog.

  “Well, General Capussa and I happened to hear this as we walked past the wagons to mount our horses, and Capussa,” Percival said with a smile, “is not, let us say, a man to suffer fools quietly. The general turned to young James and said, ‘I wouldn’t worry about that frog spell, James. Merlin says it does not work. But keep an eye out for the one that turns a man into a toad.’ Young James turned to the general, his eyes as wide as the eggs of robin, and said, ‘Does that one work, General?’ The general pointed to the bully and said, ‘Alas, it does James, and as you can see, Morgana used it on this man.’”

  Guinevere burst into laughter, and Percival laughed along with her. Thereafter, the two of them talked and laughed together without reticence, reminiscing over happier times shared in the past. During a lull in their conversation, a lively tune from the celebration below could be heard. The Queen stood and walked over to the window, opening the shutters to reveal the dancing going on below.

  “Come, Sir Knight,” she said, gesturing to the place beside her at the window.

  Percival shook his head in mock sadness. “Alas, I cannot. My Queen has commanded me to only answer to the name Percival.”

  Guinevere laughed. “Percival, then.”

  As they stood by the window, watching the revelry below, the bard and the musicians began to play an old ballad that had been popular at court long ago, a song that would always fill the dance floor. Couples began to fill the grass square below set aside for dancing.

  “Do you remember this song?” Guinevere said.

  Percival hesitated and then nodded, remembering a distant night as if it were yesterday.

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “It was played at one of the balls I attended at court.”

  “And do you remember dancing to this tune?” Guinevere said with a smile.

  “Yes … yes, indeed I do. Two ladies of the court insisted that I dance with them. Thankfully, I was able to do so without making too much of a fool of myself.”

  “That would have been Ladies Evelynn and Isfair,” she said. “And as I recall, you danced quite well.”

  Percival turned and his eyes met hers. “You watched—”

  “I did,” she said quietly. “I wished that I might have danced in their places.”

  “You—”

  “Yes. So, must I also, as you say, ‘insist’ that you dance this ballad with me, Percival.”

  “My—”

  “Guinevere.”

  She stepped away from the window and made a formal curtsy that was the prelude to the dance, and Percival, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward and made the required formal bow. And then they were dancing … stiffly at first, but gradually they both returned to a faraway place where they had both danced before, although not with one another.

  Although the ballad was long, when it came to an end, and each of them gave their ending curtsy and bow, a part of Percival wished the song could have played on forever.

  “Thank you, Guinevere. I … I shall never forget that dance,” Percival said.

  “Nor shall I, and I fervently pray it is not our last,” Guinevere said softly.

  “And I as well,” he said. They stood in silence looking at each other, neither willing to break the spell. Then Percival bowed. “I fear it is late, Milady, and I must see that the men are ready to march in the morning.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Guinevere said, and he could hear the regret in her voice.

  Percival bowed and walked to the door. Her words reached him just before he pulled open the door and stepped into the stone corridor.

  “Did you ever … reminisce about the rides we took together in the mornings and the things we spoke of so long ago, when you were in that distant land?”

  Percival turned and looked at Guinevere, and for a moment, he was once again standing in a cold stone cell gazing at the stars through a small barred window—stars he knew a woman with beautiful blue eyes and golden tresses could see in the skies over Albion as well.

  “Yes, I do. Those memories … and the thought that someday I would see you again are what kept me alive in the arena. Good night, Guinevere.”

  * * *

  CADWYN WAS LEANING halfway out the window of the storage room next to the Queen’s chambers when Sister Aranwen, who’d just arisen from a nap, looked into the room.

  “Cadwyn!” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

  The young woman jumped down and strolled over to the next window, her hands clasped behind her back.

  “Oh, just enjoying the air. It is such a beautiful night, don’t you think?”

  “You can’t fool me, Cadwyn Hydwell. You’ve been eavesdropping on the Queen and Sir Percival!” Sister Aranwen whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

  “I have not! Well, yes I have, and it’s wonderful! I think she’s in love with him, and he with her. I knew it would come to be!”

  The nun turned around and started out of the room. “God save us. I swear, you will yet send me to an early grave.”

  Cadwyn ran past the nun, blocking her path. “I’m right, and you know it,” she whispered insistently, hands on her hips.

  Sister Aranwen looked away for a moment, and then she walked over and sat down on a small wooden bench. Cadwyn put a hand to her mouth and whispered, “You knew. You have always known.”

  The older woman nodded silently, answering in a quiet, resigned voice. “I have. You cannot serve a woman for so many years and not know of things such as these.”

  “Tell me, please!” Cadwyn whispered, sitting down by the older nun.

  “Oh, Cadwyn Hydwell, you are quite the scoundrel!” she sighed, and then gave the younger woman a tired smile. “But you are a true friend to the Queen, and
when I am gone, she will need all of your strength and love.”

  “You’re not leaving, are you Sister Aranwen?” Cadwyn said, a look of concern coming to her face.

  Sister Aranwen smiled. “Not yet, my dear, but in due time. So, yes, I will tell you things of yesteryear that may aid you when the time comes, but,” she continued sternly, “only if you pledge upon the blood of the Christ to keep them secret. Do you so pledge?”

  Cadwyn’s eyes widened, and she hesitated. Then she made the sign of the cross and said, “Yes, pledge I do.”

  “A woman of Guinevere’s station, a woman whose father was a man of great wealth and power, is merely a shiny jewel to be bought and sold in a world such as this, and so she was.”

  “But Arthur—” Cadwyn interjected.

  “Was a good and noble man, or he became such over time, and yes, he cared for Guinevere, and she … she adored him, but her adoration was that of a young woman for a man who is a mighty king; it was not love. Later—and you must remember that Arthur and Guinevere were only together for five short years—she came to respect Arthur’s desire to bequeath peace and justice to the people of this land.” The sister shook her head in regret. “Alas, that was beyond even his power. So you see, the Queen has never had the gift of true love.”

  “But what of Sir Percival and Guinevere? You said—”

  “Patience, patience,” Sister Aranwen said, clasping her hands together in her lap. “At Camelot, the Queen and her guards would ride every morning at the break of dawn before … before it became too dangerous. Since Arthur insisted that a Knight of the Table attend the Queen on these rides, Sir Percival rode with her on many a morning. At first, he was merely a guardian, but over time, they began to talk and share things with one another, and the Queen’s admiration for him grew. She said that he was the most interesting man she had ever met, and, I have to say, when she told me of their conversations, I, too, was intrigued. Well, with each passing day, their feelings for each other grew, and then one day … he was gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes. When the people of the Marches begged for assistance, Percival volunteered for the assignment and left that same day.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you said he cared—”

  The nun held up one hand, and Cadwyn closed her mouth. “He did, Cadwyn. I believe that’s why he left. He is an honorable man, after all. Shortly after that, the Queen stopped going out for her rides. Oh, the threat of an attack was growing, but I also think that she couldn’t bear the memories.”

  Sister Aranwen was silent for a moment, and then she continued, a distant look in her eyes.

  “When she learned the King was going north to the River Tyne to meet a possible attack, she begged him to let her come along. At first, I couldn’t understand why, but when I learned Sir Percival had been ordered to march south from the Marches and to meet the King there, I knew.”

  Cadwyn sat down beside the nun, her eyes rapt with attention.

  “Arthur allowed her to come, but alas, she did not get a chance to talk with Percival. Instead, she almost saw him die in that terrible battle on the Aelius Bridge. That’s … that’s why Galahad has always been special to her. Percival would surely have died that day if Galahad hadn’t come to his aid.”

  Sister Aranwen drew her black prayer beads out of her pocket and moved her fingers along the string in silence for a moment before continuing.

  “A month later, Percival was sent to the Holy Land on that foolish Grail quest. The Queen tried to intercept him on the way, so she could at least say good-bye, but he was already boarding the ship when we reached the outskirts of the city. As we watched the ship disappear into the distance from a nearby hill, tears rolled down her face, but she never made a sound. So you see, they have been in love for a very long time.”

  Cadwyn stared at the older woman, confused by her internal turmoil. “Why do you fear the Queen’s love for Sir Percival? Arthur is dead. I don’t understand.”

  Sister Aranwen looked at the young woman, her eyes filled with apprehension.

  “Cadwyn, I lived through Camlann. I saw Arthur and his legions march against Morgana once before. I fear that if … well, after having waited so long for him, he is lost that …” Sister Aranwen’s voice trailed off, and she bowed her head in silent prayer.

  Cadwyn reached over and took the Sister’s hands in her own. “This time, it will be different, Sister Aranwen,” she whispered.

  The older woman lifted her head. “I pray that you are right, child, I pray with all my heart and soul that it will be so.”

  * * *

  AFTER DRINKING TWO cups of mead with Capussa, Merlin returned to his quarters, intending to retire early, but he could not find the respite of sleep. The mystery posed by the note accompanying the wooden cup Jacob the Healer had given to Sir Percival consumed his thoughts. After an hour of lying awake in the dark, the old Roman arose, lit a candle from the glowing embers in the room’s small hearth, and returned to the desk, where the missive was hidden. He drew out the scroll and again struggled to unlock its meaning.

  Percival had been right. Much of the note had been written in an Aramaic dialect that had not been used in centuries, one he could neither read nor seem to translate. Although Merlin understood the Greek and Latin words randomly interspersed among the Aramaic script, these did not provide any clue as to the meaning of the Aramaic words.

  At first, Merlin had ignored the Greek and Latin words in the text, assuming they were nothing more than the irrational digressions of a sick old man, and focused on the Aramaic script. Since these words were unknown to him, he tried to ascertain their meaning by seeking out similar words in related languages, such as Hebrew and Syriac. Alas, this had come to nothing.

  After seemingly endless hours of futile struggle, Merlin had turned his attention back to the Greek and Roman words in desperation, and over time, he came to realize that the Aramaic was just a ruse. The message was in the Greek and Latin words; they simply had to be assembled together in the proper order. He intended to find that order tonight.

  When at last the cock crowed, signaling the coming of dawn, Merlin stood and walked over to the window and watched the sun rise. He had solved the mystery. Percival had been right. The cup given to him by Jacob was not the Holy Grail, but it was a grail that was holy.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE ROAD FROM NOVIOMAGUS REGINORUM TO LONDINIUM

  s she rode amidst her Saxon guard, Morgana fumed at the army’s slow pace. Sveinn’s men had stopped to raid almost every town and village along the road, and although Ivarr had initially restrained his men, in time, they too had joined in the pillaging. Now the Norse warriors were hours behind her, their horses slowed by the weight of the booty they carried. At this rate, the march to Londinium would take five days instead of three.

  Unlike the Norse, the early reports from her spies said Sir Percival and his army were marching south at speed and in good order. Although this was a part of her plan, Morgana had been surprised by the rapidity of the Knight’s approach and his army’s discipline. Still, she had no fear of the eventual outcome of the approaching contest. Her force, when joined by those of Sveinn and Ivarr, was a third larger than Sir Percival’s, and unlike the rabble led by the Knight, the Saxons and Norse were hardened warriors. Once the battle was joined, they would break the Knight’s lines, and the slaughter would begin.

  The only matter weighing on Morgana’s mind, other than the Norsemen’s laggardly pace, was the silence from her spies. Three days had passed since their last messages—a delay she vowed would be paid for in blood. Morgana turned to Garr, the Saxon war leader riding beside her.

  “Call a halt for the midday meal. We can encamp in that field over there.”

  The tall, square warrior had served under Morgana’s command in the last years of the war against the Pendragon and had proven himself to be a shrewd, if brutal, leader. He had also proven to be loyal, as long as he was timely paid his due in silver. The
Saxon raised a fist, and the order was passed down the line by a mounted crier.

  Morgana spurred her horse off the road and cantered up the slope of a knoll at the far end of the field, followed by Garr, three Saxon warriors, and two of her household retainers. Moments after she dismounted, Garr called out in his guttural voice, “Lady Morgana, a rider comes.”

  She turned and looked in the direction the Saxon was pointing. A Pict warrior approached from the north. It was Talorc. What was he doing here? He should have been at the Abbey Cwm Hir, awaiting the order to kill Guinevere. She seethed with rage as she watched the Pict ride through the Saxon lines at a leisurely pace, his eyes roving over the warriors with a mixture of amusement and scorn.

  “I know this man. I will talk to him alone, Garr,” Morgana said curtly.

  The Saxon war leader watched the approaching Pict for a moment with distaste, his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. Then he nodded and walked back to his men.

  Talorc halted his reddish-brown horse several paces short of Morgana and dismounted.

  “Roman Princess, I can see you—”

  “What are you doing here, Pict?” Morgana hissed. “You should be seventy leagues north, watching the Pendragon’s whore!”

  Talorc’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled, displaying his sharpened black teeth. “The Queen of the Britons is five of your Roman leagues from here … along with an army.”

  “You lie! My spies—”

  “Are dead,” the Pict finished with scorn. “The man whose skin is the color of the night and your fellow Roman, Merlin the Wise, have seen to that.”

  “What? There were—”

  “Four. Now, there are none.”

  “Five leagues? Where? Wait—” Morgana looked around for Garr and saw him watching the exchange, along with three Saxon warriors, ten paces away. She waved him imperiously over. The Saxon strode to her side and glared at the Pict. Talorc returned the glare, his hand resting upon the wicked-looking hunting knife sheathed at his waist.

  Morgana gestured at Talorc. “This man brings tidings of great import. Listen.”