Lewyn shook his head, his eyes filled with grief. “It is a thing beyond even his skill.”
“God forgive me, I have failed her,” Torn whispered. Then he walked over and mounted his horse.
Torn turned to the other men. “Return to the manor. I will be joining the battle line below.”
“What? Your duty is—” Lewyn started.
“To protect the Queen, and I have failed. Now … I will kill her enemies until I am spent. The rest of you will return to the manor and protect Lady Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen.”
* * *
MORGANA SCANNED THE length of Sir Percival’s hard-pressed lines from the slope of the hill that bordered her right flank and smiled in satisfaction. After four hours of hard fighting, the greater weight of the Norse and Saxon forces had pushed the Queen’s Army, step by step, deeper and deeper into the valley, leaving it backed up against a steep, circular slope from which escape would be all but impossible.
The cost had been far higher than she’d anticipated. Sir Percival’s infantry had made the Norse and Saxons pay in blood for every inch of ground, and Cynric the Archer and his men had wreaked havoc with their longbows. Apparently the lord mayor’s prison in Londinium was not as secure as he thought. Still, the end was near. They just needed to make one more massed attack on the center of the line, and it would collapse—an attack she had called for three times, without seeing any movement from Sveinn’s force.
“Garr, why is there no attack on the center? I told that fool—”
“There will be no attack upon the center, Roman,” a coarse, guttural voice growled from behind her.
Morgana wheeled her horse around and saw Canute, Sveinn’s second in command. The giant Norseman’s blond hair was matted with sweat, and blood from a scalp wound flowed down the right side of his neck.
“What do you mean? That is the weakest point!”
“So you say, but we have tried to break the Britons’ shield wall there before. Each time the Knight with the raven hair has cut down our strongest warriors and rallied his men. Now, Sveinn and Ivarr the Red have agreed that it is time for you and your Saxon sellswords to bleed.”
Morgana’s eyes narrowed. She should have anticipated this. When Sveinn had refused to press the attack, Ivarr had inveighed against her by suggesting her forces had not carried their share of the burden in the battle. Although the charge was not wholly false, an attack by her force at this point would be foolhardy.
The ground in front of her line sloped sharply upward, giving the enemy a defensive advantage, where the ground in front of Sveinn and Ivarr’s men was level. That advantage would give Sir Percival time to join the fight, as he had over and over again throughout the day, and then it would be a slaughter. She had never seen a man fight with such skill and ferocity other than Lord Aeron.
Morgana smiled. The time had come to use the knight’s lethal blade one last time. She would demand that he challenge Sir Percival to single combat. In return, she would promise to spare the Queen’s life and free him from his pledge of service—if he prevailed. The noble fool would have no choice but to consent, and no matter how the contest ended, she would be the winner. Either Lord Aeron would kill Sir Percival, or Sir Percival would kill him. If Percival prevailed, he would die a moment later by one of Talorc’s poisoned arrows.
Once their hero was dead, the Britons would break and run, and she, Morgana, would kill a second army of Britons in her lifetime.
THE VALE OF ASHES
For the past four hours, Sir Percival had ridden behind the army’s right flank and the center, shoring up near breaks in the line. Capussa had played the same role for the left flank, while at the same time directing the overall battle. As Percival moved out of the line, after fending off yet another savage attack on the right, the Knight saw Torn walking toward him, bearing a sword and shield. He rode over to the hunter, assuming that Merlin or the Queen had sent a message, and dismounted.
Torn’s face was a mask of despair.
“Forgive me, sir. I have failed the kingdom. The arrow of a Pict warrior has struck the Queen. It was a slight wound in the arm, but the arrow … it was poisoned.”
Percival’s face froze.
“The Queen … she—”
“She lies on her deathbed, I am told. Sir … I would take the line with your soldiers, if you will allow it.”
Percival stared at the hunter, unwilling to accept his words. “An arrow … you are sure—”
Torn looked down at the ground. “I am sure, Sir Percival. An arrow with blue feathers. It was Morgana. The assassin rode straight for her camp after … after the Queen was struck. The Saxons … they recognized him.”
Percival looked away for a moment, struggling to find cause to challenge the truth of what he had been told, but the look of pain and anguish on the hunter’s face swept away any doubt. The Knight closed his eyes, and the din of the nearby battle faded into silence. He was left alone at the edge of an abyss as deep as the ocean and as dark as the night. As the dream that had almost become a reality faded, the agony of the despair within him became an unbearable and all-consuming fire.
It was then that the water from a spring in a faraway desert seemed to wash over him a second time, replenishing his reserves of hope and faith. When he opened his eyes, as he had on that day so long ago, he knew he could bear the pain. He also knew he would finish the task Guinevere had assigned to him.
Percival looked into the hunter’s tormented eyes. “Torn, you bear no fault in this matter. The sin is Morgana’s alone, and now … she will pay for it.”
The cheers on the field behind him drew Percival’s attention back to the battlefield. As he watched, the Norse and Saxon line moved back, and a figure on a mighty charger clad in black armor rode forward. The men fell quiet, and then the knight called out in the loud voice, “I, Lord Aeron, call upon Sir Percival to face my sword, alone!”
Sir Percival recognized the voice. “Galahad,” he whispered. He’d heard the men in the ranks speak in hushed tones of the mysterious Lord Aeron: The black-clad knight who served at Morgana’s beck and call—a warrior as unmerciful as he was reputedly invincible.
How could it be? How could his friend and brother in arms have agreed to serve under the banner of the Pendragon’s enemy?
And then he remembered what Galahad had said the night before. “A promise was made, a bargain struck. What has been done cannot be undone. The price would be too high.”
Percival mounted his horse and wheeled around to face the armored knight awaiting him in the middle of the field. As Percival slowly rode toward the line of men standing between him and the waiting knight, Capussa rode up, accompanied by Cynric the Archer.
“What are you doing? This is a trap,” Capussa growled.
Percival turned to his friend and nodded. “It is. If I win, there will be an archer there ready to kill me, and if I lose, she will use the defeat to try to carry our lines.”
“Then you won’t accept the challenge?”
“No, I will accept, but I will not fight this knight. He will join us.”
“What?” Capussa said, his dark eyes widening. “Have you lost your senses?”
“I … I have lost much this day, my friend, but not my reason. Trust my judgment in this,” Percival said with certainty.
Then he turned to Cynric. “You and your best archers must be ready for the attack upon us. Watch, most of all, for a Pict whose arrows are painted blue.”
“Who is this Lord Aeron?” Capussa said.
“He is a man of honor who has borne the yoke of the cruelest servitude in order to save the life of another. Today, that bondage ends … and today, his master will pay the toll for her evil deeds,” Percival said in a voice that held the promise of a harsh retribution.
The Knight rode forward, and the shield wall parted as he approached. Lord Aeron rode his horse forward and met Percival midway between the lines, and the two men stared at each other on a battlefield that was now as silent as death. Then Galah
ad spoke in a voice filled with regret. “Forgive me, brother. I have no choice.”
“So be it, Galahad,” Percival said, quietly staring into the blue eyes just visible through the eye slit in the knight’s helm, “but join me in a prayer before we slaughter each other, a prayer for the Queen, for she dies as we speak.”
Galahad’s eyes grew wide. “Guinevere?” he said in a voice filled with disbelief. “Tell me of this!”
“She was struck by an assassin’s arrow within the last hour, a poison arrow,” Percival said quietly. “Even Merlin, with all his skill, cannot save her.”
“An arrow … what color was this arrow?” Galahad asked, his voice suffused with rage.
“Blue.”
For a moment, Galahad closed his eyes, and then he raised a mailed fist that shook with an uncontrolled rage. When he opened his blue eyes, the cold despair Percival had seen there the night before was gone. Now, they were filled with wrath. Galahad stared at Percival for a long moment and then said, “We shall fight on this day, brother, but not against each other. Today, we shall fight together, for the Queen!”
As the two lines of men to their front and rear watched in stunned silence, Galahad wheeled his black destrier around and backed it into place beside Percival’s horse. For a moment, the Vale of Ashes was deathly quiet, and then the Queen’s Army exploded in a triumphal roar.
CHAPTER 33
GUINEVERE’S QUARTERS, NORTH OF THE VALE OF ASHES
erlin stepped away from the Queen’s bed and walked over to the window, praying in silence. Then suddenly, he pulled up short, his eyes turning to Sister Aranwen, kneeling at Guinevere’s side.
“Yes, a miracle …” Merlin whispered “… we need a miracle.” Then he turned and ran out of the room. As he crossed the courtyard at a run, he passed Cadwyn, whose hands were shaking so badly the pitcher of water she was carrying was already half empty.
“Cadwyn, quickly, bring the pitcher to the sitting room, but do not let the Queen drink a drop until I return,” Merlin said as he ran toward his quarters.
“Merlin, what is it? Can you save her?” Cadwyn cried, desperation in her voice.
“I cannot, but a miracle can,” Merlin said over his shoulder.
“A miracle?” Cadwyn said incredulously.
Merlin ran up the stairs to his small quarters on the second floor, pulled a wooden box from underneath his bed, and gently withdrew the wooden cup that Jacob the Healer had given to Percival. Then he raced down the stairs and across the courtyard.
When he ran through the door to Guinevere’s quarters, Sister Aranwen and Cadwyn were kneeling beside the Queen, holding her hand and praying. Tears ran freely down their faces. Merlin walked over to the pitcher of water Cadwyn had placed on a nearby table and poured the water into the ancient wooden cup he held in his hand. He looked at the unimposing vessel for a moment, said a quiet prayer, and then walked over to the bed. Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen moved aside, giving him room to kneel by the Queen.
The Queen’s face was ashen, and her shallow gasps for breath told him that she only had minutes to live. “Drink,” Merlin whispered urgently. She silently shook her head as she writhed in pain.
Merlin leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Guinevere, if you drink from this cup, you will live … you will live to see Percival again.”
Guinevere’s eyes opened, and she nodded weakly. Merlin lifted her shoulders and raised the cup to her lips. She took a long drink and swallowed. After gasping for breath, she took another drink and lay back again, spent. As Merlin and the two women watched, Guinevere’s breathing steadily became more regular, and her fair skin began to regain its normal hue.
Cadwyn put her hand to her mouth and whispered, “Merlin, your potion has saved her!”
Merlin bowed his head in silence for a moment, overcome with emotion, before rising and walking over to a chair and sitting down. He idly looked over at the book that lay open on the table beside chair. It was the Bible. He shook his head as he read the words of the Psalm: “For you have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling; I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.”
Merlin looked down at the empty cup in his hand and then placed it in the pocket of his cloak. When he withdrew his hand, it was shaking so badly that he had to clasp both hands together in his lap to stay the tremor. He looked across the room to where Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen were kneeling beside Guinevere. The Queen was smiling. She was truly saved.
Merlin stood, walked to the window, and pushed open the shutters the guards had closed after the attack, and the sun poured into the darkened room. The old Roman stared to the south in silence, until Sister Aranwen walked over and said in a whisper, “Was it the potion,” she whispered, “or was it the cup?”
A smile came to Merlin’s face. “Why Sister, it was neither. It was the miracle you prayed for.”
Sister Aranwen raised a questioning eyebrow and returned to Guinevere’s side.
Moments later, Guinevere sat up on the bed. She looked tired, but her color had returned, and the pain in her eyes had been replaced by the quiet strength he remembered.
“My Queen, you should rest,” Sister Aranwen said, concern in her voice.
Guinevere smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, Sister, but I am quite well. More, I … I feel as young as the day that we first met. Forgive me, my friends, but I must speak to Merlin alone for a moment.”
After the two women left the room, Guinevere gestured to a chair across from the bed. “Merlin, please, sit for a moment. It appears you have saved my life yet again.”
Merlin walked over to the chair and sat down, shaking his head. “No, my Queen, it was not I.”
“There was no potion in that cup?” she said.
“No.”
“Tell me.”
Merlin clasped his shaking hands together on his lap.
“Jacob the Healer of Alexandria died while Sir Percival was in prison, serving in the stead of Jacob’s son, Joshua. When Percival returned, Joshua told him that Jacob had left the Knight a cup and a written message, along with a substantial sum of gold for the passage home. Neither Percival nor Joshua had been able to make any sense of the message, for it was written in an ancient form of Aramaic, and yet words from the Roman and Greek tongues were interspersed in the message as well. Joshua told Percival that his father had been very sick during his last days and could well have lost his senses. As for the cup, all his father had told him, and these words were spoken in the throes of a fever, was that the cup was not the grail Percival sought, but it was one that had served.”
“One that had served?” Guinevere repeated in confusion.
Merlin nodded. “When Percival told me the story, I couldn’t believe that a man as wise as Jacob the Healer would have simply left a wooden cup of no moment for the man who’d saved the life of his only son, let alone wasted his last breaths speaking of such a cup. I pondered this for a time and then, many weeks ago, I asked the Knight if I might see the cup and the note.”
The old Roman drew in a breath and slowly exhaled in an effort to calm his racing heart before continuing.
“I have spent nearly every night in the past month struggling to translate the note. Two nights ago, I broke the code, but I couldn’t be sure that I was right about the translation until you drank from the cup and were saved.”
Guinevere’s eyes widened. “But if it is not the Holy Grail, then how …”
“Jacob’s note said that this cup,” Merlin said, drawing the ancient wooden vessel from his cloak, “is the cup that Christ drank from at the supper where they celebrated the resurrection of Lazarus from the dead. Martha of Bethany, Lazarus’s sister, kept the cup to remember the miracle, and through the centuries, it was passed down to Jacob of Alexandria.” He stared at the simple wooden cup for several moments before continuing.
“We … we have always believed that the Holy Grail … the cup the Christ drank from at the last supper somehow had
miraculous powers, but why … why just that cup? Christ would have consecrated the food and wine that he and his followers ate and drank before every meal, and he would have drunk from many a grail, so why would not these other vessels also have the miraculous powers conveyed by his blessing?”
Guinevere smiled and spoke in a whisper, “Why not, indeed, Merlin the Wise. You will keep this cup safe and not speak of it,” she said. “It is a holy relic that must be preserved for all time, for it may be the only grail that survives, and Sir Percival surely paid a most heavy toll for its recovery.”
The pounding of a heavy fist on the outside door to Guinevere’s quarters interrupted Merlin’s answer. He rose and walked quickly to the door, pulling it open. Keil stood there, breathless.
“Your Highness, an army comes!”
“My God, our lines must have been broken!” Guinevere said in anguish.
“No, my Queen,” Keil said, bowing, a broad smile coming to his face. “This army is from the Marches. They come to fight for Sir Percival, and they are over a thousand strong!”
THE VALE OF ASHES
Cynric and his archers focused their fire on the men within striking distance of the two knights in an effort to weaken the line around them to the breaking point. As he drew his bowstring back and targeted a Norse warrior on Sir Percival’s right, Cynric saw an arrow flash across the battlefield and strike Lord Aeron in the shoulder, finding a gap in his armor—an arrow with blue feathers. Cynric traced the path of the arrow back to its source, and he saw a Pict warrior standing just clear of the melee surrounding the two knights. As he watched, the Pict warrior smiled and nocked a second blue arrow, an arrow that Cynric knew was meant for Sir Percival.
“You have shot your last arrow, Pict,” Cynric whispered as he centered his aim on the Pict’s chest, drew the string of his five-foot bow back to its fullest extent in one smooth movement, and released his arrow. The shaft flew across the field, swift and true, striking the Pict full in the chest. The man stood there for a moment, in shock. His eyes lifted to meet those of the tall archer. Then he fell facedown in the dirt.
The Return of Sir Percival Page 35
