Percival was unaware Galahad had been wounded, until he saw him slipping from his saddle to the ground. He charged forward on his mount, driving back the Norse warriors who pressed forward, intending to kill the stricken knight. He leaped from his horse and fought his way to Galahad’s side. As he threw Galahad’s arm over his shoulder and prepared to fight his way back to the safety of his own lines, Sveinn the Reaver shoved aside his fellow Norseman and stepped forward.
“I shall take pleasure in hanging your head from the mast of my ship, Knight,” the giant Norseman said with a growl as he moved toward Percival.
At that moment, Capussa moved in front of Sir Percival, accompanied by two soldiers. “Your fight is with me today, Norseman,” he said, “and I will keep my head, thank you.”
Sveinn roared and leaped forward, his sword striking downward in a deadly arc at Capussa’s head. The Numidian sprang toward him, dropping to one knee. He guided the onrushing blade away from him with a glancing blow from his buckler shield and at the same time drove his own sword into the Norseman’s exposed thigh. Then he sprang back to his starting place.
The giant screamed in rage as his leg collapsed beneath him, and he fell to the ground. Sveinn’s men raced forward to drag their warlord back within their shield wall, giving Capussa and Sir Percival the seconds needed to drag the wounded Galahad back within the protection of their lines.
When Percival moved to assist the men who ran over with a litter, Galahad seized his arm and said, “Do not worry about me, brother; the wound is not fatal. Morgana knows your men are near to the breaking point, and she will attack again. You must stay in line, or she will carry the day.”
“He’s right. She will make one final push,” Capussa said.
Percival reluctantly nodded, and the litter bearing Galahad was taken to the command tent. As he started back toward the shield wall, a man dressed in the uniform of one of Guinevere’s guards ran over to him, gasping for breath. The man’s face was so covered in dust that at first Percival didn’t recognize him.
“Guardsman, what is it … Keil?”
“Yes … Sir … here’s … a message from …” Keil gasped as he handed a small piece of parchment to Percival and then fell to his knees in a spasm of coughing.
Percival read the note twice and then closed his mailed fist over the parchment. A moment later, he turned to Capussa. “Have the herald blow the horn and raise the truce flag. I would have words with Morgana.” Then he turned to Keil and said, “I must ask you to deliver two more messages today.”
* * *
MORGANA, WITH IVARR the Red on her right, waited in the space that had been made between the lines for the parley, as Capussa and Sir Percival rode forward. They stopped four paces away. For a minute, the two parties just looked at each other, and then Morgana spoke, in a voice laden with scorn.
“So, has the invincible Sir Percival and his Numidian companion come to surrender to the Queen’s Army?”
“We have not,” Percival said in a calm voice.
“No?” Morgana said with a cold laugh. “Are you going to die in a last charge, Sir Percival, like the Pendragon and your fellow knights did at Camlann?”
When Percival didn’t answer, Morgana rode forward to within a pace of the Knight and spoke in a venomous tone, “I killed your King and your brother Knights at Camlann, and today, I have killed your Queen and that noble fool Galahad—oh yes, Sir Percival, your fellow knight will die in agony before the day is done, from the poison arrow that felled him. All that remains is this—you can surrender and spare the army of peasants that you so foolishly led into this trap, or you can watch every one of them die—for no quarter will be given. As for you and the Numidian, know this before you choose: if you fight on, I will crucify you both if there is even one breath left in your broken bodies when I take this field.”
A cruel smile played across Ivarr the Red’s face as he listened to the exchange.
Percival stared at Morgana in silence for a moment, and then he spoke in a voice that was as unyielding as the finest steel sword.
“This is not Camlann, Morgana. It is the Vale of Ashes, and yes, it is a trap, but it is one that we led you into. General Capussa, would you introduce Morgana and Ivarr the Red to the might of Londinium.”
Capussa smiled and slowly raised his left fist above his head. Moments later, a thousand men armed with swords, spears, axes, pikes, and clubs ran to the rim of the slope that bordered the east side of the battlefield and roared out their defiance.
Morgana and Ivarr the Red looked up in shock at the mass of armed men ready to plunge down the slope into their right flank. Morgana’s eyes narrowed, and the smile on Ivarr the Red’s face vanished.
“The lord mayor and Cynric put on a show for your spies, Morgana,” Percival said. “They were always coming to this fight. Now, General Capussa, would you introduce Morgana to the Legion of the Marches.”
Then Capussa lowered his left fist and raised his right.
“Look behind you,” Percival said.
Morgana and Ivarr the Red wheeled their horses around and stared in shock as ten formations of one hundred men marched, with the precision of a Roman legion, into the entrance of the valley behind them, cutting off their escape route.
When Morgana and Ivarr the Red faced Percival again, both bore defiant looks, but their eyes betrayed them. Percival sensed their fear. They knew they were facing annihilation. He rode his horse a pace closer to Morgana and spoke in a voice that was as cold as death.
“Queen Guinevere of the Britons is not dead. She is alive, Morgana, and on this field of battle, and on this day, it is you, not I, who will choose to yield or die.”
THE VALE OF ASHES
Percival sat astride his horse and surveyed the battlefield. The bloody trial was over. The surviving Norse and Saxon soldiers were sitting, kneeling, or lying down in the center of field, surrounded by a thousand men at the ready on each side. Their arms were stacked in a great pile outside the ring. The armies of Morgana, Ivarr the Red, and Sveinn the Reaver were beaten, but the cost of victory had been heavy. Litter bearers were still running throughout the field gathering up the dead and wounded.
As he watched two men pick up the body of a young man, a Briton, and carry it over to the grassy area set aside for the dead, Capussa rode up alongside of him.
“Most of the dead you see are the Norse and Saxons, not Britons,” Capussa said, gesturing to the bodies lying unmoving on the field. “Once Morgana set off that explosion, the bowmen from Londinium on the hill, they …”
“Sought vengeance for five years of subjugation and pain,” the Knight finished.
Capussa nodded.
Percival watched another black pall of smoke drift across the field from the fire still burning in the square that had once been Morgana’s tent and shook his head.
“It is a fire that will not die.”
“Merlin told me of this,” Capussa said. “It is a weapon from the City of Constantine known as Greek fire. Few know how to mix this fiery potion. Morgana must have brought it with her. Water will not quench its flames, only dirt, and, as you can see,” Capussa said, nodding to the men shoveling dirt on the flames, “it resists to the very last.”
“I was fool to give her the time to ponder the surrender offer,” Percival said in quiet regret. “That gave her the opportunity to set the fire and … to escape. Now, we shall have to fight her another day.”
“Bah. You think too much, Knight,” the Numidian said dismissively. “Had you demanded an immediate surrender, she would have refused and the battle would have been joined again. More men would still have died. Whether the witch would have escaped or not is a matter in the hands of the gods. Today, we have won a great victory. We must honor the dead by celebrating what we have gained.”
Percival looked over at Capussa and nodded. “Yes, we must.”
A mounted messenger rode over to Percival. “Sir Percival, a member of the Queen’s Guard has come with a message
. The Queen, she comes.”
Percival looked at the man, surprised. “She comes to the battlefield?”
“Yes, she is on her way. And … there is another matter. You must come to the command tent. Lord Aeron … I mean, Sir Galahad … he is ill unto death.”
The look on the messenger’s face shook Percival to the core. He wheeled his horse around and galloped over to the large tent at the most northern end of the field, dismounted, and walked into the candlelit interior. His brother Knight lay on a long wooden table, his head resting upon a worn blanket.
The healers had removed Galahad’s armor and bandaged his right shoulder with a clean cloth. This had staunched the blood from his wound, but it had not remedied whatever ailed him within. His face was ashen, his breath labored, and his blue eyes were clouded in pain.
“The battle?” he said in a hoarse voice.
Percival walked over to his wounded brethren, and the two men gripped forearms. “It is won, brother. The day is ours.”
“What of Morgana?”
“She escaped, with a small force, but be assured, she will be hunted down.”
“You have done it. Camlann is avenged,” Galahad gasped as he released Percival’s forearm and closed a trembling fist in triumph.
Percival shook his head. “Not I, brother; we have done it. All of us, and you most of all.”
“Morgana told you of my pledge?” he asked, his voice filled with quiet regret.
“No. She did not have to. I knew there was only one price that would have induced you to serve under her banner—the Queen’s life.”
Galahad nodded and pushed himself up with his good arm. A wave of pain crossed his face. Percival moved to gently push him back down, but Galahad shook his head and gasped, “I must tell you of this. My time is short. Yes … that was the price … it had to be done. At Camlann, I was struck in the face with an arrow in the last minutes of the day. When I awakened, I was Morgana’s prisoner. She told me that she could kill the Queen at will … she had assassins everywhere, and Guinevere … there was no one left to protect her. But in the end, I still could not save—”
“Galahad, she lives.”
Galahad looked at Percival, his eyes desperately seeking confirmation of the spoken words. “The Queen?”
“Yes. She is well. When we met on the battlefield, I had been told that the poison from the Pict’s arrow would take her life within the hour. Later, I received a second message. Merlin saved her life.” Percival grasped his friend’s hand. “Galahad, the Queen will be here in a moment with Merlin. He will attend to your wound.”
Galahad lowered his head back to the blanket beneath him and drew in a ragged breath. There was a smile on his face.
“Thank the Lord,” he whispered. “After I have passed, you must tell her, brother. I would have her know that I honored my oath to the King and to the Table.”
“Galahad, she knows of your great sacrifice. I sent a messenger after you were wounded,” Percival said.
Shouts of “All hail Queen Guinevere!” could be heard from outside the tent. Galahad squeezed the Knight’s hand as hundreds of voices took up the cry. Moments later, Keil and another guard drew back the tent flaps and Guinevere walked in, followed by Merlin.
Percival bowed, and Galahad made an effort to sit up, but Guinevere raised a hand as she walked over, staying his effort.
“Rest, Sir Galahad. Merlin will attend you.”
“My Queen—”
“Shhh,” Guinevere said softly, gently taking Galahad’s feverish hand in hers, “brave knight. It is I who should bow to you, for I know of your sacrifice. I am, and I shall always be, in your debt.”
Merlin walked around to the other side of the table and looked at the bandage on the knight’s shoulder and nodded his approval.
“Do you have the arrow that struck him?”
Galahad answered in voice almost too soft to hear. “It is there, on the table.”
Merlin walked over to the blue fletched arrow lying on a nearby table and sniffed the point.
His face was grim when he laid it down.
“It carries the same poison as the arrow that struck you, my Queen.”
“No!” Guinevere cried, her face turning pale.
Galahad’s breath grew more labored, and he closed his eyes in pain.
“Merlin, the cup! Do you have it with you?” Guinevere said, her eyes frantic with anxiety.
Merlin looked at Guinevere in confusion for an instant, then he plunged his hand into the pocket of his cloak. “I think … yes, in the rush, yes, it is here.” He ran to the pitcher of water resting on a nearby table, filled the small wooden cup, and returned to Galahad’s side.
“Drink, Sir Galahad, drink!” Merlin whispered urgently.
“My time is at an end,” the knight whispered, his face a rictus of pain.
“Galahad, please, I ask this of you,” Guinevere pleaded softly.
Galahad opened his eyes and looked at Guinevere for a long moment. Then he reached for the cup. His hand was shaking so badly that she had to guide the cup to his lips. After swallowing the water, Galahad lay back, exhausted, his eyes closed once more.
Merlin poured the rest of the water in the cup onto a white cloth and bathed the knight’s fevered brow and cheeks. For what seemed like an eternity, nothing happened, and then the look of pain on Galahad’s face faded, his labored breathing steadied, and the striated muscles in his neck and jaw relaxed. After several moments, Galahad opened his eyes, and his gaze moved from Merlin to Guinevere and finally to Percival, eyes that were as blue as the sky and free of pain.
“Do not grieve for me,” Galahad said with a serene smile, “for I am forgiven.” Then he closed his eyes and was still.
Merlin stepped forward and placed his finger against the side of Galahad’s neck. After several long moments he withdrew his hand and said, “He is dead,” in a voice filled with sorrow.
“No!” Guinevere gasped. “The cup … Merlin, it saved my life from the poison. Why not Sir Galahad?”
“Look at his face,” Merlin said softly.
“It cannot be,” Percival said, his voice filled with wonder as he stared down at his friend.
“The scars … they’re gone!” Guinevere gasped. “Why then does he not live?”
“I believe,” Merlin said, “that Galahad died a hundred deaths in the service of Morgana. In the end, he sought forgiveness and heaven’s peace from the Almighty, not life, and I believe that is the gift he received.”
Sir Percival knelt beside the body of his brother Knight, in prayer. A moment later, Guinevere, tears running down her face, knelt as well. Merlin reached for a white shroud lying on a nearby table and slowly drew it over the knight’s body. Then he knelt and joined Percival and Guinevere in prayer.
CHAPTER 34
LONDINIUM, THREE WEEKS LATER
ercival stood on a hill just outside the walls of Londinium staring down at the Tamesis River, where a galley made its way seaward on a path of white gold laid down by the morning sun. The day he embarked for the Holy Land on a similar ship had been one such as this, and for an instant, he returned to that place in time, recalling the sorrow, frustration, and confusion of the parting. The memory faded as the ship sailed out of sight.
Merlin was right. The man who had left ten years before was not the man who had returned, and yet in one respect they were same. The Percival of yesteryear, like the Percival of today, was in love with Guinevere, and both men carried no small measure of guilt for feeling thus. Although Arthur was long dead and Guinevere free to marry, the feeling persisted.
“I fear that I look upon a man who is vexed to the core of his being.”
Percival turned, surprised to see Merlin standing behind him.
“Is this book so easy to read?”
“No, just this particular chapter.”
“And what, sage, vexes my soul?”
Merlin joined Percival at the crest of the hill and gazed out at the scene below in
silence before answering.
“Percival, you are a disciple of honor, carrying both her virtues and burdens. You always have been. On some days I wish that I could infect you with at least some of the mores of the scoundrel, but alas, I have yet to find such a potion.”
The Knight’s eyes grew distant for a moment. “Trust me, Merlin, I have done my share of wrongdoing. The line of dead men who would attest to that is long, indeed.”
“And the line of those who would say otherwise is far longer.”
The two men fell silent, and then Merlin answered Percival’s question.
“As to your question, what vexes your soul, Sir Percival of the Round Table, is your need for the blessing of a King who is dead, before you take the hand of the woman who was once his Queen.”
Percival glanced over at Merlin. “I would not have Guinevere know of this.”
“She does not, but she knows that you are troubled, and … since she is in love with you, it distresses her.”
“Then I will bury my qualms, since what I seek cannot be found.”
“That may be, or you could be looking in the wrong places.”
The Knight turned to face the old Roman, a question in his eyes.
“Percival,” Merlin said, clasping his hands behind his back, “in the last three days, you have visited almost every church in Londinium and come to this hill nearly every morning. If Arthur’s spirit is to be found in this world, I do not believe that you will find it in these places.”
Percival’s gaze returned to the Tamesis River flowing below. “I would pray at the foot of Arthur’s grave, but I am told you are the only one who knows of his resting place, and you have refused to divulge that secret to anyone, including Guinevere.”
“That is true. Nor would I divulge it to you. That was Arthur’s command, and it was a wise one. Excalibur lies with him, anchored in a sacred stone, and evil men in the pursuit of that great talisman would do terrible things to learn of its whereabouts. He wanted to protect Guinevere from that danger. So I alone carry this secret.”
“Then, as I said, I will consider the matter at an end.”
The Return of Sir Percival Page 36
