Arthur sat quiet, straight, and calm. A narrow crown circled his dark, graying hair. On the wall beside him hung his shield, emblazoned with Mary’s image; and his magic sword.
Percy strode past the round table to the dais. On the way, he felt Lili vanish away from behind him.
Close, he saw that the King’s hands, which seemed to rest on his robed knees, were clenched and white-knuckled.
Closer, he saw the Queen open her eyes. Some powerful feeling had drained her face pure white. Her rich gown was drenched as though by heavy rain; and bits of meat and bread mingled with pretty jewels down her front.
Her instantly angry eye lit on the grail in Percy’s two hands.
She jerked upright and stretched a dripping, ringed hand for it.
Percy was making straight for the King. But now the Red Knight spoke in his head. Give that to the Queen. I took it from her.
First this message.
Hardly pausing, he thrust the grail into the Queen’s hand.
Now for the real one.
The King’s calm, gray eyes had watched this exchange of the grail. His hands remained clenched and white on his knees. No muscle stirred. With mild half interest, he gave Percy his attention.
This is the King who shall knight me!
Percy cleared his throat. Loudly, he said, “Sir! The Red Knight outside asked me to say this to you.”
Interest quickened in the royal eyes.
“This is his message, Sir, not mine.” Better make that clear.
The King nodded.
“This way it goes. ‘Give me back my lands or send one to fight for them. I wait without. If no one comes out to fight, I will go raise me an army.’ Those, Sir, are the Red Knight’s words.”
The King stood up from his chair.
Tall he is, big, like me! How his jeweled robe gleams! and his rings! Next time I take a fair maiden’s rings I will keep them!
The King raised both ringed hands, palms out, over the crowd below the dais. As though a giant hand had covered its mouth, King’s Hall fell suddenly silent. Percy felt the gaze of all eyes pass through him and fasten on King Arthur.
Arthur’s great voice rang through Percy and around the Hall. “The Red Knight demands a fight for his lands. He waits without.”
Voices murmured, “Not you, Lord!”
“Why fight? You have his lands!”
“I’ll fight him!”
“Me, Lord! I’ll go!”
A big, dark man, unarmed like the rest, sprang onto the dais beside Percy. “With these eyes I saw him snatch the Queen’s grail and dash ale in her face! Gladly I’ll avenge that deed, and win his lands as well.”
A shout went up at that. “Aye! Let Sir Lancelot settle it! In a trice!”
Percy’s stumbling mind reeled, straightened up, stood square. So that’s the way of it! Goddamn, here’s my chance!
“Sir,” he shouted above the rising voices. “Sir! I will fight the Red Knight for you! I, Sir Percival.”
The King turned almost-startled eyes back to Percy.
The Queen and Sir Lancelot stared.
Behind the dais, a girl laughed.
Laughing, she stepped out from Arthur’s shadow.
Percy watched only the King’s face. But he saw from a corner of his eye that she was black-haired, small and slender in a white gown, and that she laughed close-mouthed, like Lili.
At her laugh King’s Hall fell silent again. Into this new silence she said clearly, “Lord! Never will your Round Table boast a knight greater than this Sir Percival.”
Percy’s heart swelled, burst, flamed. Joyful pride burned hot and high. Goddamn!
“Sir! I go to fight your enemy.”
Percy swung about and marched down from the dais, through the crowd, to the doors.
He was almost aware of hands reached to catch him, feet outstretched to trip him, voices exclaiming. He passed through invincible, unstoppable, right hand on the Bee Sting under his cloak, and strode out into the sunny street.
There waited the Red Knight. A sword gleamed in his right hand. A shield hung on his left arm.
Beside the knight waited his horse, a great red charger furnished all in red. Restlessly, it pawed sparks from the stone pavement.
The Red Knight turned toward Percy. Looking beyond Percy, he raised his shield.
Percy stalked toward him.
The Red Knight lowered shield. “You again, clown? What message this time?”
Percy advanced upon him, hidden dart ready in his fingers, eyes on the Red Knight’s eyes.
“Ho! God’s teeth! What do you—”
Percy came on.
The Red Knight punched his sword hilt into Percy’s left side.
Percy gasped. Did not flinch. Drove the poisoned dart through the Red Knight’s left eye. Stepped back away.
The Red Knight stood amazed. Swayed. Staggered three steps back and crashed on the stone pavement.
A few gasps, a twitch. Dead in a trice.
Percival turned. Looked about him.
Before King’s Hall crowded the unarmed men. They must have followed on his heels. They gaped, pointed, murmured. Percival barely heard their comments.
“How was that done?”
“But he was a Knight!”
“Arthur’s enemy.”
“True. But a Knight.”
“Insulted Gwenevere.”
“Still. Shouldn’t die at the hands of a beggar!”
“Seize him!”
“Arm up first.”
“He’s unarmed! Couldn’t get into the hall, armed.”
“He’s somehow armed. Killed him somehow.”
“Weirdness here.”
“Maybe magic.”
“Aye,” said the girl’s calm voice. “Magic it must be. Leave it to me.”
The growling knights stepped aside to let the small, white-robed girl through.
Straight to Percy she came, and smiled close-mouthed up into his face.
Small, she is!
She said, “Percival, this red horse and armor are now yours.”
Percival stared down into her wise, dark eyes. I’ve seen this girl before. Don’t know where…
What’d she say? Horse and armor? Horse and armor?
He whirled to look again at his victim. The corpse still twitched. Meant nothing. He’s dead. And I get the armor!
The girl said, “Lose no time.”
The gang of unarmed Knights milled and seethed like a torrent ready to flood its banks.
“Take sword and shield,” she said. “Helmet. No time for the rest.”
She herself seized the great, red charger’s bridle.
Percival darted to the dead Red Knight. Glanced once into the astonished dead eyes. Quickly then, with his knife he cut the helmet’s thongs. He tossed his soup kettle clattering, and donned the red helmet.
Heavy!
He jerked the shield off one dead arm, grabbed up the sword.
Goddamn! How’s a man walk around like this?
Behind him the girl said, “Quick, get the sheath.”
That meant the whole belt. In a hasty daze Percival dropped shield and sword to work the belt clasp.
The charger’s great hooves rang on stone as it fought the girl’s grasp. How could she hold it, small as she was? The Knights’ angry buzzing grew louder, closer.
But they’re all unarmed.
Right. They hesitated, milling like disturbed bees.
Feared of me!
Or of the girl?
Percival dragged the belt out from under the dead man, clasped it over his own belt. Thrust sword into sheath. With snort and clatter, the red charger came up beside him, girl still firmly in charge. Alarming, close horse scent swamped Percival’s senses.
“Mount quickly. Up!”
Percival looked up the quivering red hide. Away, afar up there, Lili looked down on him. Her little face was stiff with terror.
Right before her sat a high, polished red saddle. A stirrup dangled at Percival’s hand.
“Up!”
Percival had never happened to see how one mounted a horse. The horsemen whom he had watched from hiding were already up there.
The girl breathed between clenched teeth, “Foot in stirrup. Up! Up and over!”
The charger pawed and tossed its head. Froth foamed from its jaws. The girl barely hung on to its bridle. Percival saw her murmur to it, as to him.
The shield…how do I hold…
“Give Lili.”
With effort, Percival handed the shield away up to Lili. Could she hold it? It came not back down.
A poke from the white-robed girl, and he was in the stirrup. Hanging between sky and pavement.
“Leg over, Percival!”
He was in the saddle.
“Reins.”
Dizzily he leaned to collect the reins the girl handed up.
Behind him, the Knights roared.
Faintly, Percival felt Lili’s hands grasp his belt through the cloak. He himself grabbed at the horse’s tough, red mane.
The white-robed girl spoke to the charger. And let go the bridle.
Strength rushed through the huge red body below Percival.
He found himself whirled around, looking down from a new height upon the massed Knights of the Round Table. Angry faces glared up at him but an instant, then disappeared from sight.
At the doors of King’s Hall stood King Arthur, sword in hand. Percival caught surprise on the royal face. Then that, too, vanished.
Undistinguished men scattered now before the on-rushing charger. Women snatched children out of its path. Huts and houses joggled past at undreamed-of speed. Clatter-Clash went hooves on stone street, then thud-thump on dirt street.
Percival clung low to the saddle. He felt Lili cling to him. Ground hurtled past as they rushed into wind.
***
Striding forward over rough ground, Bee Sting pounding his thigh, Percival pauses. I’ve been here before.
Here. Where? Heavy white mist rolls around even the nearest trees. All he can see is this forest-littered ground at his feet.
I’ve been here before; and I’m going there. (Wherever there may be.)
Percival springs back into stride.
I’m going there. But first, now…Goddamn! This is a dream, and I’ve dreamed it before. First, I’ll see…
There before him it appears, dark on the ground.
As he has done before, Percival stops and looks down at the naked, Human man lying on the stretcher.
The Fisher.
Percival calls this big, blond man the Fisher because he lies on and under fishing nets, and holds a fishing spear in both helpless hands. He lies perfectly still on his back, looking up at Percival.
But…Angel Michael! He has the look of a King!
Studying the calm, cold face this time, Percival thinks of King Arthur. Put a robe on him, give him a crown…he’s not Arthur, but he’s a King somewhere. How steadily he looks at me, out of his pain!
This silent, stiff-faced man bears a bloody wound between the thighs.
As before, Percival shudders through his whole body. And looks away.
Not my hurt.
And I’m going there.
Percival steps reachingly over and across the silent Fisher King. As each time before, he strides on through mist, over rough ground, with no backward glance.
***
Fire leaped into darkness.
At the lord’s command servants threw more kindling, more logs, into the fire pit. The fire reared and roared.
Silhouetted against the flames, two figures shambled, staggered, and bear-danced, dueling with staves.
Thwack! Crack! Clonk! Their cudgels swung, crossed, and landed body blows. “Arf!” “Huh!” “Hah!” grunted the two sturdy contestants.
Out beyond the light, laughter responded; shouts, comments, exhortations. Men rose from benches to crowd forward into half-light, grinning and betting.
In true darkness at the far ends of the hall, hounds snarled.
One cudgel cracked, broke. Half of it flew into the fire pit. Still gripping half, the young man ducked back from his attacker.
The winner swung his cudgel high and sideways like a fishing pole, then brought it crack! against the loser’s head.
The loser dropped.
Whoops, guffaws, and moans sounded around the hall.
The winner threw down his cudgel. He swaggered up to the lord’s bench and collected his reward, a small bag of coins, with an awkward bow.
Lord Gahart grinned up at him. “Go easier next time. Good men don’t grow in gardens.”
“He’ll fight again, Lord. His head’s made of wood.” The winner stepped away into winking half-light. His friends surrounded him.
Others dragged the loser up off the floor, draped his arms over two of their shoulders, and half dragged him off into the dark.
Lord Gahart lifted the flagon by his side and drank. “That seems to be true,” he remarked to Percival, who sat beside him. “Seen that fellow whomped before. No lasting effect. Unless maybe on the brains inside.”
Robed like a lord in Gahart’s own garments, Percival sat easily beside his host. Newly sophisticated, he quaffed throat-burning ale from the flagon Gahart set back down between them. A small tapestry covered their rough bench.
Never sat so soft before! Never ate so good! Even this goddamn ale’s good! Here’s what Human life should be!
He drank again.
“How would you like a sack of gold, Percival?”
Percival lowered the flagon, turned to Gahart.
“I’d bet on you to beat the winner. And no one else would. See?”
Hah. “You want me to fight that cudgel fellow.”
“No, no! You are my honored guest. I want nothing from you. But if you felt like winning gold tonight,”…Gahart drew a second small bag from his robe. “I’ll bet you can.”
Percival set down the flagon and made to rise. Gahart held up a meaty hand. “Not so fast! You can hardly move in that getup. You’ll have to—”
“I can fight!” Percival snorted contempt for such a detail. “And I fight now this instant, Lord, or never.” Let’s get this done, sit down again, and finish off that ale!
Gahart scowled.
A big man, Gahart was shorter than Percival, but three times the width, and all of it muscle. Graying red curls and beard framed a lined, scarred face. The left eye drooped.
This scowl was the first he had directed at Percival, who had seen him scowl at lesser men. He would then order beating or scourging, which his servants would promptly carry out.
Why the goddamn do they obey him? No telling who’ll be the next one flogged. But if they stood together, he could not command them.
(Lili knew no answer to this. When he asked her by lamplight in their chamber, she finger-talked, Human ways. Your blood knows, not mine.)
That day when the red charger went lame had been a deciding day for Percival. He did not know horses wore shoes, which could be lost. By himself, he might have eaten the charger and roamed like a beggar fool forever after. But Lili showed him what had happened. Lili brought them to Gahart’s Hall and requested shelter and a horseshoe. The red charger, and Percival’s red armor, had won them respect. They had both learned much, and quickly, ever since.
One thing Lili had finger-told him about Gahart. He thought of it now. Gahart’s frequent anger was most dangerous against cowards and lowlies who failed to meet his smoldering eyes. Lili had signed, If you have to, face up to him.
Percival met Gahart’s scowl with a smile. And stood up.
“Aaaagh, very well! Fight your way.” Gahart rose as well. He called the startled victor away from his ale and ordered gloves and a new cudgel brought for Percival.
Servants dumped more kindling into the fire pit. The fire reared and roared. Percival faced the young victor of moments ago.
He had never held a cudgel before. Fey boys might wrestle for fun, almost never in anger. But never had he seen boys or men go at each other with sticks.
Lord Gahart’s men had been showing him sword-play. This would be yet a different art.
The cudgel hung heavy, cold, in his hands. He shifted and balanced it. How’s that fellow hold his? Left hand here, right hand…so.
The thwacks and cracks of the previous duel still sounded in his ears. That one’s strong as a plowing ox. Got to move fast. Get in there before he sees me coming.
Percival felt a lump grow in his throat.
Then from the dark flooded a river of strength. It flowed over and around Percival and fountained within.
“Hah! Goddamn! Come on!”
Percival crouched forward; eagerly, he shook the cudgel.
The Ox grinned. Firelight gleamed in his slitted eyes and clenched teeth. He crouched, danced a few steps, raised his cudgel.
Before he sees me coming.
Percival jabbed the cudgel like a sword, under and up.
Cudgel crunched jawbone. Jaw crumbled. Teeth and blood flew.
The Ox reeled back. His cudgel crashed to the floor.
Percival sprang after him, cudgel high.
Roars from the dark.
Lord Gahart thundered, “Enough! Lay off!” Hands grabbed out of darkness and dragged Ox away.
Percival stood disappointed, swinging his blooded cudgel at air. Never got to learn it after all.
He felt men moving away, drawing back from heat and light, and from himself. Never learn it now. They won’t give me a chance to learn. Know I’m too good for them.
Of a sudden, the magical strength that had supported him ebbed away. Now I’m only me. Who was I, just now? Who was it fractured Ox’s jaw?
Lord Gahart called out, “Come get your prize, Percival!”
He stood by the tapestried bench, waving his little bag high. Laughing.
Prize. Oh, aye. Gold coins. This time I’ll know to keep ’em for myself.
Percival's Angel Page 8
