The Return of Sir Percival (10 page)

“I see,” Aelred said in a voice laced with skepticism.

“We … Arthur … told Percival that the Archbishop of Aquileia, Maximus, was embarking on a quest to find the Holy Grail, and the assistance of a Knight of the Table was requested. Arthur told Percival he had been chosen to serve as one Maximus's guards. Arthur wouldn't countenance the scheme unless Percival had the right to decline the honor, which unfortunately he did. He insisted that he, the least of his knightly brethren, should not be accorded this great honor. Although Arthur tried to persuade him, he was adamant, insisting that his place was at home, fighting Morgana's legions, but—”

“You managed to change his mind on the matter,” Aelred said with more than a hint of condemnation.

Merlin nodded reluctantly. “Yes. That I did.”

“And what ruse did you employ in that endeavor?”

Merlin looked up at the curved ceiling of the cave, unwilling to bear Aelred's accusatory stare. “A rather base one, I fear. I told him that he was right. That he was, alas, the least of his brethren, and none of the others could be spared for this quest. I told him that the whole matter could be just a fool's errand, but I also told him there was some evidence that the whereabouts of the cup had been discovered. Still, he was unpersuaded.”

“And?”

“Well, I took him aside and told him … that Arthur was dying and that—”

“Only a drink from the Grail could save him.” Aelred finished, his voice full of scorn. “Merlin, that was indeed a most base deception.”

“And, what pray tell, would you have done?” Merlin said, glaring at the other man. “The loathsome deed had to be done, and I, my sophistic friend, was assigned that burden, so I bore it.”

“Did Arthur know of this?”

“No, of course not,” Merlin said, recovering his composure. “He would never have consented, and it wasn't as much of an untruth as you charge. Arthur was dying.”

“What? How can you say that?” Aelred said incredulously.

“You forget, Aelred, I was the first physician to the Roman Emperor in Constantinople, before my exile. It was an ague that I had seen before. The pain started in the King's stomach and grew over time. He hid the affliction well, but by the last battle, he only had months left to live.”

“That does not excuse what you did,” Aelred said.

“I do not offer excuses,” Merlin said, feeling suddenly weary. “Nor do I seek forgiveness. It had to be done.”

“Because of a dream that haunted a dying king?”

Merlin stared at his friend in silence for a moment, and then lowered his voice. “Not just the King, Aelred.”

“What do you mean?” the man asked.

Merlin remembered waking up bathed in sweat, with the dream burned into his memory. When he opened his eyes, Aelred was staring at him, his brows furrowed. Merlin waved off his concern.

“To quote a friend, ‘I am not dead yet.'”

“Thank the Lord. For a moment there, I thought you would die before you finished your tale,” Aelred said with a chuckle.

“Such a thoughtful fellow,” Merlin said dryly. “To continue … after Percival's first refusal, a week passed as I contemplated how to make him accept the ‘honor.' During that week, I had the same dream—but in my dream, the oak was already dead, and the surrounding forest was dead as well. In my dream, no one came to offer the promise of life. It was just death. When I awoke, it was just before dawn. I remember looking out upon the forest to the west of the castle and listening to it come to life with the morning light. Then I went to see Sir Percival, and I did what had to be done.”

“You are the wisest man I have ever known, Merlin, but sometimes I think you take too much upon yourself.”

“You may be right, Aelred the Seneschal, but if I have come to know anything in this life, it is that evil cannot always be defeated through the good and noble, and I would have you know my deed was not as foul, nor the quest as foolhardy as you suppose; at least it was not intended to be. A courier traveled to Aquileia months before Sir Percival's arrival with a message to the Archbishop, Maximus, a man I had met and befriended in my travels. In the message, I told Maximus that Percival was coming and that a Grail quest was to be arranged, in and around Rome only, to satisfy his knightly ardor.”

“Another ruse,” Aelred said with a scowl.

“You are quite insufferable at times, old man,” Merlin said.

“That would make two of us then,” the Seneschal retorted.

Merlin made a dismissive gesture with his hand and continued with the tale. “I told Maximus that I would send word when Percival was to be released from his service. Alas, Maximus died when Percival was aship, and his successor, Severus, quite the fool, embraced Percival's quest and sent him to the Holy Land. When I learned of this, I sent a second messenger, but Percival had already left, and the messenger's ship, which followed in pursuit, was lost in a storm.”

Aelred's stern glance softened, as did his voice. “And so, for the past ten years, Percival has been scouring the lands of the Moor, looking for the Grail.”

“I sought information from every source,” Merlin said, staring down at the table, “anyone who might know of his whereabouts, but little came of it. In truth, I do not want to dwell on the travails Sir Percival may have borne in the past decade, for I fear I would be unable to bear the burden of this guilt. All I can do is rejoice at his return.”

Aelred's face had grown solemn. “Alas, my friend, the last line of the message suggests otherwise.”

“What do you mean?”

He pulled the piece of parchment from his pocket and read the last sentence. “The man who stepped off that ship was Sir Percival, of that I am sure, but he is not the man who left a decade ago.'”

Merlin stared at Aelred for a moment and then looked at the flag hanging from a wall in the library. It was the flag that had been carried in the last charge at Camlann.

“We cannot know what Sir Percival has endured, Aelred,” Merlin said, “or how he may have changed during the past decade, but I can tell you this: Once he learns that Arthur is dead, he will seek out his only remaining sovereign.”

“Queen Guinevere? How can you be sure?”

Merlin leaned back in his chair. His cup was empty. “I know this,” he said, “as surely as I know the sun will rise in the east tomorrow.”

T
HE
C
AMP OF
C
YNRIC THE
A
RCHER

ynric emerged from the primitive wood and stone shelter, one of the twenty or so structures encircling the small clearing, and looked around at his motley band of followers. Most of the men had escaped with him from Londinium after the city fell to Hengst the Butcher, although a few had joined the band from the local villages. They had never intended to stay there for any length of time.

The plan had been to assemble a force and retake the city, with the help of the people still living within Londinium's walls. Alas, this hope had never come to fruition. Hengst and his brother Ivarr had quickly broken the will of the people in the city and ravaged the surrounding land so thoroughly there were few left to aid their cause.

With Londinium denied to him, Cynric had focused his efforts on barring Hengst from expanding his territory. His men attacked every Norse patrol that strayed too far south and also protected the local villages from Hengst's raiders. It was a hard life. When they were not attacking the Norse, Cynric's small band of men were scratching out a living trapping and hunting, and smuggling the farmers' excess food into Londinium. Still, the archer knew their lot was better than the slavery and starvation being endured by those who had remained in the once proud city.

Cynric's eyes were drawn to the trail at the southern end of the camp by a flash of movement. A moment later, Keil raced into the camp and ran toward him. The archer instinctively grabbed the bow and quiver just inside the door of the shelter and checked the long knife at his hip before turning back to the younger man.

“Sir,” Keil gasped, pulling up short five yards away, “it's not an attack, but Tylan said you should come. He said you have to see this.”

Cynric hesitated for a moment and then gestured in the direction that Keil had come from. “Lead on.” He knew Tylan wouldn't ask him to make haste without a good reason.

Keil started out at a fast jog, and Cynric followed. The sight of Cynric loping through the camp, armed with his long bow, drew the attention of the half-dozen men who had risen with the sun, and by the time Keil had reached the trail, half of the men in camp were in tow.

The trail ran along the edge of the meadow and wound its way up to the top of a hill where a guard was posted at all times. As they neared the crest, Cynric could see Tylan, his short, muscular second-in-command, crouching there with six or seven other men. A row of bushes and thick ferns hid the men from whatever they were staring at on the far side of the bluff.

When Cynric and Keil were thirty paces distant, Tylan turned and raised a finger to his lips, calling for silence, and made a sign directing the approaching men to crouch down like the rest of the watchers. Cynric dropped into a crouch and made his way to his friend's side, followed by the other men. Tylan pointed downward and Cynric stared through a gap in the bushes at two men on the bank of the river below. They were fighting.

For a moment, Cynric was so mesmerized by the combatants' blinding speed and the ferocity of their attacks, he didn't recognize them. Then he realized the combatants were Sir Percival and Capussa. They were naked to the waist, except for the gauntlets covering their hands and forearms, and bathed in sweat, despite the chill in the air. Muscles like ropes of steel writhed in their arms and torsos as they moved back and forth across the sand in a deadly dance, giving life to the web of scars that marred each man's chest, back, and arms.

From the waist down, the men were clad in black cloth breeches cut short just above the knees, and their feet were shod with heavy sandals laced to the calf. Each man wielded a practice sword, a wooden weapon precisely leaded to have the weight and feel of a steel sword. As Cynric watched, the Numidian attacked Percival and called out a series of commands in a language the archer had never heard before. With each command, Percival would execute a counterattack or defensive maneuver. Although Cynric had been a soldier for two decades, most of the attacks and defenses were unknown to him, and he had never seen two foes move with such speed and precision.

As the battle raged on without respite, Cynric expected one or both men to collapse from exhaustion, but neither man slowed nor yielded ground to the other for more than an instant. The only concession they afforded themselves was a guttural grunt of pain after a rare blow was landed. Finally, Capussa called out a command, and both men stepped back, sheathed their swords, and bowed to one another.

Percival turned, took off his sword belt, laid it on a nearby rock, and walked into the river, exposing his back to the men on the ridge. Cynric heard Keil's intake of breath and glanced over at the younger man. He was making the sign of the cross.

The archer tapped Tylan on the shoulder and gestured for the men on the bluff to follow him back down the hill. Tylan passed the signal down the line, and the men quietly eased their way down the slope. When they reached the bottom of the hill, Keil ran up alongside Cynric.

“Sir,” Keil said in a hoarse voice, “did you see his back? I've never seen … what could have done that?”

Cynric walked in silence for a moment toward the camp, and then he looked over at the visibly shaken younger man. “He was flogged with something … something terrible, many times,” he said, an undercurrent of anger in his voice.

Tylan nodded, his face grim. “The scars on their chests and arms, those I recognize as the work of a sword and a spear, but that set of three marks on Percival's chest and on the African's right arm, I've never—”

“A trident,” Cynric said quietly.

Tylan eyes widened. “Heard of those, but I've never seen one.”

Keil slowed and walked behind the two other men, apparently lost in his own thoughts. As they neared a bend in the trail, he ran forward and caught up with Cynric.

“Sir, is that how they fought? Is that how the Knights of the Round Table fought?” he asked.

Cynric stopped and looked back up the hill for a moment before turning to the younger man, his face grim. “No, Keil, they didn't fight like that. I've never seen anyone fight like that in my life.” After a final glance back up the hill, Cynric turned and started back toward the camp. Tylan kept pace with him.

“Before they started in with the swords,” Tylan said, “the two of them ran up and down that hill, over and over again. Then they spent nearly an hour doing all sorts of other things—lifting heavy rocks from the stream, pushing up off the ground with their arms. Each one squatted up and down with the other one on his back more times than I could count! It's like … well this is what they do all the time.” Tylan was silent for a moment.

“Who does that?”

“Someone who fights for a living,” Cynric answered curtly.

Tylan slowly shook his head, a frown on this face.

“Cynric, I'm a blacksmith, not a soldier, but I have made shields, swords, axes, and knives for knights and other men of the sword for two decades. When you work such a trade … over time, you get to know what they want and how they live and train. Well, I can tell you, I have never seen anyone train like that.”

Cynric glanced over his shoulder at Keil. The young man had veered off the trail to stalk a rabbit that had crossed their path a moment earlier.

Tylan's frown deepened. “I suppose,” he said hesitantly, “what I'm trying to find out is how well do you know Sir Percival? Is he going to join us or fight for someone else? I just would like to know,” Tylan said, looking back toward the bluff.

“So would I,” Cynric said.

“And so?”

Cynric smiled at his friend's persistence.

“And so,” Tylan went on, “maybe we can have a word with them once they are done trying to kill each other.”

“We?” Cynric questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” Tylan said with a rare smile, “you do know him.”

“No, Tylan,” Cynric said quietly, glancing over at his friend. “I do not know this man. I don't think anyone alive truly knows him other than Capussa. But we shall have a talk when he returns to camp.”

* * *

A
N HOUR LATER
, Cynric watched Percival and Capussa lead their horses into the camp. Cynric stood, walked over to the two men, and nodded respectfully.

“Sir Percival, Capussa, may I offer you food and drink?”

“Thank you, Cynric,” Percival answered, “but we have already broken our fast. We would not burden you with our needs, but, if you have a moment, my companion and I would have a word with you.”

Cynric nodded and gestured to a giant stump someone had hewn into a primitive table. Two long benches were drawn up on either side of the table.

“Please, you are welcome at my table. It is not much, but it serves my needs.”

“Why, it is a table fit for a king, friend,” Capussa said with smile.

“Lead on.”

Cynric hesitated. “Would it be acceptable if Tylan joins us? He's the master-of-arms for our little band.”

“We would welcome his company,” Percival said.

Cynric gestured to Tylan, waiting a short distance away, and the four men sat down at the crude table. Tylan nodded to the two men as he sat down.

Percival looked across the table at Cynric. “Cynric the Archer, I have one last duty that I must honor before my service to the Pendragon is at an end. I must find the Queen and tell her of my quest. If you can tell me of her whereabouts and the safest road to this place, I would be in your debt.”

Cynric was silent. He had feared this moment would come. The moment when he would be forced to tell the last surviving Knight of the Round Table that all he had known and loved was gone, washed away by a tide of violence, misery, and death.

“That road, Sir Percival,” Cynric said hesitantly, “will be a most treacherous one.”

Percival nodded. “That may be, but it is one I must travel.”

“Sir, the Pendragon is long dead and the Table is gone. The land … is broken,” Cynric said, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him.

“I know of the King's death, Cynric,” the Knight said patiently. “That is why I must give my report to the Queen.”

There was a long silence.

Percival leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “Please. Tell me she yet lives,” he said.

Cynric looked up and nodded. “Yes, the Queen is still alive, thank the Almighty, but the Kingdom, you must understand … all that we … all that you knew, it is gone.”

“Now,” Cynric said with a mixture of anger, despair, and guilt, “Albion is a place where death waits behind every tree and around every bend in the road.”

“Cynric,” Percival said in a voice filled with regret, “I was a Knight of the Table. If anyone should bear a measure of guilt for the Pendragon's fall, it is I, not you. I was not here in the King's hour of need.”

There was a long silence as Cynric remembered what once had been and what had been lost. From the look on the Knight's face, he too was remembering a time that was now gone.

“My friends, let me show you something,” Capussa said gently as he drew three small coins from a pocket in his jerkin. He placed the coins on the table and pointed to a small coin with a reddish hue.

“The home of my people lies outside the ruins of a great city by the sea that separates my land from the land of the Romans. This coin was forged by the kings of the great empire that first seized that ground from my people and built the great city.”

Then the Numidian's finger lightly touched a second, larger coin. “This one was forged by those who conquered this great empire and took the city for themselves. This last coin,” Capussa said, his finger moving to the largest and brightest of the coins, “is the work of the Romans. In their time of power, they razed the great city to the ground, and now, the City of Rome labors under the heel of its own conqueror. You see, great kingdoms rise and fall; that is the way of it. All that we—” Capussa said, gesturing to the men and women in the camp, “—can do is bear our burdens each day with honor and thank the gods for what little we have.”

Tylan nodded and said gruffly, “I think you have the right of it. We did what we could.”

Cynric nodded to Capussa. “Your words are kind, my friend.” Then he turned to Percival. “I will tell what I can, Sir Percival. It is little enough.”

The archer stood and walked over to a stick lying next to a patch of dirt by the table and quickly drew a crude map. When he finished, he pointed to a small circle at the top of the map.

“This is to the northwest. It's Queen Guinevere's ancestral land. An old monk, a friend, told me she took refuge there after the fall, in an abbey.”

Cynric then moved the point of the stick to a second line. “This is the road between Caer Ceint and Londinium. Our camp is here, about three or four day's travel south of Londinium,” he said, resting the point on a circle.