The Return of Sir Percival (11 page)

Percival interrupted, his brow furrowed, “Why will it take so long? I can recall covering the entire distance between the port and Londinium in four days, and Capussa and I have already been on the road for two.”

“The road isn't safe now,” Tylan said, shaking his head. “You should count yourself lucky that you didn't meet Korth and his foul band of brigands on the way here.”

Capussa looked over at Tylan and drew a line with his finger from his right temple to his jawline. “Would this Korth have a scar that runs thus?”

“Aye, that's Korth,” Tylan said.

“We did ‘meet' this man, as you say,” Capussa said with a small smile. “He will not trouble anyone ever again.”

A slow smile came to Tylan's face. “That was a good day's work.”

Capussa nodded. “Indeed it was.”

Cynric glanced over at the Numidian, remembering the ferocity of the battle by the river an hour earlier. He suspected Korth was not the only brigand lying dead on the road to Caer Ceint.

Cynric turned back to the map and pointed to the circle designating Londinium.

“Londinium and its surroundings are controlled by Hengst, a Norse chieftain, and his foul raiders. Most travelers making their way past the city stay off the road. They use the forest paths to get around it. There are guides that make a living helping people stay clear of the raiders; some are honest, some not. There are two forest paths. We will use this path,” he said, pointing to an arc on the south side of the Tamesis River. “It is a longer journey, but it is usually safer.”

Percival frowned. “I would not burden you or any of your people with this journey.”

“You won't make it without a guide,” Cynric said, shaking his head, “and Tylan and I have business there. We live off the forest, but we get help from the local farmers. In return for food, we smuggle their grain and vegetables into Londinium and barter for the goods they need in return. Since food is short in the city, the people pay well for what we bring.”

“I'm in your debt, Archer.”

“No, sir, I am in yours,” Cynric said quietly, remembering for an instant the battle on the Aelius Bridge in what seemed like a different lifetime.

“When would you leave on this journey?” Tylan asked.

“As soon as you are able,” Percival said as he stood up.

Cynric turned to Tylan. “What say you?”

Tylan shrugged. “The grain hut is near full. So, tomorrow is as good a day as any.”

The archer nodded. “Then tomorrow it is. We should leave by first light.”

M
ORGANA
'
S
D
OMAIN

organa idly caressed the haft of the bejeweled knife resting on the table in front of her before spinning it again with a tap of her finger. When the knife came to rest, the tip of the blade was pointing at the chair across from her—the chair awaiting Ivarr the Red. She smiled and then lifted the hem of her ankle-length white tunic and restored the blade to the sheath on her leg. The hidden knife violated the rules of the parley, but she was untroubled by the risk. Her transgression would only be discovered if it became necessary to slit Ivarr's throat, and if it came to that, the knife could mean the difference between life and death.

She scanned the broad, open field encircling the table in satisfaction. Lord Aeron had chosen a strategically good site for the parley with the Norsemen. The ground offered both parties a clear view of the other's approach, making any attempted ambush a difficult and bloody choice.

A movement on left side of the field drew her attention, and a moment later, Lord Aeron and six other riders emerged from the forest line, returning from their second patrol of the morning. As she watched the knight cross the field toward her, clad in his blackened armor and helmet, she once again found herself mystified by the knight's honesty. The noble fool despised her, and yet, he dutifully honored every promise she had extracted from him, even his promise to keep her safe.

“One day, I will ask your beloved Guinevere what magic she used to ensorcell you. Then I will take it for myself, along with her life,” Morgana whispered.

When the riders were within fifty paces of the table, Lord Aeron gestured for the rest of the soldiers to join the line of mounted men waiting fifty paces behind her. Then he continued forward alone, bringing his horse to a halt five paces from the table.

“He comes,” the knight said, gesturing to the forest wall to the south.

“And how many men does he bring with him?” Morgana asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fifty men accompany him, as agreed, but there is a second column with at least twice that many men following not far behind.”

Morgana smiled at the anger in Lord Aeron's voice. “But of course. You didn't expect Ivarr to honor the rules of this parley, did you, Lord Aeron?”

Lord Aeron rode his horse a step closer to the table. “You will not find it amusing if the Norseman attacks with that many—”

“He won't,” Morgana interrupted, waving his retort away with a flick of her hand. “Ivarr is not Hengst. Yes, his thirst for gold and power is equally insatiable, but Ivarr is a clever man, a man who seeks power in his own right. He will wait to hear what I have to offer before he reaches for his sword.”

“And what if your words are not to his liking?” Lord Aeron asked coldly.

“Why then, I have you to protect me,” Morgana said, a quiet threat in her voice. The sound of a horse pounding across the field stilled Lord Aeron's reply. He wheeled his horse to face the rider and, after a moment's hesitation, galloped to meet him. Morgana recognized the man as one of the scouts.

Seneas walked over to Morgana and refilled the silver goblet in front of her with more wine. Morgana glanced up at the old man's face and said coldly, “Do you have something to say, Seneas?”

The old man hesitated and then spoke in a low voice. “Princess, is it wise to goad him so? If we are attacked, your life is in his hands. Surely, he must see that your death will—”

“Release him from his bondage?” Morgana interrupted with a cruel laugh. “It might, but at a price he will never pay. You see, Lord Aeron knows that his precious Queen will be killed by one of my spies within the abbey upon my passing.”

Morgana was quiet for a moment as she watched the knight talking with the scout. Then she shook her head and spoke in a tone laced in scorn and a touch of regret.

“In the end … that's not why he will protect me from the Norse dogs. You see, Seneas, his precious honor wouldn't let him do anything else. Alas, if I had a thousand such fools to manipulate, I would wear the purple in Constantinople.”

Before Seneas could reply, Lord Aeron wheeled his horse and rode toward the table at a full gallop, pulling up short a few feet away. As if sensing Lord Aeron's tension, his giant black steed strained at the firm hand holding the reins.

“The Norseman approaches with fifty riders, but the second column waits just behind the tree line. We cannot withstand an attack from that many men,” Lord Aeron said urgently.

Morgana stared at the knight for a moment, swirling the wine in her silver goblet, and then said with a smile, “Be at ease, Lord Aeron. Cinioch and his band of Picts await just behind that hillock over there. They will join your line if we are attacked.”

The muscles in Lord Aeron's jaw visibly tightened. Morgana had expected the reaction. The Pict and his band had raided a farmstead within the borders of her domain, killing the farmer and selling the remainder of his family into slavery. In the midst of Lord Aeron's preparation for a retributive attack on the Pict war leader, Morgana had secretly negotiated a pact with the raider. In return for a monthly stipend of silver, the Pict and his band had agreed to plunder the lands claimed by Hengst, instead of those within her control.

“I know you think I should have let you put the Pict and his band of reavers to the sword,” Morgana said, brushing off the rebuke in his eyes, “but had I done so, they would not be here to meet your needs today. Using one group of barbarians to counter another is a very old and wise Roman tradition, Lord Aeron. Their blood is cheap. Now, stop scowling at me and arrange your men so that we can provide a proper welcome for our guest.”

The knight turned to the man in the center of the line of mounted men behind him and gave a terse order. “Finn, half of the men to the right, there, half to the left, there.”

The line of horsemen divided and flanked either side of the table. When the movement was complete, Lord Aeron turned to Morgana and said in a quiet voice that only she could hear, “I know of your knife, Morgana. Ivarr the Red will know of it as well. If this matter does not go well, do not engage him. Throw yourself to the ground. I will take the Norseman with a throw of my lance.”

Then he turned his horse without another word and rode to a position thirty paces in front of the table and waited for the approaching Norseman.

Moments later, a column of fifty mounted Norse warriors emerged from the forest and advanced across the open field. Morgana watched their approach with interest, but her eyes were drawn to the tree line, where the larger force of warriors was hiding. Her gaze came to rest upon the knight standing between her and the men approaching. Seneas had been right, if an attack was made, her life would be in the hands of Lord Aeron.

The Norseman riding the lead horse was a tall, rangy man with sunken cheeks and a long nose that looked as if it had been broken several times, giving him a hard, cruel look. Unlike the men riding behind him, whose hair fell to their shoulders, the lead warrior's reddish-brown hair was cropped short, and he wasn't wearing a helmet. His red woolen shirt was sleeveless, revealing arms with iron-hard muscles that were marred by a patchwork of scars.

The Norseman stopped at the white flag that stood a hundred paces from the table, his eyes moving from Lord Aeron to the soldiers lined up on either side of the table and finally to Morgana. She returned the Norseman's stare for a moment and then called to Lord Aeron.

“Have your men fall back to the flag.”

“Finn!” Lord Aeron called out, without taking his eyes off the line of Norsemen in front of him. “Move the line in groups of ten from the outside in.”

Ten men on the end of each line wheeled and rode back to the white flag, one hundred paces behind the table, and formed a new line. When the entire line of horsemen had moved to the new position, Ivarr dismounted, along with a second Norseman. The other man was as tall as Ivarr but broader in the shoulders and neck, and his long, black hair was streaked with grey. The older Norseman scanned the soldiers behind the table and the surrounding forest for a moment and then said something to Ivarr. The Norse leader nodded, and the two men walked toward the table, their eyes wary.

Lord Aeron waited until the two had covered half the distance to the table before he rode his horse around behind it, dismounted, and took up a position behind Morgana's chair.

Ivarr the Red stopped just behind the chair on his side of the table and nodded to Morgana.

“May I join your table, Roman?” he said, his voice a deep rasp.

“Sit. My table is yours this day,” Morgana answered solemnly.

Ivarr eased into the chair across from her, his eyes moving from Morgana to Lord Aeron.

“The road from Londinium is a long one. May I have Seneas pour us some mead?” Morgana said, gesturing to the old Greek servant.

Although the expression on the Norseman's face didn't change, Morgana had anticipated his suspicion. He was well aware that she was not only skilled in the use of poisons, but had used the noxious weapon to kill at least two of the Knights of the Table.

The ghost of a smile crossed Morgana's face, and she turned to Seneas.

“Seneas, bring two cups of mead, and place them in front of me.”

Seneas filled two silver mugs and placed them in front of Morgana. She took an ample drink from each cup and then pushed the two mugs into the center of the table.

“We fought side by side against the Pendragon, Ivarr the Red. You have nothing to fear at my table.”

The Norseman's reaction was quick and laced with a threat.

“I fear nothing, Roman.”

Morgana leaned forward, picked up one of the cups, and drank deeply, her eyes locked on those of the Norseman. Then she took a long drink from the second cup.

“Of course you don't, Ivarr,” Morgana said as she set down the second cup and pushed it across the table to him.

“Now, let us discuss the matter of our borders.”

The Norseman grasped the cup with a scarred hand and took a long draught. After lowering the cup, he nodded appreciatively.

“A good mead. Talk.”

“We will, but we shall talk alone,” Morgana answered and turned to Lord Aeron and Seneas.

“You will step back fifteen full paces.”

The two men hesitated, and then both moved backward.

Ivarr stared at Morgana for a moment and then, without turning, spoke in his own language to the man behind him. The warrior nodded and also took fifteen paces back.

Morgana leaned forward and spoke in a quiet voice as cold and hard as steel.

“I will speak plainly, Norseman. Your brother's ravages have driven the farmers and the shepherds and their flocks from the lands around Londinium, so the people are starving. I know Hengst could care less if the people die—he may even enjoy it—but now hunger's bite has begun to reach his soldiers, and that is not something they will abide. So, in desperation, the fool seeks to take from my—”

“You go too far, Roman,” Ivarr growled, his eyes blazing.

Morgana leaned back in her chair and stared at the Norseman in silence for a moment and then leaned forward again and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion. “Do I? You know the truth of what I say. Having turned his own holdings into a wasteland, he seeks to feed his wolves from the fruit of my lands.”

Ivarr put his forearms on the table and leaned forward, putting his face within two feet of Morgana's.

“And what of it? If Hengst wants your land, he—”

“Could take nothing,” Morgana finished coldly, unmoved by the Norseman's attempt to intimidate her. “I know of your plight, Norseman. In the last year, Hengst has lost more than half of his men, and those who remain are living on half rations. Many have not been paid for months. Such men are for sale, and I, Ivarr, have the money to buy them.”

Morgana hesitated for a moment and leisurely took a drink of mead. For a moment, she feared she had overplayed her hand, but the rage in the Norseman's eyes remained under control.

When she continued, her tone was softer, and her words were laced with flattery.

“Unlike your brother, you are a wise man. You know that it's just a matter of time before Hengst loses all that you both have bled to gain. But … there is an alternative, one that offers Ivarr the Red the power and wealth he has been so unjustly denied.”

The rage in Ivarr's eyes ebbed as she spoke. When she finished, the Norseman leaned back in his chair for a moment and looked at her impassively, weighing what she had said. “I listen, Roman,” he said with a scowl.

As Morgana watched the seed of avarice grow within the Norseman, she knew the game was hers. Her people had been bribing and manipulating barbarians for over six centuries, and the outcome was always the same—greed always triumphed over loyalty and, in this case, familial bonds. Ivarr could be bought. All that remained was the price.