The Return of Sir Percival (14 page)

After finishing the note, Guinevere handed it to Cadwyn.

“My friend, I will need this message written in cypher, on three separate parchments. As soon as we return to the abbey, three of Torn's best men must ride with these like the wind to the sparrows who live outside Londinium.”

Cadwyn read the message and slowly raised her eyes to the Queen.

“So it is he, Sir Percival?” she said in prayerful whisper. “He has returned?”

Guinevere hesitated, putting the quill down upon the table. “It could be him. I cannot be sure, but if it is, then he will need someone to guide him safely to the abbey. No one who left this land before the fall of the Table could know how dangerous it has become.”

“Milady, how can you doubt that it is Sir Percival after what Captain Potter said?”

“Perhaps …” she paused, remembering how many dreams had faded and fallen by the wayside in the long years since Camlann, “I fear that an early tide of hope will only lead to a later sea of despair if I am mistaken. I … I have much to ponder, but it will have to wait until the morning.” She rose from her chair with a tired smile. “It has been a long day, my young friend, and we should rest.”

“Of course, Milady. I shall see you in the morning.”

Although she was tired and sore from the last three days of riding, Guinevere could not find the respite of sleep. The meeting with Captain Potter had opened a Pandora's Box of memories and feelings, and raised troubling questions about the man who'd disembarked from the Mandragon. An hour after lying down to rest, she rose and walked over to the tall, narrow window on other side of the room and stared down at the somnolent forest three floors below. The light from the full moon cast the tower's long shadow deep into the forest, like a giant sword warding off all who might approach.

The scene below drew Guinevere's thoughts back in time to the great stables at Camelot and the rides she used to take through the forests, towns, and villages surrounding the castle, in the first hour after dawn. Although there was little danger in the years before the war began, Arthur had insisted that one of the Knights of the Table, along with six guards, accompany her on each outing. Since most of the Knights had been reluctant to rise at such an early hour, more often than not, this duty had been imposed upon the two youngest Knights, Percival and Galahad.

Both of the young Knights had seemed to enjoy the outings, but Galahad's nocturnal trysts frequently left him in a poor state at such an early hour, forcing his friend, Percival, to serve in his stead on many occasions. Guinevere smiled as she remembered Percival's discomfiture when she had raised the matter with him on one of their morning rides.

The small party had dismounted by a stream to allow the horses to drink, and she and Percival had walked over to a nearby bluff, where they had a view of Camelot in the distance.

“Sir Percival, I was told that Sir Galahad would be accompanying me on today's ride. Is he unwell again?” Guinevere said, feigning concern.

“Alas, yes, my Queen, otherwise he would surely have come,” Percival answered, avoiding Guinevere's eyes.

“Is it a serious matter? If so, I can ask Merlin to attend him,” Guinevere said, raising an eyebrow.

Percival nodded, still avoiding Guinevere's inquisitive gaze. “Your kindness is much appreciated, my Queen, but I suspect only time will cure what ails him.”

“I see,” Guinevere said, nodding thoughtfully before continuing. “Do you remember the alehouse we passed earlier, the one with the wooden rooster above the door?”

Percival stiffened. “Uh … yes, my Queen.”

“When we stopped outside to tighten my saddle strap, I heard one of the stable boys telling another that Galahad was still dancing with the miller's daughter at this … reputable establishment—on the tables, mind you—three hours before the cock crowed. Would his ailment have anything to do with this nocturnal outing?” Guinevere said with a small smile.

“Not being a healer, my Queen,” Percival said hesitantly, “I cannot say. But I would concede that Galahad has taken at least two of the admonitions in Ecclesiastes to heart.”

“And those would be?”

“There's a time to dance, and there's a time to laugh.”

“Oh, he is quite the rogue, is he not?” Guinevere said with a laugh.

“He is that, my Queen,” Percival conceded, a smile touching his lips for a moment. Then it disappeared, and he turned to face her. “He is also a true and loyal friend, and the bravest knight that I have ever known.”

Guinevere and Percival's eyes met for a long moment, and then she looked out upon the vista before them.

“Do you know, Sir Percival,” Guinevere said quietly, “that you and Galahad share something unique?”

“My Queen?”

“You both saved my life.”

Percival shook his head. “My Queen, the battle at Eburacum—”

“Saved the city and all within it, including your Queen,” Guinevere said quietly and then continued. “The year the plague came to Albion, I was sent to live with my uncle. His manor lies to the north, near a lake, far from any of the cities or ports where the illness struck. The lands held by Galahad's family adjoined those of my uncle, and sometimes we would ride together.”

Percival looked over at the Queen, a look of surprise on his face.

“I was seventeen, he eighteen. One day, our party—I, three of my handmaidens, and Galahad and two of his friends—were having a picnic in the forest, when a wild boar charged out of the woods straight toward me.

“Galahad distracted the creature and it charged him instead. He leaped in the air when it was just a few feet away, and it ran right under him. Then he dodged behind a tree and teased the creature until it charged him again and again. Each time, he would dodge behind the tree and circle to the other side, just barely evading its deadly tusks. To this day, I remember the expression on his face,” Guinevere said, shaking her head in wonder. “He loved every minute of it. He was actually upset when one of the men in his company killed the boar with an arrow.”

“Galahad enjoys the dance with death too much,” Percival said quietly, his eyes fixed on the distant towers of Camelot. “I don't know whether it is that he doesn't fully understand the price of a misstep, or whether he doesn't care. In either case, I have sworn to do my best to keep him safe, for the world would be a darker place without him.”

Guinevere looked over at the Knight. “Yes, Sir Percival, it would indeed.”

The memory faded and Guinevere was surprised to find she had walked to the other side of the room. She walked back to the window, drew in a heavy breath, and allowed the memories pressing in on her to return again and have their way.

Over the next six months, Percival had ridden along with her, two and sometimes three days a week. Over time, she had begun to hope that he would be the Knight assigned to accompany her each morning. One day, after a ride, she remembered sitting down, alone in her royal quarters, trying to understand why she was so drawn to him.

He was disciplined and honorable to a fault, but many of the other Knights were as well. He was also handsome, but not so much so as Galahad, Lancelot, or Tristan, and although she'd heard rumors that Percival was a most formidable swordsman, martial prominence and glory had never meant much to her. She'd never enjoyed the tournaments she was called upon to attend with Arthur several times a year, with all their pomp, ceremony, and, too often, blood.

Then she had come to the realization that Percival had two traits that most of the other knights lacked. The first was the depth and breadth of his knowledge. Unlike most of the other Knights and nobles, Percival could read and write, like herself, in the languages of the Greeks and Romans, and he had read many of the books she had read. Many times, she found their morning talks so interesting that a ride of an hour or two seemed to pass in minutes, leaving her wishing the trail had been a league or two longer.

The second trait she treasured was the way Percival treated the common people. Whenever they stopped at a town or village, he would speak to one or two of them as if they were equals, and he made a point of helping them whenever he could. Guinevere remembered a time when they'd stopped to water the horses in a town, two leagues to the south of Camelot, and Percival had helped a woman carry a bucket full of water from the town well to her house.

Percival had spoken to the woman at some length outside her modest home. After the woman went inside, Percival had walked across the street to the tavern and spent several minutes inside. From there, he'd walked over to the blacksmith's shop. She remembered the square, middle-aged smith turning a shade of white during their short conversation, and then quickly nodding his head in assent to whatever Percival had said.

As they were riding out of town, Guinevere glanced over her shoulder and saw a thin, balding man of middle years emerge from the tavern and run over to the smith. The two men had then hurriedly walked over to the woman's house and knocked respectfully on her door.

Unable to resist, Guinevere had turned to her escort. “I must confess, Sir Percival, I am most intrigued by yon happenstance. What business did you have with the woman at the well, and with the tavern keeper and blacksmith?”

After a moment of hesitation, the Knight had answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I noticed the woman had been crying, and I asked what vexed her. She was reluctant to say, but I insisted. Her husband recently died, and she'd obtained work at the tavern to help pay for her needs and those of her son, a boy of ten. The lad was apprenticed to the smith. When she'd declined the tavern keeper's advances, he took away her job and persuaded the smith to end her son's apprenticeship.”

“And so, Sir Percival, what did you do?” Guinevere said quietly.

“I told the tavern keeper that the woman was a relative of mine, and I considered his treatment of her a personal affront. I made it clear I would be compelled to seek satisfaction if she wasn't rehired and treated with the utmost respect. I conveyed the same message to the smith about the boy's apprenticeship.”

“That … was most noble, Sir Percival.”

“Thank you, my Queen.”

“And are you related to the woman?” she asked with a small smile.

Percival's brow furrowed for a moment, and then the hint of a smile touched his lips. “Well, in some sense, yes, my Queen. If you go back far enough, we're all related.”

A soft knock at the door of her room drew Guinevere back to the present. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen standing there, looking anxious. At first, Guinevere assumed there must be a threat to the tower.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, Milady,” Sister Aranwen said. “We just heard you … walking back and forth, and we were concerned.”

“I … I didn't realize that. I'm sorry to have awakened you.”

“Is something wrong, Milady?” Cadwyn asked softly.

Guinevere smiled, realizing that both women were curious as to her thoughts and desired to talk. “I am troubled by today's talk with Captain Potter, but I will not burden you with my thoughts at this late hour. You should sleep.”

Cadwyn spoke almost before she finished. “It would be no burden at all, Milady. We would very much like to listen.” Sister Aranwen nodded in rare agreement.

The Queen nodded and gestured for them to come in. “Very well then, come in, and let us sit at the table. Cadwyn, can you put another log on the fire?”

“Yes, Milady.”

After placing a small log on the fire in the hearth, the young woman joined Guinevere and Sister Aranwen at the modest wooden table. A narrow stream of moonlight from the window flowed across the table and merged with the light from the hearth, bathing the three women in a gentle light. Guinevere ran one of her hands through the ghostly stream, as though trying to catch its substance in her palm, and then leaned back in her chair.

“It's Galahad. That's how I knew it had to be Percival.”

“Galahad, Milady?” Cadwyn said.

“Yes.”

Guinevere was quiet for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, and then she continued.

“Percival and Galahad were raised to the Table in the same year, they went through the training together, and, being the most junior Knights, they often shared the least desirable duty assignments. The two of them also made the mistake of crossing Lancelot, who was one of the most senior Knights, and the one that had Arthur's ear.”

“What did they do?” Cadwyn asked.

“In the case of Galahad, he drew much of Lancelot's ire upon himself and deserved many of the hard duties and punishments assigned to him. That man,” Guinevere said, shaking her head in amusement, “loved to break the rules, he loved playing tricks, and he wasn't one to miss a party. It was rumored that Percival had to get up at four bells and scour the taverns for his fellow knight on the mornings when they were assigned to a dawn patrol.”

“I suspect Lancelot's ire had another cause as well,” Sister Aranwen said wryly, glancing up from her prayer beads.

“True,” Guinevere said with a nod. “Before Galahad came, Lancelot was reputed to be the most handsome knight at court, and more often than not, he had a trail of women following him.”

“That he did,” Sister Aranwen said with disapproval. “It was rather unseemly, if you ask me. He should have shooed them away, like bothersome flies.”

Cadwyn glanced over at the usually reserved nun, surprised at the interruption.

A smile touched Guinevere's lips, but she continued without commenting.

“Well, after Galahad was raised to the Table, Lancelot was relegated to second place with the women of the court. Even Arthur used to chuckle about how vexed Lancelot was about that.”

“Why did Lancelot dislike Percival?” Cadwyn asked. “Did the women follow him as well?”