The Return of Sir Percival (17 page)

The giant stared at Percival, the surprise on his face turning to a black rage. He spat in the dirt and pointed to the wall on his left.

“Do you see that sack of rags and bones hanging from the wall? Sir Dinadan he called himself … said he was a Knight of your precious Table, he did. I killed him, slowly. He died begging for his life, just like you will.”

Percival glanced over the Norseman's shoulder at the remains of the body hanging from a crude hook in the far wall. The ravages of weather, and the teeth and claws of carrion, had rendered the body unrecognizable, but he could still make out the faint symbol of the Table on the now tattered and frayed tabard.

A picture of Dinadan, the dead and now defiled Knight, flashed through Percival's mind. His brother Knight had been a square powerful man, always smiling and laughing when attending the many celebratory dinners held at court. Percival remembered the man's petite and quiet wife, a Lady from Londinium. Dinadan must have been wounded at Camlann and then come to the aid of his adopted city once he had recovered.

Rage surged through Percival, but he mastered its power as quickly as it swept over him. Anger was a two-edged sword—one side of its blade made a warrior quicker and stronger, but the other made him precipitate and predictable. Hundreds of brutal training sessions with Capussa and the Mongol, Batukhan, had given him the ability to harness its power, while avoiding its weakness.

Percival forced a smile to his face and spread his arms wide as he circled the giant and spoke scornfully, his voice carrying across the field.

“Then come, Hengst, the butcher of farmers, tradesmen, women, and children; come and kill me. Or has Hengst the thief, rapist, and murderer grown fat killing the weak and innocent? Could it be that your arms have become as frail as your face is ugly? No? Then come and prove otherwise to the rabble over there that licks your boots!” Percival pointed his sword at Hengst's supporters as he finished, drawing howls of rage.

Fury swept over the Norseman's face, and he moved toward Percival, striking his sword against his shield. As he approached, Percival circled to the left and then to the right and then quickly back to the left again, forcing the giant to change his stance each time he moved. Hengst's movements and his prior attack had disclosed a weakness. The Norseman was explosively quick in a linear attack, but he lacked the skill to adapt to rapid lateral movements.

Hengst closed to within four yards of Percival and once again rushed him, but this time he was more cautious, swinging his sword in a more controlled horizontal strike at Percival's chest. Percival moved away from the blow, but he was forced to use both his shield and sword to stop the Norseman's blade from cutting him down.

The impact of the clash momentarily numbed his shield arm and sent a lancing pain through his left shoulder. He bought a moment's respite by stabbing his sword at the Norseman's face, forcing him to step backward. After the exchange, Percival knew he couldn't continue to trade blows with Hengst and wear him down. His blade was half the weight of the Norseman's, and the power behind the giant's strokes was so great any single blow could disable him, even if he was able to parry it. He would have to defeat the Norseman quickly using a high-risk maneuver the giant would not suspect.

As Percival circled to Hengst's right, he watched the giant's feet, knowing from the last two rushes that the Norseman would partially rise from his crouch a second before he lunged, and lead with his left leg. The second his opponent committed himself to a third charge, Percival threw himself forward in a dive that flowed into a roll. Hengst struggled to alter his own direction and, at the same time, change the path of his sword to strike his foe, but neither effort succeeded. Percival blocked the sword stroke with the shield on his left forearm and slashed the giant's left thigh as he passed, drawing a scream of rage and pain.

As the Knight completed his roll and came to his feet behind him, the Norseman pivoted on his wounded left leg and wheeled around, swinging a crushing stroke at Percival's head. Percival knew he was too close to escape the sweep of Hengst's sword, so he wheeled inward, bringing himself within a foot of the giant, dropped to one knee, and plunged his sword in a reverse stroke into the giant's chest with all of his strength. Hengst's face contorted in shock, and his sword fell to the ground.

Percival stood and ripped his sword from the giant's chest. For a moment, the Norseman stood facing him, his face a mixture of rage and disbelief, then he dropped to his knees and fell face-first into the dirt. A silence fell over the tournament field, and then cries of rage exploded from the Norse in the southern stands. Percival stepped over the body of Hengst the Butcher and walked toward the two brigands standing behind Keil. The Knight wheeled his sword in a circle with practiced ease as he approached. The two men hesitated and then ran for the main gate. Percival cut the captive men's bonds, nodded to Keil, and then pointed to the woman tied to the post.

“Keil, free the girl, quickly.”

As Keil ran toward the woman, men armed with swords warily entered the tournament field through the main gate—Hengst's men.

Percival knew his rescue was about to become a desperate battle of retreat, unless the people in the north stands joined him. He strode toward them and then stopped and pointed to the armed Norsemen walking through the gate.

“People of Londinium,” he shouted to the shocked and exultant faces staring at him in awe, “Albion is your land, and this city is your home! I call upon you to join me and take it back from these wolves. I, Sir Percival of the Table, call upon you to rise and take back what is yours! Rise!” Percival thundered.

Cynric, Tylan, and the rest of the men bellowed their approval and leaped out of their seats, running toward the guards waiting in the first row with swords drawn. Cynric shouted to the men and women around him. “There's a thousand of us and less than two hundred of them! Rise and crush them!”

One of the guards started toward Cynric, sword drawn, but he stopped midstep as an arrow from Tylan's bow struck his chest, knocking him over the wall onto the tourney field below. There was a moment of hesitation, and then it was as if a dam broke. The people of Londinium surged forward, threw the remaining guards over the wall, and jumped down to the tournament field.

The closest of Hengst's men raced toward Percival with swords drawn, and the Knight turned to meet them. The first two men fell to the ground in rapid succession, pinioned by arrows from Capussa's bow. Seconds later, Cynric and all of his men rhythmically sent arrow after arrow into the throng of shocked Norsemen. The more hardened warriors continued to run forward, but most of the men, who were common brigands, slowed, and some retreated as the men from the Londinium stands surged toward them, screaming for blood.

Two of the Norse warriors reached Percival; he dodged a blow from one and cut down the second. As he whirled to meet a second attack, he saw the man was already falling to the ground, cut down by Capussa's blade. He and the Numidian then turned to face the rest of the Norse, but the attack had been broken.

The exultant crowd chased the survivors out of the main gate and into the streets beyond. As word of Hengst's death spread, the crowd swelled and surged through the streets, killing or subduing the remainder of Hengst's men.

Capussa walked over to Percival and pointed his sword at the slain giant.

“You have grown soft, Knight. For a moment there, I thought he had you.”

“For a moment there, I thought he did too,” Percival said, a small smile coming to his face. “Thank God I remembered Batukhan's reverse stroke.”

“Bah! Your life was saved by the footwork and positioning that I taught you. That and relentless training!”

Percival laughed and rested a hand on his friend's shoulder.

“Whether it was both or neither, I am glad to be alive. Now, let us see if the good people of Londinium need any help with the rest of Hengst's brood, and then,” Percival said, his smile fading as he turned to look at the remains of Sir Dinadan, “I have to bury one of my brothers.”

A
BBEY
C
WM
H
IR

ister Aranwen moved from one chair in the sitting room out-Guinevere's personal quarters to a second chair beside the window where the light was better, and once again tried to thread a string of yarn through the eye of an old wooden needle. Her vision was still as sharp as ever, but her fingers were no longer as dexterous as they used to be, making the task a daily struggle. At the moment when success seemed certain, the outer door to the room burst open, and Cadwyn ran in, whereupon she whirled about, pantomiming a sword fight.

Sister Aranwen was so shocked she dropped both her knitting needles and ball of yarn on the floor. For an instant, she watched the younger woman whirl about the room and then erupted.

“Cadwyn Hydwell! I swear by all the saints you will be the death of me! What is it you are doing?”

Cadwyn ignored the demand and continued to strike to the left and the right with her invisible sword, punctuating each blow with the cry, “He is invincible!”

Sister Aranwen put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to reprimand the young woman. Before she could say a word, Guinevere, drawn by the commotion, opened the door to the library and walked into the room. The nun quickly curtsied and then pointed to the whirling Cadwyn, who was still unaware of the Queen's presence.

“I fear she has finally lost her mind, Milady, but then, I'm not surprised.”

Cadwyn stopped suddenly in the midst of another whirl, her face flushed as she curtsied to the Queen. “Milady! Forgive me … I … I ran all the way from the stables. It's wonderful!”

Guinevere gestured to the pitcher of water and goblets resting on the nearby table.

“Please, Cadwyn, have a drink of water.”

“Yes, please do,” Sister Aranwen said wryly. “Maybe that will bring you back to your senses.”

Cadwyn ignored the water and spoke in a torrent. “Milady, Sir Percival … it is he! He, he challenged Hengst the Butcher in Londinium on tournament day. He demanded that the Norseman yield to the King's justice or face his sword.”

The bemused smile on Guinevere's face faded, and she raised a hand to her lips.

“No. That cannot be. He—”

Cadwyn, seeing her distress, rushed on. “Milady, Sir Percival slew the Butcher before all the people of Londinium … and then he called upon them to rise up … and … and, Milady, the people … they heeded his call! Londinium is free!”

Sister Aranwen's eyes widened, and she looked over at Guinevere.

The Queen was staring at her young friend, a look of confusion on her face. “Free? I don't understand.”

Cadwyn rushed over to Guinevere, an exultant smile on her face. “Milady, the people rose up and took over the city! Hengst's men … they're either dead or captured, or they just ran away. Londinium is free! It is free!”

Trembling, Guinevere slowly sat down in one of the chairs beside the table. Sister Aranwen hurried to sit next to her, laying one hand upon the Queen's arm.

“Cadwyn, who … who told you of this?” Guinevere asked, the disbelief evident in her voice.

“Harri told me.”

Guinevere shook her head. “Harri?”

Cadwyn rushed on. “Milady, you told me to send three messengers to seek out Sir Percival. Harri—he's one of Torn's men—was one of the three. He stopped in Isca to stay the night, and the town was aflame with the good tidings. So he raced back here to tell us.”

Guinevere stared at the young woman, her face frozen, and then she slowly slid to her knees beside the chair and clasped her hands together in prayer.

“Thank God, thank God! Please, let us give thanks.”

Sister Aranwen gazed upward to heaven, not knowing if she was more grateful for the news or for the shining look on Guinevere's face. Both were beautiful. She bowed her head then and felt Cadwyn kneel beside her.

After several minutes, Cadwyn whispered loudly, “Milady, there is more.”

Sister Aranwen scowled at the interruption and continued to pray, but when Guinevere made the sign of the cross and resumed her place at the table, the nun quickly stood and resumed her seat as well. For the first time in many a year, she felt a flicker of hope, but she kept any hint of the inner feeling from her face.

Cadwyn jumped up and took the seat across from the two women.

“Please,” Guinevere said calmly, placing both hands on the table in front of her, “tell me everything.”

The young woman opened her mouth to continue her story, but instead, struck her petite fists down on the arms of the chair and said, “Milady, he is invinc—”

“Cadwyn Hydwell, we have heard that!” Sister Aranwen interrupted. “Now please, tell us the rest of the bloody story.”

Guinevere's eyes widened, and she restrained a smile. “Yes, please go on, my dear.”

“Yes, Milady,” she said, chastened for a moment, and then continued in a rush.

“Harri said that Hengst holds a tournament in the city every month. He forces the people in the city to come to it. He always ties a woman to a post in the middle of the tournament field and threatens to give the woman to his men unless someone comes to defend her. This time, Sir Percival walked out on the field and took up the challenge. They say he wore a knight's tabard with the sign of the Table!”

Cadwyn stopped to draw in breath and then continued. “There was a terrible battle, and Sir Percival struck down the Butcher with a mighty blow. Then … then he turned to the people of Londinium in the stands, and he ordered them to rise up against their oppressors, and they did. Harri said there were bowmen in the stands—they were Sir Percival's men. The bowmen and the rest of the crowd leaped onto the tournament field and killed Hengst's men. Then the whole city rose up!”

Sister Aranwen sat on the edge of her chair, for once mesmerized by the younger woman. Guinevere was staring at her handmaiden, rapt with attention.

“And then what?” the nun prodded.

After a moment of hesitation, Cadwyn leaned over and said conspiratorially, “He is coming.”

Guinevere frowned. “Who is coming?”

“Sir Percival, Milady!” Cadwyn jumped out of her chair, her eyes exultant. “He comes here. The messenger said he is coming north at great speed. He travels with the man from Africa that Captain Potter spoke of, and others have joined him along the way. The people in Isca told Harri that his ranks grow with every league he rides.”

“Who are these people?” Guinevere asked.

“Harri said they're just common folk. They come from the forests, the towns, and the villages. He does not call for them, but they come anyway.”

Guinevere stood and walked to the window and then spoke in a quiet voice. “Arthur said that Percival would return. He left me a note before he took the field at Camlann. I didn't find it until months later. It was in a box of personal things I kept hidden. I … I didn't think he knew about it. At first, I hoped and prayed what he prophesied would come true, but … as the years passed, I no longer believed.” She turned and faced Sister Aranwen and Cadwyn, a radiant smile on her face. “I should have had faith. God be praised. It has come to pass, just as he said it would.”

“God be praised,” Sister Aranwen echoed.

Guinevere moved back to the table and took her seat, a smile on her face, her eyes alight with joy. “We, my dear friends, have much to do before the good Knight pays us a visit,” Guinevere said. “So let us prepare.”

N
ORTH OF
L
ONDINIUM

Ivarr the Red sat in an oversized wooden chair, salvaged from one of the burning houses in the village behind him, holding a pitcher of mead. The chair sat astride a path that led to a circular stone tower, thirty yards distant. During the Pendragon's reign, the tower had been the quarters of a royal sheriff. It was about to become a funeral pyre for the men, women, and children of the village barricaded within.

The Norseman watched in satisfaction as his men piled logs, branches, and hay around the base of the tower. The village had nothing of value other than the villagers themselves. Those who surrendered when the fire and smoke made their refuge unbearable would be taken to Londinium and sold into slavery. The others would die in the flames.

Ivarr knew the village's half-starved peasants would not sell for much, but then he hadn't laid waste to the village for coin. He was sending a message. The village was located just across the river, marking the border between Morgana's lands and those claimed by Hengst. He wanted Morgana to know he could ravage her lands as well, any time he desired.

“Ivarr!”

The Norse warlord took another leisurely drink from the pitcher of mead before turning to the tall, blond warrior walking toward him—Ulf. Ivarr disliked the man, but he had made him second-in-command. His fellow countryman was both a doughty fighter and a shrewd tactician. Smart men, Ivarr knew, were dangerous men. Keeping the other man close made it easier to keep an eye on him, and to kill him if it became necessary.

“Speak,” he ordered.

“A messenger has come from Londinium. He killed two horses getting here. He says … he says …” The man's voice trailed off.

“Speak, or I shall have your tongue!” Ivarr growled.

The man swallowed heavily and continued, “He says Hengst is dead, and Londinium has fallen, my lord.”

Ivarr exploded out of his seat and faced the scarred warrior, his face a mask of incredulity and rage. “What! Bring this man to me!” he roared.

Ulf pointed toward the center of the village. “He cannot walk. We must go to him.”

Ivarr brushed the other man aside and walked toward the circle of men gathered around the village well. The crowd parted as the Norseman approached.

A small, filthy man was sitting on the ground gasping for breath. His face was battered and swollen and covered in a heavy patina of dust mixed with blood. Ivarr recognized the man. He was one of the brigands his brother used to collect taxes. He strode over to the man and kicked the ladle of water he held from his hands.

“Speak, dog! What is this about my brother?”

“He's dead … slain by a Knight of the Table,” the man said in hoarse gasps.

Ivarr kicked the man viciously in the side. “You lie, dog. The Knights are all dead.”

The man groaned and held up his hands in fear. “Please, Lord Ivarr … I speak the truth. One lives. I saw him. He challenged Hengst on tournament day … and killed him. Then he called upon the people of the city to rise.”

“Rise? What do you mean,
rise?”
Ivarr demanded.

“To rise up against us, and they did. It happened so fast … there were too many of them—we were slaughtered.”

Ivarr stared at the man, struggling to contain his rage. “What say you? The city is taken? Who is this knight? How many men did he have?”

“They say he is Sir Percival. They say he returned from the Holy Land. I have never seen a man fight like that. I—”

Ivarr ripped his sword from its sheath and pressed it against the man's throat.

“I asked you, how many men did he have?”

The brigand's eyes widened as he gasped out his reply. “T-ten, m-maybe twenty, mostly bowmen.”

“When? How many days have passed since the town was taken?”

The man hesitated and Ivarr pressed the tip of the sword into his flesh, drawing blood. The man frantically tried to move away from the pointed sword as he answered in a raspy whisper. “T-two days ago, maybe t-three. Been riding for so l-long, I—”

Ivarr's boot smashed into the side of the man's head, and he slumped to the ground. The Norseman turned to Ulf, his face a mask of rage. “Every man with a horse will ride with me to Londinium, now. The men afoot will follow at a forced march.”

“But it is late in the day and the fortress—”

“We ride and march, now!” Ivarr shouted, putting the point of his sword against Ulf's chest.

“So it shall be,” Ulf answered, a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes.

Ivarr turned to the men watching the tense confrontation and roared, “Abandon the siege! We ride and march for Londinium, now! Riders, mount your horses! All others prepare to march. You will leave your booty.”

Howls of protest followed the order.

Ivarr stepped past Ulf and jumped up on the stone wall encircling the well, so all of his men could see and hear him.

“Heed my words well, you fools! Hengst is dead! Londinium has been retaken by the Britons!”

The rumblings from the men ceased, and for the first time in hours, the small village was deathly quiet.

“You want your booty? Slaves to sell? Where will you sell them? Londinium is the slavers' port, Londinium is where you spend your coin, and Londinium is where you sleep. Without that city you have no home, unless you would return to your cold, hard villages in the north, like a pack of cowardly beggars.”