The Return of Sir Percival (19 page)

“I know of this,” Morgana interrupted. “Go on.”

“Yes, Milady. Tournament day was two, no, three days ago. Hengst came to the tournament field and called for challengers. None … none have taken up the challenge in years, so men are seized and forced to fight. A woman is tied—”

“As I said, I know of this tournament day,” Morgana said in a tone that made it clear he would get no more warnings. “Tell me what happened!”

“Yes, yes. Forgive me, Milady. But on this day, a man came and accepted Hengst's challenge. He walked right onto the bloody tournament field, he did. At first, he was dressed in a ragged old cloak, but when the fight started, he took it off, and … and he was wearing the mark of a Knight of the Table! He said he was Sir Percival, and he called upon Hengst to yield or die. Hengst attacked him … there was a fight like none I've ever seen before, Milady, and this Sir Percival, he killed Hengst. Struck him dead, he did. Then he freed the prisoners and the girl, and … and then he turned to the crowd. He called upon them to rise up against the Norse.”

“And?”

“And? Oh yes, well Milady, the people in the stands, they rose up! There were bowmen among them. They knew what they were about, and there was a man with them, a man as black as coal—a warrior friend of Sir Percival's. The crowd raged through the streets, killing Hengst's men. Why, Milady, it was something to see! I've never seen a Knight of—”

Morgana turned a cold eye upon him and the man fell silent, a look of terror in his eyes.

“F-forgive me, Milady. That is all I know. Sir Percival and the people of Londinium, they hold the town now. There's not a Norseman within miles, I suspect.”

Morgana picked up the dagger on the table beside her and approached the man. He pressed backward against the wall behind him, and his hands began to shake.

“Please, Milady. I've told you everything. I am a loyal—”

“Hush,” Morgana whispered. “Answer this next question very carefully, my loyal servant. Did you or anyone else see a man with Sir Percival—an old man, with slightly darker skin than one of your land. He would be a hand shorter than I, and he would speak your language like a man from a foreign land, as I do.”

Ulric looked to the left and right at his guards and then back at Morgana, terror growing on his face. He started to shake his head, but then froze.

“Wait. I did see this man—I mean, what I saw was a man of that height, but I couldn't see his face or hair. He kept himself hidden. The hood of his cloak was always up, but this man, he, he did go to see Sir Percival. I watched the man with the coal skin and the man known as Cynric the Archer take him to Sir Percival.”

“And then?” Morgana demanded. “What else did you see?”

“That … that is all, Milady. I took to the road after that. I … I'm sorry, please …”

Morgana straightened up and smiled. She turned to Seneas. “Pay this man well. See that he gets a bath, food, and a night's rest. Then he is to return to Londinium on a new horse.”

“Yes, Milady.”

She looked down at her spy. “You have done well, but you will do much more, and you will be paid well for your service … very well. You are to return to Londinium and follow Sir Percival wherever he goes. You will join his men, if you can do so without suspicion. Once every ten days, marked from this day, I will send a messenger to you. He will tell you that he knows your brother. That is how you will know him. Tell him all that you have learned of the man in the hooded cloak. You will also learn as much as you can about this Sir Percival's plans. Do you understand this?”

The man nodded. “Yes, Milady. I will do as you say.”

“Good. Now go; bathe, eat, and rest. Then ride like the wind back to Londinium.”

“Yes, Milady.”

Morgana nodded to the guards as they followed the man out of the room. Seneas moved to follow them, but she raised a hand, and the old man stopped and turned to face her.

“Seneas, after I have bathed and eaten, I would speak to Lord Aeron of this.”

“Is this wise, Milady? He was once—”

“I will decide what it is wise, Seneas,” Morgana said sharply. “If Lord Aeron knew of this Sir Percival in his former life as a Knight of the Table, then all the more reason to question him on the matter. And if, as you have implied, his loyalty may be at risk, then I would know it now. But, in truth, I have no worries in that regard. Lord Aeron is a prisoner of his honor and his love for his precious Queen. He will not break his vow.”

“Yes, Milady, forgive me.”

* * *

L
ORD
A
EROD KNOCKED
on the door to Morgana's chambers. A servant girl opened the door and gestured for him to enter, and then left the room without a word.

“Come in, Lord Aeron, and seat yourself.”

Lord Aeron ignored the plush chair closest to Morgana's divan and instead sat on a wood bench that he knew was placed there for the servants. A look of irritation crossed Morgana's face, but it vanished a moment later.

“And how do you fare this morning, Lord Aeron?”

“I am well, but I suspect you didn't ask me here to inquire after my health.”

A cold smile came to Morgana's face. “No, I did not. I have every confidence that you will live at least as long as she does.”

The muscles in Lord Aeron's face tightened, but he didn't otherwise react to Morgana's verbal jab. After a tense silence, Morgana spoke, her tone once again pleasant.

“Your fellow Knight, Sir Percival, is apparently not dead.”

Lord Aeron stared at Morgana, unmoved. He knew that words were just another weapon for her, and lies were her sharpest and most oft-used blades. Yet, he sensed a measure of unease behind the facade that was her cold, beautiful face, and a flicker of hope rose from the ashes within.

Morgana leaned forward, her eyes fixed on his, like those of a raptor a moment before its talons closed on its prey. “To the contrary, it appears that he walked into Londinium and killed the invincible Hengst the Butcher in a duel, on the tournament field, no less.”

There was a long silence, and every sinew in Lord Aeron's body wanted to rejoice at the tidings, but he suppressed the feeling, knowing Morgana would see any reaction as a threat.

“Do you have a question for me, Milady?” Lord Aeron asked in a flat, emotionless voice.

Anger flared in Morgana's eyes for an instant, and the knight watched as she regained her iron control. She leaned back against the cushions behind her and continued.

“Yes, quite the hero this Percival, and apparently, quite the leader as well. Why, after his victory over Londinium's oppressor, this man demanded that the people of Londinium rise and throw off the yoke of the Norse rule, and they did just that.”

Lord Aeron's eyes widened, and the flicker of hope within flared into a small flame.

“I don't understand,” Lord Aeron said.

“Londinium has been retaken by its people. Hengst's Norsemen are either dead or they have fled. Now do you understand?” Morgana said harshly.

“Yes,” Lord Aeron answered, not reacting to her ire.

Morgana stood up and walked to the window that overlooked the estuary and the sea beyond. A moment later, she turned around to face him, her face white with anger.

“Yes? Is that all you have to say, Lord Aeron, or should I call you Sir Galahad, now that your brother Knight has returned? Is this the first step in a scheme to resurrect that foolish Table that I sundered a decade past? Remember, your precious Guinevere's life is mine to take at any moment, so if there is some grand plot afoot—”

Lord Aeron stood up and stared down at Morgana, struggling to control his rage. He had never known hatred until he met this woman, and despite his prayers, he feared a day would come when he would yield to its cries for vengeance and strike her down. At this instant, the screams for blood within him were deafening, but he ignored them, as he had done so many times before.

“Sir Percival,” he said in a voice of stone, “was sent on that fool's quest a decade ago—a quest that I knew nothing about until after he'd left port. I have neither spoken nor heard from him since the day of departure, and I can assure you that neither he, nor I, envisioned, even in our vilest nightmares, the unholy havoc that you have wrought on this land. So no, Morgana, I have no knowledge of any plot, and as for the life of the Queen, we struck a bargain, and I have honored, and continue to honor, my promise. I expect you to honor yours. Good day.”

As Lord Aeron strode from the room and across the castle to the stables, a flood of emotions raged through him. A part of him wanted to ride like the wind to Londinium to see his long-lost friend, and another part prayed death would take him before Percival learned he served their common enemy under the nom de guerre, Lord Aeron.

As he saddled his black destrier, he heard a young woman's voice outside the stable. He turned and looked out the open window at the nearby well, knowing he was invisible in the stable's semidarkness. An older woman dressed in a worn woolen dress was struggling to lift a bucket full of water over the top of the well. Another woman, younger, but dressed in similar attire, ran over and helped her lower the bucket to the ground. The younger woman whispered something, and the old woman scoffed.

“What! I don't believe it for a moment! It can't be.”

The younger woman put her hands on her hips and said in an indignant voice, “It's the truth, Maud! Alf, the stable boy, heard the messenger speak to the old Greek when he arrived. Sir Percival, a Knight of the Table, has killed Hengst the Butcher and retaken Londinium!”

The older woman shook her head. “One man! Even a Knight of the Table—and I tell you, Marian, they're all dead—couldn't take back Londinium from Hengst and his Norse reavers. No, it's just idle gossip.”

Lord Aeron tightened his grip on his saddle's girth strap and grew very still. As the women chattered on, he could see the gate to the castle wall being raised through the window. A moment later, two men on horseback galloped through the opening and down the road to the south.

“And I suppose,” Marian sneered, pointing toward the two men racing through the castle's front gate, “those men are racing south at the break of dawn for nothing?”

Maud grabbed the younger woman's arm in a tight grip, drawing a look of anger.

“Shush, Marian! I pray you're right, but if you would keep that pretty head on your shoulders, I wouldn't talk of the Table and the Pendragon whilst you work in this castle. Remember who rules here!”

Lord Aeron turned back to the horse and spoke quietly to his mount. “Londinium. Do you remember, brother, the last time we were there?” For a moment, Lord Aeron allowed himself to remember a time when he had another name, when life was not a place of pain and darkness.

It was the day of the annual parade. The Knights of the Table had ridden in procession behind the Pendragon and Guinevere through the center of the city. People had lined both sides of the street, waving and calling out greetings. In accordance with the rules of decorum insisted upon by Lancelot, the other knights did not acknowledge the cheers. They rode in silence, their faces carved in stone—the very picture of stalwart power. Much to Lancelot's ire, the two knights in the rear of the procession, Galahad and Percival, often flouted this order. Worse, they did so with impunity, since Lancelot could not turn around and catch them in the act without violating the rule himself.

As the column had passed by one of the houses that overlooked the street, five or six young women standing on the second-floor balcony had cheered hysterically when Galahad and Percival came abreast of them and called out to the golden-haired knight.

Lord Aeron rested a hand on the saddle in front of him as he remembered the words they had spoken that day.

“Why, Sir Galahad,” Percival had said, glancing over at him, the hint of a smile on his face, “could it be those women have made your acquaintance?”

“Indeed, they have,” Galahad had said, unable to hide a smile.

“Hmm, I seem to remember that his high and mightiness ordered all knights to remain in camp last night.”

Galahad's smile widened. “Well, let's just say that Lancelot has his rules, and I have mine. You really must come along on one of these nocturnal romps. Life was meant to be lived.”

Then he turned to the women and bowed his golden head in their direction, drawing screams of pleasure.

“Percival,” Galahad said quietly, “since neither you nor I can have the woman of our dreams, why not drown our sorrows in the arms of those we can have?”

As the memory faded, Lord Aeron whispered, “It has come full circle. Where once you held back the enemy alone, and I came to your aid, now you have come to mine, and none too soon, brother, for I have grown weary of carrying this burden alone.”

* * *

M
ORGANA WALKED TO
the window overlooking the estuary below, pondering Lord Aeron's reaction to the return of his brother Knight. She sensed his nonchalance was feigned, but she did not believe he would try to join this Sir Percival and risk Guinevere's assassination, at least not yet. Still, the risk was there, and killing him would end the matter.

In the end, she decided to keep the knight alive. His end would come soon enough, as would Guinevere's. Morgana smiled as she remembered the particularly fine wine she had set aside to celebrate the death of the Pendragon's Queen.

Morgana's pleasant reverie was interrupted by a soft knock on the partially open door to her chambers. “Come.”

Seneas walked into the room and bowed. “Milady, may I ask what Lord Aeron—”

Morgana made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “No, you may not. Now tell me of Ivarr and his force. When will they reach Londinium and put an end to this foolish uprising?”