The Return of Sir Percival (28 page)

“God save us from that woman,” Sister Aranwen said quietly as she made the sign of the cross.

“Why did you take on the guise of Bishop Verdino, Merlin?” Guinevere asked.

“During the first year, there were so many attempts on your life that I had to find a way to keep you inside the abbey's walls but, at the same time, not alert Morgana to my presence. Verdino's persona enabled me to do that. The more you hated me, and the more it was rumored that I stole from your lands, the less likely it was that Morgana would suspect

Verdino was Merlin the Wise. My Queen, the guise enabled me to keep my promise to my King. Unfortunately,” Merlin said with regret, “it was at the price of keeping the truth from my Queen.”

“Merlin, twice you have mentioned that the assassins came in the first year. Did something change after that?” Guinevere asked.

“Yes. I … I am not sure why, but for some reason, Morgana stopped sending assassins. There were other threats, but not from her.”

“Other threats?” Cadwyn interjected.

“Oh yes,” Merlin leaned back in his chair, “there were a number of others. A year after he seized Londinium, Hengst sent a force of men to kidnap you. The fool thought that if he forced you to marry him, it would somehow make him the king of Albion. Another time a band of brigands from the south started this way with designs of their own, and other Norse leaders have made noises about raiding the abbey from time to time.”

“And you … and your minions stopped them all,” Guinevere said, assessing the quiet, serene man across from her.

“Hengst's raiders were served a pitcher of poisoned mead, the brigands were killed while they slept … and so on,” Merlin said, spreading his hands in an apologetic gesture.

Sister Aranwen made the sign of the cross again, her eyes widening.

Guinevere stood up, walked to the window, and looked out upon the growing army training just outside the walls, and the guards diligently patrolling the abbey perimeter with regular precision. For the first time in many years, she was truly safe. Although a part of her was angry at Merlin's manipulative and deceitful tactics, the truth was they had kept her alive so she could see this day—so she could see Sir Percival again. She turned and walked back to her chair and sat down, her eyes fixed on Merlin's.

“You have honored your promise to Arthur,” she said gravely, “in the fullest measure, Merlin the Wise, and although I cannot say that I … approve of your methods, I am in your debt. Why, I think even Cadwyn would agree that you can be quite the useful scoundrel, when the need arises,” Guinevere finished, smiling at the younger woman.

“Well … there is that,” Cadwyn said grudgingly, and then she smiled as well.

* * *

P
ERCIVAL
S
TOOD
O
N
a rise, two hours after sunrise, just outside the walls of the abbey. In the broad, open field below him, a nascent army was preparing for war. One group of men practiced swordcraft, another group was learning to maneuver in formation, while still others were struggling to master the long bow, spear, and pike. He glanced down at Capussa, approaching from the field below with an amused look on his face.

“Do not look so dour, Knight. All will be well.”

Percival nodded toward the men below. “I did not come home to start a war, Capussa.”

Capussa nodded agreeably. “And you have not done so. You merely invited the people of Londinium to take back what was theirs, and they did. Who could fault you for that?”

“The wives and children of the men who died in that taking and in the battle by the Wid River,” Percival answered.

The look of amusement on Capussa's face faded, and he turned to face his friend.

“Let us speak of things as they are, Knight. This land is dying. Brigands control many of the roads, and every town and village is a fortress. The men, women, and children within those fortresses live in desperate fear that the morrow will bring enslavement or death. When you cut down Hengst the Butcher and Londinium rose, you gave those people hope, and that, my friend, the forces of evil in this land cannot abide. So yes, there shall be war. There are only two things that now lie in the balance: whether you will bring the war to them or they to you, and who will be the victor.”

Percival gave Capussa a skeptical look. “You've been talking with Merlin.”

Capussa's smile returned. “We did share a cup of mead while you were with the Queen.”

The Knight raised an eyebrow. “More than one, I suspect.”

“Well, it was a fine mead.”

“And what,” Percival said dryly, “does Merlin the Wise counsel?”

Capussa looked out upon the field below and spoke in a solemn tone. “His spies say that Ivarr the Red has formed an alliance with Morgana, and it's only a matter of time before they take the field against us.”

Percival stared into the distance, remembering how the men and woman on the northern coast would become restless and fearful as the spring thaw presaged the onset of the Norse raiding season. The lull before the first attack was always the hardest to bear.

“How much time do we have?”

“Merlin cannot say for sure. Ivarr must raise another army from his people, and Morgana must buy one. So we must do everything within our power to prepare this small army for war as quickly as possible.”

“That's not an army, Capussa. Those are farmers, hunters, shepherds, and who knows what else.”

Capussa looked over at his friend, an eyebrow raised. “Merlin told me you forged quite a formidable army from men very much like these. Moreover, he said your army of peasants soundly defeated Morgana's raiders in the north in many a battle. You did that alone, Knight. Together, we shall build an even more formidable army.”

“Capussa, the men of the Marches were a hard breed, and I lived and trained with those men for almost a year,” Percival said quietly.

“There are more than farmers down there, my friend. Do you see those men over there?” Capussa pointed toward a group of men standing together on the far side of the field.

Some of the men were wearing uniforms Percival recognized. He nodded.

“They are soldiers,” Capussa said with satisfaction. “They served in the army of your dead King, and most of them have brought their arms with them. Yes, there are only a hundred or so, but more come every day. I have met these men, Knight. They know what they're about, and they have a score to settle. They will be the backbone of this army.”

Although Percival felt reassured by the sight, he knew there were hundreds of other men who needed arms.

“What we need,” Percival said with quiet intensity, “are swords and shields for the rest of the men. If we could arm them … and train them in the use of those arms, then we would have a chance. Alas, we would need a town full of blacksmiths working day and night to forge the steel we need.”

Capussa walked over to the Knight and slapped him on the shoulder, a broad smile on this face. “Your prayers have been answered.”

The Knight looked at Capussa skeptically.

“I speak the truth. Merlin borrowed a hundred men and rode south at dawn with nearly every wagon and cart available, along with over two hundred horses. He promised to return in three days with enough arms to outfit an army of two thousand and to bring enough supplies to feed that army for a month.”

“And you believed him?” Percival said, incredulous.

Capussa shrugged. “I had no choice. I received orders from the Queen.”

“The Queen,” Percival said in confusion.

Capussa nodded, an amused look in his eyes. “Yes. Merlin bore a message with two royal commands. The first ordered me to give Merlin the men, wagons, and horses that he requested.”

“And the second?”

“Oh, yes. That was for you. You are to attend the Queen this morning to continue your report.”

Percival stared at Capussa in surprise.

Capussa laughed and pointed imperiously toward the abbey. “Don't just stand there, soldier! Attend your Queen.”

T
HE
Q
UEEN
'
S
S
ITTING
R
OOM
, A
BBEY
C
WM
H
IR

hen Percival entered Queen Guinevere's sitting room, the Queen, Cadwyn, and Sister Aranwen were seated in the same places the three women had occupied during their last meeting.

“Forgive me, my Queen, I did not receive your message until moments ago,” Percival said as he bowed.

“Please, sit, Sir Percival. The fault is mine. Your story of yesterday was so enthralling that I neglected to tell you when to return. Now, please continue your account of your time in the Holy Land.”

“Yes, my Queen,” Percival answered as he eased himself into the chair across from her. Percival was quiet for a moment as his thoughts returned to a modest house in the City of Alexandria.

“I … I spent many months recovering from my wounds under the care of Jacob the Healer. When my strength returned, Jacob guided me to the houses of men of learning in Alexandria who might have knowledge of the Holy Grail. Although these men were at first suspicious, over time, I earned their trust. I was allowed access to the secret libraries they maintained—libraries that contained many of the scrolls that survived the destruction of the great library of Ptolemy. Although many of these writings spoke of Christ and his disciples, and there were some that even spoke of the Grail, none told me of its whereabouts. The journal that I kept will attest to this.”

“You kept a written journal of your search for the Grail?” Guinevere asked in surprise.

“Yes, my Queen. At the end of each day, when it was possible, I would write down what I had discovered.”

“Sir Percival,” Guinevere said, leaning forward in her chair, “such a writing is a treasure in itself. Do you still have this journal?”

Percival hesitated before answering. “Yes, my Queen. I do have it.”

“I would speak with you about its safekeeping another time. Please continue with your story.”

“Yes, my Queen. One afternoon, as I returned to Jacob's home, he was sitting at his table surrounded by his friends, overcome with grief. When I asked what was wrong, he told me that an ambitious nephew of the Emir of Alexandria had demanded that his son, Joshua, reveal the contents of a message he had translated for another man of power in the city. When Joshua refused to break his oath of secrecy, the man slipped a jewel into Joshua's cloak without his knowledge. He was then seized by the palace guards as he left the grounds and charged with theft. Although the Emir held his nephew in low regard and would have dismissed the charge, he was away on a pilgrimage to Mecca, and so Joshua was tried as a thief.”

“What would be his punishment?” Cadwyn asked in a hushed whisper.

“He was offered a choice: the loss of his right hand, or a year in a Moorish prison … a prison from which a man such as Joshua, a small, kind man of books and learning, would never return.”

Sister Aranwen's hand went to her mouth.

After a short pause, Percival continued.

“After the trial, which lasted a mere hour, Joshua was convicted. This was not something that I could allow to stand. I owed my life to his father, so … I took Joshua's place.”

Guinevere looked at Percival in confusion.

“His place? Sir Percival, how could that be?”

For a moment, Guinevere's eyes met Percival's, and the Knight hesitated for a moment before continuing. As Guinevere watched him gather his thoughts, it was as if a part of him was returning to that faraway place.

“In my search for the Grail, I came to know a Moorish scholar, a man named Rashid. Like Jacob, he assisted me in my search by giving me access to his library and also securing access to the libraries of other men of learning. When I learned of Joshua's fate, I asked Rashid to intercede, for he was a man of high station in Alexandria. Alas, the matter was beyond his realm of influence. There was, he explained, only one way of saving Joshua's life. There was a law that would allow one man to bear the burden of another's punishment.”

Guinevere's eyes once again met Percival's, and she said in a soft voice, “You offered to serve his prison term.”

“I did.”

“Did Jacob the Healer or his son ask you to do this?” Cadwyn asked.

Percival looked over at Cadwyn. “No, Lady Cadwyn. Neither Jacob nor Joshua knew of my intentions in this regard. Had they known, they would have refused to allow me to make this offer. I appeared before the court with Rashid, without their knowledge, and asked to serve Joshua's prison term in his stead. At first, the judge declined my offer, when the Emir's nephew opposed, but then a man approached him, a man who I would later come to know was Khalid El-Hashem, and had words with him. After this conversation, my plea was granted.”

Percival eyes grew distant when he continued, and he spoke in a faraway voice.

“I later came to know why Khalid El-Hashem intervened in the matter. You see, the Emir of Alexandria, and the Moors who controlled all the surrounding cities, allowed Khalid to take the prisoners of his choosing to a prison where men were fed well, where they slept in clean beds, and where they were trained daily by men skilled in the use of the sword, spear, and every other implement of war.”

“I don't understand,” Guinevere said.

Percival looked down at the scars crisscrossing his hands for a moment, and then he looked up, his eyes meeting Guinevere's. “You see, my Queen, Khalid ran the finest gladiatorial games in all of Egypt. Thousands would come to see men fight and die in Khalid's arena, and they paid dearly for this privilege. Since men would not volunteer to die in his games, Khalid needed men to serve as the wheat for his golden scythe, and so prisoners such as I were brought to this place of slaughter.”

“Mother of God,” Sister Aranwen whispered.

Guinevere's breath caught in her throat, and she could see Cadwyn rising in the seat to her left, her small fists balled in fury. She raised her right hand slightly to forestall the coming explosion of verbal outrage, and Cadwyn sat back down again.

Percival spent the next hour describing his life in Khalid El-Hashem's prison and as a gladiator in the arena. As the Knight told the tale, Guinevere realized he was only telling a foreshortened narrative to spare his audience the pain of hearing the truth. As in the prior session, she gently tried to persuade him to tell the entirety of the story, but in this instance, her remonstrances failed. The Knight would not yield the memories she could sense he held within, and with each polite evasion, Guinevere's trepidation grew. It was as if Percival knew the women could not bear the nightmare waiting behind the door she was seeking to open. In the end, it was all she could do to hold back the flow of tears—tears that were freely rolling down Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen's cheeks as well.

When Percival finished his tale of his life in the arena, Guinevere found she was fascinated by the role the woman called Sumayya had played in Percival and Capussa's drama. She felt at once deeply indebted to the woman for saving Percival's life, while at the same time, a part of her was uneasy and even jealous of the Knight's relationship with the Moorish princess.

“Sir Percival, tell me of this woman Sumayya. How did she come to know you, for surely, she would not have made so great a sacrifice without cause?”

Percival hesitated for a long moment, avoiding her eyes, before answering.

“We … we were allowed to talk under the watchful eyes of her father and Khalid from time to time. She knew the language of the Greeks and Romans, as well as the language of the Moors, so we could speak without the aid of others, and … we could speak without the others knowing what we said.”

“And what did you speak of?” Guinevere said quietly.

Percival closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. When he opened his eyes, all three women were staring at him, rapt with attention.

“Sumayya wanted to know of our land, the people, our customs, and to know of all the lands that I journeyed through. When I told her of the King, and of you, my Queen, and the Table, she was consumed with a desire to know more. If it had been within her power, she would have traveled here. I … I believe she would have found favor with you, my Queen, had you known her.”

“She has my favor, Sir Percival,” Guinevere said with a depth of feeling, “in the fullest measure, for it was her sacrifice that allowed you to come home.”

Percival and Guinevere's eyes met, and it was as if they were all alone in the room. Then he nodded, breaking the spell. “Thank you, my Queen.”

For a moment, the room was silent, and then Guinevere stood and walked to the window that overlooked the range of hills to the west. She looked at the sun and was surprised to see the day had slipped well into the afternoon.

“It is later than I realized, Sir Percival, and I know there is much that you have to do. I would ask that you return tomorrow, after you break your fast.”

Percival stood and spoke as he bowed. “Yes, my Queen.”

As he started for the door, Guinevere called after him. “Sir Percival, wait, please. Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen, would you wait in the library for a moment? I would speak to Sir Percival alone.”

Sister Aranwen and Cadwyn stood up, curtsied, and walked through the open door to the smaller room beyond. After they had left, Guinevere walked across the room and stopped a pace away from the Knight, her hands clasped in front of her. She was quiet for a moment, and then she spoke in a voice full of regret. “You … you have every right, Sir Percival to … bear ill will toward Arthur, and myself as well, for … for the terrible wrongs you have suffered, and … and for the years that you have lost. I ask, more, I pray for your forgiveness. I know Arthur would also seek your forgiveness if he were here himself, but he cannot. If you knew … knew why …”

Tears welled up in Guinevere's eyes, and she closed them for a moment as she struggled to find the words to continue. When she opened her eyes, Percival had taken a step closer to her.

“My Queen,” Percival said, “I bear no ill will toward the King, and I bear nothing toward you but … devotion and my steadfast fidelity as a Knight of the Table. I know that the decision to send me on the quest was against your wishes.”

Guinevere's eyes widened. “You … you knew of my objection?”

“Yes,” Percival said quietly, “and … I also knew that there were two women who watched me leave for the Holy Land … so long ago. One was my mother, who was on the dock. The second watched from the hills above Londinium.”

Guinevere and Percival looked into each other's eyes, now a mere step away from each other, and then the Knight stepped back and bowed.

“My Queen, if I may take my leave?”

She nodded and spoke in a near whisper. “Yes … Sir Percival. I will see you on the morrow.”

When the door closed, Guinevere stood there, a hand resting on her chest, as she recalled her tears of grief on that distant hill a decade earlier. He had seen her … he knew of her feelings.

* * *

I
N THE
L
IBRARY
next door to the sitting room, Cadwyn had quietly stood up on a wooden bench in order to peer through a hole in the wall that allowed her to see Guinevere and Percival. As Cadwyn climbed down from the bench, her shoe made a scuffing noise, drawing the attention of Sister Aranwen, kneeling on the other side of the room, praying with her eyes closed.

“Cadwyn, what are you doing!” the nun said in exasperation.

The younger woman turned quickly, an innocent look on her face, and stepped down from the bench.

“I thought I saw a … a wasp, but it was nothing.”

“And you thought to swat it with your hand! Have you no sense at all?”

T
HE
C
OAST OF
H
IBERNIA

Ivarr the Red and Ragnar looked down on the ruins of the town that Sveinn's warriors had sacked and burned to the ground a day earlier. The townsfolk who hadn't been fast enough to escape into the hills had been killed, every last one.

“The fools,” Ivarr growled as he scanned the hundreds of sleeping men lying in the field just outside the smoldering town, wrapped in an array of foul-smelling animal skins. “We could have slept the night in that town, warm and dry, with women to serve us mutton and mead. Instead, we have spent the night in the cold, wet grass.”

“They are vargars,” Ragnar said. “Only blood and death satiate them. If we let them take Londinium, there will be nothing—”

“Sveinn and his pack of wolves will never set foot in Londinium,” Ivarr said in a harsh whisper as he glanced over at the giant man wrapped in a black bearskin, sleeping near the campfire in the center of the hill.

“As soon as we have put this Sir Percival and his army of peasants to the sword, we will kill Sveinn and his men.”