The Return of Sir Percival (33 page)

Cadwyn stared at the older woman, confused by her internal turmoil. “Why do you fear the Queen's love for Sir Percival? Arthur is dead. I don't understand.”

Sister Aranwen looked at the young woman, her eyes filled with apprehension.

“Cadwyn, I lived through Camlann. I saw Arthur and his legions march against Morgana once before. I fear that if … well, after having waited so long for him, he is lost that …” Sister Aranwen's voice trailed off, and she bowed her head in silent prayer.

Cadwyn reached over and took the Sister's hands in her own. “This time, it will be different, Sister Aranwen,” she whispered.

The older woman lifted her head. “I pray that you are right, child, I pray with all my heart and soul that it will be so.”

* * *

A
FTER DRINKING TWO
cups of mead with Capussa, Merlin returned to his quarters, intending to retire early, but he could not find the respite of sleep. The mystery posed by the note accompanying the wooden cup Jacob the Healer had given to Sir Percival consumed his thoughts. After an hour of lying awake in the dark, the old Roman arose, lit a candle from the glowing embers in the room's small hearth, and returned to the desk, where the missive was hidden. He drew out the scroll and again struggled to unlock its meaning.

Percival had been right. Much of the note had been written in an Aramaic dialect that had not been used in centuries, one he could neither read nor seem to translate. Although Merlin understood the Greek and Latin words randomly interspersed among the Aramaic script, these did not provide any clue as to the meaning of the Aramaic words.

At first, Merlin had ignored the Greek and Latin words in the text, assuming they were nothing more than the irrational digressions of a sick old man, and focused on the Aramaic script. Since these words were unknown to him, he tried to ascertain their meaning by seeking out similar words in related languages, such as Hebrew and Syriac. Alas, this had come to nothing.

After seemingly endless hours of futile struggle, Merlin had turned his attention back to the Greek and Roman words in desperation, and over time, he came to realize that the Aramaic was just a ruse. The message was in the Greek and Latin words; they simply had to be assembled together in the proper order. He intended to find that order tonight.

When at last the cock crowed, signaling the coming of dawn, Merlin stood and walked over to the window and watched the sun rise. He had solved the mystery. Percival had been right. The cup given to him by Jacob was not the Holy Grail, but it was a grail that was holy.

T
HE
R
OAD FROM
N
OVIOMAGUS
R
EGINORUM TO
L
ONDINIUM

s she rode amidst her Saxon guard, Morgana fumed at the army's slow pace. Sveinn's men had stopped to raid almost every town and village along the road, and although Ivarr had initially restrained his men, in time, they too had joined in the pillaging. Now the Norse warriors were hours behind her, their horses slowed by the weight of the booty they carried. At this rate, the march to Londinium would take five days instead of three.

Unlike the Norse, the early reports from her spies said Sir Percival and his army were marching south at speed and in good order. Although this was a part of her plan, Morgana had been surprised by the rapidity of the Knight's approach and his army's discipline. Still, she had no fear of the eventual outcome of the approaching contest. Her force, when joined by those of Sveinn and Ivarr, was a third larger than Sir Percival's, and unlike the rabble led by the Knight, the Saxons and Norse were hardened warriors. Once the battle was joined, they would break the Knight's lines, and the slaughter would begin.

The only matter weighing on Morgana's mind, other than the Norsemen's laggardly pace, was the silence from her spies. Three days had passed since their last messages—a delay she vowed would be paid for in blood. Morgana turned to Garr, the Saxon war leader riding beside her.

“Call a halt for the midday meal. We can encamp in that field over there.”

The tall, square warrior had served under Morgana's command in the last years of the war against the Pendragon and had proven himself to be a shrewd, if brutal, leader. He had also proven to be loyal, as long as he was timely paid his due in silver. The Saxon raised a fist, and the order was passed down the line by a mounted crier.

Morgana spurred her horse off the road and cantered up the slope of a knoll at the far end of the field, followed by Garr, three Saxon warriors, and two of her household retainers. Moments after she dismounted, Garr called out in his guttural voice, “Lady Morgana, a rider comes.”

She turned and looked in the direction the Saxon was pointing. A Pict warrior approached from the north. It was Talorc. What was he doing here? He should have been at the Abbey Cwm Hir, awaiting the order to kill Guinevere. She seethed with rage as she watched the Pict ride through the Saxon lines at a leisurely pace, his eyes roving over the warriors with a mixture of amusement and scorn.

“I know this man. I will talk to him alone, Garr,” Morgana said curtly.

The Saxon war leader watched the approaching Pict for a moment with distaste, his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. Then he nodded and walked back to his men.

Talorc halted his reddish-brown horse several paces short of Morgana and dismounted.

“Roman Princess, I can see you—”

“What are you doing here, Pict?” Morgana hissed. “You should be seventy leagues north, watching the Pendragon's whore!”

Talorc's eyes narrowed, but he smiled, displaying his sharpened black teeth. “The Queen of the Britons is five of your Roman leagues from here … along with an army.”

“You lie! My spies—”

“Are dead,” the Pict finished with scorn. “The man whose skin is the color of the night and your fellow Roman, Merlin the Wise, have seen to that.”

“What? There were—”

“Four. Now, there are none.”

“Five leagues? Where? Wait—” Morgana looked around for Garr and saw him watching the exchange, along with three Saxon warriors, ten paces away. She waved him imperiously over. The Saxon strode to her side and glared at the Pict. Talorc returned the glare, his hand resting upon the wicked-looking hunting knife sheathed at his waist.

Morgana gestured at Talorc. “This man brings tidings of great import. Listen.”

As Talorc begrudgingly retold his story, she withdrew a map from a pocket in her traveling cloak and spread it out on the small wooden camp table nearby.

“We are here,” Morgana said, pointing to the midpoint on the road that ran from Noviomagus to Londinium. “Where is the Knight and his army?”

Talorc slowly drew the hunting knife from his belt and walked over to the map. After staring at the map and then lifting his gaze to the surrounding hills and sky for several moments, he touched the sharpened tip of his blade to a spot to the north of their position—a point between their position and Londinium.

“This place. It is called the Vale of Ashes. The army—they call it the Queen's Army now—is camped there by a river.”

Talorc's comment about the name of the army enraged Morgana, and she suspected that's why the Pict had said it.

Garr looked suspiciously at the man. “How do you know this, Pict?” he demanded.

“I have followed this army for many days, Saxon, and I know it comes for you and the Norse dogs marching behind you. I also know that the man who leads this army will not allow you to pass on to Londinium. On the morrow, Saxon, there will be blood,” Talorc said with satisfaction in his voice.

“How many are they?” Morgana said.

The Pict reached for a stick lying on the ground and began to draw lines in the dirt. “For each line, a hundred soldiers,” he said as he drew twenty separate lines.

“Why should I believe you?” Garr said in a low growl.

Talorc's eyes narrowed, and then he spoke in a terse whisper, his hand tightening on the knife in his hand. “I don't care what you believe, Saxon, but know this: If I wanted your head, I would take it myself. I would not wait for the army of the Pendragon's Queen to do that for me.”

Garr started toward him, a snarl on his face, but Morgana cut him off.

“Garr, send riders to Ivarr and Sveinn. Tell them the enemy is less than a day's march away. Tell them that if they're not here before nightfall, I will march away and let them fight the Britons on their own.”

The Saxon reluctantly shoved his partially drawn sword back into its sheath, glared at the Pict, and then walked across the field to where two of his men were currying their horses. Morgana turned to Talorc and spoke in a cold, hard voice.

“Where is the Pendragon's whore?”

“You mean the Queen of the Britons,” he said with a small smile.

“She is the queen of nothing, Pict,” Morgana hissed.

“No, Roman Princess? Then why is it that so many men have flocked to her banner and marched to war without the promise of gold or silver?” Talorc said in quiet contempt.

“If her men are stupid enough to fight for food, then she is welcome to them. Now where is she?” she said, stabbing a finger into the map.

The Pict touched the map with the tip of his knife. “Here, in a villa, five miles north of the army. She is guarded by one hundred men. The Knight of the Table is with her.”

“Tomorrow, you will kill her, but not,” Morgana said, turning to look across the camp at where Lord Aeron was sitting on a rock honing his sword, “until Sir Percival has left for the battlefield.”

“What will you gain from this killing, Roman?” Talorc growled.

“That's not your affair, Pict!” Morgana snapped. “I have your blood oath, and you will honor it.”

For an instant, rage flared in the man's eyes, and then it faded. The Pict smiled and backed away from Morgana, sheathing his knife. After mounting his horse, Talorc looked over at Morgana and said in a hard, flat whisper she could not hear, “Yes, I shall keep my oath, Roman, and you will keep yours, or you will follow the Queen of the Britons into the grave.”

* * *

A
T FIRST
, L
ORD
Aeron didn't recognize the Pict warrior when he rode into the camp from the north, then he saw the blue fletching on the arrows, just visible over the top of the deerskin quiver strapped across his back. This was the same warrior Morgana had secretly met in the forest many months ago. Lord Aeron watched the rider for another moment and then turned away, feigning a lack of interest. He continued to hone the blade of his sword with a well-worn whetstone, but he could still see Morgana from the corner of his eye.

The tense exchange between the Pict, Morgana, and Garr did not make any sense to him until Morgana drew a parchment role from her cloak—a map. Then he knew: The Pict must have brought word of Sir Percival and his army. When Garr left the meeting and sent two messengers racing south, he felt certain that the army led by his brother Knight must be close by. It seemed Sir Percival was moving faster than Morgana had anticipated. A battle would come soon, maybe even on the morrow.

The knight continued to hone the sword blade, waiting for the rumors to race around the camp, as he knew they would. An hour later, he stood up, sheathed his sword, and walked his horse across the camp to the creek on the far side. As he crossed the field, he passed by a lean old man clad in a motley collection of animal skins that marked him as a local hunter. The man was sitting alone, fitting an iron point to the tip of a wooden arrow he had whittled from a piece of hardwood. Lord Aeron drew his horse to a halt next to the man, using the animal's body to hide him from Morgana's sight.

“Hunter, I'm told that the enemy is near.”

The hunter nodded without looking up.

“So the Pict says. Don't trust him. After dark, I'll go and see for myself.”

When Lord Aeron didn't move, the hunter looked up at him in silence and then spoke quietly. “Saw you kill that Saxon the other day. A bad one, he was. Killed a woman in one of the villages the Norse sacked on their way in. I knew the lass's father … a good man. There was no cause for him to do that. So I guess I'm thanking you for doing something … something I should have done.”

“Why are you telling me this, hunter?” Lord Aeron said quietly.

The old man's eyes returned to his work when spoke. “I served the Pendragon as a scout in the last years of the war. My son … he was proud of me. He's gone now. I remember those days. So let's just say that we were both someone else, a long time ago, and leave it at that.”

For a moment, the two men's eyes met, and then Lord Aeron glanced back at Morgana's camp on the knoll. She was still immersed in conversation with Garr.

“The Pict said the Queen was with the army,” the hunter said in a whisper as he returned to his work.

For a moment, the breath caught in Lord Aeron's throat. “The Pict said this?” he asked in a hoarse tone.

“Aye, he was dead sure. She's staying at a villa behind the lines. I've been there before. Might just visit there tonight.”

“I'd like to ride along with you, if you don't mind,” Lord Aeron said.

“I'll be at that big oak at the top of yon hill, two hours after dark. Can't wait long.”

“Understood,” the knight said, and continued walking his horse across the camp to the stream on the far side.

N
ORTH OF THE
V
ALE OF
A
SHES

After bathing in a spring a mile from the manor where the Queen was staying, Percival dressed in silence. The sun had passed below the horizon moments earlier, and although it was still early in the fall, the Knight could feel the chill in the air on his bare skin.

As he donned his leather jerkin, he sensed someone watching him from the other side of the small clearing and reached for his sword.

“You have no need of that. I've only come to talk with an old friend.”

Percival eased his hand away from the sword. He had not heard that voice in nearly a decade, and yet he recognized it immediately. And yet the voice was different. It lacked the irrepressible mirth and passion he remembered.

“Galahad,” he said in disbelief as he watched his brother Knight emerge from the shadows, dressed in a long, black cloak. “I … feared you perished at Camlann, brother. You cannot know how it gladdens my heart to see you alive,” Percival said, a depth of feeling in his voice as he walked over to his friend and embraced him.

When the two men separated, Galahad looked at him and said, in a voice laden with regret, “Maybe the man that you knew did perish at Camlann.”

Percival could only see the outline of Galahad's face in the dark, but the certainty in his voice disturbed him.

“How did you know that I would be here?”

“Oh, I remember your obsession with bathing, and I knew there would be no time for it in the morning. Your mother … you said she insisted upon it when you were a boy, as I recall.”

“I did, didn't I?” Percival said, the hint of a smile coming to his face.

“Come, sit,” Galahad said, gesturing to two large stones in the clearing, alongside the remains of a past fire. A small stack of branches lay beside the ashes. “We can start a fire and drink a toast or two to a world that is no more.”

Percival walked over to one of the stones and sat down as Galahad adeptly lit a small fire, using a striking steel and stone.