The Return of Sir Percival (35 page)

Moments later, Cadwyn reentered the room with Merlin close behind.

The old Roman stepped past the guards carrying a black wooden box under his arm, and knelt by Guinevere's side. He slowly eased the linen cloth from her wound. As he did so, his nostrils flared, and he spoke in a whisper, “Wolfsbane.”

Sister Aranwen's eyes widened, and Guinevere, feeling her strength steadily ebbing away, looked up at Merlin and said, “Tell me.”

Merlin opened the black box and drew out two white cloths and a vial of a pale yellow liquid.

“I believe the arrow was tipped with wolfsbane … a poison, my Queen, and … something else that I haven't smelled in a long time. A potion from the east.”

“What does that mean?” Cadwyn said, tears pouring down her face, her eyes frantic.

“It means we clean and bind the wound, and then we wait,” Merlin said quietly, his face grim.

Merlin poured the yellow liquid on one of the white cloths, quickly cleaned the wound, and then bound it with the second cloth. Guinevere was surprised when she did not feel any pain from his ministrations. All she felt was a growing coldness within.

After binding the wound, Merlin drew a blanket over the Queen.

“Rest, my Queen. All will be well,” Merlin said with calm assurance as he stood. He glanced over at Cadwyn's stricken face and pointed to the small pitcher on a nearby table and said, “Cadwyn, please take the pitcher and get the Queen some fresh, cool water from the well.”

Cadwyn grabbed the vessel and raced out the door.

Guinevere drew the woolen blanket tighter around her as another shiver wracked her body, and shut her eyes for a moment. As she struggled against the growing pain within, she could hear Sister Aranwen and Merlin talking in whispers.

“Can you save her?” Sister Aranwen asked.

“Not without a miracle,” Merlin whispered.

“Then we shall pray for that with all our hearts,” the nun said.

Guinevere opened her eyes and spoke with difficulty. “Merlin … the look on your face tells me that you have no cure for the poison that even now I can feel taking my life.”

Merlin's silence was all the answer Guinevere needed. She looked over at Sister Aranwen.

“Sister, please bring a parchment and quill. I would have you write a message for me.”

T
HE
V
ALE OF
A
SHES

orn's face had been raked and scored by low-hanging branches as he galloped through the forest in his relentless pursuit of the Pict warrior. An errant rivulet of blood flowed into his left eye, but he ignored it and drove his heels into the horse's sides yet again, in spite of the animal's labored breathing. He was almost within bowshot.

The Pict's horse raced out of the forest ahead of him and galloped along the eastern rim of the valley, where the two armies were locked in combat below. Torn's horse emerged from the forest moments later. As the gap between the horses closed, Torn could see the Pict's objective— a trail that led down the slope to Morgana's encampment. Six Saxon warriors were galloping up the trail to meet him. The Pict was Morgana's assassin.

Torn glanced over his shoulder, knowing he could not take on the Saxons and the Pict alone. The two guardsmen riding after him had not yet emerged from the forest. This left him only one choice. The hunter pulled his horse up short and leaped off, bow in hand. Ignoring the pounding of his heart and the blood partly obscuring his vision, he nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring. The moment he released the shaft, Torn knew the shot was true. The arrow raced toward the center of Pict's back.

As if sensing the threat, the Pict wheeled his horse to the right an instant before the arrow struck. The shaft flew past him, striking one of the approaching Saxons in the arm, drawing a scream of pain and rage. For a moment, Torn was sure the enraged Saxons would charge him, but they did not. They formed a circle around the Pict and escorted him back down the hill to the safety of Morgana's camp.

A moment later, the other two members of the Queen's Guard galloped over to Torn and dismounted with their bows at the ready. Torn glanced over at the two younger men, Devyn and Leith.

“He's gone,” Torn said quietly. “The Saxons took him to Morgana's camp.”

Leith looked over at Torn. “A prisoner?”

“No … no. They were sent to protect him. He was surely sent by Morgana, may the devil take her soul,” Torn said in a voice filled with rage and regret.

A roar from the battle raging on the valley floor below drew Torn's attention to the contest that would determine Albion's fate. Two lines of infantry were locked in combat on the floor of the narrow valley. The army of Norse and Saxons arrayed on the south side of the valley was visibly larger than the Queen's Army on the north, and the Britons were hard pressed, but they could not back up. The north wall of the valley behind them barred further retreat.

As the hunter and the other two guardsmen watched the battle, mesmerized, a group of six giant Norse warriors furiously attacked the Queen's shield wall on the right flank, driving the Britons back. Just when it seemed as if the line would break, Sir Percival raced up on his black charger, dismounted, and waded into the Norse attackers with his sword.

The Knight's ferocity and skill shocked the hunter. Two of the Norse giants were cut down in seconds, and a third was sorely wounded. The rest of the warriors stepped back and took up a defensive position, unwilling to take on their attacker. As soon as the flank was stabilized, the Knight once again mounted his horse and rode behind men calling out encouragement and looking for new threats.

Torn wheeled around when he heard the sound of hooves pounding toward him from the rear. It was Lewyn, one of the guards assigned to the Queen's quarters. The guardsman pulled up his horse a pace away, a desperate look on his face.

“Torn … the Queen,” Lewyn gasped, “she is near death. The Pict's arrow was poisoned.”

“Cannot Merlin save her?” Torn said in a tortured voice.

Lewyn shook his head, his eyes filled with grief. “It is a thing beyond even his skill.”

“God forgive me, I have failed her,” Torn whispered. Then he walked over and mounted his horse.

Torn turned to the other men. “Return to the manor. I will be joining the battle line below.”

“What? Your duty is—” Lewyn started.

“To protect the Queen, and I have failed. Now … I will kill her enemies until I am spent. The rest of you will return to the manor and protect Lady Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen.”

* * *

M
ORGANA SCANNED THE
length of Sir Percival's hard-pressed lines from the slope of the hill that bordered her right flank and smiled in satisfaction. After four hours of hard fighting, the greater weight of the Norse and Saxon forces had pushed the Queen's Army, step by step, deeper and deeper into the valley, leaving it backed up against a steep, circular slope from which escape would be all but impossible.

The cost had been far higher than she'd anticipated. Sir Percival's infantry had made the Norse and Saxons pay in blood for every inch of ground, and Cynric the Archer and his men had wreaked havoc with their longbows. Apparently the lord mayor's prison in Londinium was not as secure as he thought. Still, the end was near. They just needed to make one more massed attack on the center of the line, and it would collapse—an attack she had called for three times, without seeing any movement from Sveinn's force.

“Garr, why is there no attack on the center? I told that fool—”

“There will be no attack upon the center, Roman,” a coarse, guttural voice growled from behind her.

Morgana wheeled her horse around and saw Canute, Sveinn's second in command. The giant Norseman's blond hair was matted with sweat, and blood from a scalp wound flowed down the right side of his neck.

“What do you mean? That is the weakest point!”

“So you say, but we have tried to break the Britons' shield wall there before. Each time the Knight with the raven hair has cut down our strongest warriors and rallied his men. Now, Sveinn and Ivarr the Red have agreed that it is time for you and your Saxon sellswords to bleed.”

Morgana's eyes narrowed. She should have anticipated this. When Sveinn had refused to press the attack, Ivarr had inveighed against her by suggesting her forces had not carried their share of the burden in the battle. Although the charge was not wholly false, an attack by her force at this point would be foolhardy.

The ground in front of her line sloped sharply upward, giving the enemy a defensive advantage, where the ground in front of Sveinn and Ivarr's men was level. That advantage would give Sir Percival time to join the fight, as he had over and over again throughout the day, and then it would be a slaughter. She had never seen a man fight with such skill and ferocity other than Lord Aeron.

Morgana smiled. The time had come to use the knight's lethal blade one last time. She would demand that he challenge Sir Percival to single combat. In return, she would promise to spare the Queen's life and free him from his pledge of service—if he prevailed. The noble fool would have no choice but to consent, and no matter how the contest ended, she would be the winner. Either Lord Aeron would kill Sir Percival, or Sir Percival would kill him. If Percival prevailed, he would die a moment later by one of Talorc's poisoned arrows.

Once their hero was dead, the Britons would break and run, and she, Morgana, would kill a second army of Britons in her lifetime.

T
HE
V
ALE OF
A
SHES

For the past four hours, Sir Percival had ridden behind the army's right flank and the center, shoring up near breaks in the line. Capussa had played the same role for the left flank, while at the same time directing the overall battle. As Percival moved out of the line, after fending off yet another savage attack on the right, the Knight saw Torn walking toward him, bearing a sword and shield. He rode over to the hunter, assuming that Merlin or the Queen had sent a message, and dismounted.

Torn's face was a mask of despair.

“Forgive me, sir. I have failed the kingdom. The arrow of a Pict warrior has struck the Queen. It was a slight wound in the arm, but the arrow … it was poisoned.”

Percival's face froze.

“The Queen … she—”

“She lies on her deathbed, I am told. Sir … I would take the line with your soldiers, if you will allow it.”

Percival stared at the hunter, unwilling to accept his words. “An arrow … you are sure—”

Torn looked down at the ground. “I am sure, Sir Percival. An arrow with blue feathers. It was Morgana. The assassin rode straight for her camp after … after the Queen was struck. The Saxons … they recognized him.”

Percival looked away for a moment, struggling to find cause to challenge the truth of what he had been told, but the look of pain and anguish on the hunter's face swept away any doubt. The Knight closed his eyes, and the din of the nearby battle faded into silence. He was left alone at the edge of an abyss as deep as the ocean and as dark as the night. As the dream that had almost become a reality faded, the agony of the despair within him became an unbearable and all-consuming fire.

It was then that the water from a spring in a faraway desert seemed to wash over him a second time, replenishing his reserves of hope and faith. When he opened his eyes, as he had on that day so long ago, he knew he could bear the pain. He also knew he would finish the task Guinevere had assigned to him.

Percival looked into the hunter's tormented eyes. “Torn, you bear no fault in this matter. The sin is Morgana's alone, and now … she will pay for it.”

The cheers on the field behind him drew Percival's attention back to the battlefield. As he watched, the Norse and Saxon line moved back, and a figure on a mighty charger clad in black armor rode forward. The men fell quiet, and then the knight called out in the loud voice, “I, Lord Aeron, call upon Sir Percival to face my sword, alone!”

Sir Percival recognized the voice. “Galahad,” he whispered. He'd heard the men in the ranks speak in hushed tones of the mysterious Lord Aeron: The black-clad knight who served at Morgana's beck and call—a warrior as unmerciful as he was reputedly invincible.

How could it be? How could his friend and brother in arms have agreed to serve under the banner of the Pendragon's enemy?

And then he remembered what Galahad had said the night before. “A promise was made, a bargain struck. What has been done cannot be undone. The price would be too high.”

Percival mounted his horse and wheeled around to face the armored knight awaiting him in the middle of the field. As Percival slowly rode toward the line of men standing between him and the waiting knight, Capussa rode up, accompanied by Cynric the Archer.

“What are you doing? This is a trap,” Capussa growled.

Percival turned to his friend and nodded. “It is. If I win, there will be an archer there ready to kill me, and if I lose, she will use the defeat to try to carry our lines.”

“Then you won't accept the challenge?”

“No, I will accept, but I will not fight this knight. He will join us.”

“What?” Capussa said, his dark eyes widening. “Have you lost your senses?”

“I … I have lost much this day, my friend, but not my reason. Trust my judgment in this,” Percival said with certainty.

Then he turned to Cynric. “You and your best archers must be ready for the attack upon us. Watch, most of all, for a Pict whose arrows are painted blue.”

“Who is this Lord Aeron?” Capussa said.

“He is a man of honor who has borne the yoke of the cruelest servitude in order to save the life of another. Today, that bondage ends … and today, his master will pay the toll for her evil deeds,” Percival said in a voice that held the promise of a harsh retribution.

The Knight rode forward, and the shield wall parted as he approached. Lord Aeron rode his horse forward and met Percival midway between the lines, and the two men stared at each other on a battlefield that was now as silent as death. Then Galahad spoke in a voice filled with regret. “Forgive me, brother. I have no choice.”

“So be it, Galahad,” Percival said, quietly staring into the blue eyes just visible through the eye slit in the knight's helm, “but join me in a prayer before we slaughter each other, a prayer for the Queen, for she dies as we speak.”

Galahad's eyes grew wide. “Guinevere?” he said in a voice filled with disbelief. “Tell me of this!”

“She was struck by an assassin's arrow within the last hour, a poison arrow,” Percival said quietly. “Even Merlin, with all his skill, cannot save her.”

“An arrow … what color was this arrow?” Galahad asked, his voice suffused with rage.

“Blue.”

For a moment, Galahad closed his eyes, and then he raised a mailed fist that shook with an uncontrolled rage. When he opened his blue eyes, the cold despair Percival had seen there the night before was gone. Now, they were filled with wrath. Galahad stared at Percival for a long moment and then said, “We shall fight on this day, brother, but not against each other. Today, we shall fight together, for the Queen!”