The Return of Sir Percival (7 page)

Capussa glanced over at him. “You can speak to whomever is left after we break their line.”

Percival shook his head. “I may know the leader of these men. I will not shed his blood.”

“The archer in the middle?”

“Yes.”

“And if you're wrong?” Capussa asked skeptically.

“Then I will ride toward their line at full speed, and you will cover me with Batukhan's bow.”

“It's my bow now, not Batukhan's,” his friend reminded him, “and that's not much of a battle plan.”

The Knight eased his horse forward and spoke over his shoulder. “I agree.”

As he came over the rise and rode down the other side, Percival raised his left hand in a peaceful gesture. Two of the men in the line nocked their arrows and raised their bows as he approached, but a word from the tall archer stayed their hands. When the Knight came to within fifty paces of the river, the man to the right of the tall archer called out.

“Not another step, Norseman, or we'll kill you and your fine horse!”

Percival pulled on the reins held in his right hand, and the horse stopped obediently.

“I'm not a Norseman. I was born and raised in this land, just as you.”

“You lie!” another man called out. “You serve the dog Hengst.”

“Your charge is false,” he said in a firm but calm voice. “Now, I would have words with your leader. We have met before.”

The tall archer, who'd remained quiet during the exchange, stepped forward.

“When and where have we met, rider?”

Percival fixed his eyes on the tall man in the middle of the line. “We met, Cynric of the Pendragon's archers, a decade ago, on the Aelius Bridge to the north. You received that scar on your face on that day,” he noted, touching the left side of his own face with his gloved hand.

The stocky man beside the archer started to growl a response, but the tall archer raised his hand, and the man beside him fell silent. The tall archer stared at Percival, his face a mask of stone.

“I don't remember you, rider. What is your name?”

Percival reached up and slowly eased the helmet off his head, shook free his mane of black hair, and then stared across the river at Cynric. The archer's eyes widened, and as he raised his hand to block the morning sun, his hand shook slightly.

“I believe that you do remember me, Cynric the Archer,” the Knight said. “I am Sir Percival of the Round Table.”

There was a collective gasp among the men facing him, and the youngest of men in the line stepped forward several yards and gawked at the Knight as if he had two heads. The rest of the men lowered their bows and looked from Percival to Cynric.

The stocky man turned and yelled at the boy who'd broken ranks. “Keil, get back in that line or I'll put an arrow into you myself!”

Cynric stared at Percival for a long moment and then shook his head.

“It's been many years since that day … and near every man and woman in the land has heard the tale of the Aelius Bridge. It's been told and retold in every inn and tavern a thousand times. If you are Sir Percival, forgive me, but I have to make sure, and if not, I shall surely put an arrow in your chest for wrongly taking the name of that most noble of knights.”

“That is a fair bargain, Archer,” Percival said. “What proof would you have?”

“If you are who you say, then you will remember what I said as Morgana's wolves were near upon us, words that I have not shared with anyone since.”

Percival dismounted from his horse and slowly walked to the edge of the river, stopping directly across from the man on the far bank, who was now surrounded by a band of rapt listeners. He stared at the tall man for a moment, and when he spoke, it seemed as if the forest itself stilled to hear him.

“The years between then and now have been long and hard, Archer, but I remember those words as if they were spoken yesterday. You said to me, ‘You cannot hold this bridge, Knight, and I cannot make it to the castle walls. Do not waste your life dying here with me.'” Percival paused for a moment and then continued. “And I said to you, ‘Whether we live or die today is in God's hands, but staying by your side is in mine, and stay I will, until I am dead, or relieved.'”

When he finished, there was a silence, and the archer and the Knight stared at one another for a long moment. At last Cynric spoke in a quiet voice.

“Aye,” he nodded, “that is what you said, Sir Percival, to the very word. Forgive me.”

Percival waded into the river. Cynric met him halfway, and the two men embraced.

“It has been a long time, Knight.”

“Too long, Archer. It's good to be home.” He turned to the men watching on the far side of the river. “Among friends and countrymen at long last.”

A deep voice interrupted the scene, and Percival glanced over his shoulder to see Capussa still on the bank of the river, mounted on his destrier.

“Is it the practice in this country to allow a fine pair of greaves to rust without good cause?” he called out. “Let us pick one side of the river or the other, but not the middle.”

Cynric's men stared in astonishment at the fearsome Numidian on the far bank of the river. An amused Percival gestured to his friend with one hand. “Yeoman, let me introduce you to my friend and brother-inarms, Capussa.”

Then he turned back to Cynric. “This is the second time we have met at a river crossing and faced the peril of death together. I pray that our time hereafter, however long or short it may be, is one of peace.”

Cynric nodded. “I too shall pray thus, Sir Percival, but I fear there is little peace in this land to be found.”

M
ORGANA
'
S
C
ASTLE

organa stood on the battlement of the castle, overlooking the cold, grey waters of the estuary and the sea beyond, and recalled a very different seascape a half a world away. Her parents' palatial estate in Constantinople afforded the family a view of the Sea of Marmara from the living quarters on the third floor. As a child, she'd spent many a day on the estate's grand balcony, watching the hundreds of merchant ships that served the needs of the great city come and go on those azure, sun-drenched waters. A cold onshore breeze whipped over the castle wall, ruffling her coal black cloak, and she drew its folds closer to her body, silently cursing the weather. In the decade she'd spent in the harsh, cold land hunting the traitor Melitas Komnenos, now reborn as Merlin the Wise, it was the lack of sun Morgana hated the most.

“I have lived among these vermin for near a decade, Melitas,” Morgana said in a venomous whisper, “and that is long enough. Soon I shall find you, and I shall take your head back to the emperor in triumph. Then, the name of Igaris shall be restored to its former glory.”

A warning cry from one of the sentries manning the walls encircling the castle drew Morgana's attention away from her reverie. She turned and walked to one of the crenels on the far side of the battlement and watched the column of horsemen led by Lord Aeron approach the castle from the south. Many of the two score of men had extra swords, helmets, shields, and greaves tied to the sides of their horses, undoubtedly booty scavenged from the bodies of the enemy.

She nodded in satisfaction. Lord Aeron had apparently found and destroyed the band of raiders ravaging the borders of the lands she had taken after the fall of the Pendragon. As the column drew closer, Morgana could see the victory had not been without a price. Five of the returning men were wounded, and three bodies lay in the back of a wagon drawn by a weary plow horse. Under her agreement with the Saxon war leader, Garr, she would have to pay a donative to the families of the dead men. She would also have to pay a bounty to the new men hired to replace them. These were expenses she could ill afford.

The emperor still supported her quest for vengeance against the traitor, Melitas, but he was no longer willing to pay for it. The cost of the empire's latest war with the Persians had put an end to imperial largesse. Now, she was not only expected to pay for the cost of her personal cadre of sellswords from her own coffers, she had been ordered to repay some of the imperial golds she had spent in her war against the Pendragon.

To meet the additional financial burden, Morgana had imposed a heavy tax upon the peasants within the domain she controlled, and she'd demanded more production from the slaves working in the royal silver mines—mines she had seized after the Pendragon's fall. The peasants had initially resisted her levies, but in time, resistance had melted away. The cost of her protection was a heavy burden, but it was far preferable to the slavery offered by the Norse to the south or the merciless savagery of the bands of brigands roaming the forests and roads.

As for the silver mines, increasing the pace of production had been difficult. Most of the prisoners of war she'd taken after the battle of Camlann had been worked to death in those vile pits, and the new workers, half-starved slaves from Hengst's slave market, didn't last long. Yet, despite these difficulties, Morgana had no intention of relinquishing her pursuit of Melitas Komnenos. She would meet the emperor's demands and still find the means to hunt down and kill the traitor as well, no matter the price in blood.

A soft, scuffing noise drew Morgana's attention to the archway leading off the parapet, and a moment later, Seneas, the head of her household staff, emerged, breathing heavily. She waited for the stooped old courtier to catch his breath. Seneas's family had served the house of Igaris faithfully for five generations, and she respected his counsel, although she didn't completely trust him. But then, trusting anyone was a fool's choice, particularly someone with ties to the imperial court, where power was an obsession and duplicity and intrigue were considered fine, if merciless, arts.

“Milady?”

“Yes, Seneas,” Morgana answered, glancing over at him for a moment and then turning her gaze back to Lord Aeron below.

“Lord Aeron has returned. You had said—”

“Yes, I will see him in my quarters, alone.”

“Yes, Milady.”

When Seneas continued to stand, unmoving, Morgana turned around and faced him.

“Is there something else?”

“Yes, Milady,” he said hesitantly. “In the packet of messages that came with the admiral, I received a letter from a friend, Arminius. He lives in Hydruntum, in southern Italia. Arminius is a mapmaker and scholar. He talks with travelers each day at the ports, seeking knowledge of distant lands.” Seneas paused, still trying to catch his breath. Morgana waited impatiently.

“In the letter,” Seneas continued, “Arminius said he talked with a traveler six months ago. The man had come on a ship from Alexandria. He said that he'd spent many years in the Holy Land and was traveling home to Albion.”

“Why is this of import to me, Seneas?” Morgana interrupted curtly.

“Milady, Arminius heard this man and his Numidian companion talking. The man was Briton. His name is Percival.”

When Morgana said nothing, Seneas hurried to continue. “Forgive me, Milady, but you will recall there was a Knight of the Round Table by that name. He commanded the villages on the border marches to the north during the war with the Pendragon.”

Morgana nodded slowly. She didn't remember the name of the man who had commanded the forces in that remote corner of the Pendragon's kingdom. She did, however, remember putting to death the two commanders she'd sent there with orders to burn every village to the ground. Both men had not only failed in this effort, but their forces had almost been annihilated by this Sir Percival. After these defeats, she had decided the prize was not worth the cost and sent the surviving sellswords to wreak havoc in other parts of the Pendragon's kingdom.

Morgana shook her head dismissively. “This cannot be the same man. A Knight of the Table would not have traveled to the Holy Land when his land and king were under siege.”

“Milady, it is said that the Pendragon sent this Sir Percival on a mission to find the Holy Grail. It may be that he is only now returning from this quest.”

Morgana laughed scornfully. “Oh that is so like him, the noble fool.” Her eyes strayed again to Lord Aeron. The steel-clad knight was leading his horse across the courtyard to the stables. Then she looked over at Seneas again.

“It could be him, but I think not, Seneas. No, this Sir Percival surely died with his brethren at Camlann. The Table is no more.”

“You may be right, Milady, but if it is he, he brings—”

“He will bring nothing from the land of the Moor but a pox between his legs, and he is welcome to spread that among the filthy women of this sunless land. But, still, you were wise to tell me of this. You will tell me if you hear more of this man.”

“Yes, Milady.” Seneas bowed and quickly retreated through the archway behind him.

Morgana waited until the old man had made his way back down the steep stairs that spiraled down to the second floor of the castle, before turning to follow him. She hesitated for a moment before passing through the archway, and looked back at the grey sea visible in the distance. A lone shaft of sunlight had found an opening in the otherwise seamless grey canopy above and painted a ghostly path across the bleak estuary heading east. After a moment, the path of light vanished, and Morgana stepped downward into the darkness below.

* * *

M
ORGANA SCANNED THE
spacious room from her place on the silk-covered divan, positioned three paces from the fire in the hearth. She had spent a small fortune converting the formerly stark and cold stone space into a room where she could greet her guests. The walls were adorned with paintings and silks imported from her homeland, the floors were covered with the finest Persian carpets, and every window and portal was fitted with glass. Although the room was still modest when compared to her former quarters in Constantinople, it was at least bearable, and that was all she could hope for in this primitive country.

The servants had followed her instructions most carefully, but then, they knew all too well the agony they would suffer if they did otherwise. The divan had been situated so the illumination from the fire and the oil lamps affixed to the columns to her right and left displayed her body in an alluring glow. She glanced across the room at the silver mirror positioned unobtrusively on a table across from her and admired the beautiful face and the cold, calculating lavender eyes staring back at her.

She reached up and positioned her long auburn tresses so they spilled over her right shoulder, past her partially exposed breasts, to her silken blue dress below. Once she was satisfied with her hair, Morgana looked down and caressed the row of sapphires in the gold chatelaine encircling her waist, each perfectly complementing the color of her dress. She was ready for her meeting with Lord Aeron.

Moments later, there was a knock at the door to her chambers, and a lean figure of medium height clad in a black hooded tunic, dark breeches, and worn leather boots walked into the room. The only armament he bore was the short sword at his waist, but the modest weapon and his common clothing did nothing to diminish the threat radiating from the silent figure. It was as if a storm of violence raged within, seeking a way out—a rage restrained only by the bands of his iron discipline. The two guards reluctantly following Lord Aeron into the room made a point of keeping their hands away from the swords at their hips, and they were visibly relieved when Morgana waved them away.

“Leave us.”

For a moment, Morgana said nothing more, and the man stood as still as a statue, his face hidden within the cowl. Then she gestured to an open spot on the long divan beside her.

“Lord Aeron, come, sit, and tell me of your day.” The hint of a smile touched Morgana's lips when she said his name.

The hooded figure walked over to a wooden chair positioned against a far wall and carried it to an open space two strides from Morgana. The Roman princess smiled as the knight sat down. She had known he would not sit beside her, but she found pleasure in his discomfort. No one had resisted her charms before, even those who despised her. Lord Aeron had proven to be an exception, one that she found most galling, for she knew he prized another's beauty above her own.

“May I at least see the face of the soldier who so faithfully defends my modest lands from the ravages of my enemies?” she asked.

The man hesitated a moment, and then reached up and eased back the hood of his cloak, revealing a head of golden hair cropped unnaturally short, a broad forehead, piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, a modest but perfectly formed nose, and a strong chin with a pronounced cleft in the center. The knight's face would have been mesmerizingly handsome but for the cruel scar that ran the length of his right cheek to his jawline and the second scar marring his forehead.

A decade ago, the man sitting across from her had been known as Sir Galahad of the Round Table, and his heroic deeds, near godlike mien, and perennial roguish grin had stirred the passions of women the length and breadth of Albion. That man, Morgana knew, was no more. She had killed him as surely as if she had plunged a knife into his heart on the day that she'd captured him as he lay senseless and severely wounded outside the Pendragon's lines at Camlann.

The knight now served under her command. He'd rechristened himself Lord Aeron, after the god of battle and slaughter, worshiped by the early Britons. After bowing to her demands, he had swept away all vestiges of his past life. The gleaming armor the former Sir Galahad had once worn with pride now bore a cold blue-black hue, and his signature white stallion had been exchanged for a black destrier. Even the sword he carried into battle was new, acquired after he gave her his oath of fealty. His former blade, the one imprinted with the mark of the Table, was stored in his quarters on the far side of the castle.

Although Morgana had allowed the knight to bury his former identity and remain a stranger to all but herself, she'd assumed his desire for secrecy was motivated by vanity. She could understand how a man who had lost his near godlike beauty to the wounds of war would seek to hide his face. Later, she had realized her mistake: Galahad had not buried his former self out of pride or conceit, but to avoid bringing dishonor to the Table. Morgana found this sentiment to be as amusing as it was foolish; however, it was of no matter to her, as long as he followed her orders.

As she looked at the cold, hard face across from her, she remembered the day she first saw the knight. Galahad and another Knight of the Table had been defending a downed archer on a bridge, far to the north, against a force many times their number. The taller of the two knights had lost his helmet in the fray, and his noble visage, framed by a head of raven hair, was a mask of iron determination as he struck down attacker after attacker with controlled fury.