The Return of Sir Percival (8 page)

In contrast, Galahad's face—a face that would have put to shame the magnificent bust of Apollo outside the Hippodrome—bore a rogue's grin as the golden-haired knight waded into his enemies with reckless abandon. Where the raven-haired knight was waging a life and death struggle, Galahad seemed to be playing a game, one he was enjoying to the fullest.

As the memory faded, a small part of Morgana felt an instant of sorrow that the smiling god-come-to-earth who'd held the bridge that day with his fellow knight was now gone, leaving only the cold, hard man who served at her pleasure.

“So tell me of your victory,” she finally said.

“It was less of a victory than a slaughter,” Lord Aeron answered, his eyes now fixed on a point over Morgana's left shoulder. “We lured the brigands into a trap and killed them to a man, as you ordered. The body of their leader—Einarr—now adorns a tree on the border you share with Hengst the Butcher. The warning may stay further raids for a while, but only that. Hengst is behind the attacks. Einarr was just the wolf doing his bidding.”

Morgana knew that Hengst, the feared Butcher of Londinium, was indeed the driving force behind the attacks on her lands. He and his brother, Ivarr the Red, had so ravaged Londinium and the surrounding area that the people there were now perpetually short of grain. Hengst had ignored the problem until hunger's bite had reached the bellies of his own reavers. Now the fool had been compelled to seek out more food and fodder or risk a revolt. Of late, Hengst's quest for sustenance had led one of his bands of pet brigands into the lands held by Morgana, more than twenty leagues to the north of his so-called kingdom.

A momentary flash of irritation crossed Morgana's brow. The emperor's gold, and some of her own, had brought Hengst and his legion of foul sellswords to this land. A dog shouldn't bite the hand that had not only fed him for years but also made him rich.

She had considered having the Norse war leader killed by one of her spies, but had decided against it. Killing Hengst would leave his brother Ivarr in control, and unlike his sibling, Ivarr was no fool. He would know that she was behind the assassination, and a costly war could follow, a war she could ill afford, and one that would play into the hands of Melitas.

Morgana set aside the conundrum for another day and turned her attention back to Lord Aeron. “And what, Lord Aeron, do you suggest?”

“I am a soldier, not a strategist.”

Morgana laughed. “You have put hundreds of men to the sword and won a host of battles under my banner, Knight, and in most of those battles, your force was the lesser. I think you underrate your skills.”

Lord Aeron's face froze at the mention of the word knight—a reaction Morgana had anticipated.

“I am not a knight, Milady. I am just a sellsword, like the rest.”

“No, Lord Aeron, you are not like the others. Your wages are not paid in coin, but in mercy. I wonder if that coinage will lose its glitter as she loses her beauty to the ravages of age?”

The man's face showed no reaction to the wound inflicted by Morgana's verbal knife, other than an involuntary tightening of his jaw muscle, but she knew she had drawn blood.

The man's mesmerizing blue eyes found her, and he spoke in a quiet voice, as cold as ice. “Does Milady have further need of me tonight?”

Morgana held the man's gaze for a long moment and then made a small gesture of dismissal.

“No, Lord Aeron, you may leave.”

The man stood, bowed respectfully, and walked to the door, easing the hood up over his head once again.

As he reached for the door, Morgana spoke again. “Lord Aeron, do you know a knight called Sir Percival?” She kept her tone casual, suggesting the matter was of no importance.

The knight froze, his hand on the door handle. Without turning, he answered in a flat, emotionless voice. “Yes. He was a Knight of the Table.”

“And what became of this man?” Morgana said quietly.

“He died in the Holy Land.”

“You are sure of this?” she asked, the hint of a threat in her voice.

“Quite,” Lord Aeron answered and left the room.

Morgana lifted the glass of wine on the table beside her and swirled the red liquid in the silver goblet, a cruel smile easing across her face.

“I believe you are right, Lord Aeron. You are indeed the last Knight of the Table.”

A
BBEY
C
WM
H
IR

uinevere gently rolled up the scroll of parchment on the desk and placed it in the basket sitting on the nearby shelf, along with a stack of other messages. After staring at the basket for a moment, she walked across her personal quarters, opened a window, and drew in the cool evening air. The sun had set two hours earlier, and the small band of guards that served under Bishop Verdino's orders—men whose wages were paid from the revenues generated from her lands—were roasting a rabbit and a small pig over a fire in the courtyard below.

As she watched one of the men turn the spit, she thought of the message she had just read. It was from the wife of a blacksmith living in Londinium. In the message, the woman said Hengst and his reavers had so ravaged the city and the surrounding area that many of the common people were surviving on rats, mice, and other vermin. The meat the guards were roasting in the courtyard would have been considered a bounteous feast by such folk.

“And I remember when it was the richest city in the kingdom,” Guinevere said softly.

“Milady?”

Guinevere turned to Cadwyn. Her young handmaiden was sitting in a chair by the small hearth at the other end of the room, reading a second basket of parchments by the light of the fire.

“It's nothing. Are there any good tidings in those messages?”

“No, Milady, I'm sorry,” Cadwyn said as she pored over a water-stained parchment. “But, this … is interesting.”

“What does it say?”

Cadwyn frowned slightly. “It's from a woman in Whitstable. Her husband is a farrier, and he owns a stable. The message says that a tall man came ashore a fortnight ago with … with a man whose skin was as black as coal. They traveled on a galley carrying cargo from Francia. The captain of the ship, a man named Aldwyn Potter, told her husband the vessel had been attacked by Norse raiders. He said the tall man and his companion cut down the raiders like two avenging angels. He said they were invincible!” Cadwyn said, her voice rising in excitement.

“Indeed,” Guinevere said, a wry smile coming to her face. “I wish we had an army of such men.”

“Milady, forgive me, there is more.”

“Read on, my young friend.”

“The woman's husband said—”

Suddenly, Cadwyn shot to her feet and looked over at Guinevere, her eyes wide.

“Milady! The woman's husband said that the tall man was Sir Percival of the Round Table.” When Cadwyn's eyes returned to the yellowed scroll, it was as if the parchment were a holy relic.

Guinevere drew in a sharp breath and, for a moment, stood motionless. Then she slowly shook her head.

“No. He must be mistaken. It has been too many years.”

Cadwyn walked around the table and spread the scroll out for Guinevere to read.

“Milady, the woman says that she didn't believe her husband at first, but he insisted. He said he had seen Sir Percival in Londinium a decade earlier, and he could never forget him.”

Guinevere leaned over and read the message, which had been penned in careful strokes, if common words. Then she read it through two more times. Cadwyn pointed to the name of the woman at the bottom of the missive. “Milady, do you know this woman?”

The Queen looked down at the name written on the bottom of the scroll and then slowly nodded her head.

“Yes … yes, I do remember her, Ada. She served Lady Evelynn … as a handmaiden. She is an honest woman of keen wit, but I still … it must be a mistake.”

Guinevere read the message a fourth time and slowly sat down at the table. The words in the missive brought back a memory, something Arthur had said after he'd performed the solemn ceremony raising Sir Percival to the Table. “He's not the most handsome of the lot. Galahad takes that laurel, much to the ire of Lancelot, but this man … there's a power in him. He will bear watching.”

“Milady?”

Guinevere slowly turned to Cadwyn, a distant look in her eyes.

“Milady, are you unwell?”

She shook her head. “No, forgive me. I am fine.”

“Did you know Sir Percival? I mean … can you tell me of him, Milady?” Cadwyn asked softly, sitting in a chair across from her.

Guinevere nodded, smiling wistfully. “Oh yes, I knew Sir Percival. How could I not; he saved my life.”

“What! Oh, please tell me of this, Milady.”

“As you wish,” Guinevere said, smiling at her young friend's fervor. “Sir Percival … he was different from the other knights. The older knights had been raised to the Table for standing with Arthur during the early years, when he was struggling to tame the land. Others, like Lancelot, were great champions, men who had achieved fame fighting other knights in individual duels. Sir Percival achieved his fame through his battles with the Norse raiders.”

She paused for a moment, trying to wade through the memories unleashed by the letter, before continuing.

“In the early years, Arthur and the other members of the Table thought of the raiders as mere pirates, a nuisance the local lords and their liegemen should handle, but over time, that began to change. Traveling merchants, and then the men of the King's post, began to tell tales of fierce battles on the northeastern coast—battles where hundreds, and some said as many as a thousand men, clashed. As these tidings increased over time, it came to be known that a young knight by the name of Sir Percival was always in the thick of these battles, leading a small army against the Norse when they came ashore.”

Guinevere hesitated for a moment, gently touching the parchment lying on the table in front of her.

“Milady,” Cadwyn said with a frown, “why didn't the royal army march north to aid Sir Percival and his men in their fight?”

“That is a good question, my young friend,” she said with a hint of regret. “Lancelot and some of the older knights insisted the threat from the Norse was overstated, and the real threat continued to be an invasion from the Saxons in the south. Those opinions changed after the attack on Eburacum.”

“Eburacum? The Norse attacked Eburacum?” Cadwyn said incredulously. “I have never heard of this attack.”

“Oh yes, attack they did. One summer, a fleet of more than a hundred Norse ships sailed up the Humber River and landed a force of a thousand or more raiders. Once ashore, they marched on Eburacum, intending to sack the city.”

Guinevere leaned back in her chair and drew her arms across her chest, as if warding off a momentary shiver, before continuing in a quiet voice.

“I remember, as if it were yesterday, watching them come over the hill and run toward an open postern gate in the city's wall, cutting down everyone in their way—men, women, and children. I had never seen such fearsome men before, and I would not again until—”

“You were there, Milady? You were inside the city?” Cadwyn interrupted, half standing, her eyes wide.

Guinevere nodded. “Yes. I was visiting one of my cousins. She had just given birth. Very few people knew that I was there. Sir Tristan and a group of fifty men-at-arms had escorted me into the city after dark, with no fanfare.”

“What happened?”

“When the attack came, Sir Tristan and his men, along with the city guard, raced to close the open gate, but some of the raiders were already within the walls. A fierce battle raged, but I could see from a window that Tristan and his force were losing the fight. As more and more of the Norsemen pushed through the gate, the breach began to widen. That's when Sir Percival arrived with his small legion.”

“Legion, Milady?” Cadwyn looked confused.

“Well, yes, it was like one of the Roman legions I read about in the old Latin texts as a young girl,” Guinevere said hesitantly as she recalled the scene in her mind. “The men marched in near perfect order and wheeled into line to the beat of a drum in squares. When the Norse raiders saw them, at first they were surprised, but then they charged. I thought Sir Percival's lines would break. There were so many Norse warriors, and they attacked with such ferocity.”

“Did they?” Cadwyn asked anxiously. “Break, I mean?”

“No,” Guinevere said, shaking her head, a distant look in her eyes. “The shield wall held. The men in that line had fought the Norse many times before, and they knew what they were about. They pressed together in a mass and stemmed the Norse charge. Then they fought side by side until one line grew tired, and then another would step into their place, all in good order.

Percival fought side by side with the men in the center, and when he wasn't in the line, he would run the length of it, calling out orders and encouragement. After two hours of hard fighting, it was over. The Norse broke off the attack and marched away. The city was saved. I was saved,” Guinevere closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.

When she opened her eyes, Cadwyn was staring at her, a look of confusion on her face. “Milady, I don't understand. Why is this battle not sung of by the bards? Sir Percival won a great victory!”

“Yes, he did, and every bard in the land should indeed tell the story, but it was not to be. Arthur and the Knights of the Table did not want the people to know that the Kingdom had almost lost one of its greatest cities, along with its Queen, to Norse raiders. It would have shaken their confidence and spread fear throughout the land. So the victory was never celebrated at court nor spoken of by the royal bards thereafter.”

Guinevere frowned, suddenly perplexed. A moment later, she leaned forward and read the parchment on the table again.

“Wait, something here is not right. This message couldn't have arrived so soon. It would have taken a month to come overland through the usual chain of messengers.”

Cadwyn put a hand to her mouth. “You're right, Milady. I forgot to tell you.”

“Tell me of what?”

“This message was brought by a sailor from a ship called the Mandragon that came ashore in Aberaeron. I didn't think anything of it, but it must be—”

“The ship those two men disembarked from,” Guinevere finished with a whisper as she slowly rose to her feet. “I must see the captain of this vessel.”

“Milady,” Cadwyn said, rising as well. “Aberaeron is three days ride from here. Bishop Verdino would never let you go.”

Guinevere smiled. “Well then, my dear Cadwyn, we can both thank the good Lord that his holiness is gone, and I have it on good authority he will not return for a week.”

“It will require much—”

“Haste … yes,” the Queen agreed. “But we shall do it.”

She walked to the far end of the table, opened a drawer, and drew out a small piece of parchment, a quill, and a small pot of ink. Then she sat down and quickly wrote a message and handed it to Cadwyn.

“Find Torn. He's a skilled rider and hunter, and most loyal. Tell him to ride for Aberaeron in the morning with all haste, and to deliver this message to the captain of the ship. Potter, Aldwyn Potter, yes.”

“Milady, I don't understand.”

“There's a small port town at the mouth of the Ystwyth River,” Guinevere explained. “The message asks the good captain to travel with Torn and meet us there, just two days ride. Torn and Potter can be there in a day and a half, so we will leave a day after Torn does.”

“I see it,” Cadwyn said as she ran to the door. “We meet in the middle.”

After the door closed behind her young companion, Guinevere sat down in one of the chairs by the fire and walked through the memories of that fateful day. For some reason, the one she recalled most clearly was not the battle, but her meeting with Sir Percival in the mayor's quarters after it was over. A smile came to her face as she returned to that place in time.

She remembered Sir Tristan, clad in a white tabard bearing the seal of the Table, escorting the young knight into the modest room where the Lord Mayor and his councilors attended to the city's business. Guinevere was sitting in the Lord Mayor's oversized wooden chair on a small dais, with Sister Aranwen sitting in a smaller chair just beside her.

One of the councilor's chairs had been pulled to the edge of the dais for Sir Percival. There had been a slight smile on Tristan's strong, distinguished face as he walked into the room, followed by Sir Percival.

“My Queen, may I present Sir Percival.”

For a moment, the tall, dark-haired man stared at her in shock and then dropped to one knee and bowed his head. She remembered trying to reconcile the young knight kneeling before her, dressed in a simple leather jerkin, brown trousers, and leather boots, with the seemingly invincible war leader racing up and down the line of battle an hour earlier. Guinevere glanced over at Sister Aranwen, who whispered quietly, “I thought he would be older.”

“So did I,” she whispered in return.

“Your Highness, Sister, forgive me,” the Knight had said, raising his head and staring at the two women. “I … I thought that I was meeting with the Lord Mayor, not … not Your Highness.”