The Return of Sir Percival (2 page)

“Still on the throne, and the Table yet unbroken,” the man finished. The captain paused at the quiet anguish in the man's voice and then continued.

“The war began a year after you left. That foul witch, Morgana, and her band of brigands—may she burn in the bowels of hell—were never a match for the Pendragon and the Knights of the Table. But then … somehow she found the gold to hire an army of sellswords from the lands of the Norse and Saxons. Those hell-spawn became the scourge of the land. The things they did were truly the devil's own work.” Potter's breath rasped in his throat, as if it had become as dry as a bone in the sun.

The African drew a metal flask from his cloak and handed it to the old man. “Drink,” he ordered in a voice like the growl of an old bear.

Potter took the flask and drank. For a moment, he thought he'd swallowed a hot coal, but then the burning eased and he could taste the flavor of the fiery brew, a taste he found pleasing.

“That … it is noble mead,” Potter said with a gasp, returning the flask to the African. “Like fire at first, and yet it has a fine taste once you take the full measure of it.”

“That's not mead, Captain,” the African said with a smile, “but I'm happy you find it agreeable.”

Potter took in another breath. “It is indeed. Now, where was I … Oh yes, the war.” He frowned. “It raged for two, maybe three years. The King nearly drove the raiders into the sea during the last year, but then the witch brought in a fresh army of Norse and Saxons—Picts too— and the tide began to turn. Then came the last battle … Camlann.”

He hesitated and drew in a heavy breath before continuing in a voice filled with heartfelt regret. “It was a terrible slaughter. The witch and her foul army were driven from the field, but the price was high … too high. The Pendragon was killed, and the Table died with him.”

“All were lost?” the tall man asked, his voice hushed.

“Sir?”

“Do you say that all of the Knights of the Table fell that day?”

Potter lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug. “Some say one might have survived the battle, and others claim Sir Percival is still in the Holy Land.” He shook his head. “I cannot say. I—”

“And Galahad?” the tall man interjected. “Are you sure that he fell at Camlann with the rest of my … with the rest of the Knights?”

Potter eyes widened, surprised at the intensity in the tall man's voice. “That is a true mystery,” he said. “They say his body was never found, but he was in the very thick of the battle. I just can't say, sir.”

Potter shook his head, and his eyes grew distant. “It … it seems like it happened so long ago. Sometimes, well, the younger ones, when they talk of the Pendragon, the Queen, and the Table, it's as if they were legends, people who lived in a far distant time.”

“You were speaking of this Hengst,” the other man prodded gently.

Potter felt a rush of fear and hate, in equal measure, at the mention of the name.

“He was the leader of the second band of sellswords, who came from the north. After the battle, he took the remnants of his men and began to raid the smaller villages. In the first year, he looted, raped, and killed. Then, as more brigands joined his band, he started to besiege the towns. Several years ago, he made a surprise raid on Londinium in the early morn. He attacked from the landward side and his brother, Ivarr the Red, from the river. A traitor within the city opened one of the gates, and by the time the guards realized the peril, it was too late.”

The ship dipped sharply into the trough of a wave, unbalancing the old sailor for a moment. The African put a hand on his shoulder and steadied him. Potter nodded his thanks and went on with his tale.

“The devil himself would have been shocked by the slaughter that followed. My uncle was a cooper there, he …” The captain's voice trailed off and he hesitated for a moment, anger welling up inside of him, but he suppressed it and continued.

“Well, here's the way of it now—any ship that lands at Londinium is seized by Hengst's men and forced to pay a tax, or so he calls it, and then his men take whatever they like from the ship as well. Sometimes they leave something, sometimes not. On a bad day, when they've drunk too much, they'll take your ship and sometimes your head. Few ships port there now, other than slavers. Hengst is respectful of those curs—he needs them to buy the men, women, and children he seizes and sells every month.”

The tall man's face darkened when Potter mentioned the slaves, but he didn't question him further on the matter.

“Where will we make landfall?” he asked.

Potter pointed to a knoll in the distance, on the port side of the approaching estuary.

“Whitstable, a small village on the other side of that point. I'll sell my goods there. Much of what comes in goes to Caer Ceint by caravan, but some of the braver traders take a load or two upriver to Londinium in smaller boats. They travel in the black of night. It's a dangerous voyage. If you need a boat to Londinium, I know a boatman, an honest one. It's the least I can do for you.”

“That will not be necessary, Captain. We travel to another place,” the tall man said.

Potter pointed at the approaching shore and said, “I must leave you sirs. There's a nasty shoal on the way in, and I like to man the steering oar myself.”

The two men nodded to Potter, and he started back across the deck. As he walked by the mast, he realized that the tall man had never given his name. For a moment, he thought about going back, but a gust of wind began to push the galley off course, forcing him to make his way quickly to the stern.

* * *

A
FTER
P
OTTER LEFT
, the African pulled the hood over his head again and pointed toward the shore. “So we journey to a land of witches and butchers,” he said, a hint of mirth in his voice. “A pleasant place. I'm looking forward to this new adventure.”

Sir Percival stared out at the dark green forest covering the approaching hills, momentarily awash in the sea of memories evoked by his conversation with Captain Potter. He nodded and turned to his friend.

“Butchers, yes, we have those aplenty, but Morgana is no witch. Her real name is Megaera—she's an assassin from the City of Constantinople. The Roman emperor in the east sent her to kill a man called Melitas Komnenos.”

“What did this man do to draw the wrath of the Roman king?”

“That, I don't know,” he admitted. “Melitas is also a man of Constantinople—a man of great learning and wisdom, and some say a conjurer as well. Here, the people know him as Merlin the Wise. I believe it was he who persuaded the Pendragon to send me on my ill-fated quest ten seasons ago.”

“Do you bear him ill will for this?” Capussa asked, his gaze still on the shoreline.

Percival shook his head.

“No. Yesterday is gone. I seek no retribution for its loss. I will tell the Queen of my failed quest, since she is my liege, and then, if she has no further need of my services, you and I shall return to my family estate in the north. There we shall live as men of peace, who tend the land and their flocks, and fish for the bounty of the sea.”

“And so it came to pass that two former gladiators lived out the remainder of their days as peaceable farmers, shepherds, and fisherman, no less, in a land of assassins, slavers, butchers, and conjurers. Why, our luck has surely changed for the better,” Capussa said, chuckling softly.

Percival nodded but remained silent. This was not the homecoming he had prayed for on a thousand lonely nights, in a hundred distant lands. His King and brother knights were dead, the Kingdom was broken, and the fate of his Queen was unknown. It seemed he could not end his long quest without first embarking upon another—a quest to find Guinevere.

A
BBEY
C
WM
H
IR
, W
ALES

uinevere. Queen of the Britons, stood before a tall, arched window gazing out at the lush green hills in the distance. Her golden tresses, blue-silken dress, and hourglass figure were silhouetted by the last rays of the August sun. In the fleeting moments before nightfall, she allowed herself the luxury of remembering life before the fall—a time that now seemed so distant as to be merely a dream.

On the good days, only the treasured memories would come to the fore, bringing her the respite of happiness and the refuge of hope; but on other days, the memories of the dark times would break free of the fetters she had carefully forged over the years and demand their painful toll. On those days, she would remember the tale of suffering and death that had been the bitter fare of the last years, a tale that always came to a close with the memory of the grief-stricken face of the young messenger, bringing the ill tidings from Camlann.

Thankfully, today's remembrance had been of the good times, although its taste had been bittersweet. It seemed like yesterday … a morning ride through the hills surrounding Camelot accompanied by a tall, raven-haired knight with striking blue eyes and a heart as pure as gold—a knight who'd left on a Grail quest a decade earlier and never returned.

As the sun disappeared behind the hills, leaving the alcove in darkness. Guinevere reluctantly relinquished her hold on yesteryear and turned to the modest sitting room behind her. The light from the fire crackling in the room's modest hearth illuminated all that remained of her royal court—Cadwyn Hydwell, her young handmaiden and secretary, and Sister Aranwen, her spiritual advisor.

Cadwyn sat on an old wooden bench near the fire, poring over a parchment delivered an hour earlier by one of Bishop Verdino's guards. The light from the flames danced over the petite young woman's flowing red tresses and her pretty face, with its dimples and button nose. The parchment detailed the rents and grazing fees collected from the tenants occupying Guinevere's lands and the few remaining royal preserves, and the expenses paid from these collections. In the past, the bishop's accountings had sparked more than a few fiery outbursts from her young friend, and it seemed as if another storm was on the horizon.

Eighteen-year-old Cadwyn had served Guinevere since her arrival at the abbey, six years earlier. Guinevere recalled with a smile the abbess's admonition when she'd introduced her mesmerized niece to the newly arrived queen.

“My Queen, Cadwyn is the most precocious child I have ever taught. She can speak, read, and write in the languages of the Greeks, Romans, and Britons, and more often than not, she knows what I am going to say before I say it, which I am not always happy about. On the other hand, she has … somewhat of a temper. However, all in all, I believe you will find her to be very helpful.”

The abbess had been right. Cadwyn had been more than helpful—she had become indispensable. As for the girl's temper, Sister Aranwen had made it her mission to curb this vice, but despite her frequent scoldings, there was still plenty of fire left in her young handmaiden.

The diminutive Sister Aranwen sat in a rocking chair across from Cadwyn, contentedly knitting a woolen blanket. The pious and reserved nun had been in her fortieth year when her order had assigned her to escort Arthur Pendragon's young bride-to-be to Camelot. Guinevere remembered their first meeting, almost fifteen years ago, as if it had been yesterday. The two women had become friends during the week-long trip, and Sister Aranwen had remained after the wedding as her spiritual advisor and self-appointed guardian.

As Guinevere watched the two women, she wistfully thought,
My friends, I fear you have become prisoners of my past
.

Sister Aranwen feared yesterday's minions would imprison or kill her royal charge if Guinevere tried to restore the lost kingdom. For the quiet nun, a life of obscurity was a small price to pay for peace and safety. Cadwyn, in contrast, would never relinquish the dream of a glorious restoration. For her, resurrecting Camelot had become her sacred duty.

As Sister Aranwen leaned forward and reached for another ball of yarn, Cadwyn exploded from her chair, holding the bishop's report aloft, her face nearly as red as her russet locks. Wide-eyed, Sister Aranwen dropped the ball of yarn and fell back into her rocking chair.

“That pompous old thief is stealing the fruit of the Queen's lands!” Cadwyn hissed in fury as she paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. “Why if ever a man deserved to be flogged—”

Sister Aranwen gasped. “Cadwyn Hydwell, you go too far! Bishop Verdino is a man of God! I … I grant you that he may take with a heavy hand, but—”

“Why, I wish—”

“Dearest friends, please remember, these walls have ears,” Guinevere said quietly as she stepped into the room, repressing a smile. Both women turned to the Queen in unison and bowed respectfully as they responded, “Yes, Milady.”

A knock on the outside door interrupted the renewal of Cadwyn's tirade, and Sister Aranwen quickly made good use of it, pointing to the door.

“That would be the cook's assistant with dinner, Cadwyn. Please be so kind as to bring in our repast, and please say a prayer of penance on the way.”

Cadwyn swallowed her retort and turned to Guinevere. “Milady, where would you like your dinner tonight?”

“On the table, in my chambers, Cadwyn. I have much to do tonight.”

“Yes, Milady.”

Two hours later, Guinevere heard Cadwyn's familiar knock on the door to the library, which served as the anteroom to her private chambers. “Come in, Cadwyn,” Guinevere said.

The handmaiden entered the room carrying a cloth-covered basket under her arm and closed the door after her. Guinevere patted the open space on the wooden bench beside her. The bench was pulled up close to the small table serving as her desk and, often, the place where she took her meals. The two candles on the table illuminated a small, windowless room whose walls were lined with half-empty bookshelves and locked wooden boxes in varying sizes.

As she sat down, Cadwyn said in a whisper, “I checked on the two guards the bishop left behind. They are dicing in their quarters, and both have had more than a fair share of mead, so we need not fear eavesdroppers tonight.”

Guinevere nodded as she glanced toward a nearby window to make sure the shutters were closed. Bishop Cosca Verdino had arrived at the abbey six months after she had taken refuge there, dressed in full liturgical regalia, accompanied by a cadre of four guards wearing outlandish uniforms.

According to the bishop, he'd been appointed by the Holy See to serve as both the Bishop of Albion and as the papal legate to the Queen of the Britons “in her time of need.” Guinevere had been skeptical of the pompous little man, whose face was rendered nearly invisible by his bushy beard and the overly large alb and miter he wore whenever they met; but the abbess had vouchsafed for the official-looking documents he bore.

At first, Guinevere had ignored the wheedling little man's oft-repeated warnings regarding the dangers of leaving the abbey's grounds, but over time, it had become more difficult. Verdino had proven to be both persistent and clever, and his authority over the Abbess and the other sisters had given him the means to enforce his will.

Unaccountably, the abbey's horses would be unavailable on the days when the Queen had scheduled a ride. When the horses were available, Verdino would order his guards, along with the unhappy abbess and a flock of sisters, to accompany her on the ride. The tactic was as galling as it was clever. The devious prelate knew she wouldn't countenance the imposition of such a burden on the abbess and the sisters solely to accommodate her own pleasure.

When Guinevere had confronted the bishop regarding his interference, he'd politely offered her a surprising compromise, one she'd felt compelled to accept. Somehow, Verdino had discovered that the tide of chaos and violence sweeping over Albion had deprived her of the ability to collect the rents due from the tenants farming or grazing livestock on her lands and on the lands of the crown. Verdino also knew that without this source of income, Guinevere had no means of maintaining her own modest household; nor could she provide relief to the loyal subjects who continued to serve the needs of what was left of the kingdom.

Verdino had professed to have the means to collect these rents and tithes, through the “power of the church,” despite the land's dark times. He promised to collect them if, in return, she would agree not to leave the abbey's grounds unless accompanied by a sufficient force of guards. Although Guinevere had been incredulous of Verdino's claim, the bishop had been true to his word, and so, in the main, she had been true to hers. At times, she found the bargain she'd struck to be oppressive, but it was a burden she had to bear, like so many others, for the good of what was left of the kingdom.

Cadwyn, on the other hand, was not one to bear the bishop's restrictions without complaint. As far as she was concerned, the bishop was a loathsome scoundrel whose sole objective was to find and steal the hidden trove of treasure Arthur was rumored to have left to fund a restoration of Camelot. Although Guinevere suspected this treasure might well exist, its whereabouts were unknown to her. So even if Cadwyn's suspicions were correct, the bishop's avaricious plans would, in the end, come to nought.

“What did the messengers bring today?” Guinevere asked.

Cadwyn sat on the wooden bench, placed the basket in the middle of the table, and drew off the cloth, revealing twelve scrolls of parchment, each encircled by two restraining pieces of twine.

“Quite a lot, Milady. The sparrows have much to report.”

“Then let's get started, my dear.”

Cadwyn untied the strings on two of the parchments, handed one to Guinevere, and opened the second herself. “Mary, in Camulodunom … a cobbler's wife, yes,” Guinevere said as she rolled out the parchment.

“Milady, do you know all of the women? How many are there?” Cadwyn asked.

“No, but I do remember most. At one time or other, I have exchanged letters with all of them. As for how many, I can't say. Before the fall, there were about five hundred.”

“Did the King know you had all these spies?”

Guinevere looked up from the parchment, a thoughtful look on her face. “No, but then I never really thought of them as spies. I wanted to have a friendly set of eyes and ears in every city and town in the kingdom … people who could tell me about matters of import to them.”

“How did you know whom to trust?”

“Some were people that I knew, but most came to me through others that I trusted, people like … say, Cadwyn Hydwell.”

Cadwyn smiled at the compliment and asked, “Why just women, Milady?”

Guinevere smiled. “If you wanted to know what was really going on in the Abbey, would you ask Ferghus, the stablemaster, or Rowena, the cook?”

“Rowena for sure. That woman knows things …,” Cadwyn said, her voice trailing off in embarrassment.

“Indeed, she does,” Guinevere said as she reached for another parchment. “Men and women talk when they eat and drink, and most of the people serving them are women. So they hear, as you say, many ‘things.' I wanted the Rowenas of this land to be my little sparrows … to tell me about anything that was important in their city, town, or village.” Her smile faded.

“Before the fall, those tidings enabled me to save innocent men and women from unfair punishment by a dishonest lord, to reward the good, to punish the bad, to be a better Queen—at least that was my hope.”

“You are a wonderful Queen, Milady,” Cadwyn said with a smile.

“Why, thank you, my dear. Can you hand me another scroll?”

“Yes, Milady.”

As she read through the missives, each writing wove another thread into the tapestry of pain and suffering that was now Albion. Londinium was the worst. Hengst and his raiders had turned the population into virtual slaves, leading many to secretly leave the city in the dark of night. Of late, the Norse warlord had banned these departures by branding people to mark them as his subjects. Those caught attempting to escape, or found outside of the city, would suffer torture or death in the monthly games Hengst held in Londinium's old Roman stadium.

When Guinevere put down the last letter, she closed her eyes, and the shadows from the flames flickered and danced across her beautiful face.

“Sometimes … oftentimes,” Guinevere began, in a voice laden with regret, “I feel that I … Arthur, the Table … we failed them. We were supposed to protect them. That was our charge, our promise to the cobbler, the baker, the farmer, and their wives and children. We were supposed to keep them safe from monsters like Hengst the Butcher— and we did not honor that sacred duty.”

“Milady,” Cadwyn said in a heartfelt tone, “I am not a wise woman, nor, as I'm sure the abbess has told you, a very pious one, but God cannot fault you or the Pendragon and his Knights, for the fall. I have heard the tales, my Queen. Every man and woman gave their all in those last days and hours. It was … it was not to be, but, as you always say, Milady, tomorrow is another day, and we must work to remake what was broken.”