The Return of Sir Percival (31 page)

Aeddan turned and reluctantly started up the road again, gesturing with his hands as he walked.

“Then the Knight had each village form a core of one hundred and twenty fighting men, men who would train and take the field of battle together, under an elected commander they trusted. There was plenty of grumbling, but we did as he said, and … well, then he taught us to fight together like Romans.”

Connor nodded. Aeddan knew the younger man had heard the story before. Every child in the Marches had.

“We learned to form ranks in an instant and to attack and retreat in close order, instead of running at the enemy in a mad rush. He had us build lookout and signal towers along the entire length of the Marches, to prepare ambushes, to patrol our lands, and to use our coin to buy spies among the enemy. In time, the Legion of the Marches—that's what we called ourselves—killed so many raiders that Morgana decided this root was not worth the digging, and so she left us alone. But, as I say, that was a long time ago. Half of the men waiting for us in there tonight were too young to even hold a sword during those fell times. They won't remember.”

Connor smiled a knowing smile. “We'll see, Aeddan.”

The two guards waiting outside the meetinghouse pushed open the door, and Aeddan and Connor walked into a cavernous stone room. The crowd of men in the room were dressed in an array of outfits, ranging from animal skins to the plain leather jerkins, wool leggings, and leather boots worn by Aeddan and Connor. Most of the men were younger than Aeddan, but a few like Fferog, the war leader from the next village to the north and the master of the council, had served with Aeddan during the fell times.

As Aeddan and Connor walked toward the dais at the far end of the large, candlelit hall, the tide of voices in the room began to ebb and then fell silent as Aeddan stepped into the speaker's circle. The blacksmith was mystified and somewhat unnerved by the silence. Meetings of the Council of the Marches were typically raucous affairs that had to be brought to order by shouts and threats.

As he scanned the hard, weather-worn faces of the men waiting for him to speak, his disquiet grew. Can they know of the message? Have they spoken of the matter beforehand and decided to deny my request? Well, so be it. I will say my piece and march south alone, if that's the way of it.

Aeddan stepped to the edge of the circle closest to the crowd and spoke in a loud but measured voice.

“Welcome, my friends. I have called this council together to hear great tidings and to answer a call to war.”

Aeddan paused for a moment, his eyes roving over the crowd of men in front of him, before continuing. Most of the men gave him a respectful nod. The only man who ignored him was a short, stout man with a bushy beard and a balding head—Bran. He was talking to one of his retainers, a scowl on his face.

“Four days ago,” he began, “a royal messenger came to my home with a message.” Aeddan paused for a long moment and then said, “Sir Percival has returned.”

For a moment, there was a shocked silence. Then the room exploded into a cacophony of sound. Fferog, a giant of a man wearing a ceremonial grey robe, walked onto the wooden dais and pounded a great staff against the floor, bringing the hall back to order.

He turned to Aeddan and spoke in a loud voice. “We all would hear what you have to say about this matter, Aeddan the Broad.”

The blacksmith gave his old friend a nod of thanks, and then his eyes returned to the men before him.

“The messenger brought a scroll that bore the seal of Queen Guinevere.” Aeddan held up the scroll. “I have it here. It's written in the old code. The man who wrote the message is Sir Percival, for he spoke of things that were between he and I, alone.”

“I don't believe it,” Bran called out. “The Knights of the Table are all dead.” Aeddan turned toward Bran and said coldly, “He lives.”

“And what does Sir Percival seek from the council?” Fferog called out, cutting off Bran's response.

Aeddan's gaze left Bran and returned to the older leaders in the center of the room. “The Knight has slain Hengst the Butcher and retaken Londinium from the Norse.”

The room exploded in a roar of cheers. After Fferog had restored order to the meeting hall, Aeddan continued.

“The Norse and Morgana have raised an army. They will try to retake Londinium. Sir Percival is marching to the city's aid with a great force. He asks that we send him as many men from the legion as we can spare.”

“I don't believe—” Bran began, only to be cut off by a roar from Fferog.

“You will be quiet, Bran of Cairn!”

“I will not!” Bran bellowed in defiance as he pushed his way to the front of the room, his ruddy face a mask of scorn. “Show me this royal messenger! He is a charlatan who has played Aeddan the Broad for a fool. I will not march a single furlong for a dead knight.”

The room was silent for an instant. Then it was rocked by roars of rage and condemnation.

N
OVIOMAGUS
R
EGINORUM

organa's tent was set up a short distance from the crest of a hill, just outside the ruins of the Roman settlement of Noviomagus Reginorum. Nearly a thousand Saxons, Picts, and a motley assortment of local brigands and outlaws were camped below her in a broad, uneven crescent. As she looked down on the dirty, foul-smelling men who were eating, sleeping, and dicing in disparate groups, a wave of anger washed over the Roman princess.

A decade ago, the emperor's gold had paid for the force she had led against the Pendragon at Camlann, an army that was tenfold the size of this one. This time, it was Morgana's own horde of silver flowing into the pockets of the scum below. She intended to make Sir Percival, his army, and his precious Queen repay that outlay in both coin and blood, in full measure.

She started toward her incense-laden tent, hoping to escape the stench wafting up from below, when a shout drew her attention. One of the Saxons standing on the shore of the estuary pointed toward the sea. As she watched, a line of dragonships with their sails furled rowed into the estuary and began to land in the muddy flats below. Ivarr the Red and Sveinn the Reaver had arrived.

Morgana watched the incoming ships for a moment and then turned and looked to the right, where Lord Aeron's tent stood alone, a half furlong distant from hers. His black charger was tethered to a stake behind it. The knight wasn't visible, but the flap to his tent was open, and she knew he would be watching the approach of the men who had killed his brother Knights at Camlann. From this point on, she would have to watch him closely. If he wavered in his fealty to his promise, she would have the Saxons kill him.

The sound of hoofbeats approaching from the north drew Morgana's attention away from Lord Aeron's tent, to a rider she recognized as one of her spies. The small man quickly dismounted from his sweat-lathered horse and bowed to Morgana, a fearful look in his eyes.

“Speak,” Morgana said impatiently.

“Sir Percival marches south at speed, with an army of at least a thousand, Milady.”

Morgana was momentarily taken aback by the tidings. Merlin's web of spies was more formidable than she suspected, and this Sir Percival was more decisive than she'd anticipated. She had hoped the Knight of the Table would not learn of the invasion until Ivarr and Sveinn had landed. This would have forced the Knight and his peasant army to make a series of brutal forced marches in order to intercept the invaders before they reached Londinium, leaving his soldiers exhausted before the final battle.

“Where? Where is he now?”

The messenger cowered as he answered. “I don't know, Milady. I am the fourth rider in the chain, and all I was told is that he marches south.”

In her fury, Morgana reached for the jeweled dagger at her belt, but then she hesitated. She needed the fool.

“Do you know where the first rider in the chain came from?” Morgana snapped.

“Yes … yes, Milady, Isca, on the Sabrina River.”

She drew a handful of silver coins from a silken purse hidden within her cloak and dropped them at the man's feet.

“You have done well. Buy a new horse and ride to Calleva. Tell the messenger there that he is to ride to Corinium. Once there, he must find out where Sir Percival's force is camped and send word to me. Now go!”

“Yes, Milady,” the messenger said as he backed away.

Morgana walked to the ruins of a nearby Roman wall and unrolled a map across the top of it. The map showed the old Roman roads that ran throughout Albion. Abbey Cwm Hir was between sixty and seventy leagues to the north. If the Knight and his forces had left the abbey three days ago, and he'd pushed his men, they could have covered as much as twenty, perhaps even thirty leagues.

She suspected that the Knight had marched south from the abbey to Isca and crossed the Sabrina River using local ships and barges. From there, he would make for Corinium and then Calleva. From there, the Roman road east would bring him directly to Londinium.

Morgana looked down at the Saxon and Pict forces below, and those of the Norse disembarking from their ships. Their combined army would number close to two thousand five hundred men, and the Norse, although unruly, were seasoned fighters. Sir Percival's army would likely be made up of farmers and tradesmen. If she could intercept the Knight before he obtained reinforcements from Londinium, she could destroy his army and then take Londinium at her leisure. She looked down at the Norse again. They would need to move quickly.

N
OVIOMAGUS
R
EGINORUM

Lord Aeron watched Ivarr the Red and a giant of a man with a mane of reddish-brown hair walk up the hill from the estuary to where Morgana was waiting. The two Norse leaders were accompanied by fifty warriors. Morgana was accompanied by Garr, the leader of her Saxon sellswords, and an equal number of Saxon warriors.

As he watched the Norse and the Saxons warily approach each other, the Knight considered attacking the Norse in the hope of precipitating a battle between the two suspicious groups, but then he rejected the idea. Morgana would have anticipated this possibility and assigned one or more archers in her camp to kill his horse if he made the attempt. She would also take great pleasure in sending one of her assassins to kill Guinevere in retribution.

When Lord Aeron had overheard one of the Saxons tell another warrior, two nights earlier, that they were all going to get rich sacking Londinium, he had discounted the comment. Morgana did not have enough men to take the city, and if that had been her objective, she could have marched directly there from her castle. It was only when he learned that she was meeting a large force of Norse warriors at this precise location that he grasped her plan.

Londinium would be the target of their combined attack, but it would also be the bait. Morgana knew his brother Knight would march south to defend the city, and her army, when combined with that of the Norse, would be large enough to crush his smaller force. Although Lord Aeron desperately wanted to forewarn his brother Knight, he knew he couldn't leave the camp without his absence being noticed. At this point, all he could do was hope that fate would intervene and offer him an opportunity to save his friend and the kingdom—before the disaster he foresaw came to fruition.

T
HE
C
AMP OF THE
Q
UEEN
'
S
A
RMY
, N
ORTH OF
C
ALLEVA

Percival looked out upon the near-perfect rows of tents and the wooden fortifications encircling the perimeter of the army's camp with feelings of pride and trepidation in equal measure. From this distance, the disparate group of volunteers now called the Queen's Army looked as if it had been forged into a disciplined and well-trained army. Percival knew the reality to be otherwise.

The men below were enthusiastic and committed to the cause, but many of them had never wielded a sword in battle. Such men couldn't take on the Saxon and Norse warriors, at least not on even terms, and prevail. He would need more men-at-arms to gain victory in the coming battle, and those men-at-arms were not yet at hand.

The messengers he had sent racing to the north, seeking aid from the Legion of Marches, had not yet returned, and he was still waiting for Cynric and the mayor of Londinium to answer his call to arms. If his messages had been received, and if the forces requested marched without delay, then victory was possible. If not, he could be leading these men to their doom.

“Do I sense there is a measure of unease in your thoughts, Knight?” Capussa said as he strode up the hill toward Percival, followed by Merlin. Percival ignored the question and gestured to the camp below.

“You have done well with the army, Capussa.”

“We have done well,” Capussa said, placing one hand on Percival's shoulder and a second on Merlin's, “and I would also cede acclaim to the hundreds of veterans from the Pendragon's army who have joined the ranks in recent days. But you avoid my question, Knight,” Capussa said.

“Yes, I have concerns,” Percival said, “Morgana, Ivarr, and this Sveinn lead a formidable force of hardened fighters. Our men—”

“Fight for their homes, for their Queen, and … they fight for you, Knight,” Capussa said. “As long as you lead, they will follow. They have what you call faith.”

“In truth, they believe you are invincible,” Merlin said quietly.

“As Capussa well knows,” Percival said, glancing over at his friend, “I am not. On many a day in the arena, his blade saved my life.”

“And, thank the gods, your blade saved mine as well,” Capussa reminded him.

“As for their faith,” Percival said, his gaze returning to the men below, “they need to place that in God, not in me, for divine intervention will be sorely needed in the days to come. And although I have prayed for it a thousand times on my own behalf, and I will continue to do so, it has rarely come to my aid.”

“Has it not?” Merlin said, arching his grey brows. “Yes, it is true that you have borne more trials and tribulations than any man I have ever known, and surely, any man who has endured so much would have every reason to believe his prayers for relief went unanswered. But I would ask you this: What man could have survived what you have endured without divine intervention—and that on a near daily basis?”

When Percival didn't answer, Merlin continued.

“My answer would be few, maybe none. And I would ask you an even graver question. Could the Sir Percival who embarked on that ship a decade ago have done the things you have done upon your return? Could he have struck down Hengst the Butcher? Could he have inspired this army of volunteers to follow him?” Merlin said, gesturing to the army below. “And could he have accomplished all these things, as well as those that I believe are to come, without the assistance of a Numidian general who is a master of the art of war?” Merlin shook his head and smiled. “You see, I believe the Lord did answer your prayers, Sir Percival, and Albion's as well. This land needed a sword forged in the hottest of fires to regain what was lost … and you are that sword.”

Percival looked at Merlin in silence for a moment, unsettled by the old Roman's words. Then his eyes returned to the camp, and he spoke in a quiet voice. “If you are right, then I shall pray all the harder that I am worthy of this burden. God save me.”

“God save us all,” Merlin said.

“Well then ‘amen,' as you Christians say,” Capussa said gravely.

Merlin and Percival looked at the Numidian in surprise and then burst into laughter.

“Is that not correct?” Capussa said gruffly.

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the three men, and Percival turned to see Keil jogging up the hill, dressed in the livery of the Queen's Guard.

“Sir Percival, the Queen would see you,” Keil said with a gasp.

Percival restrained a smile. The young archer had earned his position by outrunning and outshooting all but three of the men who'd vied for a position as a member of the Queen's Guard, although he still needed work with the sword.

“Lead, the way, guardsman,” Percival said, and followed the young man down the slope.

As he strode down the hill, he heard Merlin say to Capussa, “Come, my friend. Let us have that cup of mead. Sir Percival, in spite of himself, shouldn't have to bear all the night's merriment.”

Percival glanced up the hill for a moment, confused—merriment?

* * *

G
UINEVERE
, C
ADWYN
,
AND
Sister Aranwen had taken up residence on the fourth floor of the royal waystation outside the town of Calleva. The circular stone tower stood on a rise at the edge of the encampment, surrounded by a stone wall. Percival, Capussa, Merlin, and the Queen's Guard were quartered in the floors below.

As Percival walked up the rise toward the stone structure, his attention was drawn by the music playing in the grassy area just outside the waystation's northern wall. Long tables of food had been set up, and a circle of grass set aside in the middle for dancing. When he stopped to look down at the feast and the festivities being prepared, young Keil walked over, his face alight.

“It's Michaelmas, Sir Percival. The Queen ordered Merlin and Capussa to allow the men to celebrate. Why, I suspect the women in every nearby town and village will be coming here tonight.”

“You do, do you?” Percival said with amusement.

“Yes, sir. I mean, who wouldn't want to dance with the men of the Queen's Army? But don't worry, sir, General Capussa is rotating the men in and out by company, so folks won't have too much to drink, and the lines will always be defended.”

Percival smiled as he spoke, “Well, who am I to argue with the Queen?” When Keil turned and started toward the waystation again, Percival hesitated a moment and said in a whisper, “And God knows we'll need the Archangel on our side in the coming days.”