The Return of Sir Percival (34 page)

“Why, I don't think I've ever seen you light a fire before, brother. You are quite the woodsman now.”

“Alas, how the mighty have fallen,” Galahad said with a sad smile as he sat down on the rock and drew a skin of wine from his traveling cloak.

As the light from the flames grew, Percival could see the cruel scar that marred the right side of the other man's face and the second scar across his forehead. Although the wounds shocked him, it was the flat-dead look in Galahad's blue eyes that shook him to the core.

“Oh, don't grieve for me, brother,” Galahad said, misunderstanding Percival's look. “From what I saw when you walked out of that spring, fate has dealt you a far crueler throw of the dice than I.”

“It was God's will,” Percival said as he threw a branch into the fire.

“If it's all the same to the Almighty, I'll take a different path and drink from a very different barrel of ale the next time around,” Galahad said.

“That might be difficult. From what I remember, you have already sampled just about every cask, barrel, and keg in the land.”

The two men laughed together, and for a moment, they returned to a different time and place.

“Let us drink a toast to what once was,” Galahad said as he filled two simple wooden cups with wine and handed one to Percival. He raised his cup. “To the Table, the Pendragon, and Queen Guinevere.”

“So say we all,” Percival said, raising his cup.

Then both men drank a long draught and stared into the fire in silence.

Percival looked over at his friend, questions swirling through his mind. Where had he been all these years? Had any of the other members of the Table survived? Had he come to join with him in the battle against Morgana?

“How is she?” Galahad asked, interrupting Percival's thoughts.

“The Queen is well. She is less than a league from here. You must come and see her. We can ride there together. I will seek an audience,” Percival said, standing up. “We can talk on the way. I have many—”

Galahad stood up and threw his wooden cup into the fire. “There's no time,” Galahad said, shaking his head. “I only came to honor a promise that I made to Lancelot.”

Percival looked at Galahad in confusion.

His brother Knight looked down at the fire and spoke in a tired voice, as though he were watching a painful but all too familiar tragedy unfold.

“At Camlann … just before the final charge, Lancelot asked for my forgiveness, and he asked … that I seek your forgiveness on his behalf, as well, if you ever returned. I think … he knew he was going to die.”

Percival looked into the night sky, remembering Lancelot's stern countenance, their arguments over strategy and tactics, and the older Knight's rage when he had raised his concerns directly with the King at a meeting of the Table. Lancelot had taken Percival's breach of protocol as a personal affront and had never spoken to him directly again. After that day, he had been excluded from all strategy sessions with the King and had been assigned the least favorable duties. His ostracism had been one of the reasons he had volunteered to serve in the Marches, although it had not been the most important reason.

“There's nothing to forgive,” Percival said. “We disagreed on how to fight the war against Morgana, and he was surely a hard taskmaster, but I believe that his heart was true. However, I grant him my forgiveness, whether needed or not.”

Galahad nodded and squatted down by the fire, his eyes distant.

“He sent me to hold the left flank, before the final charge was made, so I didn't see it, but I am told that he was magnificent. The charge and the savage melee that followed broke the enemy's lines and carried the day, leaving the Pendragon the master of the field … a field of dead. The King died from his wounds, and the Table died with him. Oh, Sir Dinadan and I lived, but not for long. Sir Dinadan recovered from his wounds … only to later die by the blade of Hengst the Butcher.”

Galahad was silent for moment and then looked over at Percival, a smile on his face. “But then, you put that right, brother. I wish I had been there to see you strike the Butcher down.”

Galahad's smile slowly faded, and when he continued, his voice was filled with both anger and regret.

“All that blood … and that for a people who couldn't even rouse themselves to fight by our side … to fight for their own survival. Well, they have reaped in full measure the misery of that cowardly choice. Instead of living under the King's peace, they now slave under the Norse lash.”

“What are you saying?” Percival said in confusion.

“Criers went out in the days before Camlann, calling on anyone who could bear arms to join the ranks. The response was feeble.” The anger drained from Galahad's voice as he finished, as if he were too tired to carry its weight. “Less than a thousand men came, and they were a miserable lot.”

Percival shook his head in frustration. “You can't ask farmers and other men that ply the peaceful trades to take the field as soldiers on the morrow with the call of a battle horn. It takes time, training, leadership. That's what I tried to tell Lancelot, and later, the King, before I left for the Marches. We needed to raise levies from the peasants, to organize them, train them, to let them pick their own leaders. Lancelot wouldn't hear of it. In his mind, cavalry and archers won wars, not a peasant infantry, and he had the King's ear.”

“He was right,” Galahad said, anger returning to his voice. “As I said, the few who came broke and ran.”

“Galahad, the Roman cavalry didn't conquer most of the known world, the Roman infantry did. The men who filled those ranks weren't Knights of the Table or master bowmen. They were tradesmen, farmers, fishermen, and stable boys. The difference was they were trained to be soldiers on the Field of Mars and on hundreds of other practice fields throughout the empire,” Percival said.

Galahad looked in the direction of Morgana's encampment to the south and shook his head. “You're wrong, and you will see that on the morrow, if you take the field. You must take the Queen and leave this place. Morgana may want a battle, but the Norse do not. They seek the riches of Londinium. Let them pass, and you will avoid a slaughter.”

“And the people of Londinium? What of them? Should I leave them to be spitted on the swords of the Norse?”

“Yes!” Galahad answered, his voice rising. “That's what they deserve! Haven't your spies told you? The mayor of Londinium and his council rejected your call for reinforcements. The cowards will stay within their walls and allow you and your army to be annihilated, in the hope that this will leave fewer men to besiege their city.”

“No, that cannot be,” Percival said, shaking his head.

“It is. It will be Camlann all over again. Morgana will win the day. You must retreat,” he said with desperate intensity.

“I will not.”

“Then you and your army of peasants will die, and when the carrion are picking at your bones, what will happen to the Queen? Will you leave her to be enslaved as a Norse pet or to face Morgana's knife!” Galahad said in a cold, hard voice.

“That will not happen!” Percival said, raising a clenched fist. “You and I, the last of the Table, will fight together on the morrow, with the Queen's Army, and we will defeat Morgana and the Norse.”

“Those days are gone. I am no longer a Knight of the Table.”

“You will always be a Knight of the Table.”

Galahad shook his head and spoke in a voice bereft of hope. “No. A promise was made, a bargain struck. What has been done cannot be undone. The price would be too high.”

Percival crossed to his side and laid one hand upon his shoulder. “I don't know what you have promised or what you've done, but I know you are a man of honor, and I know we need your sword—”

Galahad stepped away from him, and the Knight's hand fell away. “Good-bye, Percival,” he said and walked toward the forest wall. Just before he entered the darkened wood, he turned. “We were both cursed, brother,” he said, “to fall in love with the one woman we couldn't have. When you came to know this, you did the honorable thing. You took the farthest posting from Camelot, the defense of the Marches, and I believe you agreed to undertake the Grail quest for the same reason— to stay away from her. I took a different path. I buried my pain in drink and in the arms of other women. If … if you truly love her, you must take her away from this place.”

“I will pray for you, my friend,” Percival said.

“Pray instead for yourself, and for the Queen, for on the morrow, I fear it will be you in need of God's mercy,” he said and then disappeared into the forest.

G
UINEVERE
'
S
Q
UARTERS
, N
ORTH OF THE
V
ALE OF
A
SHES

hen the knock came on the outer door to her chambers, Guinevere placed her hand on her chest, in the vain hope of slowing the beat of her pounding heart. Arthur had come to her on the night before he left for the battle of Camlann. She remembered his tired and worn face, a face that had aged twenty years in the last months under the weight of a thousand burdens. Although he'd told her all would be well, in her heart, she'd known otherwise. She'd somehow known that it would be their last parting. Now she faced that prospect again.

She rose from the chair beside the small writing desk in her chambers, on the second floor of the old manor house, and walked to the window. The dark horizon to the south was ablaze with hundreds of small fires, marking the site of an encamped army preparing to go to war—her army. A moment later, she heard a soft knock at the door. After taking a last look at the distant lights, she walked over and opened the door.

“Good evening, Lady Cadwyn, Sister Aranwen. Do we have a guest?” Guinevere asked, forcing a smile.

“Yes, my Queen, Sir Percival is here,” Cadwyn said.

“Then let's not keep him waiting.” Guinevere gestured for the women to lead the way. She followed them into the main room, where Sir Percival was waiting by the door. Her eyes widened when she saw him. The Knight wore a white tabard, with the seal of the Table on the chest, over a heavy mail shirt.

Greaves were strapped to his lower legs, and gleaming gauntlets covered his hands and forearms. In the crook of his arm, he held a blackened steel helm with a long, square nosepiece and spiked crest that seemed to bristle with restrained ferocity.

Percival bowed. “My Queen, I must join the army. We will engage the enemy in the morning, and the last dispositions must be made.”

“Yes, of course,” Guinevere said, nodding, unable to speak for a moment.

Percival bowed again and turned to leave, and Guinevere called after him. “Wait, Percival.”

She turned to Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen. “Lady Cadwyn, Sister, would you please wait for me in my chambers.”

After the two women had left the room, Guinevere stared at the waiting Knight for a long moment, endeavoring to find the right words. “Percival, the royal command of last night stands.”

“I understand … Guinevere.”

“I … I have made a parting such as this once before …”

Percival's eyes met hers, and she knew he could sense the terrible fear weighing upon her soul. After a long moment, he placed the helm under his arm on the table by the door, drew off his gauntlets, and held out his hands. Guinevere took a step toward him and placed her hands in his, and he clasped them tightly. She closed her eyes for a moment, comforted by both the power and the love she felt in his touch.

“It will not be thus. I shall return,” Percival said.

She opened her eyes and smiled. “I will wait for you and … when you return, I would have you speak to me not as your Queen … but as a woman.”

“I will, Guinevere,” Percival said. Then he released his grip on her hands, retrieved his helm and gauntlets, and departed.

T
HE
R
OAD FROM
N
OVIOMAGUS
R
EGINORUM TO
L
ONDINIUM

As Morgana watched Sveinn form his men into ranks on her left, she smiled in quiet scorn. The Norse warlord had fallen into the trap she and Ivarr had laid for him. Just as anticipated, the arrogant fool had insisted upon being in overall command of the army, citing his greater experience and fearsome reputation. Although Morgana and Ivarr had feigned resistance, in the end, they had accepted the demand, knowing this would place Sveinn's men in the center of the line.

If, as Morgana expected, the fighting in the center was the fiercest, then much of Sveinn's strength would be spent by the end of the victorious battle, leaving Ivarr and Morgana's forces well positioned to annihilate the Norse leader and his men in a surprise attack after the battle, as planned. With that done, the two allies would then march on Londinium alone and split the spoils when the city was sacked.

Alas, as with any plan, there were pitfalls as well. Although the three of them had agreed the army should march before dawn to force the enemy to fight on the ground of their choosing, Sveinn had ignored this agreement. Instead, he and his men had drunk themselves into a stupor, as they did every night, making them slow to rise. Now, they would be forced to fight on the ground chosen by Sir Percival and his Numidian friend and to fight that battle on their terms.

The Knight's army was arrayed at the northern end of a narrow valley an hour's march away. The valley was bordered on the north, east, and west sides by steep slopes. Morgana and the Norse would be forced to march into the valley through the southern end and to fight on a narrow front, where only six hundred men could fight abreast in a line.

Sir Percival's choice of a battle site was both wise and foolhardy. The ground would offset Morgana's advantage in numbers, but it would also leave his army trapped in a pocket at the northern end, if he failed to carry the day. Sir Percival was forcing his army to choose between victory or annihilation.

The Knight's strategy is an act of desperation
, she thought.
He knows his allies in Londinium have deserted him, so he intends to try to survive by fighting a defensive battle of attrition
.

A cruel smile played across Morgana's face as she envisioned the scene described by her spies in Londinium. The lord mayor and the council had voted to hide behind their walls rather than march out and join the force that had nobly marched to the city's relief. When Cynric the Archer had threatened to kill the mayor after the vote, he and his formidable bowmen had been dragged off to prison. That was fortuitous. The archers in the ranks of the Norse and Saxon could not compete with the archers in this land.

Morgana spoke in a whisper, “Alas, Sir Percival, only a fool puts his faith in the honor of other men. Today, you will now learn that only gold and the sword can be trusted.”

“Milady?”

Morgana turned to Garr, who had ridden up on his horse from the rear.

“Sveinn is ready to march.”

Morgana looked with disdain at the line of Norse warriors, now clad in their armor and beginning to march in a line of roughly three men abreast.

“Give the order to move out,” she said coldly. “We certainly don't want to keep our ally waiting, do we?”

The Saxon nodded, wheeled his horse, and bellowed out commands to the line of men behind her. Far to her right, Morgana could see Lord Aeron clad in battle armor, standing alone by his black destrier. The spy she had assigned to watch him last night had disappeared, which troubled her. Lord Aeron had one more role to play before she had him killed—a role that would force him to choose between his precious Queen and his brother Knight. As she watched the knight mount his horse, Morgana experienced something that was alien to her—a moment of regret.

You are as foolish as you once were handsome, Sir Galahad. Did you really think that I would honor my promise?

G
UINEVERE
'
S
Q
UARTERS
, N
ORTH OF THE
V
ALE OF
A
SHES

Guinevere stared at the open Bible on her lap and then slowly turned yet another page, not having read a word of the sacred text. Thoughts flitted through her mind like butterflies in a tempest, each gaining only a whisper of contemplation before being swept away by the next gust of wind. In one instant, she would be struggling to find peace through the words in the Book of Psalms, and in the next, she would be drawn into the maelstrom of violence raging two leagues distant by the blast of the battle horn. From there, her thoughts would race back through time to a darkened room in a distant castle, where a younger woman waited to hear the tidings of another terrible battle. Each minute seemed an hour, each hour a day.

After futilely struggling to read another line, Guinevere raised her head and looked across the room at Sister Aranwen. The nun was sitting in a chair, silently praying with her eyes closed. Her eyes strayed to Cadwyn. The young woman was sitting restlessly in another chair holding a map of the battlefield that Keil had drawn for her earlier in the day. Guinevere knew the young woman had just returned from yet another visit to the guard station near the front wall, where she had once again sought tidings of the battle.

As she looked around the ancient stone sitting room, she wondered how many other women had waited in this room in centuries past and prayed for victory, or just for survival. How many had felt the agony of a loss too great to bear when the battle was over?

Guinevere shook off the morbid thought and once again tried to read the words in front of her, but another strident burst from a distant battle horn drew her attention. She laid the open Bible down on a nearby table and walked over to the window that looked to the south, where the battle was raging. There was nothing to see. The fields surrounding the villa were empty, and the forested hills beyond were still, just as they had been an hour earlier.

* * *

T
ALORC WATCHED THE
second-floor window from behind the trunk of an oak tree, just outside the low wall that encircled the stone manor. It had taken him over an hour to crawl to the spot, and he was covered in dirt and sweat.

He didn't fear discovery by the Queen's uniformed guards, but he did fear the sharp eyes of the hunter called Torn. The hunter had discovered Talorc's tracks in the hills outside the Abbey Cwm Hir, despite the care he had taken to avoid detection. From that day forward, the hunter and his dogs had relentlessly pursued his trail, forcing him to spy on the Queen from a greater distance.

Talorc glanced up at the sky. It was over four hours past sunrise, and he knew a patrol would pass by the tree at around noon. If the Queen didn't show herself within the next few minutes, he would have to make the slow, perilous crawl back to the forest and then attempt to return later in the afternoon.

As the Pict reached up to unstring his bow, he heard a distant blast of horns from the battle raging to the south. Glancing up, he saw the Queen appear at the manor's second-floor window. She stared in the direction of the sound, her beautiful face filled with subdued apprehension. Talorc dipped the tip of an arrow into the small pot of black poison Morgana had given him the day before, nocked the arrow in his bow, and stepped out from behind the tree for his shot.

As he was releasing the arrow, a second arrow slammed into the tree an inch from his face, causing the Pict to move his bow ever so slightly. The movement saved Guinevere from a kill shot. Instead of plunging into the Queen's chest, Talorc's arrow flew to the right, grazing her right arm, just below the shoulder.

Talorc turned and ran toward the forest line to the south, frantically dodging to the left and the right, in a desperate effort to avoid the arrows flying past him like angry bees. As soon as he reached the cover of the forest, the Pict glanced back and saw the tall, lean hunter who'd been his nemesis for the past month sprinting after him, followed at a distance by three armed men on horseback. Talorc raced down the far side of the hill, leaped upon his horse, and galloped south.

* * *

G
UINEVERE LOOKED DOWN
, stunned to see blood running freely down her arm. A moment later, Cadwyn's scream suddenly shattered the room's peace and quiet. The young woman ran to her side and pulled her away from the window. Sister Aranwen sat frozen for a moment in shock and then sprang from her chair and ran to the Queen. She pulled the white linen cloth from around her own neck and pressed it against the wound as she guided the Queen to a small bed on the other side of the room. Then she turned to Cadwyn and said with desperate urgency, “Cadwyn, run and find Merlin! Go!”

Cadwyn ran to the door and yanked it open, only to find her way blocked by the two guards pressing into the room with their swords drawn. The soldiers froze in the doorway, staring aghast at the Queen's blood-soaked arm.

“Get out of the way!” Cadwyn screamed as she shoved her way past the two men. “The Queen has been wounded! I have to find Merlin.”

As Guinevere sat down on the bed, she gave Sister Aranwen a reassuring smile. “It is only a small wound, Sister. Merlin will see to it.”

Moments later, she began to shiver, despite the warmth of the day, and her breathing became more labored.

“Sister, I am going to lie down, I feel … cold,” she said.

As she lay back, she felt as if every ounce of strength was draining from her body, like blood from a fatal wound. Sister Aranwen nodded and eased her back against the two pillows. Guinevere saw the fear in the other woman's face, despite her effort to hide it.