The Return of Sir Percival (36 page)

As the two lines of men to their front and rear watched in stunned silence, Galahad wheeled his black destrier around and backed it into place beside Percival's horse. For a moment, the Vale of Ashes was deathly quiet, and then the Queen's Army exploded in a triumphal roar.

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

erlin stepped away from the Queen's bed and walked over to the window, praying in silence. Then suddenly, he pulled up short, his eyes turning to Sister Aranwen, kneeling at Guinevere's side.

“Yes, a miracle …” Merlin whispered “… we need a miracle.” Then he turned and ran out of the room. As he crossed the courtyard at a run, he passed Cadwyn, whose hands were shaking so badly the pitcher of water she was carrying was already half empty.

“Cadwyn, quickly, bring the pitcher to the sitting room, but do not let the Queen drink a drop until I return,” Merlin said as he ran toward his quarters.

“Merlin, what is it? Can you save her?” Cadwyn cried, desperation in her voice.

“I cannot, but a miracle can,” Merlin said over his shoulder.

“A miracle?” Cadwyn said incredulously.

Merlin ran up the stairs to his small quarters on the second floor, pulled a wooden box from underneath his bed, and gently withdrew the wooden cup that Jacob the Healer had given to Percival. Then he raced down the stairs and across the courtyard.

When he ran through the door to Guinevere's quarters, Sister Aranwen and Cadwyn were kneeling beside the Queen, holding her hand and praying. Tears ran freely down their faces. Merlin walked over to the pitcher of water Cadwyn had placed on a nearby table and poured the water into the ancient wooden cup he held in his hand. He looked at the unimposing vessel for a moment, said a quiet prayer, and then walked over to the bed. Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen moved aside, giving him room to kneel by the Queen.

The Queen's face was ashen, and her shallow gasps for breath told him that she only had minutes to live. “Drink,” Merlin whispered urgently. She silently shook her head as she writhed in pain.

Merlin leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Guinevere, if you drink from this cup, you will live … you will live to see Percival again.”

Guinevere's eyes opened, and she nodded weakly. Merlin lifted her shoulders and raised the cup to her lips. She took a long drink and swallowed. After gasping for breath, she took another drink and lay back again, spent. As Merlin and the two women watched, Guinevere's breathing steadily became more regular, and her fair skin began to regain its normal hue.

Cadwyn put her hand to her mouth and whispered, “Merlin, your potion has saved her!”

Merlin bowed his head in silence for a moment, overcome with emotion, before rising and walking over to a chair and sitting down. He idly looked over at the book that lay open on the table beside chair. It was the Bible. He shook his head as he read the words of the Psalm: “For you have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling; I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.”

Merlin looked down at the empty cup in his hand and then placed it in the pocket of his cloak. When he withdrew his hand, it was shaking so badly that he had to clasp both hands together in his lap to stay the tremor. He looked across the room to where Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen were kneeling beside Guinevere. The Queen was smiling. She was truly saved.

Merlin stood, walked to the window, and pushed open the shutters the guards had closed after the attack, and the sun poured into the darkened room. The old Roman stared to the south in silence, until Sister Aranwen walked over and said in a whisper, “Was it the potion,” she whispered, “or was it the cup?”

A smile came to Merlin's face. “Why Sister, it was neither. It was the miracle you prayed for.”

Sister Aranwen raised a questioning eyebrow and returned to Guinevere's side.

Moments later, Guinevere sat up on the bed. She looked tired, but her color had returned, and the pain in her eyes had been replaced by the quiet strength he remembered.

“My Queen, you should rest,” Sister Aranwen said, concern in her voice.

Guinevere smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, Sister, but I am quite well. More, I … I feel as young as the day that we first met. Forgive me, my friends, but I must speak to Merlin alone for a moment.”

After the two women left the room, Guinevere gestured to a chair across from the bed. “Merlin, please, sit for a moment. It appears you have saved my life yet again.”

Merlin walked over to the chair and sat down, shaking his head. “No, my Queen, it was not I.”

“There was no potion in that cup?” she said.

“No.”

“Tell me.”

Merlin clasped his shaking hands together on his lap.

“Jacob the Healer of Alexandria died while Sir Percival was in prison, serving in the stead of Jacob's son, Joshua. When Percival returned, Joshua told him that Jacob had left the Knight a cup and a written message, along with a substantial sum of gold for the passage home. Neither Percival nor Joshua had been able to make any sense of the message, for it was written in an ancient form of Aramaic, and yet words from the Roman and Greek tongues were interspersed in the message as well. Joshua told Percival that his father had been very sick during his last days and could well have lost his senses. As for the cup, all his father had told him, and these words were spoken in the throes of a fever, was that the cup was not the grail Percival sought, but it was one that had served.”

“One that had served?” Guinevere repeated in confusion.

Merlin nodded. “When Percival told me the story, I couldn't believe that a man as wise as Jacob the Healer would have simply left a wooden cup of no moment for the man who'd saved the life of his only son, let alone wasted his last breaths speaking of such a cup. I pondered this for a time and then, many weeks ago, I asked the Knight if I might see the cup and the note.”

The old Roman drew in a breath and slowly exhaled in an effort to calm his racing heart before continuing.

“I have spent nearly every night in the past month struggling to translate the note. Two nights ago, I broke the code, but I couldn't be sure that I was right about the translation until you drank from the cup and were saved.”

Guinevere's eyes widened. “But if it is not the Holy Grail, then how …”

“Jacob's note said that this cup,” Merlin said, drawing the ancient wooden vessel from his cloak, “is the cup that Christ drank from at the supper where they celebrated the resurrection of Lazarus from the dead. Martha of Bethany, Lazarus's sister, kept the cup to remember the miracle, and through the centuries, it was passed down to Jacob of Alexandria.” He stared at the simple wooden cup for several moments before continuing.

“We … we have always believed that the Holy Grail … the cup the Christ drank from at the last supper somehow had miraculous powers, but why … why just that cup? Christ would have consecrated the food and wine that he and his followers ate and drank before every meal, and he would have drunk from many a grail, so why would not these other vessels also have the miraculous powers conveyed by his blessing?”

Guinevere smiled and spoke in a whisper, “Why not, indeed, Merlin the Wise. You will keep this cup safe and not speak of it,” she said. “It is a holy relic that must be preserved for all time, for it may be the only grail that survives, and Sir Percival surely paid a most heavy toll for its recovery.”

The pounding of a heavy fist on the outside door to Guinevere's quarters interrupted Merlin's answer. He rose and walked quickly to the door, pulling it open. Keil stood there, breathless.

“Your Highness, an army comes!”

“My God, our lines must have been broken!” Guinevere said in anguish.

“No, my Queen,” Keil said, bowing, a broad smile coming to his face. “This army is from the Marches. They come to fight for Sir Percival, and they are over a thousand strong!”

T
HE
V
ALE OF
A
SHES

Cynric and his archers focused their fire on the men within striking distance of the two knights in an effort to weaken the line around them to the breaking point. As he drew his bowstring back and targeted a Norse warrior on Sir Percival's right, Cynric saw an arrow flash across the battlefield and strike Lord Aeron in the shoulder, finding a gap in his armor—an arrow with blue feathers. Cynric traced the path of the arrow back to its source, and he saw a Pict warrior standing just clear of the melee surrounding the two knights. As he watched, the Pict warrior smiled and nocked a second blue arrow, an arrow that Cynric knew was meant for Sir Percival.

“You have shot your last arrow, Pict,” Cynric whispered as he centered his aim on the Pict's chest, drew the string of his five-foot bow back to its fullest extent in one smooth movement, and released his arrow. The shaft flew across the field, swift and true, striking the Pict full in the chest. The man stood there for a moment, in shock. His eyes lifted to meet those of the tall archer. Then he fell facedown in the dirt.

Percival was unaware Galahad had been wounded, until he saw him slipping from his saddle to the ground. He charged forward on his mount, driving back the Norse warriors who pressed forward, intending to kill the stricken knight. He leaped from his horse and fought his way to Galahad's side. As he threw Galahad's arm over his shoulder and prepared to fight his way back to the safety of his own lines, Sveinn the Reaver shoved aside his fellow Norseman and stepped forward.

“I shall take pleasure in hanging your head from the mast of my ship, Knight,” the giant Norseman said with a growl as he moved toward Percival.

At that moment, Capussa moved in front of Sir Percival, accompanied by two soldiers. “Your fight is with me today, Norseman,” he said, “and I will keep my head, thank you.”

Sveinn roared and leaped forward, his sword striking downward in a deadly arc at Capussa's head. The Numidian sprang toward him, dropping to one knee. He guided the onrushing blade away from him with a glancing blow from his buckler shield and at the same time drove his own sword into the Norseman's exposed thigh. Then he sprang back to his starting place.

The giant screamed in rage as his leg collapsed beneath him, and he fell to the ground. Sveinn's men raced forward to drag their warlord back within their shield wall, giving Capussa and Sir Percival the seconds needed to drag the wounded Galahad back within the protection of their lines.

When Percival moved to assist the men who ran over with a litter, Galahad seized his arm and said, “Do not worry about me, brother; the wound is not fatal. Morgana knows your men are near to the breaking point, and she will attack again. You must stay in line, or she will carry the day.”

“He's right. She will make one final push,” Capussa said.

Percival reluctantly nodded, and the litter bearing Galahad was taken to the command tent. As he started back toward the shield wall, a man dressed in the uniform of one of Guinevere's guards ran over to him, gasping for breath. The man's face was so covered in dust that at first Percival didn't recognize him.

“Guardsman, what is it … Keil?”

“Yes … Sir … here's … a message from …” Keil gasped as he handed a small piece of parchment to Percival and then fell to his knees in a spasm of coughing.

Percival read the note twice and then closed his mailed fist over the parchment. A moment later, he turned to Capussa. “Have the herald blow the horn and raise the truce flag. I would have words with Morgana.” Then he turned to Keil and said, “I must ask you to deliver two more messages today.”

* * *

M
ORGANA
,
WITH
I
VARR
the Red on her right, waited in the space that had been made between the lines for the parley, as Capussa and Sir Percival rode forward. They stopped four paces away. For a minute, the two parties just looked at each other, and then Morgana spoke, in a voice laden with scorn.

“So, has the invincible Sir Percival and his Numidian companion come to surrender to the Queen's Army?”

“We have not,” Percival said in a calm voice.

“No?” Morgana said with a cold laugh. “Are you going to die in a last charge, Sir Percival, like the Pendragon and your fellow knights did at Camlann?”

When Percival didn't answer, Morgana rode forward to within a pace of the Knight and spoke in a venomous tone, “I killed your King and your brother Knights at Camlann, and today, I have killed your Queen and that noble fool Galahad—oh yes, Sir Percival, your fellow knight will die in agony before the day is done, from the poison arrow that felled him. All that remains is this—you can surrender and spare the army of peasants that you so foolishly led into this trap, or you can watch every one of them die—for no quarter will be given. As for you and the Numidian, know this before you choose: if you fight on, I will crucify you both if there is even one breath left in your broken bodies when I take this field.”