The Return of Sir Percival (37 page)

A cruel smile played across Ivarr the Red's face as he listened to the exchange.

Percival stared at Morgana in silence for a moment, and then he spoke in a voice that was as unyielding as the finest steel sword.

“This is not Camlann, Morgana. It is the Vale of Ashes, and yes, it is a trap, but it is one that we led you into. General Capussa, would you introduce Morgana and Ivarr the Red to the might of Londinium.”

Capussa smiled and slowly raised his left fist above his head. Moments later, a thousand men armed with swords, spears, axes, pikes, and clubs ran to the rim of the slope that bordered the east side of the battlefield and roared out their defiance.

Morgana and Ivarr the Red looked up in shock at the mass of armed men ready to plunge down the slope into their right flank. Morgana's eyes narrowed, and the smile on Ivarr the Red's face vanished.

“The lord mayor and Cynric put on a show for your spies, Morgana,” Percival said. “They were always coming to this fight. Now, General Capussa, would you introduce Morgana to the Legion of the Marches.”

Then Capussa lowered his left fist and raised his right.

“Look behind you,” Percival said.

Morgana and Ivarr the Red wheeled their horses around and stared in shock as ten formations of one hundred men marched, with the precision of a Roman legion, into the entrance of the valley behind them, cutting off their escape route.

When Morgana and Ivarr the Red faced Percival again, both bore defiant looks, but their eyes betrayed them. Percival sensed their fear. They knew they were facing annihilation. He rode his horse a pace closer to Morgana and spoke in a voice that was as cold as death.

“Queen Guinevere of the Britons is not dead. She is alive, Morgana, and on this field of battle, and on this day, it is you, not I, who will choose to yield or die.”

T
HE
V
ALE OF
A
SHES

Percival sat astride his horse and surveyed the battlefield. The bloody trial was over. The surviving Norse and Saxon soldiers were sitting, kneeling, or lying down in the center of field, surrounded by a thousand men at the ready on each side. Their arms were stacked in a great pile outside the ring. The armies of Morgana, Ivarr the Red, and Sveinn the Reaver were beaten, but the cost of victory had been heavy. Litter bearers were still running throughout the field gathering up the dead and wounded.

As he watched two men pick up the body of a young man, a Briton, and carry it over to the grassy area set aside for the dead, Capussa rode up alongside of him.

“Most of the dead you see are the Norse and Saxons, not Britons,” Capussa said, gesturing to the bodies lying unmoving on the field. “Once Morgana set off that explosion, the bowmen from Londinium on the hill, they …”

“Sought vengeance for five years of subjugation and pain,” the Knight finished.

Capussa nodded.

Percival watched another black pall of smoke drift across the field from the fire still burning in the square that had once been Morgana's tent and shook his head.

“It is a fire that will not die.”

“Merlin told me of this,” Capussa said. “It is a weapon from the City of Constantine known as Greek fire. Few know how to mix this fiery potion. Morgana must have brought it with her. Water will not quench its flames, only dirt, and, as you can see,” Capussa said, nodding to the men shoveling dirt on the flames, “it resists to the very last.”

“I was fool to give her the time to ponder the surrender offer,” Percival said in quiet regret. “That gave her the opportunity to set the fire and … to escape. Now, we shall have to fight her another day.”

“Bah. You think too much, Knight,” the Numidian said dismissively. “Had you demanded an immediate surrender, she would have refused and the battle would have been joined again. More men would still have died. Whether the witch would have escaped or not is a matter in the hands of the gods. Today, we have won a great victory. We must honor the dead by celebrating what we have gained.”

Percival looked over at Capussa and nodded. “Yes, we must.”

A mounted messenger rode over to Percival. “Sir Percival, a member of the Queen's Guard has come with a message. The Queen, she comes.”

Percival looked at the man, surprised. “She comes to the battlefield?”

“Yes, she is on her way. And … there is another matter. You must come to the command tent. Lord Aeron … I mean, Sir Galahad … he is ill unto death.”

The look on the messenger's face shook Percival to the core. He wheeled his horse around and galloped over to the large tent at the most northern end of the field, dismounted, and walked into the candlelit interior. His brother Knight lay on a long wooden table, his head resting upon a worn blanket.

The healers had removed Galahad's armor and bandaged his right shoulder with a clean cloth. This had staunched the blood from his wound, but it had not remedied whatever ailed him within. His face was ashen, his breath labored, and his blue eyes were clouded in pain.

“The battle?” he said in a hoarse voice.

Percival walked over to his wounded brethren, and the two men gripped forearms. “It is won, brother. The day is ours.”

“What of Morgana?”

“She escaped, with a small force, but be assured, she will be hunted down.”

“You have done it. Camlann is avenged,” Galahad gasped as he released Percival's forearm and closed a trembling fist in triumph.

Percival shook his head. “Not I, brother; we have done it. All of us, and you most of all.”

“Morgana told you of my pledge?” he asked, his voice filled with quiet regret.

“No. She did not have to. I knew there was only one price that would have induced you to serve under her banner—the Queen's life.”

Galahad nodded and pushed himself up with his good arm. A wave of pain crossed his face. Percival moved to gently push him back down, but Galahad shook his head and gasped, “I must tell you of this. My time is short. Yes … that was the price … it had to be done. At Camlann, I was struck in the face with an arrow in the last minutes of the day. When I awakened, I was Morgana's prisoner. She told me that she could kill the Queen at will … she had assassins everywhere, and Guinevere … there was no one left to protect her. But in the end, I still could not save—”

“Galahad, she lives.”

Galahad looked at Percival, his eyes desperately seeking confirmation of the spoken words. “The Queen?”

“Yes. She is well. When we met on the battlefield, I had been told that the poison from the Pict's arrow would take her life within the hour. Later, I received a second message. Merlin saved her life.” Percival grasped his friend's hand. “Galahad, the Queen will be here in a moment with Merlin. He will attend to your wound.”

Galahad lowered his head back to the blanket beneath him and drew in a ragged breath. There was a smile on his face.

“Thank the Lord,” he whispered. “After I have passed, you must tell her, brother. I would have her know that I honored my oath to the King and to the Table.”

“Galahad, she knows of your great sacrifice. I sent a messenger after you were wounded,” Percival said.

Shouts of “All hail Queen Guinevere!” could be heard from outside the tent. Galahad squeezed the Knight's hand as hundreds of voices took up the cry. Moments later, Keil and another guard drew back the tent flaps and Guinevere walked in, followed by Merlin.

Percival bowed, and Galahad made an effort to sit up, but Guinevere raised a hand as she walked over, staying his effort.

“Rest, Sir Galahad. Merlin will attend you.”

“My Queen—”

“Shhh,” Guinevere said softly, gently taking Galahad's feverish hand in hers, “brave knight. It is I who should bow to you, for I know of your sacrifice. I am, and I shall always be, in your debt.”

Merlin walked around to the other side of the table and looked at the bandage on the knight's shoulder and nodded his approval.

“Do you have the arrow that struck him?”

Galahad answered in voice almost too soft to hear. “It is there, on the table.”

Merlin walked over to the blue fletched arrow lying on a nearby table and sniffed the point.

His face was grim when he laid it down.

“It carries the same poison as the arrow that struck you, my Queen.”

“No!” Guinevere cried, her face turning pale.

Galahad's breath grew more labored, and he closed his eyes in pain.

“Merlin, the cup! Do you have it with you?” Guinevere said, her eyes frantic with anxiety.

Merlin looked at Guinevere in confusion for an instant, then he plunged his hand into the pocket of his cloak. “I think … yes, in the rush, yes, it is here.” He ran to the pitcher of water resting on a nearby table, filled the small wooden cup, and returned to Galahad's side.

“Drink, Sir Galahad, drink!” Merlin whispered urgently.

“My time is at an end,” the knight whispered, his face a rictus of pain.

“Galahad, please, I ask this of you,” Guinevere pleaded softly.

Galahad opened his eyes and looked at Guinevere for a long moment. Then he reached for the cup. His hand was shaking so badly that she had to guide the cup to his lips. After swallowing the water, Galahad lay back, exhausted, his eyes closed once more.

Merlin poured the rest of the water in the cup onto a white cloth and bathed the knight's fevered brow and cheeks. For what seemed like an eternity, nothing happened, and then the look of pain on Galahad's face faded, his labored breathing steadied, and the striated muscles in his neck and jaw relaxed. After several moments, Galahad opened his eyes, and his gaze moved from Merlin to Guinevere and finally to Percival, eyes that were as blue as the sky and free of pain.

“Do not grieve for me,” Galahad said with a serene smile, “for I am forgiven.” Then he closed his eyes and was still.

Merlin stepped forward and placed his finger against the side of Galahad's neck. After several long moments he withdrew his hand and said, “He is dead,” in a voice filled with sorrow.

“No!” Guinevere gasped. “The cup … Merlin, it saved my life from the poison. Why not Sir Galahad?”

“Look at his face,” Merlin said softly.

“It cannot be,” Percival said, his voice filled with wonder as he stared down at his friend.

“The scars … they're gone!” Guinevere gasped. “Why then does he not live?”

“I believe,” Merlin said, “that Galahad died a hundred deaths in the service of Morgana. In the end, he sought forgiveness and heaven's peace from the Almighty, not life, and I believe that is the gift he received.”

Sir Percival knelt beside the body of his brother Knight, in prayer. A moment later, Guinevere, tears running down her face, knelt as well. Merlin reached for a white shroud lying on a nearby table and slowly drew it over the knight's body. Then he knelt and joined Percival and Guinevere in prayer.

L
ONDINIUM
, T
HREE
W
EEKS
L
ATER

ercival stood on a hill just outside the walls of Londinium staring down at the Tamesis River, where a galley made its way seaward on a path of white gold laid down by the morning sun. The day he embarked for the Holy Land on a similar ship had been one such as this, and for an instant, he returned to that place in time, recalling the sorrow, frustration, and confusion of the parting. The memory faded as the ship sailed out of sight.

Merlin was right. The man who had left ten years before was not the man who had returned, and yet in one respect they were same. The Percival of yesteryear, like the Percival of today, was in love with Guinevere, and both men carried no small measure of guilt for feeling thus. Although Arthur was long dead and Guinevere free to marry, the feeling persisted.

“I fear that I look upon a man who is vexed to the core of his being.”

Percival turned, surprised to see Merlin standing behind him.

“Is this book so easy to read?”

“No, just this particular chapter.”

“And what, sage, vexes my soul?”

Merlin joined Percival at the crest of the hill and gazed out at the scene below in silence before answering.

“Percival, you are a disciple of honor, carrying both her virtues and burdens. You always have been. On some days I wish that I could infect you with at least some of the mores of the scoundrel, but alas, I have yet to find such a potion.”

The Knight's eyes grew distant for a moment. “Trust me, Merlin, I have done my share of wrongdoing. The line of dead men who would attest to that is long, indeed.”

“And the line of those who would say otherwise is far longer.”

The two men fell silent, and then Merlin answered Percival's question.

“As to your question, what vexes your soul, Sir Percival of the Round Table, is your need for the blessing of a King who is dead, before you take the hand of the woman who was once his Queen.”

Percival glanced over at Merlin. “I would not have Guinevere know of this.”

“She does not, but she knows that you are troubled, and … since she is in love with you, it distresses her.”

“Then I will bury my qualms, since what I seek cannot be found.”

“That may be, or you could be looking in the wrong places.”

The Knight turned to face the old Roman, a question in his eyes.

“Percival,” Merlin said, clasping his hands behind his back, “in the last three days, you have visited almost every church in Londinium and come to this hill nearly every morning. If Arthur's spirit is to be found in this world, I do not believe that you will find it in these places.”

Percival's gaze returned to the Tamesis River flowing below. “I would pray at the foot of Arthur's grave, but I am told you are the only one who knows of his resting place, and you have refused to divulge that secret to anyone, including Guinevere.”

“That is true. Nor would I divulge it to you. That was Arthur's command, and it was a wise one. Excalibur lies with him, anchored in a sacred stone, and evil men in the pursuit of that great talisman would do terrible things to learn of its whereabouts. He wanted to protect Guinevere from that danger. So I alone carry this secret.”

“Then, as I said, I will consider the matter at an end.”

“Do not be so hasty, Knight. If any part of Arthur's spirit remains in this world, I do not believe it would have stayed in that bier, far to the north. No, it would be in a vale, a half days ride from here, where Lady Alona is buried.”

“Lady Alona?”

Merlin walked over to Percival and stood by his side. “Nearly two decades ago, Arthur married a young noblewoman named Alona. I attended the wedding. It was a rare thing. They married solely for love, not for gain or position.” He paused for a moment, and then he continued, his voice filled with sadness. “There was … a magic between them, a love like I have never seen before. Alas, a year later, she died in childbirth, and the child with her. Arthur was so fraught with grief, I feared he would take his own life. Over time, he learned to bear the pain, but he never forgot her. As I say, if his spirit remains in this world, it will be with her.”

Percival stared at Merlin for a long time, and then his gaze returned to the river below.

“Merlin, I would ask that you take me to this place, that I might say a prayer beside this woman's grave.”

Merlin smiled. “Then so you shall, Sir Percival.”

Two hours later, Percival and Merlin dismounted from their horses outside a small chapel on the edge of a forest, north of Londinium. Merlin led his horse down a crude stone path that circled to the rear of the chapel and disappeared into the wood. Percival followed.

“We are watched,” Percival said quietly.

“Indeed we are,” Merlin said, “and I can assure you that we would proceed no further if Father Gildas and his minions didn't recognize me. Few know of this place, but it is never without guardians. Come, the grave is ahead.”

The two men tied their horses to a tree behind the chapel.

“Our horses will be safe here. The grave is just ahead,” Merlin said.

The older man led the way down a narrow path into the wood. With each step, the light overhead receded, leaving them walking in shadow through a grove lined with oak trees that were as ancient as they were massive. Just when it seemed that they had walked past the mightiest of these wooden giants, a circle of trees appeared ahead that was mightier still. Merlin walked between two of these coal black sentinels into a vale that was bathed in the light of the midday sun, and Percival followed.

“These trees must have been planted here, in this way, a long time ago,” Percival said.

“Yes, by my estimate, over two thousand years ago. I cannot say by whom, or why they were planted in a circle around this vale, but I believe this was a holy place then, as it is now.” He motioned toward the north. “Lady Alona's ancestral home is a half league distant. She told Arthur that she had once become lost in these woods as a child and spent the night within this vale. The trees … she said they kept her safe. When she was dying, she asked Arthur to bury her here, and so he did. She lies over here.”

Percival followed Merlin to the center of the vale. A low wall, with a gate at one end, encircled a gravestone hewn from a giant white rock. A simple but beautiful cross had been carved into the gravestone. The words
Alona, beloved of Arthur
were carved beneath it. A stone bench stood a pace away from the gravestone.

Merlin gestured toward the grave and said quietly, “This is where she is buried. I will leave you alone here.”

Percival opened the gate in the wall and knelt down beside the gravestone and prayed in silence. When he rose sometime later and made the sign of the cross, he was surprised to see that the sun was long past midday.

Percival turned, hearing footsteps approaching from the path behind him, and saw Merlin open the gate in the wall. He walked past Percival to the gravestone, knelt down, and drew a ring from his right pocket. For a long moment, he looked at the ring, and then he placed it underneath a rock at the base of the grave and stood up. After making the sign of the cross, he walked over to Percival.

“May I ask what you have left there?” Percival said.

“The ring that Arthur gave her … Alona's wedding ring.”

“You kept it safe all of these years?”

Percival looked over at the smaller man, but he sensed that Merlin wouldn't speak of the matter further.

“We should leave,” Merlin said.

Percival nodded and followed the smaller man to the path that led back to the chapel. The Knight slowed as he reached the end of the vale and turned to look upon the grave again. His breath caught in his throat as he saw two ghostly figures in the waning afternoon sun—a man and a woman.

The woman was sitting on the bench with her back to Percival. Her lithe, young body was resplendent in a shimmering white dress that strikingly contrasted with the cascade of raven hair flowing down her back. The man kneeling beside the woman was partially hidden by her body, but Percival could see he was placing something on her finger—a ring.

Percival took a step forward and then froze as the man stood and looked across the vale directly at him. At first, the Knight didn't recognize the ghostly figure, and then he realized—it was Arthur—a young Arthur, one whose face no longer bore the burdens of time and the weight of responsibility, but only the blessing of contentment.

Percival dropped to one knee and bowed his head. When he looked up again, Arthur raised his right hand and slowly made the sign of the cross. Then he smiled, turned to the woman, and took her hands in his, and then they were gone.

The Knight knelt there for a moment, in silence, and prayed he was worthy of the hand he now had been granted leave to seek. As the vale descended into shadow, he stood and followed Merlin up the trail.

L
ONDINIUM

Percival looked out the first-floor window of the stone mansion in the heart of Londinium, serving as the temporary royal quarters. Six lines of young men were practicing rudimentary sword craft in the courtyard under the watchful eye of a cadre of older soldiers. Although the royal forces were growing by the day in size and skill, Percival knew that an invasion in force by the Saxons, Norse, or Franks could imperil the struggling kingdom. If they could just obtain a few months' respite while the army's foundation was being laid, they might yet have a chance to bring a measure of peace and security to the land.

“Are you musing about the dangers posed by the morrow again?” Capussa said as he walked into the room.

“Something like that,” he answered.

“A year ago, you and I would rise each day knowing that we faced death in the arena. Now, we can rise each day with at least a measure of doubt on that score. I think even you would concede, my friend, that we are at least sailing in the right direction.”

Percival smiled.

“Well there is that.”

“Good!” Capussa said, “Now that I have lifted a burden from your shoulders, you can attend the Queen with a smile instead of a frown. She has sent for you.”

“I will tell her of your noble deed,” Percival said with a small smile as he turned toward the door.

“Do that. Now, what is that man doing with that sword?” Capussa said as he stared out the window at a young Briton wielding a wooden practice sword. “You there,” he called out to the man, “that's a sword, not a club.”

Capussa was still scolding the soldier when Percival walked out of the room. His smile faded as he walked up the stairs to the second floor, where Guinevere and her now larger royal court were quartered. The anxiety Capussa had professed to have banished was the lesser of the two that vexed him this morning.

Percival nodded to Keil, standing outside the door, dressed in a spotless royal guard's uniform.

“Guardsman Keil, your service in bringing the message to me on the day of the battle with such haste. It was a noble effort, and it saved many a life. I will not forget it.”

“Thank … thank you, Sir Percival.”

“No, Guardsman Keil, thank you.” Percival raised his hand to knock on the door, but Cadwyn opened it first.

“Lady Cadwyn, I hope all is well with you today.”

“Why thank you, Sir Percival, all is quite wonderful. The Queen is expecting you. Please come in.”

As Percival followed Cadwyn down the broad hallway to the second-floor hearth room, he noted that the young woman's lavender dress was more formal than the dress she'd worn in his past visits. The room, like the rest of the royal quarters, was decorated with the rugs, wall tapestries, and fine furniture donated by the citizens of the grateful City of Londinium, a city that was once again bustling with life. The more visible trappings of the Queen's royal status increased the trepidation the Knight felt as he walked into the large palatial room.

Percival walked by the fire burning in the hearth to the window that overlooked a formal garden that had been left untended for years. The neat rows of bushes and hedges were overgrown, the flowerbeds were bereft of color, and the rose trellis in the center waited in vain for the red and white blooms that should have come with spring. Yet, despite the years of neglect, nature had not withheld all of its blessings. The majestic plumes of the trees that encircled the garden were painted with the soft red, yellow, and gold hues of early fall, giving the vista a stately, if worn, splendor.

“It's beautiful in its own way, is it not?” Guinevere said from the door.

Percival turned quickly and stared at the Queen in silence, taking in the golden braid encircling her head, the silver diadem, and the cascade of golden hair flowing like a river over her shoulder and down the back of her resplendent indigo-blue dress. When she smiled at him, the spell holding him in place was broken, and he quickly bowed. “My Queen, forgive me, I … I didn't hear you.”