The Return of Sir Percival (6 page)

“The size of the enemy was so great that I rode south with half of my liegemen and picked up additional forces as we passed through the lands of each lord. The outriders I'd sent to shadow the raiders came back at the end of the day and reported our enemies had sailed up the Humber River. That would be here,” Percival said, leaning forward and drawing a line from the coast to an inland circle.

“Once I heard this, I knew that Eburacum, a wealthy city along that river, was the most likely target,” Percival said, tapping the circle with the stick.

“I sent a rider to warn the city of the raid, but the mayor ignored it. At that time, people were unaware of how powerful the Norse raiders had become. Once I knew Eburacum was the target, I told the other coastal lords we had to march inland to protect the city. Some agreed. Some did not. In the end, I was able to march inland with only seven hundred men, but they were good men. Over the previous three years, I had trained them to march together, to form battle lines, and to move as one during battle, on command.”

“I hope,” Capussa said with a frown, “you were a better teacher than I found you to be a student. Otherwise, this tale could have a sad ending, and that, of course, would mean another tale. No soldier should end his day with a sad tale.”

“Then you can be assured this tale will end well,” Percival said with a small smile. “When we arrived at Eburacum the next day, there were over a thousand Norse raiders at the walls, and they'd managed, through stealth, to get a part of their force inside. The city's guards were able to stem the tide for a time, but the weight of the enemy's numbers was taking its toll. A part of the Norse raiders stayed to hold the breach in the wall, and the rest, about nine hundred men, turned to engage my force. After several hours of hard fighting, the raiders decided to take what loot they had and return to their ships.”

“Where was the Pendragon and his army during this attack?” Capussa interrupted. “Were there no royal forces available to take the field?”

“Arthur and the kingdom's main force were far to the south, awaiting an expected attack by a major force of Saxons. I was later told that the Norse and a powerful Saxon warlord had planned the raid together. The Saxons agreed to draw Arthur's forces south by threatening a raid on Londinium, in order to give the Norse a free hand in the sack of Eburacum. I suspect they'd agreed to split the takings, which would have been very great indeed if they'd succeeded. All of the realm's gold and silver coins were struck in that city.”

“So, your reward for this great deed was a seat at the Round Table.”

“Well … it just so happened that the Queen was visiting the city when the attack occurred. That might have tipped the scales in my favor.”

“I suspect so,” Capussa said with a chuckle. “Is that where you first met her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must tell of this!” the Numidian demanded.

“No, no,” Percival said. He stood and stretched his arms over his head. “It has been a long day, and I have told enough tales for tonight. I'm going to sleep.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

“Good night, Capussa.” Percival crossed to his horse, opened the leather travel bag tied to the saddle, and drew out a blanket. Moments later, he was asleep on a patch of grass on the far side of the fire.

Capussa leaned back against the wall of the tower behind him with a rueful smile on his face.

“We have both lived by the sword for a long time,” he whispered, “a very long time indeed, my friend. So I shall pray that you find the peace you seek. However, I do not believe fate will allow you to sheath your sword just yet.”

M
ORGANA
'
S
D
OMAIN

Finn walked slowly down the dusty street, staring at the bodies lying in the road and strewn about the central square of the modest village. Many were headless and one was cut near in half. The sellsword's gaze came to rest upon Lord Aeron, the leader of the force Morgana had dispatched to destroy the raiders—the man who'd wrought much of this slaughter.

He sat on a stone wall near the well in the center of the village square, cleaning the blood from his sword with a white cloth. Finn had watched this ritual before. Lord Aeron would cleanse the sword of every drop of blood, gore, and dirt with great care. Once this task was finished, he would rinse and wring out the cloth, sometimes three or four times, before returning it to its place beneath the saddle of his great black steed.

Finn had plied the bloody trade of a sellsword for many a master, but he'd never served under a man like Lord Aeron, Morgana's most feared soldier. Unlike the other men in her force, who, like Finn, wore a motley array of mail shirts and breastplates scavenged from one battlefield or another, Lord Aeron was clad in a full suit of armor forged by a master smith—the battle dress of a knight.

Finn knew enough of metalworking to know that Lord Aeron's armor had once gleamed like the blade of the deadly sword the knight was diligently cleaning. That finish was no more. From the helm covering Lord Aeron's head to the greaves protecting his legs and shins, the metal had been scorched a darker, colder hue by a smith with far less skill than its original maker.

The rest of Morgana's sellswords were on the far side of the square, drinking a round of beer served by the local tavern keeper. Like the rest of the people in the village, the tavern keeper was grateful for their timely intervention. Finn knew Lord Aeron had paid for the rounds, which was odd. There was no need to waste the coin. The innkeeper wouldn't dare to complain.

Odder still was Lord Aeron's rule that no one could take anything from nor inflict any harm upon the villagers. The rule rankled some of the newcomers. As far as they were concerned, looting and raping was a part of the wages they were due after a skirmish or a battle like this one. The two men who'd been foolish enough to break this rule a month earlier had lost their heads to Lord Aeron's sword. After that, there were no further transgressions. Finn hadn't found the rule to be much of a burden. The witch paid them well for their services.

The now-dead band of brigands responsible for raiding villages within the borders Morgana claimed as her domain had greatly outnumbered Lord Aeron's force. Before the battle, Finn could tell that some of the newer men feared for the outcome. Finn had not shared their trepidation. He had served under Lord Aeron's command for more than a year and knew what was about to be unleashed upon Einarr, the Norse raider leading the brigands attacking the village.

Lord Aeron, along with Finn and the more experienced men, had served as the hammer in the attack, slamming into the flank of the raiders. The rest of the men had served as the anvil upon which the brigands had been broken. As always, Lord Aeron had led the charge and attacked the opposing force like an invincible demon king, one that grew stronger with the taking of each life. In moments, even the stoutest of the brigands had been frantically trying to escape the terrible fury of the gleaming sword wielded by the blackened knight wading through their ranks.

The survivors had raced down the narrow lane that ran through the village, seeking safety in the forest beyond, only to have their way blocked by the rest of Lord Aeron's men. No prisoners had been taken. Morgana had forbid it. A message was being sent.

Finn waited until Lord Aeron had finished cleaning and resheathing his sword before approaching him. Although he had served under the man for more than a year, he'd never seen his face. No one had. The reclusive knight lived and trained alone in the castle's most remote tower, and whenever he emerged, his face was either hidden within the cowl of his black cloak, or obscured, as now, by his steel helmet. All Finn could discern beneath the helm were a pair of piercing blue eyes, pale skin, and a strong jaw.

Lord Aeron stood as Finn approached, but his gaze was on a little blond girl watching him from the shadow of a darkened doorway. He placed something on the wall behind him before he turned to Finn.

“Your orders, sir?” Finn asked from a respectful distance.

“Is Einarr's body displayed on the border as I requested?” Lord Aeron asked in a flat, emotionless voice, without turning in his direction.

“Yes, sir, I put it there myself. Hengst's men will recognize it … even without the head,” Finn said.

Lord Aeron nodded. “Good, then we ride for the castle. With luck, we will be there before dark.”

“Yes, my lord.” Finn bowed and then turned to give the signal to the rest of the men, still drinking outside the tavern. They quickly drained their tankards and hurried to their horses.

As the mounted column of men left the village square, Finn glanced back at the wall beside the well. The little blond girl was reaching for something on the wall, the object placed there by Lord Aeron. Finn watched as the little girl lifted up a straw doll and clasped it to her chest, as if it were a child.

Lord Aeron must have found it on the ground and left it on the wall for the child.

T
HE
R
OAD TO
L
ONDINIUM

e have traveled almost ten leagues since we left the waystation,” Percival said, glancing up at the sun. “We should give the horses a rest.”

Capussa nodded. “Should I assume we are sleeping under the stars again tonight?”

“You should.”

“Then let us choose our resting place with care,” Capussa said, lowering his voice, “or it could be our last. We are being followed.”

“Where and how many?” Percival said, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“One, maybe two. I can't be sure. I saw one on the crest of that hill to the left a moment ago,” Capussa said, brushing a fly from the back of his horse. “Could it be that the good people of this Londinium have come to welcome you home?”

“I think not,” Percival said wryly.

“Let's find a spot on the right side of the road ahead. There's a shallow river behind that tree line,” Percival said, gesturing to the forest on the right. “We can water the horses there and see if our shadows mean us harm.”

Capussa nodded. “Good, but let us find an open space. I would see the enemy before they are upon us.”

A few furlongs farther, Percival pointed to a broad clearing on the right side of the road. As they drew closer, the remains of a lonely stone house, burned and abandoned years earlier, became visible.

Percival drew his horse up across from the charred ruin and stared at the remains of the small house for a long moment.

“I rode by this place with Sir Gawain. It was a farm,” Percival said in a quiet voice. He gestured to the overgrown field that was bordered on one side by the road, and on the other by a shallow river, a half furlong distant. “Back then, all of this … it was plowed and ready for planting. It was a hot day, and the farmer's son, a mere boy, offered us water from the well.”

For a moment, Percival could see the boy in front of him, eyes wide with awe, as he gazed up at the two knights and the fifteen mounted archers behind them.

“We accepted the lad's kindness and stopped for a moment. Gawain spoke to the farmer and his wife, while the men filled their water skins. I remember looking back at the three of them as we rode away … this was their home. They would not have abandoned it willingly,” he finished in a voice tinged with anger and regret.

“I fear we may find more like this as we cross this land of yours,” Capussa said as he stared at the ruined homestead. “You would be wise not to dwell on such matters.”

“Alas, that is a wisdom I do not possess,” Percival said quietly.

Capussa pointed to a small rise that ran alongside the river and formed a pocket around the far end of the field.

“Let us make camp there. It will shield our fire from the forest on the other side of the river.”

Percival nodded, and the two men rode across the field, dismounted, and tied their horses to a large oak tree. After tending to the horses and building a small fire at the foot of the rise, the two men sat down a pace away. Percival reached in his pack and handed Capussa a share of the dried fish, bread, and fruit he had bought in Caer Ceint. Capussa offered him a drink from his silver flask, and Percival waved it away.

“I have tried your liquid fire before, my friend. Once was enough.”

“Alas, I shall have to drink your share. Now, tell me of this Table … this company of knights. How did it come to be?”

“I remember asking Merlin that very question a long time ago,” Percival said as he stood and pushed a branch into the center of the fire with a long stick. “Surprisingly, he actually told me the truth. But of course, at that time, he desired something from me.”

“And what was that?”

“To undertake the Grail quest.”

“A fool's errand,” Capussa said, shaking his head.

“I cannot gainsay that. I couldn't understand the reasons for it then, with war on the horizon, and I cannot now, after all that has come to pass. And yet, I know that Merlin the Wise is anything but a fool. One day, if he still lives, I should like to speak of this matter with him.”

The Numidian raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“As for the Table,” Percival continued, “everyone in the kingdom knows the tale of its founding. King Arthur Pendragon brought together the finest knights in the land in order to forge a unique brotherhood—a brotherhood of men proven in battle, noble of purpose, and willing to do the work of Christ. The reality, according to Merlin, was somewhat different.”

“Good works are rarely paired with good intentions, my noble friend,” Capussa said with a chuckle.

“I fear you see the world as too dark a place. I shall pray for you,” Percival said, feigning concern as he returned to his seat on the slope of the hill.

“I see it as it is, Knight, but I do not hate it for its wickedness,” Capussa said, raising a hand in a conciliatory gesture.

“Well, I shall have to take comfort in that at least,” Percival said, drawing a chuckle from his friend.

“The true objective of the Table,” Percival continued, after a moment's silence, “was to lure the most invincible warriors in the land away from their liege lords and to wed their allegiance to a higher purpose—one that just happened to be under Arthur's control. And it worked. Knights came from all over to seek the honor of a seat at the Table, and in so doing, they bound themselves to Arthur.

“Yet, despite that reality, over time, the founding principles … that ethos … it became a force in itself, a dominating force. Each member of the Table felt bound to strive for the good and to resist evil … both that within themselves and in others. Maybe it was Arthur's leadership or the nobility of men like Sir Kay, Sir Tristan, and Sir Gawain, or divine guidance. I cannot say, but over time, the power and the reputation of the Table came to symbolize all that was good and noble in the land—a thing that could not be broken.”

Percival paused and looked up at the canopy of stars in the clear night sky before continuing. “Perhaps … perhaps, that wasn't a good thing, for when it was broken, the will of the people may well have been broken with it. I don't know.”

There was a long silence, and then Capussa spoke with quiet conviction.

“Anything that inspires a man of the sword to do good … to rise above his baser instincts … is a good and noble thing. So this Table, although it is no more, should be held in honor, and perhaps, one day, it shall be remade.”

T
HE
C
AMP OF
C
YNRIC THE
A
RCHER

Keil ran along the narrow trail just below the low ridge that paralleled the road to Londinium, soundlessly leaping over the errant tree roots and puddles along the path. Although he was only seventeen, the young man was already one of the best hunters and archers in the small band of men who followed Cynric the Archer. One day, he hoped to be able to match Cynric's skill, but he knew that day was a long way off.

Keil slowed as he approached the camp and waved in the direction of his uncle Tylan, hidden atop the small wooded rise to his left, taking the fourth watch. Keil heard a low growl from behind a tree as he crested the rise.

“Give the signal next time, boy, or you'll end up with an arrow in your chest.”

“Yes, sir,” Keil said with a smile.

Keil's mother had died shortly after his birth, and his father had been killed by Hengst the Butcher's men five years ago. Tylan, his father's brother, had taken it upon himself to look after the then twelve-year-old boy. Although Keil didn't believe that he needed looking after, he knew Tylan thought otherwise.

Keil jogged into the camp, drawing quick glances from the fifteen men sitting on rocks or logs, eating their evening meal. He knew tonight's modest repast was smoked rabbit, a slice of hard bread, and water or mead, since no one had spotted any deer or wild pigs in the last week. Keil slowed as he approached a tall, lean man sitting on a rock near the edge of the river, staring at a small eddy of water swirling just beyond his feet.

The man was clothed in the same coarse brown woolen shirt, pants, and leather boots that Keil and the other men wore, but his boots were of a finer cut, and he wore a black leather jerkin. A faded red dragon, with an arrow of the same color beneath it, was sewn into the right shoulder of the jerkin, marking the wearer as a former soldier in the Pendragon's elite core of archers.

The young man stopped several paces from Cynric and waited respectfully. Keil had grown up hearing the tales of the King and the Knights of the Round Table, men who'd kept the peace in the land for over two decades. When he thought of the Knights, he envisioned a band of invincible men clad in gleaming armor, riding massive black chargers and bearing mighty swords—men who might one day return and cast the hordes of invading Norsemen and Saxons back into the sea.

Although Cynric never spoke of it, Keil knew from Tylan and the others that Cynric had often marched into battle in support of the Knights; some even said he'd fought at the battle of Camlann.

Without looking up, the tall, lean man gestured to a large, flat rock beside him. “Sit, Keil, and tell me what you will.”

“Yes, sir,” Keil said as he sat down and tried to catch his breath. “Sir, those two sellswords we've been tracking, they're camped by the river, near old Ogden's farm.”

Cynric lifted his gaze and turned toward the young man, a weariness in his blue-grey eyes. “I see. Well, we shall have to pay them a visit in the morning. Have Tylan assemble the men two hours after dawn.”

“Sir, may I …”

“Yes, Keil, you may come,” the bowman said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “If you follow your uncle's orders.”

“Thank you, sir!” Keil said as he jumped up from the rock in excitement, turned, and jogged across the campsite to tell a friend.

Cynric watched the boy for a moment, then his gaze turned to the sun setting behind the hills in the distance and said in a quiet voice, “Don't thank me, my young friend. You will one day grow weary of killing other men, no matter the cause.”

* * *

P
ERCIVAL STOOD ON
the bank of the shallow river and finished washing the sweat from his body. The brutal training routine he and Capussa engaged in each morning had ended moments before. As he stood up, a flock of birds took flight from the top of a distant hill to the east. After listening for a moment, the Knight walked back to the campsite.

Capussa was stoking the fire, vainly seeking a live ember from the night before.

“The fire will have to wait,” Percival said. “Those who have been following us come.”

“I will assume we should dress for a fight, this being such a peaceful land,” Capussa said with a smile.

“That would be wise.”

The two men donned their mailed shirts, gauntlets, greaves, helms, and swords with long-practiced ease and mounted their horses. Percival eased his mount up the rise to the point where he could see the river and forest beyond, but where most of his body, and that of his horse, remained shielded. Capussa's rode up on his left.

Percival came to a sudden halt as a half score of men emerged from the forest on the far side of the river. They formed an uneven line and walked to the edge of the water.

The men were armed with bows of varying sizes and quality, and every man wore a hunting knife at his belt. Their clothes were a motley collection of coarse woolens and animal hides, but unlike the band of brigands he and Capussa had encountered earlier, their clothes were passably clean. The men by the river moved like woodsmen and hunters, instead of city dwellers who'd taken to the wood to become outlaws.

The tall, lean man in the center of the line spoke quietly to the shorter, stockier man beside him. The man nodded and made a hand signal. A moment later, the men moved toward the river, spacing themselves two paces apart.

Percival stared through his helm at the man in the center of the line, who was clearly the leader of the band of archers. His hair was short and streaked with grey, as was his full mustache and neatly trimmed beard. The man's facial features were not clearly discernable, but Percival could see the long white scar on the left side of his face.

The Knight leaned forward on his horse and stared at the tall man, his brow furrowed. He knew a tall, lean man with a wound like that, an archer as well. The man had received the wound a lifetime ago, in a battle on a bridge outside a besieged castle, far to the north. Percival's sword had killed the man who'd struck the blow, and he'd defended the wounded bowman against Morgana's mercenaries, with Galahad by his side, for over an hour, until help had come.

Percival stared at the four-foot-long bow the tall archer held easily in his right hand and the faded red marking on the right shoulder of his worn black leather jerkin. He recognized the mark. It was the emblem worn by the Pendragon's archers. Percival nodded toward the approaching line of archers. “I would speak with one of them before this turns into a fight.”