The Return of Sir Percival (9 page)

Guinevere smiled and waved him to his feet. “Rise, Sir Percival, there is nothing to forgive. Few know that I am here, and I would keep it that way. However, Sister Aranwen and I could not leave without expressing our profound gratitude to the Knight who saved this city, and the two of us along with it.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Percival said as he stood up. “However, I am sure that Sir Tristan and his men would have held the wall and seen to your safety.”

“I am grateful for your words, Sir Percival,” Tristan said with a chuckle, still smiling at the look of shock on the young Knight's face, “but I fear we couldn't have held that breach much longer. You did indeed save the city and your Queen.” Tristan inclined his head toward the young man. “I am in your debt, sir,” he said and then turned to Guinevere.

“If I may be excused, my Queen. The Lord Mayor has—”

“You are excused, Sir Tristan,” Guinevere said.

“Sir Percival, please do sit down. Sir Tristan has told me of your need to return to the coast in haste, but I would speak with you for a short while before you depart.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

As the Knight took his seat in the chair across from her own, Guinevere had guessed the Knight was no older than her own twenty-one years, an estimate she later found to be correct.

“Sir Percival, I've never seen anything like what I saw today. Who trained those men to march and maneuver that way?”

“I did, my Queen,” Percival answered.

“You? The perfect squares, the coordinated movements?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“But … how did you come to know of this?”

The Knight hesitated for a moment and then explained, “A distant forbear was a Roman centurion in the Twentieth Legion. As a boy, I was required to read and memorize the legion's training and battle tactics, just as my father and his father were required to do before me.”

“You can read the language of the Romans?” Sister Aranwen asked, surprised.

“Yes, Sister,” Percival said, nodding politely.

“And so you trained those men—farmers, coopers, fishermen, and who knows what else—in the ways of the Romans?” Guinevere asked in quiet admiration.

“Yes, Your Highness, with the help of the other coastal lords.”

“The other lords on the coast know Roman tactics and maneuver as well?” Guinevere asked incredulously.

Percival shook his head. “No, Your Highness, but they contributed men to the force, and they allowed me to train them in this way.”

“I see. Well, I suppose, in addition to thanking you and your men, and your fellow lords, I shall have to say a word of thanks to the Romans as well,” Guinevere said.

“I shall tell the men and my fellow lords of your gratitude,” Percival said, inclining his head respectfully. “As for the Romans, that might be a little more difficult, Your Highness,” he finished, the touch of a smile coming to his face.

“Yes, I suspect it would,” Guinevere said with an answering smile. Then she stood and walked to the window overlooking the field where the battle had occurred, and watched the men and women tending to the wounded and collecting the bodies of the dead. When she returned to her seat, her face was somber.

“I have never seen these Norse raiders before. They were terrifying. Do you encounter them often?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Before the coastal force you watched in battle today was assembled and trained, the Norse would attack several times a month, during the late spring and summer. In a bad month, we would be engaged in battle with the enemy every week. Of late, their raids on our coast have lessened.”

Guinevere's eyes widened, and she saw Sister Aranwen reach inside her habit for her prayer beads.

“Every … how many men would come ashore?”

Percival hesitated for a moment before answering. “As few as fifty and as many as five hundred in a major raid. That's why the men out there were not broken by the Norsemen's initial charge. They're used to their tactics. They know how to defeat them.”

“You said the raids have lessened. Do you know why?”

“The raids on our coast have become less frequent, but then, the Norsemen have come to know we are ready for them. I have heard from sailors that the raids grow more frequent and in greater force elsewhere.” The Knight leaned back in the chair as he finished, and grimaced ever so slightly as he did. Guinevere feared he had been hurt in the battle and decided not to detain him any longer.

“You must come to court and speak to the King of this. I will seek an audience for you.”

“Thank you, my Queen. That would be an honor,” Percival said, bowing his head slightly.

“You will be sure to bring your good wife with you when you come?”

“I have not yet wed, Your Highness.”

“Betrothed?”

“My betrothed—”

“Will have to come with you to court. When is your nuptials date? I would send a gift.”

Percival was silent for a moment, and then he spoke quietly.

“Thank you for your kindness, Your Highness, but there will be no wedding. Lady Ione, my betrothed, was killed in a Norse raid a year ago.”

Guinevere's face turned white, and Sister Aranwen crossed herself and closed her eyes in prayer. “I … I am sorry to have brought up this painful matter,” the Queen said with sincere regret.

A tired look came to the Knight's eyes, a look Guinevere had seen in the eyes of older men who had borne more than their share of life's sorrows and learned to endure the pain.

“Your Highness, I am told that Lady Ione was a kind and beautiful woman, but in truth, I only met her once, and that was nearly a decade ago, when we were just children. The constant battles with the Norse kept us apart. So although I shall always honor her name and memory, the greater loss was that of her family, for she was their only child.”

“I pray that one day you shall find another who is worthy of you, for in the short time that we have spent together, Sir Percival, I can say that you have a true and noble soul,” Guinevere said with quiet sincerity.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I pray that I shall be so blessed and that I shall live up to your kind words.”

After the Knight had left, Guinevere had turned to find Sister Aranwen looking at her with a quizzical eye over her knitting. “I have never met anyone like him. It is as if … I … I just don't know.”

“My mother used to say that all men are born with an angel and a devil inside them,” Sister Aranwen said, “and there is a war between the two for all of their lives. From what I have seen in most men, the devil gets the upper hand, and then some.” She stopped knitting and frowned. “But in that man, it's as if the war has already been won, and the angel has triumphed. I'm not sure what to think about that.”

“What do you mean?” Guinevere asked, surprised and somewhat confused by the nun's comment.

Sister Aranwen folded her hands and turned to the younger woman.

“I have read the Lord's book from cover to cover many times, my Queen, and the angels of the Lord are as fearsome as they are glorious. I wouldn't want any man to have a thimbleful of that power, particularly not a man who has learned the way of war at so early an age.”

When Guinevere opened her eyes, the memory had vanished, but not Sister Aranwen's last comment. She stood up, walked over to the fire, and said quietly, “You will have to forgive me, Sister, for I pray Sir Percival has returned, and I pray he carries within him the very power you feared he possessed ten years ago, for he will need every drop of that might just to cross this land in safety.”

T
HE
H
OME OF
A
ELRED
, R
OYAL
S
ENESCHAL

erlin the Wise idly scratched his bushy grey beard as he watched Aelred, the Pendragon's former Seneschal, shamble over to the rough-hewn wooden table carrying two steaming mugs of cider. The small, thin man was dressed in an old brown monk's habit, incongruously cinched at the waist by a jewel-studded belt. Merlin recognized the belt. It was part of Aelred's former official regalia, but he had no idea why the old man was wearing the monk's habit. He had never taken holy orders or spent a single day in a monastery.

After completing his journey across the room, Aelred placed one of the mugs down on the table in front of Merlin and then slowly eased his frail body into the chair across from him.

“I'm not dead yet, old friend,” Aelred said, noticing Merlin's look of concern.

Merlin nodded his head in solemn agreement. “Indeed not. You have at least another decade or two left in you.”

Aelred smiled and sipped the steaming liquid. “Liar. Now, what brings the great Merlin the Wise to my humble forest abode?”

Merlin glanced around the spacious cave that had been Aelred's home since the fall of Camelot. Three separate rooms had been carved into the rock at some time in the distant past: the main room where they were sitting, Aelred's bedchamber on the left, and his beloved library on the right. Merlin glanced through the library's open door at the hundreds of dusty books, scrolls, battle flags, and other cherished remembrances neatly stacked on the rows of wooden shelves. Merlin had a similar but larger library of his own. He and Aelred were the keepers of all that remained of the great library from Camelot.

Merlin took a careful sip from the steaming cup in front of him before answering.

“You know why I have come.”

“Oh, yes. I did send a message, didn't I? Well, it's nice to know that there's at least one person left who has the respect to answer the call of the Pendragon's Seneschal.”

“Actually, there are least two, but I suspect you would rather avoid a visit from Morgana or one of her minions,” Merlin said wryly.

“You don't think she …” Aelred glanced involuntarily at the door. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair, as if accepting his fate. “My life is of no moment, but the King's records, the histories, if they are lost, then the reign of the Pendragon and the Knights of the Table will truly be gone forever.”

Merlin held up a hand in a calming gesture. “Her reach is long, yes, but I don't think she's uncovered my ruse yet or discovered your forest home. You are, after all, five leagues from the nearest soul.”

“I pray you are right.”

“Now,” Merlin gently prodded, “you were speaking of—”

“Of? Oh yes, the message. Did I tell you that the message was carried by one of Cuthburt's birds? He wouldn't have used one if it wasn't a matter of great import. Getting them back to Whitstable is no easy thing. Each one must be returned by ship, and with the thrice cursed seawolves—”

“Yes, Aelred, I know the message came by pigeon. Now, may I please take a look at it?”

“Yes, yes. It's right here,” Aelred said as he stood and shuffled over to a stack of dusty books lying on a stone shelf. He hesitated for a moment in front of the shelf and then shuffled over to a second shelf and drew a scroll of parchment out of a grey amphora.

“Ah, yes. Here it is.”

Aelred shuffled back to the table and handed Merlin the scroll, mumbling to himself. “There's too many of those to keep track of. I need a page, or maybe two. Why, do you know that I used to have ten pages working for me in the library at Camelot?”

“You had twelve,” Merlin said. He opened the scroll and read the message three times. There was a tremor in his hand when he laid it on the table.

“So what do you make of it?” Aelred asked, a skeptical look on his face. “Is it possible after all these years? Sir Percival? Cuthburt could be mistaken.”

Merlin stared at the scroll in silence for a long moment, stroking his beard, and then he shook his head.

“No … I think not. Cuthburt's tavern is in the center of Whitstable. He keeps track of everyone who comes in and out of that port for me. If Sir Percival came ashore there, he would have seen him, and Cuthburt knows the Knight's face. Remember, he was the stablemaster at Camelot. He saw him almost every day.”

“Well, why didn't he just go up to him and ask him what he was about, so we could be sure of the matter?” Aelred said irritably.

“Because,” Merlin said with quiet certainty, “Morgana has a watcher there as well.”

Aelred's face turned pale, and he made the sign of the cross.

Merlin closed his eyes and clasped his hands in prayer. After several moments, he whispered, “It is as Arthur said it would be.”

Aelred's eyes widened, and he quickly sat down in his chair, no longer the infirm old man of a moment earlier.

“What? What did Arthur say? Tell me of this, Merlin,” Aelred demanded, tapping a long, bony finger on the table. “I am in my last days, and I would know the secrets that you've been hiding all these years.”

Merlin gently rested a hand on his irate friend's forearm. “And so you shall, my friend, and so you shall. However,” he said with a smile, “the price will be a mug or two of that fine mead of yours.”

Aelred leaned back in his chair and frowned. “And how would you know of that?”

Merlin just looked up at the ceiling, steepling his fingers together.

“Cuthburt!” Aelred said scornfully. “I should have known he couldn't keep a secret. Well, if that's the price I have to pay for your tale, so be it.”

The Seneschal leaned over and lovingly drew a pewter tankard out of a nearby cupboard and filled both empty mugs with a golden mead. Merlin noted that Aelred's cup was noticeably fuller than his own.

“There's your payment,” Aelred said grudgingly. “I'm sure you shall find it to your liking. The pot of honey that yielded this batch was quite wonderful.”

Merlin took a sip and nodded his approval. “It is truly a fine mead. This reminds me of the map room in Camelot's old west tower. Why, we enjoyed many a fine cup of mead there. Yes, we would argue about one matter or another long into the night. Do you remember the night that Arthur came by, and we spoke until near dawn of what the future would bring?”

“Yes, I do remember,” Aelred said quietly.

“He was the rarest of men—a just King. I miss him,” Merlin said, the memories bringing a new depth of sadness to his voice.

“To Arthur Pendragon,” Aelred said solemnly, lifting his mug.

“To Arthur,” Merlin repeated, and the two men drank a long draught.

“Now,” Aelred said, lowering his voice and leaning forward, “tell me your secret, Merlin.”

Merlin put his mug back down on the table and clasped his hands together.

“It happened two or maybe three years before the fall. Arthur had a dream. At first, he ignored it, but when the same dream returned a second and a third time, he told me of it.” Merlin stopped for a moment, took a drink from his mug, and nodded in appreciation.

“Well, go on,” Aelred said impatiently.

Merlin held up a hand. “Patience. In the dream, Arthur was standing in a verdant glade, deep in the forest. In the center of the glade stood a magnificent oak. Its mighty plume was alit by the golden rays of the morning sun. As Arthur watched, a black vine burst from the ground and wove its way up the tree's mighty trunk, spreading its tendrils to even the smallest of branches. In time, the vine deprived the oak of the sustenance of the sun, slowly killing the forest titan. Arthur's soul was laid low by the death of the beautiful tree, for he knew it was an omen of things to come, and he grieved for his people. But all was not lost. Just before the light of the sun yielded to night, a beautiful woman emerged from the trunk of the dying oak.”

Merlin paused for a moment and took another long draught from his mug. Then he examined the finely crafted sigil on the side of the cup, as if seeing it for the first time. Aelred stared at Merlin, his eyes narrowing.

“That is fine mead,” Merlin said, “but let me continue … the forest—”

“No, we are past the forest, the vine and tree. We are watching the woman,” Aelred said in quiet exasperation.

“So we are,” Merlin said, nodding. “The woman crossed the glade and stared into Arthur's grief-stricken face for a moment, and then she handed him a sprig from the oak and said, ‘Send the Knight who forges the many into an army of one from the shores of Albion. Upon his return, he will replant the oak.'”

“A foretelling,” Aelred whispered. “Why didn't you speak of this?”

“It was Arthur's wish that I remain silent.”

“But why choose Percival? Why not Tristan, or one of the others?” Aelred asked.

“Arthur … we both struggled with that. We had to be sure of our reading of the dream, or all was lost. In the end, we knew. You will remember what Percival did with the men of the border marches.”

“Oh yes, I read the reports … I still have many of them in my library. My God, that was masterful,” Aelred said, striking the table softly with his gnarled fist. “Forging a motley group of dirty, poor, illiterate peasants into an army that marched and fought with Roman precision. That little army thrashed Morgana's raiders so soundly they stopped attacking on that front. I remember what that arrogant fool Lancelot called them—”

“‘Percival's band of vermin,'” Merlin interrupted, shaking his head in regret. “He was wrong. We were all wrong not to see that Morgana's foul host was too mighty to be defeated without the help of the common people. I'm not a soldier, Aelred, but even I could see that Arthur and Lancelot placed too much faith in the power of mounted knights. Yet,” Merlin said in a heartfelt voice, “for all his arrogance, Lance was magnificent at Camlann.”

Aelred nodded. “That he was. He led the charge with Arthur that broke their lines, and he died from his wounds, moments after Arthur.”

Aelred took a long draught of mead and gestured sadly to his small library. “And all we have left is the memory of what once was.”

Merlin leaned forward and spoke with an intensity that drew a look of surprise from his friend. “I do not believe that. I know it has been years, Aelred, but Arthur's foretelling … he believed in it. I believed in it. That's why we sent Percival away on the Grail quest.”

“The quest!” Aelred scoffed. “That wasn't a quest, Merlin, it was madness. Sending a Christian knight into the land of the Moors, alone, in search of a cup that disappeared over five centuries ago. What was Arthur thinking?”

“Contrary to what you believe, my friend, the King and I, his humble councilor, possessed at least a thimble's worth of wisdom when we made that decision,” Merlin said.

Aelred harrumphed, “Humble, indeed. Well then, enlighten me, if you will. I suspect that's quite a tale as well.”

Merlin smiled and leaned back in his chair. “It surely is, but alas, my old throat is dry and my spirit is flagging. Another day perhaps.” Aelred's face took on a reddish hue, but Merlin interrupted him before the explosion came. “Perhaps,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “another cup of that glorious mead might give me the strength to go on.”

“Oh, very well!” Aelred growled. “I suppose I could drink in worse company, although I cannot imagine who that would be.”

Merlin smiled as Aelred grudgingly poured him another cup of mead. He took a long drink. After putting his mug down, he silently stared at the scroll on the table. The burden of the decisions he had made so long ago had grown heavier with each year the Knight had remained absent from the land, but now it seemed at long last his prayers had been answered.

“It was,” Merlin began hesitantly, “a complicated matter. Arthur knew that Percival wouldn't leave the country without good cause, in the face of Morgana's growing strength, and telling him of the dream was deemed unwise.”

“Why? He … had … a … right … to … know,” Aelred said, rapping his knuckles on the table in time with each word.

Merlin raised his hands in frustration. “Know what? That his liege had experienced a mysterious vision, one that foretold the breaking of the Table? Once he heard that, Percival would most certainly have refused to depart. Or worse—the knowledge of what was to come could have led him to follow a different path, undoing the skein that fate had spun for him.” He shook his head. “Sadly, the truth is not always the best course in matters of state.”

“The skein of fate? That's no way for a Christian to talk. So let me guess,” Aelred said, folding his arms across his chest, “you lied to him.”

Merlin frowned and waved off the accusation. “That's a rather harsh way of putting it. Let's just say that I devised a plan—a plan Arthur embraced and one that threaded the needle presented. Unfortunately, fate, or Divine Providence, if you will, intervened, as it is wont to do.”