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.”
* * *
PERCIVAL 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.”
Capussa glanced over at him. “You can speak to whomever is left after we break their line.”
Percival shook his head. “I may know the leader of these men. I will not shed his blood.”
“The archer in the middle?”
“Yes.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Capussa asked skeptically.
“Then I will ride toward their line at full speed, and you will cover me with Batukhan’s bow.”
“It’s my bow now, not Batukhan’s,” his friend reminded him, “and that’s not much of a battle plan.”
The Knight eased his horse forward and spoke over his shoulder. “I agree.”
As he came over the rise and rode down the other side, Percival raised his left hand in a peaceful gesture. Two of the men in the line nocked their arrows and raised their bows as he approached, but a word from the tall archer stayed their hands. When the Knight came to within fifty paces of the river, the man to the right of the tall archer called out.
“Not another step, Norseman, or we’ll kill you and your fine horse!”
Percival pulled on the reins held in his right hand, and the horse stopped obediently.
“I’m not a Norseman. I was born and raised in this land, just as you.”
“You lie!” another man called out. “You serve the dog Hengst.”
“Your charge is false,” he said in a firm but calm voice. “Now, I would have words with your leader. We have met before.”
The tall archer, who’d remained quiet during the exchange, stepped forward.
“When and where have we met, rider?”
Percival fixed his eyes on the tall man in the middle of the line. “We met, Cynric of the Pendragon’s archers, a decade ago, on the Aelius Bridge to the north. You received that scar on your face on that day,” he noted, touching the left side of his own face with his gloved hand.
The stocky man beside the archer started to growl a response, but the tall archer raised his hand, and the man beside him fell silent. The tall archer stared at Percival, his face a mask of stone.
“I don’t remember you, rider. What is your name?”
Percival reached up and slowly eased the helmet off his head, shook free his mane of black hair, and then stared across the river at Cynric. The archer’s eyes widened, and as he raised his hand to block the morning sun, his hand shook slightly.
“I believe that you do remember me, Cynric the Archer,” the Knight said. “I am Sir Percival of the Round Table.”
There was a collective gasp among the men facing him, and the youngest of men in the line stepped forward several yards and gawked at the Knight as if he had two heads. The rest of the men lowe
red their bows and looked from Percival to Cynric.
The stocky man turned and yelled at the boy who’d broken ranks. “Keil, get back in that line or I’ll put an arrow into you myself!”
Cynric stared at Percival for a long moment and then shook his head.
“It’s been many years since that day … and near every man and woman in the land has heard the tale of the Aelius Bridge. It’s been told and retold in every inn and tavern a thousand times. If you are Sir Percival, forgive me, but I have to make sure, and if not, I shall surely put an arrow in your chest for wrongly taking the name of that most noble of knights.”
“That is a fair bargain, Archer,” Percival said. “What proof would you have?”
“If you are who you say, then you will remember what I said as Morgana’s wolves were near upon us, words that I have not shared with anyone since.”
Percival dismounted from his horse and slowly walked to the edge of the river, stopping directly across from the man on the far bank, who was now surrounded by a band of rapt listeners. He stared at the tall man for a moment, and when he spoke, it seemed as if the forest itself stilled to hear him.
“The years between then and now have been long and hard, Archer, but I remember those words as if they were spoken yesterday. You said to me, ‘You cannot hold this bridge, Knight, and I cannot make it to the castle walls. Do not waste your life dying here with me.’” Percival paused for a moment and then continued. “And I said to you, ‘Whether we live or die today is in God’s hands, but staying by your side is in mine, and stay I will, until I am dead, or relieved.’”
When he finished, there was a silence, and the archer and the Knight stared at one another for a long moment. At last Cynric spoke in a quiet voice.
“Aye,” he nodded, “that is what you said, Sir Percival, to the very word. Forgive me.”
Percival waded into the river. Cynric met him halfway, and the two men embraced.
“It has been a long time, Knight.”
“Too long, Archer. It’s good to be home.” He turned to the men watching on the far side of the river. “Among friends and countrymen at long last.”
A deep voice interrupted the scene, and Percival glanced over his shoulder to see Capussa still on the bank of the river, mounted on his destrier.
“Is it the practice in this country to allow a fine pair of greaves to rust without good cause?” he called out. “Let us pick one side of the river or the other, but not the middle.”
Cynric’s men stared in astonishment at the fearsome Numidian on the far bank of the river. An amused Percival gestured to his friend with one hand. “Yeoman, let me introduce you to my friend and brother-inarms, Capussa.”
Then he turned back to Cynric. “This is the second time we have met at a river crossing and faced the peril of death together. I pray that our time hereafter, however long or short it may be, is one of peace.”
Cynric nodded. “I too shall pray thus, Sir Percival, but I fear there is little peace in this land to be found.”
CHAPTER 7
MORGANA’S CASTLE
organa stood on the battlement of the castle, overlooking the cold, grey waters of the estuary and the sea beyond, and recalled a very different seascape a half a world away. Her parents’ palatial estate in Constantinople afforded the family a view of the Sea of Marmara from the living quarters on the third floor. As a child, she’d spent many a day on the estate’s grand balcony, watching the hundreds of merchant ships that served the needs of the great city come and go on those azure, sun-drenched waters. A cold onshore breeze whipped over the castle wall, ruffling her coal black cloak, and she drew its folds closer to her body, silently cursing the weather. In the decade she’d spent in the harsh, cold land hunting the traitor Melitas Komnenos, now reborn as Merlin the Wise, it was the lack of sun Morgana hated the most.
“I have lived among these vermin for near a decade, Melitas,” Morgana said in a venomous whisper, “and that is long enough. Soon I shall find you, and I shall take your head back to the emperor in triumph. Then, the name of Igaris shall be restored to its former glory.”
A warning cry from one of the sentries manning the walls encircling the castle drew Morgana’s attention away from her reverie. She turned and walked to one of the crenels on the far side of the battlement and watched the column of horsemen led by Lord Aeron approach the castle from the south. Many of the two score of men had extra swords, helmets, shields, and greaves tied to the sides of their horses, undoubtedly booty scavenged from the bodies of the enemy.
She nodded in satisfaction. Lord Aeron had apparently found and destroyed the band of raiders ravaging the borders of the lands she had taken after the fall of the Pendragon. As the column drew closer, Morgana could see the victory had not been without a price. Five of the returning men were wounded, and three bodies lay in the back of a wagon drawn by a weary plow horse. Under her agreement with the Saxon war leader, Garr, she would have to pay a donative to the families of the dead men. She would also have to pay a bounty to the new men hired to replace them. These were expenses she could ill afford.
The emperor still supported her quest for vengeance against the traitor, Melitas, but he was no longer willing to pay for it. The cost of the empire’s latest war with the Persians had put an end to imperial largesse. Now, she was not only expected to pay for the cost of her personal cadre of sellswords from her own coffers, she had been ordered to repay some of the imperial golds she had spent in her war against the Pendragon.
To meet the additional financial burden, Morgana had imposed a heavy tax upon the peasants within the domain she controlled, and she’d demanded more production from the slaves working in the royal silver mines—mines she had seized after the Pendragon’s fall. The peasants had initially resisted her levies, but in time, resistance had melted away. The cost of her protection was a heavy burden, but it was far preferable to the slavery offered by the Norse to the south or the merciless savagery of the bands of brigands roaming the forests and roads.
As for the silver mines, increasing the pace of production had been difficult. Most of the prisoners of war she’d taken after the battle of Camlann had been worked to death in those vile pits, and the new workers, half-starved slaves from Hengst’s slave market, didn’t last long. Yet, despite these difficulties, Morgana had no intention of relinquishing her pursuit of Melitas Komnenos. She would meet the emperor’s demands and still find the means to hunt down and kill the traitor as well, no matter the price in blood.
A soft, scuffing noise drew Morgana’s attention to the archway leading off the parapet, and a moment later, Seneas, the head of her household staff, emerged, breathing heavily. She waited for the stooped old courtier to catch his breath. Seneas’s family had served the house of Igaris faithfully for five generations, and she respected his counsel, although she didn’t completely trust him. But then, trusting anyone was a fool’s choice, particularly someone with ties to the imperial court, where power was an obsession and duplicity and intrigue were considered fine, if merciless, arts.
“Milady?”
“Yes, Seneas,” Morgana answered, glancing over at him for a moment and then turning her gaze back to Lord Aeron below.
“Lord Aeron has returned. You had said—”
“Yes, I will see him in my quarters, alone.”
“Yes, Milady.”
When Seneas continued to stand, unmoving, Morgana turned around and faced him.
“Is there something else?”
“Yes, Milady,” he said hesitantly. “In the packet of messages that came with the admiral, I received a letter from a friend, Arminius. He lives in Hydruntum, in southern Italia. Arminius is a mapmaker and scholar. He talks with travelers each day at the ports, seeking knowledge of distant lands.” Seneas paused, still trying to catch his breath. Morgana waited impatiently.
“In the letter,” Seneas continued, “Arminius said he talked with a traveler six months ago. The man had come on a ship from Alexandria. He s
aid that he’d spent many years in the Holy Land and was traveling home to Albion.”
“Why is this of import to me, Seneas?” Morgana interrupted curtly.
“Milady, Arminius heard this man and his Numidian companion talking. The man was Briton. His name is Percival.”
When Morgana said nothing, Seneas hurried to continue. “Forgive me, Milady, but you will recall there was a Knight of the Round Table by that name. He commanded the villages on the border marches to the north during the war with the Pendragon.”
Morgana nodded slowly. She didn’t remember the name of the man who had commanded the forces in that remote corner of the Pendragon’s kingdom. She did, however, remember putting to death the two commanders she’d sent there with orders to burn every village to the ground. Both men had not only failed in this effort, but their forces had almost been annihilated by this Sir Percival. After these defeats, she had decided the prize was not worth the cost and sent the surviving sellswords to wreak havoc in other parts of the Pendragon’s kingdom.
Morgana shook her head dismissively. “This cannot be the same man. A Knight of the Table would not have traveled to the Holy Land when his land and king were under siege.”
“Milady, it is said that the Pendragon sent this Sir Percival on a mission to find the Holy Grail. It may be that he is only now returning from this quest.”
Morgana laughed scornfully. “Oh that is so like him, the noble fool.” Her eyes strayed again to Lord Aeron. The steel-clad knight was leading his horse across the courtyard to the stables. Then she looked over at Seneas again.
“It could be him, but I think not, Seneas. No, this Sir Percival surely died with his brethren at Camlann. The Table is no more.”
“You may be right, Milady, but if it is he, he brings—”
“He will bring nothing from the land of the Moor but a pox between his legs, and he is welcome to spread that among the filthy women of this sunless land. But, still, you were wise to tell me of this. You will tell me if you hear more of this man.”
The Return of Sir Percival Page 7