The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  Percival followed the tall archer to a dense copse of trees on the top of the rise, with Capussa and Tylan trailing behind him. Looking down, Percival was surprised to see how close they were to Londinium’s northern wall. The city was laid out before them. He stared at the rows of wooden houses, churches, shops, and winding streets—streets that had once been teeming with shopkeepers, farmers, merchants, women, and children. Now they were all but deserted, and most of the larger royal buildings and churches had been burned to the ground. Many other buildings were in disrepair. Londinium was a city in the midst of its death throes.

  Cynric pointed to a line of men with ropes around their necks, jogging single file behind a man on a horse. They were heading toward a gate in the city’s northern wall. The captives were followed by a line of fifteen horsemen wearing a motley array of animal skins, clothes, weapons, and helmets. Percival recognized them. He had killed six similarly dressed men on the Mandragon.

  Tylan pointed to the last captive in the line of men.

  “It’s Keil. God save the boy,” Tylan gasped, his voice wracked with pain.

  “Where are they taking him?” Percival demanded.

  Cynric pointed to the wide, oval-shaped dirt field encircled by a dilapidated wooden wall. Wooden and stone viewing stands lined both sides of the field. “There,” he said.

  Percival recognized the place. The site had originally been a Roman amphitheater. It had been used to host jousting tournaments during the Pendragon’s reign. When he was nine years old, he had watched a tournament there with his father. The great Sir Lancelot had unhorsed five challengers that day before retiring from the field as the tourney champion.

  Percival looked at Cynric. “Why are they taking him to the jousting field?”

  Cynric hesitated and then answered in a voice imbued with long-restrained anger. “It’s what they call tournament day.”

  The archer pointed toward the tournament field. “Look, in the center of the field. Do you see that wooden post? On tournament day, once a month, Hengst invites challengers to come and fight him for lordship of the city. At first, some accepted his challenge, but he killed them, one and all. When challengers stopped coming, Hengst upped the ante. His men seize a local woman, a farmer’s wife or daughter usually, and he ties her to that post. If no one comes to defend her, he either kills her or gives her to his men. Husbands, sons, relatives … well, they used to come to try to save their women.” He shook his head, as if remembering each futile death. “It was a slaughter. Hengst … he is as close to invincible as they come. So now, no one comes to take up the challenge, and that … that’s not acceptable—”

  “So he forces people to fight him,” Percival said in a cold, hard voice, remembering another arena on the other side of the world.

  Cynric nodded. “Yes. Hengst can’t live without the fear, the blood. And this is his way of keeping the people down. The mayor, the guilds-men … the people, they have to attend and watch, unless they can find a safe place to hide.”

  Percival stared at the field, and a storm of memories raged through his mind. He remembered being escorted to the center of the stadium by ten of Khalid’s soldiers, where his sword awaited him at the foot of the bound captives. Sometimes, the daily fare offered for slaughter would be a woman, sometimes a child, sometimes both. More often than not they were young slaves, but sometimes they were just poor travelers taken by force. Before each battle, he would kneel and pray before taking up his sword. Then he would turn, and the challengers would come, yet again.

  “When does it begin?” the Knight asked quietly.

  “Noon,” Cynric answered.

  “Then,” Percival said in a voice as cold and hard as the sword by his side, “I have an hour or so to present myself as a challenger.”

  Cynric stared at him, confused, and then his eyes widened.

  Capussa stepped over to Percival, as if to block his way. “This is not your fight,” he said with quiet intensity. “You bore more than your share of pain and suffering in the arena. Surely this God in which you place so much faith did not bring you home so that you could once again take up the sword of the gladiator.”

  Percival looked off in the distance for a long moment, and then his eyes met those of his friend. “And what, Capussa of Numidia, if all the pain that I have suffered and all the terrible skills that I have learned were intended to prepare me for this day … to give me the courage, the strength, and the means to defeat this Hengst the Butcher and save the people he would slaughter on this day? And if that were true, what would I be, if I just rode on?”

  Capussa stared at the Knight in silence for a moment, and then he shook his head, the anger and frustration in his eyes fading. “You are either a fool, my brother, and you will die a useless death today, or … this is a day that shall be long remembered.”

  And then he smiled.

  “So let us go together and face the steel of our enemies, as we have so many times before.”

  “Capussa, you have no—”

  “Of course I do. You have just said that your God may have forged you into a weapon—one to be wielded today against this dog, Hengst. Could he not have chosen Capussa as his sword as well? What would my ancestors think of me, if I, as you say, just rode on? No, I too must seek my fate in this tournament.”

  Percival stared at his friend for a long moment. “I would argue, but you’re as stubborn as a rock.”

  “Indeed, and as strong as one too,” Capussa said with a smile.

  “You’re both mad!” Cynric said. “Hengst and his brother Ivarr have near a thousand men in that town. Even if you kill the Butcher, you will die minutes later, as will Keil and the rest of those rounded up for today’s slaughter.”

  “Cynric,” Tylan said, “the men we traded with before dawn said that Ivarr and about two hundred men traveled north three days ago. Also, a shipment of mead came in yesterday, and most of Hengst’s remaining men will be sleeping off a long night of drinking.”

  “None of that matters,” Cynric said, cutting him off. “There will still be enough men on that field today to kill all of us.”

  “Not,” Percival said with quiet conviction, “if the people rise and join us.”

  “Rise?” Cynric said incredulously. “Sir Percival, the Londinium that you once knew is no more. Hengst and his reavers have had their boot on the neck of every man, woman, and child in that godforsaken place for near five years. This bloody tournament he puts on is his way of daring them to rise against his power. They’ve had many chances—it’s just not in them anymore.”

  Percival walked over to Cynric and gripped his shoulder. “If they have hope, then they may rise up and cast down their oppressor. With God’s favor, I can give them that. Now, I would ask a boon of you. I would ask that you take a message to the Queen—”

  “We will take it to her together, or not at all,” Cynric interrupted, an unyielding look on his face. “I am going to that field with you, come what will, and with all due respect, Sir Percival, do not try to dissuade me. I have chosen my path.”

  “And I as well,” Tylan said in a low growl.

  “We … we will be coming along as well, Sir Percival,” said a voice from behind him.

  Percival turned to face the man who’d spoken. It was Bray and the other five men. The Knight stared at the hardy woodsmen. For a moment, he wanted to rage at their foolhardiness, to demand they think long and hard on the fate they were embracing, and then he realized they already had. In the end, all he could do was nod and pray he was not leading them to a wasted death.

  Capussa walked over to Percival, slapped him on the back, and then spoke, a broad smile on his face. “Well, now that you’ve decided to start a war, do you mind overly much if I propose a plan to win it?”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE TOURNAMENT FIELD IN LONDINIUM

  ynric sat on the north side of the tournament arena in one of the upper rows of tiered stone seats. The surrounding crowd of nearly a thousand strong was
quiet, submissive, and clearly afraid of the ten armed men standing along the wall that separated the stands from the tournament field below. Most of the people around the archer were men, but there were some women and even a few children.

  The guards, who ranged from Norse warriors to common brigands, were armed with an array of poorly maintained swords, axes, and clubs. Four of them were sharing a large skin of mead, and the other six looked as if they’d been dragged out of bed after a hard night of drinking. Only one of the guards seemed interested in the crowd. His eyes were fixed on a young woman whose long, blond tresses had accidentally strayed from beneath the hood of her brown cloak, drawing the man’s attention.

  Cynric glanced quickly over at Tylan and his other men. They’d taken up positions throughout the stands that would enable them to quickly kill the guards near the wall and then provide protective cover for Sir Percival. His gaze returned to the tournament field just as two of Hengst’s men walked through a gate, half dragging a young woman of perhaps sixteen years. Their entrance was met with a roar from the boisterous crowd of Norse warriors and local brigands seated in the rows of stone seats encircling the south side of the field. The woman in the brown cloak seated below Cynric started to rise when the captive was brought into the arena, but the larger cloaked figure sitting beside her quickly pulled her back down.

  The two men led the captive young woman to the tall wooden post in the center of the field and bound her hands to an iron ring embedded in the wood. After she was secured, the smaller of her two captors tried to embrace her, but she kicked him with surprising strength, and he dropped to his knees in pain. This drew a howl of laughter from the men in the reviewing stand on the other side of the field. When the man recovered, he stood up and raised a hand to strike the woman, but his larger companion yanked him away from the woman and pushed him toward the gate they had entered moments earlier.

  A murmur went through the crowd in front of him, and for a moment, Cynric couldn’t see what they were looking at. Then he saw Keil. He and two other bound men were being roughly herded onto the field by two guards whose dress and crude weaponry marked them as common brigands. The captive to Keil’s right was a tall, thin man on the edge of middle age. Cynric suspected he was a farmer, with a wife and a brood of children at home. The second captive, on Keil’s left, was short, square, and balding, and although he looked as though he might be able to defend himself, the ample belly overhanging his worn leather belt made it clear he would have no chance against Hengst.

  When Keil glanced back at the people in the stands, the guard behind him shoved him, and he stumbled and fell. The brigand kicked him as he scrambled back to his feet, drawing a gasp of pain from the young man. Cynric gripped the long wooden bow hidden inside his cloak in quiet rage and promised himself that the man would be one of the first to die.

  One of the brigands called out a guttural command, and the three captives stopped a step outside the ring of stones. Keil glanced over at the bound young woman, drawing another blow from the man behind him.

  “Don’t look over there, dog. You’ll be spitted on Hengst’s sword long before your grubby—”

  The man’s bellow was cut short by a cacophony of horns, followed by the opening of the main gate to the tournament field.

  Cynric was surprised when Hengst walked through the gate without any ceremonial entourage, but then he decided the Norseman didn’t need one. A man who’d once seen the Norse warrior up close had told Cynric that Hengst’s face was his most terrifying feature, and now Cynric understood why. The Norseman’s mane of reddish-blond hair framed a bulging forehead, a broad face, and a massive jaw. An outsized bony ridge formed a roof over two blazing grey-blue eyes, a broad, flat nose, and a cruel, thin mouth. A red scar ran from the Norseman’s missing right ear across his cheek to the cleft of his jaw. The wound had taken a part of the giant’s upper lip and red mustache, giving his face a permanent snarl.

  The Norseman stood over twenty-one hands tall, weighed more than twenty stone, and despite the tales told of his legendary bouts of drinking, eating, and wenching, he had lost none of his physical might. The bulging muscles in the warlord’s massive arms and legs rippled under his pale skin as he strode across the field.

  The giant wore black leather boots, fine woolen breeches, and a heavy leather jerkin, but no chest armor. His forearms were protected by black gauntlets, but his upper arms, which were heavily scarred, were bare to the shoulder. A blackened steel shield was slung across his right shoulder, held in place by a leather strap. In his right hand, the Norseman held a long steel sword, the blade of which was resting on his right shoulder. In his left hand, he held a massive two-bladed axe, the neck of which rested on his left shoulder.

  Cynric’s gaze returned to Keil and the other prisoners and the woman tied to the post. He could almost feel their terror across the dirt expanse separating them. Keil and the other three men tried to step back as the giant approached, but the brigands behind shoved them into the ring of stones encircling the center of the field.

  When the Norseman reached the post in the center of the ring, he stopped a mere foot from the visibly trembling young woman and towered over her in silence. Then he let out a roar and buried the two-bladed axe in the wooden post just above her head. She screamed as if her arms were being torn from her body and then collapsed, sobbing hysterically.

  As soon as the axe struck the wood, the crowd of Norsemen in the southern stands bellowed their approval. Cynric stared at the unruly mass of men. He knew they would pour onto the field seeking vengeance if Percival vanquished the monster now parading around the stone circle, with his shield and sword raised in triumph above his head. The archer quickly assessed his targets.

  There were nearly two hundred men, and an equal or greater number of women. Less than half of the men were Norse warriors, and many of them were either drunk or working toward that goal. The rest were a motley collection of outlaws and brigands, men who served as Hengst’s tax collectors in return for a share of the scraps from his table. Cynric had told his men to focus their fire upon the Norse warriors. If they were killed or broken, the others would flee.

  After three trips around the circle, the Norse giant stopped in the center and bellowed out his challenge.

  “People of Londinium, I am Hengst the Butcher, Lord of Londinium and Southern Albion. Anyone who would challenge my rule, step forward, and try to take my beautiful head.”

  The crowd in the far stands howled at the joke and then fell silent as Hengst continued.

  “If you can defeat me, this woman shall be your slave, and you may have my kingdom—if you have the might to hold it against my kin.”

  Hengst finished by pointing to the men and women in the far stands who thundered, “Never!”

  Then the Norseman turned and faced Cynric and the people of Londinium sitting around him. His eyes roved over the silent crowd with scorn.

  “And who among you would challenge me today? Who?” the giant bellowed.

  Cold fury raged through the Archer, but he sat unmoving. When no response was made, the crowd in the far stand screamed insults and taunts as their champion stood awaiting. Then the boisterous cacophony suddenly subsided, and the tournament field grew quiet.

  Hengst stood for a moment, appearing confused by the sudden stillness, and then turned around. His eyes widened.

  Cynric followed the Butcher’s gaze. A man had entered the field from another gate. He was walking toward the stone ring.

  It was Sir Percival.

  * * *

  PERCIVAL SILENTLY WATCHED the Norseman’s arrogant display from an archway on the west side of the tournament field, unseen in the shadows, and gauged the reaction of the crowds on both sides of the arena. He had heard raucous cheers and taunts like those of the Norsemen many times before in another arena on the other side of the world, just as he had watched many a gladiator revel in this adulation, only to die moments later. This was of no moment to him. What mattered on this day was
not the clamor on the south side of the arena, but the silence on the north.

  His gaze touched on the faces of the people of Londinium, staring at the cruel spectacle unfolding before them. Over the centuries, they had endured plagues, fires, and invasions, and yet each time, they had retaken and rebuilt what was theirs. Unlike Cynric, Percival did not believe their silence bespoke despair, but instead cloaked a terrible rage—a rage he intended to unleash.

  Percival waited until the Norse giant had bellowed out his challenge before he emerged from the archway and started across the arena. The hood of Bray’s tattered traveling cloak hid his helmet. The rest of the garment covered his gauntleted forearms, the polished steel shield affixed to his left forearm, and the coat of arms emblazoned on the white tabard he wore underneath. The only evidence of a weapon was the pommel of the sword, just visible through a hole in the cloth near his waist.

  He stopped ten paces from the ring of stones, shrugged off the wineskin draped across his right shoulder, and turned to the stands filled with Hengst’s supporters.

  “I challenge,” he called out in a loud, clear voice.

  Then he turned to the stands where the people of Londinium were watching him, with a mixture of incredulity and hope, and spoke in a loud and defiant voice.

  “I challenge on behalf of the good people of Londinium. I stand in their stead, every man, woman, and child.”

  When he finished, Percival turned to face Hengst, his visage only partially visible under the hood, and called out in a voice that carried no hint of fear, “Do you accept my challenge?”

  The Norseman stared at Percival for a moment and then threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter, drawing a round of laughs and screams for blood from the crowd in the stands across the field. The people on the north side of the field were deathly silent. After enjoying the moment, the Norseman’s amusement turned to disdain.

  “Step forward, you drunken beggar, that I may take your head, and then,” he turned to Keil and the other two men, “I shall spit the three of you, making it a foursome.”