The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  “An hour before the sun reached the midpoint in the sky, Sir Percival raced into the arena on the finest of horses and then rode slowly over to the executioner’s block, in the center of the arena. There he dismounted and cut my bonds with the sword that he still carries today. Then he turned to Khalid and said, ‘Honor your bargain.’”

  Capussa hesitated and drew in a breath, lifting his eyes to focus upon a distant star in the sky.

  “Khalid turned to Sumayya, sitting beside her father, as if waiting for her to speak, and when she refused to look his way, his face turned black with rage. He turned back to Sir Percival and said, ‘Honor it, I shall. Executioner, take the head of the Christian Knight.’”

  An angry murmur swept through the crowd of listeners, but they fell silent when Capussa stepped forward, his hand outstretched as if to seize something.

  “I moved to seize the Knight’s sword, intending to strike down as many of Khalid’s foul henchmen as I could, but at the instant, a force of horseman, near thirty in all, rode through the gate of the arena. A Moorish prince was mounted on the lead horse, a man Khalid recognized, for I could see the fear and respect in his eyes.

  “This man, I later learned, was both a man of power and a man of the sword, and when he rode his horse to a place in front of Khalid, I was gratified to see that foul spawn bow deeply to this man. Then this prince spoke in a voice that all could hear. He said, ‘I am Abdul-Aziz ibn Musa, the governor of this land, and my betrothed has asked that I spare this man’s life.’”

  Capussa lifted a finger and whispered, “Do you hear that?”

  The men surrounding him froze in place, listening for a sound that was not there.

  “Silence,” he said, “and on that fateful day, my friends, it was more silent still.”

  Capussa leaned forward as he continued, his eyes roving over his audience. “Khalid stared at the man in confusion for a long moment, and then he slowly turned to Sumayya, who stared back at him with eyes as cold and hard as the finest steel. And then the man at the head of the horseman looked at Khalid and said, ‘And so, it shall be.’”

  Capussa looked around solemnly, and then he smiled. “And so it was.”

  For a moment, the crowd was silent, and then there was an explosive round of applause. Capussa bowed and then held up one hand and said in a quiet voice, “Tomorrow, my fellow soldiers, we, like the Knight, on that distant day and place, must do great things. So let us rest in preparation.”

  Later, as Capussa was spreading his blanket on the ground, Merlin walked over to him and said quietly, “That was a magnificent tale.”

  “It is that, and one that I would not have believed myself, had I not lived it. You Christians would call it a miracle,” Capussa said with a laugh, but then a thoughtful look came to his face. “But, in truth, that was not the real miracle.”

  “No?”

  “No. The real miracle, Merlin the Wise, came to pass when the Knight was racing back to the arena to save me, on the return trip from Alexandria. A miracle that you can see today, when you look at his face.”

  “His face?” Merlin said.

  “Yes. Do you see the scars on my face, and yet the Knight’s face bears none?”

  Merlin nodded.

  “It was not always thus, Merlin the Wise. Percival … his face was once a tapestry of pain. You see, he was scourged many times, in the early days, when he refused to fight in the arena. Those who wielded that cursed implement—may my sword one day find their entrails— were careless with their strokes, and there were blows that struck his face and neck. And he, like I, suffered wounds to his face in the arena as well. Yet, when he returned from Alexandria, his face was unmarked. It was—” Capussa said, a measure of astonishment in his voice. “It was as if the gods had not only healed every mark, but given him back some of the years that had been taken from him.”

  Merlin stepped closer and put his hand on Capussa’s shoulder before speaking in a near whisper. “Did he speak of this?”

  “Yes … yes he did,” Capussa answered. “He said that he became lost in the desert when he was returning from Alexandria, and he was dying of thirst. In his last moments of life, he came upon a spring and drank deeply from it and then bathed his face and neck with its cool waters. He said that as soon as the water touched his lips, face, and neck, it was as if a great weight was lifted from him. When he leaned down to drink a second time, he said that he could see, from his reflection in the water … the scars … they were gone.” When he finished, Capussa looked up at the older man and said with quiet conviction, “Now that, Merlin the Wise, was a miracle.”

  CHAPTER 20

  THE BATTLE OF THE RIVER WID

  apussa stood overlooking the three lines of men on the slope thirty paces below him and nodded approvingly—the men waited patiently and remained as silent as a grave, just as ordered. The first two lines of men carried long wooden pikes with sharp points. The third was made up of men with swords, clubs, and an occasional spear.

  The billowing morning fog rendered the path at the base of the slope, one hundred paces distant, invisible. That would change with the coming of the morning sun. If fate favored them, the fog would fade enough to make the Norsemen visible as they marched by, but not so much as to reveal the men waiting to attack on the slope above.

  Capussa looked over at Percival, a pace to his right. Although the Knight’s face did not reveal his inner turmoil, he could sense his friend’s unease.

  “You fear they cannot do this thing?” Capussa asked.

  “I fear many things this morning, my friend,” Percival replied. “I fear I have unwittingly started a war that will bring more misery to a people who have already borne far too much pain and suffering. I fear many of these men will die today, leaving no one to provide for their women and children, and yes, I fear that men without training, who only yesterday were tilling fields, herding sheep, and milling corn, may falter when faced with hardened warriors like the Norse.”

  “You worry too much, Knight. When this day is over, either victory shall be ours or we shall be dead,” Capussa said.

  “That is reassuring,” Percival said dryly. “Yet, you are right. It shall be as God wills.” Then he walked to his waiting horse, mounted, and rode into the fog.

  Capussa smiled and looked down at the ghostly lines of men below him.

  “You have your faith, my friend, and I have my sword. Together, we shall crush them.”

  * * *

  IVARR THE RED watched in satisfaction as the last of the Norse warriors waded across the Wid River and joined the rear of the column marching south. The crossing was a league north of the bridge where they’d been ambushed the day before. Dawn was less than an hour away, and he intended to attack the enemy camp just after the sun rose. He smiled as he thought of the coming slaughter.

  He turned to the old warrior mounted on a horse a few paces away. “You see, Geir,” he said with a scornful laugh, “your fears are those of an old man. When we return to Londinium, I shall send you back home with a ship full of slaves to sell. You can eat, drink, and get fat there with your share of the spoils.”

  Ivarr smiled scornfully at the rage in the old warrior’s eyes and pointed to the line of men marching south. “Stay in the rear of the column, old man, and sweep for stragglers. You will be safe there.”

  Then he turned and galloped after the column of men marching along the riverbank. The other mounted Norse warriors waiting on the riverbank roared with laughter at the insult and galloped after Ivarr, leaving the seething Geir behind.

  When he reached the head of the column, Ivarr turned in his saddle and looked back at the line of men behind him and nodded in satisfaction. He had given two orders to his subcommanders when they gathered an hour earlier. The first was to summarily kill any straggler. The tired men marching behind him had taken the threat to heart. There were no gaps in the line. If anything, the fear of death had caused the men to march too closely together.

  As the com
pact column marched through a defile formed by the slope of a hill on the right and the river on the left, the Norse warrior smiled as he recalled the second order of the day—no survivors. A moment later, the hill on his right erupted in screams, and a line of men bearing pikes drove into the men behind him. The Norse warlord began to wheel his horse around to face the enemy, but froze in mid movement at the sight of a fully armed knight on a giant black horse racing toward him at full gallop, followed by fifty other mounted men.

  MORGANA’S CASTLE

  Morgana stood on the battlement watching the line of thirty men marching toward the castle from the south with Ivarr the Red in the lead, riding a horse with a pronounced limp. Half of the men were wounded. Although she’d learned of the outcome of the battle a day earlier from one of her spies, the sight of the battered remnants of the Norse column was still a shock. The Norseman’s force of nearly two hundred strong had been all but annihilated by Sir Percival and his men.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Lord Aeron, standing a respectful distance behind her. The knight wore a simple black tabard, woolen breeches, and leather boots. His eyes were fixed on the sorry column of men approaching the castle.

  “In less than a fortnight, this Sir Percival has killed Hengst, retaken Londinium, and nearly annihilated Ivarr the Red’s force. Should I expect to see him at my gates in the morning?” Morgana said.

  “He has neither the men nor the means to conduct a siege,” the knight answered in a voice devoid of emotion.

  “No? I am told that he now has almost a thousand men.”

  “I do not believe he desires to start a war.”

  Morgana wheeled around, anger flaring in her eyes. “He’s already started one. Ivarr will not let this stand. He will seek to raise another force and retake the city.”

  “And to wreak a terrible vengeance on the people of Londinium,” Lord Aeron said coldly.

  “That he will. But then, that is often the fate of those who rise up against their masters,” Morgana said, a less than subtle threat in her tone.

  “And is it your intent to aid him in this noble cause?” Lord Aeron said, his voice laced with contempt.

  Morgana’s eyes narrowed.

  “Remember your place, Lord Aeron. And as for what I will do, or not do, that is for me to decide. You will escort Ivarr the Red to the main hall when he reaches the gate, accompanied by two guards. The rest of his men are to stay outside the walls.”

  “As you wish,” he answered and walked to the stairs leading off the battlement to the castle below, his face carved in stone. Morgana watched him leave and then returned to the battlement, fuming, and hissed, “Be assured, Sir Galahad, your brother Knight will not resurrect what I have buried.”

  Two guards escorted Ivarr the Red into the castle’s main hall, without his sword. Morgana sat on the far side of a massive wooden table in a chair grand enough to be called a throne. There were no other chairs in the room. The guards escorted Ivarr to the table and stepped back a pace. The Norse war leader ignored the intended slight, but Morgana could sense the anger behind his calm facade.

  She took in the Norseman’s filthy appearance, the wound to his left arm, and the dried blood on his leather jerkin. For a moment, she reveled at the Norseman’s humbled state, remembering his arrogance at their meeting just days earlier. Morgana nodded to the Norseman and spoke with a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “It seems that your gods have abandoned you as well as your brother, Ivarr the Red.”

  “We shall retake Londinium,” Ivarr snarled, “and those who rose up against us will wish they’d never been born.”

  “And you will do all of this with, what … ?” She gestured one hand toward the window looking out on the courtyard. “The score of men outside my gates?”

  The muscles in Ivarr’s jaw visibly tightened. “I will bring more warriors to this land.”

  “As I recall, it was Roman gold that brought Norse swords to this island, not Ivarr the Red, or Hengst the Butcher.”

  Rage flared in the Norseman’s eyes, and the guards at his sides stiffened. For a long moment, the Norseman stood motionless, his eyes locked on hers, and then he spoke in a cold rasp. “Do not be too sure of yourself, Roman. There are near a thousand men two days’ march south, and the man who leads them is a Knight of the Round Table. He will surely seek vengeance against the woman who pulled down his precious Pendragon and broke the Table. This reckoning may be tomorrow, or two months from now, but it will come, and I am the only one who can raise a force of Norse warriors in time to aid you in that fight.”

  Morgana stared at the man in front of her, clad in dirty furs and skins, and weighed his words. Before the Norseman had walked into the room, she had decided to kill him once he told her all that he knew of this Sir Percival, but his words had shaken her. A thousand men led by a Knight of the Table and guided by the wiles of Melitas Komnenos was indeed a deadly threat. They might not be able to take her castle, but they could seize the silver mines, and such a loss would not be taken lightly by the emperor.

  “Where will you find these new warriors, and how quickly can you bring them to these shores?” Morgana said, her voice revealing nothing of her inner tumult.

  “There is a settlement of my people in Hibernia. I will raise a host there. Others will follow from my homeland.”

  “You have no gold or silver, Ivarr the Red. How will you pay them?”

  “I will offer them the sack of Londinium and the right to sell half its people into slavery.”

  Morgana stood and walked to the window and looked across the courtyard. Lord Aeron was just outside the gate, talking to one of the wounded Norsemen. She turned around and said curtly, “What do you seek from me?”

  “I need a ship with enough food and water for a three-day journey.”

  “And what am I promised in return?”

  “I will return with enough warriors to crush this Sir Percival … and I will give you the old man, a Roman, who now rides with him.”

  Morgana’s face froze for a moment. Although she quickly recovered, she knew the Norseman had seen her reaction.

  “Yes,” the Norseman said with quiet confidence, “the Roman you seek is with him. My spies tell me that this man and the man with skin like the night rarely leave the side of this Knight of the Table. You cannot take him without my help. Give me that ship and I will return with the forces needed to do this.”

  Morgana stared at the Norseman for a moment before answering. “And why should I believe you will honor your word, Ivarr the Red?”

  The Norseman drew a knife from beneath his jerkin, and the guards behind him started forward, but stopped when Morgana raised a hand. Ivarr held the knife in front of him and spoke in solemn voice. “This knife, Roman, was given to me by my father’s father. I give you my blood oath that I shall honor my promise, or die trying.”

  As he finished speaking, Ivarr drew the knife across his palm, drawing blood. Then he closed his fist, and crimson drops fell from his hand to the floor.

  Morgana watched the display with a smile. She believed the Norseman would honor his promise, if it was within his means, but not on account of his blood oath. His word, like her own, was not worth a farthing. No, Ivarr the Red would return for another reason—to regain the jewel that was Londinium.

  “You shall have your ship, but my price is one slave for every two that you take or sell after the sack of Londinium, and I want the old Roman.”

  THE RIVER WID

  Percival looked back at the fifty men standing patiently beside their horses waiting for him to mount his black destrier. Shaking his head, he turned to Cynric.

  “I am honored by their vow to serve as my retinue, but I neither deserve nor need an armed column to accompany me.”

  “Sir, I told them that, but they’re free men, and they have made it clear that they intend to follow you, whether you like it or not.”

  “What is it they seek?” Percival asked, confused.

  Cyn
ric scratched his head and looked over the line of men. “Sir Percival, things have been so bad, for so long, that what we were a part of—the Pendragon, Queen Guinevere, the Table—it is almost like a myth to them … a time of magic. And then suddenly, that myth has become real. Now they have hope. They believe you will resurrect what was, and they want to help … to be a part of that. And then there’s the baker’s wife …”

  “The baker’s wife?” Percival repeated in confusion.

  “Aye. She came with wagons of bread and told the men Morgana would try to kill you. She said it was their sacred duty to protect you, and—” he shrugged “—they intend to do that.”

  Cynric moved a little closer and lowered his voice. “The truth is, Sir, we had to argue half the night to keep a lot more of these men from following you, and they may change their minds if you—”

  “Delay any longer?” Capussa interrupted, clapping Percival on the shoulder. “Well said, Archer. I suggest we leave, Knight, before your retinue stretches from here to Londinium,” the Numidian finished, trying to hide a smile.

  “Since I suspect your nightly tales may have contributed to this, maybe you can tell me how we will feed these men?” Percival said with a measure of exasperation.

  Merlin, who was listening to the exchange with amusement, walked over to Percival and raised a mollifying hand. “Your concerns are well considered, Sir Percival, but I can assure you that we shall find ample food along the way. This day has been long in coming and preparations have been made.”

  Percival looked at Merlin, a question in his eyes, but he nodded in acceptance. “So be it.”

  As he turned back to his horse, the Knight looked out on the field below him, where a small army of men were loading wagons, packing up horses, and preparing for the march back to Londinium. He walked to the edge of the road, dropped to one knee, closed his eyes, and whispered, “May God keep them safe.”