“It seems that half the village has come to watch today … and it seems as though Keil has persuaded some of those fetching lasses who were following him about last night to bring you water for bathing.”
Four young women walked to the edge of the field carrying buckets of water, with Keil walking behind, his hand resting on the pommel of a sword he’d taken from the body of a Norse warrior the day before. The young women set their buckets down, curtsied shyly, and walked back to the edge of the wood with Keil between them.
Percival nodded his thanks, and Capussa waved a hand toward the retreating Keil. “It seems you have a would-be apprentice, Sir Percival.”
The Knight shook his head. “He’s a good lad, if a foolhardy one, but my days of fighting are at an end. I intend—”
“To live in peace,” Capussa finished. “I can clearly see that you are on that path. Why, we haven’t had a battle in what, a whole day?” the Numidian finished with a chuckle.
Percival stood and started toward the buckets of water. “Have faith. We shall find the peaceful life I promised.”
Capussa casually glanced into the depths of the forest, where he knew a small man with a thin, hard face was watching them from behind an oak tree—a man who’d been stealthily following them for the last three days. Then he looked over at his friend kneeling beside a bucket, running a cloth soaked in water over his face and neck. Capussa sighed and spoke in a whisper Percival couldn’t hear.
“I fear that peace will only come with death, my friend, but with a little bit of luck, we shall avoid both for a while to come.”
Two hours later, the column of men rode out of Cestreforda, with Percival and Capussa at the head. As the column reached the open road, Percival glanced backward.
“How is it that we had fifty men yesterday, but today, we ride out with near a hundred?”
Capussa smiled as he answered, “It seems another forty or so men from the army of Londinium rounded up some of the horses left by the dead Norsemen and decided to join you. There are also some local lads who have decided to march under your standard.”
Percival raised a hand in exasperation. “I have no standard. In truth, I have little more than the clothes on my back, so I cannot possibly provide for this retinue. They need to return to their homes and farms.”
Merlin eased his horse up alongside the two men, the trace of a smile on his face. “You did say, my good Knight, that the Queen needed a proper guard. Well, here it is,” he said, gesturing toward the men riding behind them.
“Well said,” Capussa agreed.
The two men looked at one another and then burst into laughter. Percival scowled as he watched two more young men on country nags join the mounted column.
“At this rate, half of Albion will be marching with us by the time we reach the Queen.”
CHAPTER 22
ABBEY CWM HIR
alorc squatted behind a stand of bushes on a hill outside the abbey’s walls, watching the stone tower at the northern end. As the receding sun touched the hills in the distance, a flaxen-haired woman wearing a pale blue dress opened the tall, porticoed window on the third floor. She watched in silence as the light yielded to darkness, and then gently closed the window and disappeared within.
The Pict found himself intrigued by the beautiful Queen. He did not sense guile or evil in the face of the woman, and surely, she posed no threat to Morgana in this faraway place. Yet, when he had met with the Roman witch, he sensed she hated the golden-haired queen with a cold and terrible passion.
Talorc shook his head and whispered, “You are almost too beautiful to kill, Guinevere, Queen of the Britons. But, honor my oath I will, when the order is given.”
As Talorc rose out of his crouch, the end of his bow jostled the bush in front of him. The movement, although small, was enough to draw the attention of the rangy man sitting on a bench in the courtyard below the Queen’s window. Talorc froze. The rangy man in the courtyard stared at the bush without moving. After several minutes, the rangy man picked up the bow and quiver resting on the bench beside him and sauntered into the shadow near the abbey’s outer wall.
The Pict sensed the man was not just a guard. He was also a hunter, like Talorc. Talorc could feel the man waiting patiently in the shadows—waiting for a target. Wary, he remained frozen for almost an hour and then made his way to the far side of the hill with extreme care, staying well below the line of the underbrush.
Talorc didn’t fear the hunter, but he knew the man would unleash his dogs and hunt him if he sensed a threat. Although he knew he could evade the dogs, once they found his scent, the hunter and the other guards within the abbey would know an enemy stalked their Queen, and precautions would be taken. In the end, he would still kill his prey. It would just be a more dangerous task. He would be more careful the next time he returned to the abbey.
* * *
IN THE FOURTH hour after dawn the next morning, Cadwyn walked to the window on the east side of the sitting room and scanned the length of the road that ran from the front gate of the abbey to the village a half-league distant, and from there, to the hills beyond. It was empty. She stamped her foot in frustration.
“Where are they?”
“A watched pot never boils, Cadwyn Hydwell,” Sister Aranwen said from the chair in the corner, where she was knitting a sweater.
“What? That doesn’t make a whit of sense, and don’t think you’re fooling me, Sister. I know you’re just as impatient as I am.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve seen many a knight in my day. We may need them, but they’re a rather troublesome lot, if you ask me.”
“Really. Then how do you explain the rat’s nest you’ve woven in the past hour?” Cadwyn said, pointing to the tangled strands of yarn woven into the bottom of the sweater on the other woman’s lap.
Sister Aranwen glanced down at the sweater and raised a hand to her mouth. She glared at Cadwyn as she stood up and angrily dropped her knitting into the basket beside the chair.
“Well, if you hadn’t been jumping up and down like a spring robin, I—”
Sister Aranwen froze in midsentence as Guinevere opened the door to her quarters and walked into the room. The Queen was wearing a dark lavender dress that was as beautiful as it was regal. The jewel-encrusted silver tiara atop her head was encircled by a braid that flowed down her back with the rest of her locks, like a golden waterfall. Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen stared at the Queen for a moment, struck by her radiance, and then quickly curtsied.
Guinevere smiled at the two women and nodded to the open window.
“They are almost here.”
Cadwyn’s eyes widened, and she ran to the window. A long column of mounted men, riding in pairs, was coming over the rise a half league distant, followed by hundreds of people from the village. She leaned out the window and stared at the two men leading the column, but they were too far away for her to make out their features.
“Come, my friends,” Guinevere said. “We are all that remains of the royal court, and I would make as good a showing as conditions will allow when we meet the good Knight and his companions.”
“Forgive us, Milady,” Sister Aranwen said as she pulled Cadwyn away from the window and ushered her toward the door. Guinevere glanced back at the column of men in the distance and whispered softly, “God be praised,” and then followed the other two women out the door.
As they walked across the green, to the rear of the Great Hall at the far end of the abbey’s grounds, Guinevere looked up at the once-grand stone edifice. The building had been built at royal expense to serve as the centerpiece of a place of great learning. The mountain of stone and marble set aside for the rest of the buildings lay outside an abandoned quarry a league to the south, covered in grass.
A month after the hall had been dedicated in a grand ceremony, the war with Morgana had begun, and work on the project had ceased. Now the old and worn building was a monument, like so many others, to what could have been, and a reminder of
what had been lost.
The three women entered the hall through the rear door, where they were greeted by the abbess and the prioress, both dressed in their finest habits. Although the two nuns were in their seventh decade of life, there was a restrained excitement in their eyes and a spring in their step. They bowed to the Queen, and the abbess gestured toward the door leading to the dais.
“All is ready, my Queen.”
Guinevere smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Abbess. Let us take our places.”
As she walked through the door and ascended to the ornate wooden chair in the center, Guinevere remembered what the building had looked like on the day of its dedication. Grand tapestries and flags had hung from the marble walls, the magnificent murals on the ceiling were freshly painted, and rivers of light had flowed through the building’s many windows, illuminating the hundreds of nobles and knights who’d come to the ceremony.
Sadly, years of neglect had left the hall worn, dirty, and in disrepair, despite the recent restoration efforts undertaken by the abbess and the sisters with the help of many of the men and women from the village. Although they had tried to banish the aura of gloom pervading the structure by lighting the few candles still remaining in the wall sconces, the morning clouds blocked the sun, largely thwarting their efforts.
For a moment, the contrast between the past and the present almost brought tears to Guinevere’s eyes, but then the moment of weakness passed as she looked out on the hundreds of faces filling the gallery below. From the mayor of the local village, to the sisters, to the tradesmen and farmers, all of whom were dressed in their finest clothes, there was a common expression of excitement and hope she had not seen in a very long time.
Guinevere took her seat in the center of the dais and gestured for the crowd to sit as well. As they did so, she glanced over at Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen. They too shared the same look of expectation as the crowd below. Guinevere silently prayed their hopes and expectations would not be dashed by whatever came in the days ahead.
Moments later, the two massive doors at the far end of the Great Hall were pushed open, bringing in a flood of light from the now-visible midday sun. Six men walked in pairs down the broad marble aisle, led by a seventh man. The six men in the rear halted halfway down the aisle, and the man in the lead, wearing a white tabard bearing the crest of the Table, continued toward Guinevere.
As the tall figure emerged from the sun’s glare, the Queen struggled to reconcile the features of the man walking toward her with her memory of the young Knight of yesteryear. Though he bore the same face as the man she remembered, his features were leaner, harder, and strikingly bronzed, and they were framed by a fuller mane of black hair.
Like the younger Sir Percival, he was tall, but the physical resemblance ended there. Where the younger Knight had been lean and strong, the man in front of her was the most physically formidable man she’d ever seen in her life. The muscles in his neck were like ropes of steel, his shoulders, chest, and arms were those of a blacksmith compelled to forge the most unforgiving steel without respite, and his thighs were like the boughs of a mighty oak.
The Knight stopped at the edge of the dais, dropped to one knee, and lowered his head. As Guinevere stared down at him, she found her heart was racing. It was more than the Knight’s intimidating physical presence. She sensed an inner power within him and a capacity for terrible violence, one reinforced by the scarred hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Without turning her head, Guinevere glanced over at Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen and then at the abbess and prioress. They were frozen in place, staring at the kneeling figure with awe and a measure of unease. She sensed the same feeling from Torn and the other guards standing at attention on both sides of the platform, steps from the Knight. It was as if they knew it was beyond their means to stand against this man if he drew his sword and unleashed the terrible power within.
“We bid you rise and declare yourself,” Guinevere said in a loud voice that echoed across the silent hall.
The tall Knight stood and looked into her eyes, and the unease she had felt a moment earlier disappeared. The blue eyes that met her own were imbued with the same honesty and loyalty as those of the younger Knight she remembered, but at the same time, they were different. The iron within had become steel, knowledge had become wisdom, and pain had yielded to an implacable endurance.
“Your Highness, I am Sir Percival of the Round Table, and I am at your command,” the Knight said in a calm and respectful voice, his eyes never leaving hers.
For a long moment, the hall was as silent as a grave in the depths of the forest, with every breath held in abeyance. Then Guinevere took a step forward, a radiant smile on her face.
“Your Queen and Kingdom welcome you, Sir Percival, and rejoice in your long-prayed-for return.” She lifted her arms, and the crowd in the Great Hall broke into thunderous applause. When the applause fell silent, Guinevere walked across the dais and stopped a pace from Sir Percival. “And who are your companions, Sir Percival?”
“They are friends who guided me to this place, and more.”
“Then we would meet them and thank them for their service.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Percival answered. He turned and gestured to the men to come forward. They approached in a line. The man in the lead, whose skin was as black as coal, halted a step away from the Knight.
“Your Highness,” Percival said, “this is Capussa, my friend and brother-in-arms. We endured many trials together in the land of the Moors, and he has saved my life more times than I can count. His sword was at the forefront of the battle that set Londinium free, and he was the general in charge of the forces that defeated those of Ivarr the Red on the River Wid.”
As the black soldier took a step forward and dropped to one knee, Guinevere was struck by how alike the two men were, despite their physical differences. Like the Knight, the man kneeling before her seemed to be forged from steel itself, and he carried within him the same restrained but terrible capacity for violence she sensed in Sir Percival. Yet, she also sensed within him the same wisdom and goodness she had discerned within the Knight.
“Rise, Capussa,” Guinevere said with a smile, “and accept our sincer-est gratitude for all you have done to bring Sir Percival home and to free the oppressed people of this Kingdom.”
Capussa stood, bowed his head, and stepped to the left.
Percival then gestured to Cynric, Tylan, Bray, and Keil, who stepped forward together and knelt.
“This is Cynric, one of your finest archers, my Queen, and these are his men, Tylan, Bray, and Keil. Cynric and these men, and many others, fought to free Londinium. They provided noble service in the defeat of Ivarr the Red and guided me safely to this place. I am in their debt.”
Guinevere inclined her head and smiled. “Rise, noble yeomen, and accept our gratitude for your service. The Kingdom is in your debt.”
She noted the hint of a smile on Percival’s face when one of the older men had to usher the awestruck young man named Keil to the left.
“And last, but surely not least, Your Highness, is a man whom you know, Merlin the Wise. He has graced me with the benefit of his wisdom since the retaking of Londinium, and I am in his debt as well.”
Guinevere’s eyes widened for a moment, as Merlin walked forward and knelt.
The sight of Merlin unleashed a river of memories, both good and bad. During Arthur’s reign, a part of her had resented the special relationship he had shared with the King and their endless secret meetings. And yet another part of her had recognized that Arthur had desperately needed every ounce of Merlin’s wisdom and guidance—treasures that she had sorely missed when the old Roman disappeared shortly after the fall of Camelot.
“Rise, Merlin the Wise. I thank you for your service to the crown, both past and present. It has been a long time since our last meeting. We have much to discuss.”
Then Guinevere turned back to Percival. “Are there any others, Sir Percival, whom
we should acknowledge?”
Percival hesitated for a moment, and then he nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. A … few more, if you would be so gracious.”
“It would be our pleasure. Where are they?”
“They’re waiting outside, and it might be … preferable, if it is acceptable to Your Highness, for me to introduce them on the steps of the Great Hall.”
“Very well. Lead the way,” Guinevere said, and then turned to the other women on the dais.
“Come, ladies. We shall all go.”
Guinevere, the abbess, the prioress, Sister Aranwen, and Cadwyn followed Percival down the corridor, through the crowd, and out through the open doors at the rear of the Great Hall.
As they emerged into the sunlight, Guinevere’s breath caught in her throat. There were more than a thousand men gathered on the green in front of her.
“Mother of God,” the abbess said, “there’s an army at my door.”
MORGANA’S CASTLE
Morgana was poring over a large and detailed map of Albion, with Seneas at her side, when the door to the room crashed open. One of her Saxon guards backed slowly into the room, followed by Lord Aeron. The point of the knight’s sword was pressed against the Saxon’s chest.
Morgana took in the dust and blood splattered across much of his usually spotless armor and the simmering anger in the sky-blue eyes, just visible through the opening in his steel helmet.
“Am I to surmise,” Morgana said, “that you have successfully put down the slave revolt in my silver mines?”
Rage flared in Lord Aeron’s eyes, and for a moment, Morgana was sure he would run the Saxon guard through with his sword and seek vengeance upon her. Then the moment passed, and the iron control that had made him her most trusted tool of violence and oppression reasserted itself, and he sheathed his sword.
“Yes, Morgana. The revolt by the peasants, whom you have enslaved, is over. Many are dead, but the work in that hell will go on,” the knight answered, in a voice filled with anger and pain.
The Return of Sir Percival Page 24