The Return of Sir Percival

by S Alexander O'keefe

  She rose from the chair beside the small writing desk in her chambers, on the second floor of the old manor house, and walked to the window. The dark horizon to the south was ablaze with hundreds of small fires, marking the site of an encamped army preparing to go to war—her army. A moment later, she heard a soft knock at the door. After taking a last look at the distant lights, she walked over and opened the door.

  “Good evening, Lady Cadwyn, Sister Aranwen. Do we have a guest?” Guinevere asked, forcing a smile.

  “Yes, my Queen, Sir Percival is here,” Cadwyn said.

  “Then let’s not keep him waiting.” Guinevere gestured for the women to lead the way. She followed them into the main room, where Sir Percival was waiting by the door. Her eyes widened when she saw him. The Knight wore a white tabard, with the seal of the Table on the chest, over a heavy mail shirt.

  Greaves were strapped to his lower legs, and gleaming gauntlets covered his hands and forearms. In the crook of his arm, he held a blackened steel helm with a long, square nosepiece and spiked crest that seemed to bristle with restrained ferocity.

  Percival bowed. “My Queen, I must join the army. We will engage the enemy in the morning, and the last dispositions must be made.”

  “Yes, of course,” Guinevere said, nodding, unable to speak for a moment.

  Percival bowed again and turned to leave, and Guinevere called after him. “Wait, Percival.”

  She turned to Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen. “Lady Cadwyn, Sister, would you please wait for me in my chambers.”

  After the two women had left the room, Guinevere stared at the waiting Knight for a long moment, endeavoring to find the right words. “Percival, the royal command of last night stands.”

  “I understand … Guinevere.”

  “I … I have made a parting such as this once before …”

  Percival’s eyes met hers, and she knew he could sense the terrible fear weighing upon her soul. After a long moment, he placed the helm under his arm on the table by the door, drew off his gauntlets, and held out his hands. Guinevere took a step toward him and placed her hands in his, and he clasped them tightly. She closed her eyes for a moment, comforted by both the power and the love she felt in his touch.

  “It will not be thus. I shall return,” Percival said.

  She opened her eyes and smiled. “I will wait for you and … when you return, I would have you speak to me not as your Queen … but as a woman.”

  “I will, Guinevere,” Percival said. Then he released his grip on her hands, retrieved his helm and gauntlets, and departed.

  THE ROAD FROM NOVIOMAGUS REGINORUM TO LONDINIUM

  As Morgana watched Sveinn form his men into ranks on her left, she smiled in quiet scorn. The Norse warlord had fallen into the trap she and Ivarr had laid for him. Just as anticipated, the arrogant fool had insisted upon being in overall command of the army, citing his greater experience and fearsome reputation. Although Morgana and Ivarr had feigned resistance, in the end, they had accepted the demand, knowing this would place Sveinn’s men in the center of the line.

  If, as Morgana expected, the fighting in the center was the fiercest, then much of Sveinn’s strength would be spent by the end of the victorious battle, leaving Ivarr and Morgana’s forces well positioned to annihilate the Norse leader and his men in a surprise attack after the battle, as planned. With that done, the two allies would then march on Londinium alone and split the spoils when the city was sacked.

  Alas, as with any plan, there were pitfalls as well. Although the three of them had agreed the army should march before dawn to force the enemy to fight on the ground of their choosing, Sveinn had ignored this agreement. Instead, he and his men had drunk themselves into a stupor, as they did every night, making them slow to rise. Now, they would be forced to fight on the ground chosen by Sir Percival and his Numidian friend and to fight that battle on their terms.

  The Knight’s army was arrayed at the northern end of a narrow valley an hour’s march away. The valley was bordered on the north, east, and west sides by steep slopes. Morgana and the Norse would be forced to march into the valley through the southern end and to fight on a narrow front, where only six hundred men could fight abreast in a line.

  Sir Percival’s choice of a battle site was both wise and foolhardy. The ground would offset Morgana’s advantage in numbers, but it would also leave his army trapped in a pocket at the northern end, if he failed to carry the day. Sir Percival was forcing his army to choose between victory or annihilation.

  The Knight’s strategy is an act of desperation, she thought. He knows his allies in Londinium have deserted him, so he intends to try to survive by fighting a defensive battle of attrition.

  A cruel smile played across Morgana’s face as she envisioned the scene described by her spies in Londinium. The lord mayor and the council had voted to hide behind their walls rather than march out and join the force that had nobly marched to the city’s relief. When Cynric the Archer had threatened to kill the mayor after the vote, he and his formidable bowmen had been dragged off to prison. That was fortuitous. The archers in the ranks of the Norse and Saxon could not compete with the archers in this land.

  Morgana spoke in a whisper, “Alas, Sir Percival, only a fool puts his faith in the honor of other men. Today, you will now learn that only gold and the sword can be trusted.”

  “Milady?”

  Morgana turned to Garr, who had ridden up on his horse from the rear.

  “Sveinn is ready to march.”

  Morgana looked with disdain at the line of Norse warriors, now clad in their armor and beginning to march in a line of roughly three men abreast.

  “Give the order to move out,” she said coldly. “We certainly don’t want to keep our ally waiting, do we?”

  The Saxon nodded, wheeled his horse, and bellowed out commands to the line of men behind her. Far to her right, Morgana could see Lord Aeron clad in battle armor, standing alone by his black destrier. The spy she had assigned to watch him last night had disappeared, which troubled her. Lord Aeron had one more role to play before she had him killed—a role that would force him to choose between his precious Queen and his brother Knight. As she watched the knight mount his horse, Morgana experienced something that was alien to her—a moment of regret.

  You are as foolish as you once were handsome, Sir Galahad. Did you really think that I would honor my promise?

  GUINEVERE’S QUARTERS, NORTH OF THE VALE OF ASHES

  Guinevere stared at the open Bible on her lap and then slowly turned yet another page, not having read a word of the sacred text. Thoughts flitted through her mind like butterflies in a tempest, each gaining only a whisper of contemplation before being swept away by the next gust of wind. In one instant, she would be struggling to find peace through the words in the Book of Psalms, and in the next, she would be drawn into the maelstrom of violence raging two leagues distant by the blast of the battle horn. From there, her thoughts would race back through time to a darkened room in a distant castle, where a younger woman waited to hear the tidings of another terrible battle. Each minute seemed an hour, each hour a day.

  After futilely struggling to read another line, Guinevere raised her head and looked across the room at Sister Aranwen. The nun was sitting in a chair, silently praying with her eyes closed. Her eyes strayed to Cadwyn. The young woman was sitting restlessly in another chair holding a map of the battlefield that Keil had drawn for her earlier in the day. Guinevere knew the young woman had just returned from yet another visit to the guard station near the front wall, where she had once again sought tidings of the battle.

  As she looked around the ancient stone sitting room, she wondered how many other women had waited in this room in centuries past and prayed for victory, or just for survival. How many had felt the agony of a loss too great to bear when the battle was over?

  Guinevere shook off the morbid thought and once again tried to read the words in front of her, but another strident burst from a distant bat
tle horn drew her attention. She laid the open Bible down on a nearby table and walked over to the window that looked to the south, where the battle was raging. There was nothing to see. The fields surrounding the villa were empty, and the forested hills beyond were still, just as they had been an hour earlier.

  * * *

  TALORC WATCHED THE second-floor window from behind the trunk of an oak tree, just outside the low wall that encircled the stone manor. It had taken him over an hour to crawl to the spot, and he was covered in dirt and sweat.

  He didn’t fear discovery by the Queen’s uniformed guards, but he did fear the sharp eyes of the hunter called Torn. The hunter had discovered Talorc’s tracks in the hills outside the Abbey Cwm Hir, despite the care he had taken to avoid detection. From that day forward, the hunter and his dogs had relentlessly pursued his trail, forcing him to spy on the Queen from a greater distance.

  Talorc glanced up at the sky. It was over four hours past sunrise, and he knew a patrol would pass by the tree at around noon. If the Queen didn’t show herself within the next few minutes, he would have to make the slow, perilous crawl back to the forest and then attempt to return later in the afternoon.

  As the Pict reached up to unstring his bow, he heard a distant blast of horns from the battle raging to the south. Glancing up, he saw the Queen appear at the manor’s second-floor window. She stared in the direction of the sound, her beautiful face filled with subdued apprehension. Talorc dipped the tip of an arrow into the small pot of black poison Morgana had given him the day before, nocked the arrow in his bow, and stepped out from behind the tree for his shot.

  As he was releasing the arrow, a second arrow slammed into the tree an inch from his face, causing the Pict to move his bow ever so slightly. The movement saved Guinevere from a kill shot. Instead of plunging into the Queen’s chest, Talorc’s arrow flew to the right, grazing her right arm, just below the shoulder.

  Talorc turned and ran toward the forest line to the south, frantically dodging to the left and the right, in a desperate effort to avoid the arrows flying past him like angry bees. As soon as he reached the cover of the forest, the Pict glanced back and saw the tall, lean hunter who’d been his nemesis for the past month sprinting after him, followed at a distance by three armed men on horseback. Talorc raced down the far side of the hill, leaped upon his horse, and galloped south.

  * * *

  GUINEVERE LOOKED DOWN, stunned to see blood running freely down her arm. A moment later, Cadwyn’s scream suddenly shattered the room’s peace and quiet. The young woman ran to her side and pulled her away from the window. Sister Aranwen sat frozen for a moment in shock and then sprang from her chair and ran to the Queen. She pulled the white linen cloth from around her own neck and pressed it against the wound as she guided the Queen to a small bed on the other side of the room. Then she turned to Cadwyn and said with desperate urgency, “Cadwyn, run and find Merlin! Go!”

  Cadwyn ran to the door and yanked it open, only to find her way blocked by the two guards pressing into the room with their swords drawn. The soldiers froze in the doorway, staring aghast at the Queen’s blood-soaked arm.

  “Get out of the way!” Cadwyn screamed as she shoved her way past the two men. “The Queen has been wounded! I have to find Merlin.”

  As Guinevere sat down on the bed, she gave Sister Aranwen a reassuring smile. “It is only a small wound, Sister. Merlin will see to it.”

  Moments later, she began to shiver, despite the warmth of the day, and her breathing became more labored.

  “Sister, I am going to lie down, I feel … cold,” she said.

  As she lay back, she felt as if every ounce of strength was draining from her body, like blood from a fatal wound. Sister Aranwen nodded and eased her back against the two pillows. Guinevere saw the fear in the other woman’s face, despite her effort to hide it.

  Moments later, Cadwyn reentered the room with Merlin close behind.

  The old Roman stepped past the guards carrying a black wooden box under his arm, and knelt by Guinevere’s side. He slowly eased the linen cloth from her wound. As he did so, his nostrils flared, and he spoke in a whisper, “Wolfsbane.”

  Sister Aranwen’s eyes widened, and Guinevere, feeling her strength steadily ebbing away, looked up at Merlin and said, “Tell me.”

  Merlin opened the black box and drew out two white cloths and a vial of a pale yellow liquid.

  “I believe the arrow was tipped with wolfsbane … a poison, my Queen, and … something else that I haven’t smelled in a long time. A potion from the east.”

  “What does that mean?” Cadwyn said, tears pouring down her face, her eyes frantic.

  “It means we clean and bind the wound, and then we wait,” Merlin said quietly, his face grim.

  Merlin poured the yellow liquid on one of the white cloths, quickly cleaned the wound, and then bound it with the second cloth. Guinevere was surprised when she did not feel any pain from his ministrations. All she felt was a growing coldness within.

  After binding the wound, Merlin drew a blanket over the Queen.

  “Rest, my Queen. All will be well,” Merlin said with calm assurance as he stood. He glanced over at Cadwyn’s stricken face and pointed to the small pitcher on a nearby table and said, “Cadwyn, please take the pitcher and get the Queen some fresh, cool water from the well.”

  Cadwyn grabbed the vessel and raced out the door.

  Guinevere drew the woolen blanket tighter around her as another shiver wracked her body, and shut her eyes for a moment. As she struggled against the growing pain within, she could hear Sister Aranwen and Merlin talking in whispers.

  “Can you save her?” Sister Aranwen asked.

  “Not without a miracle,” Merlin whispered.

  “Then we shall pray for that with all our hearts,” the nun said.

  Guinevere opened her eyes and spoke with difficulty. “Merlin … the look on your face tells me that you have no cure for the poison that even now I can feel taking my life.”

  Merlin’s silence was all the answer Guinevere needed. She looked over at Sister Aranwen.

  “Sister, please bring a parchment and quill. I would have you write a message for me.”

  CHAPTER 32

  THE VALE OF ASHES

  orn’s face had been raked and scored by low-hanging branches as he galloped through the forest in his relentless pursuit of the Pict warrior. An errant rivulet of blood flowed into his left eye, but he ignored it and drove his heels into the horse’s sides yet again, in spite of the animal’s labored breathing. He was almost within bowshot.

  The Pict’s horse raced out of the forest ahead of him and galloped along the eastern rim of the valley, where the two armies were locked in combat below. Torn’s horse emerged from the forest moments later. As the gap between the horses closed, Torn could see the Pict’s objective— a trail that led down the slope to Morgana’s encampment. Six Saxon warriors were galloping up the trail to meet him. The Pict was Morgana’s assassin.

  Torn glanced over his shoulder, knowing he could not take on the Saxons and the Pict alone. The two guardsmen riding after him had not yet emerged from the forest. This left him only one choice. The hunter pulled his horse up short and leaped off, bow in hand. Ignoring the pounding of his heart and the blood partly obscuring his vision, he nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring. The moment he released the shaft, Torn knew the shot was true. The arrow raced toward the center of Pict’s back.

  As if sensing the threat, the Pict wheeled his horse to the right an instant before the arrow struck. The shaft flew past him, striking one of the approaching Saxons in the arm, drawing a scream of pain and rage. For a moment, Torn was sure the enraged Saxons would charge him, but they did not. They formed a circle around the Pict and escorted him back down the hill to the safety of Morgana’s camp.

  A moment later, the other two members of the Queen’s Guard galloped over to Torn and dismounted with their bows at the ready. Torn glanced over at the two younger men, Devyn
and Leith.

  “He’s gone,” Torn said quietly. “The Saxons took him to Morgana’s camp.”

  Leith looked over at Torn. “A prisoner?”

  “No … no. They were sent to protect him. He was surely sent by Morgana, may the devil take her soul,” Torn said in a voice filled with rage and regret.

  A roar from the battle raging on the valley floor below drew Torn’s attention to the contest that would determine Albion’s fate. Two lines of infantry were locked in combat on the floor of the narrow valley. The army of Norse and Saxons arrayed on the south side of the valley was visibly larger than the Queen’s Army on the north, and the Britons were hard pressed, but they could not back up. The north wall of the valley behind them barred further retreat.

  As the hunter and the other two guardsmen watched the battle, mesmerized, a group of six giant Norse warriors furiously attacked the Queen’s shield wall on the right flank, driving the Britons back. Just when it seemed as if the line would break, Sir Percival raced up on his black charger, dismounted, and waded into the Norse attackers with his sword.

  The Knight’s ferocity and skill shocked the hunter. Two of the Norse giants were cut down in seconds, and a third was sorely wounded. The rest of the warriors stepped back and took up a defensive position, unwilling to take on their attacker. As soon as the flank was stabilized, the Knight once again mounted his horse and rode behind men calling out encouragement and looking for new threats.

  Torn wheeled around when he heard the sound of hooves pounding toward him from the rear. It was Lewyn, one of the guards assigned to the Queen’s quarters. The guardsman pulled up his horse a pace away, a desperate look on his face.

  “Torn … the Queen,” Lewyn gasped, “she is near death. The Pict’s arrow was poisoned.”

  “Cannot Merlin save her?” Torn said in a tortured voice.