THE ROAD TO LONDINIUM
apussa sat on a long stone bench, his back resting against the wall of a two-story stone tower that looked as if it had been abandoned for many years. A fire was burning a step away, in the bottom of a dry cistern. The light from the flames illuminated a small courtyard and the ruins of an encircling wall.
The Numidian reached into his cloak and drew out an apple, a gift from one of the farmers they had left in Caer Ceint the day before. He rotated the rich red orb in his hand, weighing whether this was the right time to savor this new and unknown taste. After a moment’s reflection, he decided to defer the pleasure until the morning and returned the apple to his cloak.
Several minutes later, Percival entered the courtyard through a gap in the wall, carrying a load of dry branches. After piling the branches near the edge of the cistern, the Knight walked over and sat down beside Capussa.
“You have camped here before, my friend.” he noted.
Percival nodded. “I was assigned to a force under the command of Sir Gawain, one of the Knights of the Table. We were tasked with destroying a force of pirates and brigands harassing Caer Ceint and the surrounding ports.” He gestured toward the crumbling walls encircling the overgrown courtyard. “On the way, we stopped here for a night. This place was once a way station for the Roman legions and for the imperial post traveling between Dubris and Londinium.”
“You thought well of this man?”
Percival hesitated a moment before answering. “I did. Gawain … he was a wise and good man. I had hoped to see him again … to thank him for his wise counsel. It saved my life more than once during my quest.”
Capussa nodded. “You must speak to me of this another time. Tonight, I would have you tell me of your Queen. Is she young, old, tall, short, beautiful, or not?”
“I have already spoken of this,” Percival said.
“Not so, my friend,” Capussa said, raising a hand in protest. “We have lived, trained, fought, and traveled half the world together, yet in all that time, you have rarely spoken of this Queen Guinevere. You have told me of King Arthur, your fellow Knights of the Table Round, and of your home, but Guinevere … this you have kept to yourself. If that is your will, I shall respect it.”
“Indeed?” Percival said skeptically as he leaned back against the wall, a hint of amusement in his eyes
“However,” Capussa continued in a lecturing tone, “remember, you have tasked me with finding your Queen and giving her your last report in the event the gods take you before your long quest comes to an end. Unless I know—”
“You are right,” Percival said quietly. He reached inside his shirt and gently drew a silver chain over his head. A gold medallion was affixed to the chain. The Knight stared at the medallion for a moment before handing it to his friend.
Capussa cradled the gold medallion in his palm and stared at the image of a woman’s face that a craftsman of consummate skill had imprinted on one side of the coin. He gazed at the fine details of the portrait and then turned the pendant over, revealing an oak tree with a crucifix on the broad trunk.
“It was made by one of the finest craftsmen in the land,” Percival said as he stared up at the stars beginning to appear in the night sky. “It is a likeness of Guinevere when she was twenty-one years of age. She will be ten years older now, if she still lives.” He turned toward Capussa and gestured to the gold medallion. “If I die before my quest is finished, I would ask that you bring this to her. It will identify you as the holder of my last testament.”
Capussa turned the gold piece over again and stared at the image of the woman for a long moment before handing the chain and medallion back to Percival. The Knight gently lifted the chain over his head and returned the gold likeness to its resting place.
“Your Queen will recognize this medallion?”
“Yes, she will surely remember it,” Percival said as he stared into the flames of the campfire.
Capussa looked over at his friend for a long moment and then said quietly, “She gave it to you.”
“She did,” Percival said, nodding slowly as if remembering the moment. “The likeness … it does not do her justice. She is … a most beautiful woman.”
“I see. So, in the event you find yourself upon the wrong end of a sword, my mission is to relieve you of this remembrance and then find a ‘most beautiful woman’ in an unknown land?” Capussa said as he made a sweeping gesture toward the distant horizon. “Unless every other woman in this land is a hag, that task may well be beyond even my abilities. Might you add a few more brush strokes to the picture?”
“I suspect I must,” Percival said in feigned exasperation as he glanced over at Capussa, “or seek refuge in the nearby swamp to obtain a night’s rest.”
For a long moment the Knight was silent, as if drawing a memory from a distant well, and then he spoke in a quiet, reflective voice.
“Her hair is the color of the last rays of the autumn sun, and it flows like a river from her head almost to her waist. Her face is … unforgettable. There is no one feature I can point to, but taken together, the blue eyes, the full red lips, the way that she smiles, it’s … magic. Trust me, my friend, you will know Guinevere when you meet her.”
Capussa frowned slightly. “Knight, you go to a different place when you speak of this woman. Was there—”
“I was one of her guardians. That is all.”
Capussa waited a moment for him to continue, and when he didn’t, the Numidian stood and made a sweeping gesture encompassing the land to the north.
“And where, in this green isle, shall I find this beauteous woman?”
“I cannot say for sure, but I believe she would have taken refuge with her people in the forests to the northwest, about ten to twelve days ride from here. Her ancestral lands are there, and any invader who sought to harm her would find a bowman waiting behind every tree.”
“Show me the way to this place, in the dirt, here,” Capussa said, pointing at a patch of bare ground directly in front of the bench. “Use that stick as your quill.”
Percival picked up the nearby stick and drew an oblong shape in the dirt and then added a series of circles connected by lines. Leaning back to observe his work, he tapped the stick on one of the lines that ran north.
“Here is the Roman road to Londinium. We are just about here,” he said, touching a small circle, “two days’ ride from Londinium. We will pass by the city on the high road. It runs along the south bank of the Tamesis River. From there, we travel northwest to Venonis and then on to Viroconium. We shall seek word of Guinevere there.”
“Very well then,” Capussa said, returning to his place on the bench. “On to Viroconium, and after that … we shall see your home. Tell me of that place. I would know where we shall live out our days in peace, or so you say.”
“I have already spoken of this as well,” Percival said, leaning back against the tower wall and closing his eyes.
Capussa made a gesture with his hand, waving off Percival’s objection.
“So speak of it again. The night is long, and I have only my blanket and a patch of grass to look forward to.”
Percival raised his hands in mock surrender. “As you wish. There is little enough to tell. Where would you have me start?”
“From the beginning,” Capussa said, folding his arms over his chest. “How else would you tell a tale?”
“So be it,” Percival said and picked up the stick he’d dropped on the ground a moment earlier. He tapped one of the circles on the map. “This is Londinium.”
Then he drew another line to a spot on the edge of the shape, to the north. “The lands of my family are here, ten to twelve days’ ride north of the city along the coast. The land and the castle were originally a Roman signal post. When the last Roman commander departed, he awarded the post to the senior centurion, a native-born soldier who’d faithfully served the empire—my distant forbear.”
Capussa nodded. “And the surrounding country? What of that?”
“The castle is located on the point of a headlands. It is surrounded on three sides by the sea. A town of a thousand souls lies just to the south. Beyond that is virgin forest, with an abundance of wildlife. My father and I spent many a day riding and hunting there,” Percival said as he tapped the spot on the map with the stick.
“So how did you come to join this Table that you speak of?”
Percival sighed, “I have—”
“Spoken of this before,” Capussa finished. “So you have, but that was when we were prisoners of that foul creature Khalid El-Hashem. Now that we are free men, and you are in your homeland, your memory will be clear and the story will be so much better.”
Percival slowly shook his head and leaned back against the tower wall. “Very well, my inquisitive friend. When I was a boy, my home was a peaceful and prosperous place. Sometimes, pirates and the wilder inland clans would raid our lands, but my father and his liegemen, supported by the men in the town, were always able to repel them. All of that changed in my fourteenth year.”
Percival was quiet for a moment. Then he stood up and walked over to the edge of the cistern, picked up a branch, and dropped it into the fire, raising a small cloud of sparks.
“That was the year the Norsemen began to raid in their dragonships, in force. At first the raids were small, and the raiders only came once or twice a summer. Four or five ships would come ashore at dawn, and the raiders would seize as many young women and men as they could before we counterattacked. Slaves are the Norsemen’s gold, although they will gladly take the real thing if they can find it. Over time, the raids grew more frequent and the number of ships more numerous. In my fifteenth summer, it seemed as if my sword was only sheathed long enough to bury the dead.”
After a long silence, Percival glanced back at Capussa and said wryly, “I’m waiting for the ‘and then.’”
“And then?” Capussa asked obligingly.
“And then … I remembered something my grandfather had told me. He said that the Roman coastal forts to the south had used a string of signal towers to alert them to the coming of seaborne attacks by the Saxons. I convinced my father we could do the same thing. That winter, my sixteenth year, we built wooden watchtowers on every hill along the coast for three leagues on either side of the town. Then we assembled a force of men to stand ready at all times to take the field against the attackers when the alarm was raised.”
The Knight’s hand closed on the hilt of his sword as he continued the tale.
“When the first raid came the next summer, over forty ships, we were ready. We met the raiders at the shore and drove them back into the sea, setting many of their ships alight with fire arrows. Only half of the ships escaped. More fleets of raiders came, but with each attack, we grew stronger and more deadly. Over time, the raids became less frequent, and then they stopped.”
“You made the price in blood too high,” Capussa said with an approving nod.
“Yes, but we paid a price as well,” Percival said quietly. “My father was killed in a raid. We … I misjudged the point of their landing, and by the time we arrived with the relief force and threw them back into the sea, my father was dead. A year later, my betrothed, the daughter of the liege lord to the south, was killed in a raid.”
Percival paused for a moment and stared out at the dark horizon. When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with regret.
“I was many leagues to the north, so there was nothing I could have done. Yet, when I came to know of her death, I felt as if I had failed her. Today, I would see the truth of it.”
“Would you, Knight?” Capussa questioned, a knowing look on his face. “I suspect not. You are particularly good at shouldering burdens that are not yours to carry. It is a good thing I am here to save you from yourself.”
“I am truly blessed,” Percival said wryly.
“Indeed, you are. Now, tell me how you came to be a Knight of this Round Table.”
“It seems I will indeed have to sleep in yonder swamp to get a moment’s peace,” Percival said over his shoulder as he walked over to his horse, drew out a skin of water from his traveling bag, and took a long drink.
Capussa stood, walked over to the fire, and nudged a flaming ember back over the edge into the stone pit. Then he lifted his hands to the night sky in mock supplication.
“Alas, I must surely have offended a powerful god in one land or another to have been condemned to cross the world with a companion who is as talkative as a rock.”
“As you wish. The rock speaketh again, but for the last time tonight,” Percival said with a smile as he returned to the stone bench.
“Over time, I was able to persuade the lords who held the lands within twenty leagues to the north and south to adopt our tactics and to maintain a force ready to come to the aid of the others, in the event of an attack in force. In my twentieth year, come it did. Over a hundred ships sailed past one of the most northern watchtowers. The fire and smoke signals raised the alarm along the coast, moving from tower to tower, as the raiders continued to sail south.
“The size of the enemy was so great that I rode south with half of my liegemen and picked up additional forces as we passed through the lands of each lord. The outriders I’d sent to shadow the raiders came back at the end of the day and reported our enemies had sailed up the Humber River. That would be here,” Percival said, leaning forward and drawing a line from the coast to an inland circle.
“Once I heard this, I knew that Eburacum, a wealthy city along that river, was the most likely target,” Percival said, tapping the circle with the stick.
“I sent a rider to warn the city of the raid, but the mayor ignored it. At that time, people were unaware of how powerful the Norse raiders had become. Once I knew Eburacum was the target, I told the other coastal lords we had to march inland to protect the city. Some agreed. Some did not. In the end, I was able to march inland with only seven hundred men, but they were good men. Over the previous three years, I had trained them to march together, to form battle lines, and to move as one during battle, on command.”
“I hope,” Capussa said with a frown, “you were a better teacher than I found you to be a student. Otherwise, this tale could have a sad ending, and that, of course, would mean another tale. No soldier should end his day with a sad tale.”
“Then you can be assured this tale will end well,” Percival said with a small smile. “When we arrived at Eburacum the next day, there were over a thousand Norse raiders at the walls, and they’d managed, through stealth, to get a part of their force inside. The city’s guards were able to stem the tide for a time, but the weight of the enemy’s numbers was taking its toll. A part of the Norse raiders stayed to hold the breach in the wall, and the rest, about nine hundred men, turned to engage my force. After several hours of hard fighting, the raiders decided to take what loot they had and return to their ships.”
“Where was the Pendragon and his army during this attack?” Capussa interrupted. “Were there no royal forces available to take the field?”
“Arthur and the kingdom’s main force were far to the south, awaiting an expected attack by a major force of Saxons. I was later told that the Norse and a powerful Saxon warlord had planned the raid together. The Saxons agreed to draw Arthur’s forces south by threatening a raid on Londinium, in order to give the Norse a free hand in the sack of Eburacum. I suspect they’d agreed to split the takings, which would have been very great indeed if they’d succeeded. All of the realm’s gold and silver coins were struck in that city.”
“So, your reward for this great deed was a seat at the Round Table.”
“Well … it just so happened that the Queen was visiting the city when the attack occurred. That might have tipped the scales in my favor.”
“I suspect so,” Capussa said with a chuckle. “Is that where you first met her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must tell of this!” the Numidian demanded.
“No, no,” Percival said. He stood and stretched his arms over his head. “It has been a long day, and I have told enough tales for tonight. I’m going to sleep.”
“Tomorrow night, then.”
“Good night, Capussa.” Percival crossed to his horse, opened the leather travel bag tied to the saddle, and drew out a blanket. Moments later, he was asleep on a patch of grass on the far side of the fire.
Capussa leaned back against the wall of the tower behind him with a rueful smile on his face.
“We have both lived by the sword for a long time,” he whispered, “a very long time indeed, my friend. So I shall pray that you find the peace you seek. However, I do not believe fate will allow you to sheath your sword just yet.”
MORGANA’S DOMAIN
Finn walked slowly down the dusty street, staring at the bodies lying in the road and strewn about the central square of the modest village. Many were headless and one was cut near in half. The sellsword’s gaze came to rest upon Lord Aeron, the leader of the force Morgana had dispatched to destroy the raiders—the man who’d wrought much of this slaughter.
He sat on a stone wall near the well in the center of the village square, cleaning the blood from his sword with a white cloth. Finn had watched this ritual before. Lord Aeron would cleanse the sword of every drop of blood, gore, and dirt with great care. Once this task was finished, he would rinse and wring out the cloth, sometimes three or four times, before returning it to its place beneath the saddle of his great black steed.
Finn had plied the bloody trade of a sellsword for many a master, but he’d never served under a man like Lord Aeron, Morgana’s most feared soldier. Unlike the other men in her force, who, like Finn, wore a motley array of mail shirts and breastplates scavenged from one battlefield or another, Lord Aeron was clad in a full suit of armor forged by a master smith—the battle dress of a knight.
Finn knew enough of metalworking to know that Lord Aeron’s armor had once gleamed like the blade of the deadly sword the knight was diligently cleaning. That finish was no more. From the helm covering Lord Aeron’s head to the greaves protecting his legs and shins, the metal had been scorched a darker, colder hue by a smith with far less skill than its original maker.
The rest of Morgana’s sellswords were on the far side of the square, drinking a round of beer served by the local tavern keeper. Like the rest of the people in the village, the tavern keeper was grateful for their timely intervention. Finn knew Lord Aeron had paid for the rounds, which was odd. There was no need to waste the coin. The innkeeper wouldn’t dare to complain.
Odder still was Lord Aeron’s rule that no one could take anything from nor inflict any harm upon the villagers. The rule rankled some of the newcomers. As far as they were concerned, looting and raping was a part of the wages they were due after a skirmish or a battle like this one. The two men who’d been foolish enough to break this rule a month earlier had lost their heads to Lord Aeron’s sword. After that, there were no further transgressions. Finn hadn’t found the rule to be much of a burden. The witch paid them well for their services.
The now-dead band of brigands responsible for raiding villages within the borders Morgana claimed as her domain had greatly outnumbered Lord Aeron’s force. Before the battle, Finn could tell that some of the newer men feared for the outcome. Finn had not shared their trepidation. He had served under Lord Aeron’s command for more than a year and knew what was about to be unleashed upon Einarr, the Norse raider leading the brigands attacking the village.
Lord Aeron, along with Finn and the more experienced men, had served as the hammer in the attack, slamming into the flank of the raiders. The rest of the men had served as the anvil upon which the brigands had been broken. As always, Lord Aeron had led the charge and attacked the opposing force like an invincible demon king, one that grew stronger with the taking of each life. In moments, even the stoutest of the brigands had been frantically trying to escape the terrible fury of the gleaming sword wielded by the blackened knight wading through their ranks.
The survivors had raced down the narrow lane that ran through the village, seeking safety in the forest beyond, only to have their way blocked by the rest of Lord Aeron’s men. No prisoners had been taken. Morgana had forbid it. A message was being sent.
Finn waited until Lord Aeron had finished cleaning and resheathing his sword before approaching him. Although he had served under the man for more than a year, he’d never seen his face. No one had. The reclusive knight lived and trained alone in the castle’s most remote tower, and whenever he emerged, his face was either hidden within the cowl of his black cloak, or obscured, as now, by his steel helmet. All Finn could discern beneath the helm were a pair of piercing blue eyes, pale skin, and a strong jaw.
Lord Aeron stood as Finn approached, but his gaze was on a little blond girl watching him from the shadow of a darkened doorway. He placed something on the wall behind him before he turned to Finn.
“Your orders, sir?” Finn asked from a respectful distance.
“Is Einarr’s body displayed on the border as I requested?” Lord Aeron asked in a flat, emotionless voice, without turning in his direction.
“Yes, sir, I put it there myself. Hengst’s men will recognize it … even without the head,” Finn said.
Lord Aeron nodded. “Good, then we ride for the castle. With luck, we will be there before dark.”
“Yes, my lord.” Finn bowed and then turned to give the signal to the rest of the men, still drinking outside the tavern. They quickly drained their tankards and hurried to their horses.
As the mounted column of men left the village square, Finn glanced back at the wall beside the well. The little blond girl was reaching for something on the wall, the object placed there by Lord Aeron. Finn watched as the little girl lifted up a straw doll and clasped it to her chest, as if it were a child.
Lord Aeron must have found it on the ground and left it on the wall for the child.