MORGANA’S DOMAIN
organa tied the reins of her horse to a yew tree just below the crest of a hill and continued her ascent to the top on foot. She scanned the thick, virgin forest surrounding the narrow trail with a measure of unease. The Pict warrior hidden in the woods at the top of the hill was a merciless killer, and this was his domain. He lived in the forest, like any other animal—eating, sleeping, and hunting for his daily fare.
Although she detested the man, Morgana had used the Pict’s services before. He was a useful tool. He was also a very dangerous one. Unlike other men, the Pict had little interest in silver or gold and even less interest in power. He followed his own set of rules, and if you transgressed them, death was immediate.
Morgana paused just below the crest and nocked an arrow in her bow before walking up to the clearing above. She knew her guards would never get there in time if the meeting did not go as planned. She stood at the edge of the small clearing and waited in silence. She could feel the Pict’s eyes on her, but she could not see him. Suddenly, a wiry man of middle height, dressed in animal skins, emerged from the forest wall thirty yards away, as if emerging from an unseen door. Brown, black, and green markings adorned almost every patch of the Pict’s exposed skin, including his bald head.
Two knives were sheathed in the leather belt at his waist. The Pict used the long knife for killing and the shorter knife for skinning his kills, both animal and human. Morgana had seen his handiwork. The hunter’s bow gripped in the warrior’s right hand was painted black, as was the arrow nocked loosely in its bowstring. The fletching at the end of each of the Pict’s arrows was dyed a bright blue.
The warrior hesitated a step outside the forest wall, sniffing the air like an animal and extending his tongue, as if he could taste the presence of an enemy, before walking across the space that separated them. He stopped five paces from Morgana, his coal black eyes sweeping every inch of her body. After finishing his inspection, the Pict nodded and spoke in a quiet, heavily accented voice, “You have need of me, Roman?”
“Yes.”
“Are you prepared to pay my price?”
“And what is that?”
“The same as before, two wagons of grain for my people, and … a life, for sacrifice.”
Morgana could care less about the blood price demanded by the Pict, but she decided to resist the demand. An animal had no right to bargain for human blood.
“You can have the grain, and then some, but not the life.”
The Pict smiled, exposing teeth that had been dyed black and filed to points.
“Then our time is at an end,” he said and began to back away, his eyes never leaving Morgana’s.
“Why, Pict,” Morgana said coldly, irritated by the man’s temerity, “do you need a human sacrifice?”
The Pict smiled again. “Why do you care, Roman? You have sent many souls into the darkness. What is one more?”
Morgana’s eyes narrowed, and the two stared at each other in silence. Then the Pict’s smile vanished, and he spoke in a quiet voice laced with anger.
“When your legions first invaded our lands, the rivers ran red with the blood of my people. Their spirits will haunt me if I perform a service for you. Only the sacrifice of a man or woman will suffice to atone for my wrong.”
Morgana stared at the man, wondering idly if she could draw and release the arrow nocked in her bow and kill him before he reached her. For some reason, she suspected the Pict would win the contest, and his eyes told her that he knew this as well.
“The price will be paid, Talorc.”
A flash of rage rippled across the Pict’s face, and he spoke in a hiss, “Do not say my name, Roman. My ancestors will hear you, and they will curse me for not killing you. The blood price for lifting that curse would be far higher than even you can bear.”
“Threaten me again,” Morgana said slowly and softly, emphasizing each word, “and I will see that you join those precious ancestors of yours before the sun sets.”
For a moment, the Roman princess thought the Pict would attack her, and she tightened her grip on her nocked bow, but then he smiled without humor.
“I will join them soon enough. Now, tell me what you would have me do. I have far to travel before the sun sets.”
* * *
LORD AERON HAD learned of Morgana’s secret meeting in the usual way. Whenever his master intended to secretly leave the castle before dawn, Leofric, Morgana’s Saxon guard, would order old Tom to wake him when he rose to milk the cows. Once Lord Aeron had discovered this practice, he’d offered Tom a silver coin if he would leave his staff outside his hut on the night before, instead of taking it inside.
Lord Aeron had left the castle four hours before dawn, through a passage unknown to Morgana, a passage he’d learned of more than a decade earlier from the lord of the castle’s daughter. After emerging from the passageway on the far side of the wall, clothed in the simple attire of a woodsman, he’d traveled on foot to a nearby farmhouse, where a horse was waiting for him.
From there, the knight rode to the crest of a hill, half a league distant, and waited. He knew Morgana had a practice of meeting with her spies in one of two locations. One was visible from the north side of the hill, the other from the south. He would not know which slope to ascend until she passed this spot.
After dismounting from his horse, the knight took a seat on a rock that gave him a view of the trail below. As he watched the stars descend in the clear night sky, the memory of a distant summer night drifted through the iron bars he’d forged around the past, like a cool morning fog.
It was the summer Guinevere had come to stay in her uncle’s manor, a half league away from his family’s ancestral home. He remembered being surprised at her beauty when they were first introduced at the formal welcoming dinner, but he had kept his distance. Like everyone else in the kingdom, he knew she was betrothed to the King, and he had known many beautiful women, some more beautiful than Guinevere. They had always been at his beck and call. Being denied this one woman had seemed a matter of no moment at the time.
Over the next three months, his feelings had changed. A flame had begun to grow inside him with each outing and social gathering, one he had never felt before—one that shook him to the core of his being. In an effort to extinguish the growing maelstrom within, he had thrown himself into his training, caroused with his friends until dawn, and spent many a night abed with other women. It had all been for naught. His days and nights were haunted by her enchanting laugh, mesmerizing smile, and noble soul.
On the night before her parting, he remembered sitting on a hill like this one, hidden in the shadows, watching her stroll alone through her uncle’s walled gardens in the moonlight. He could hear the soft notes from an old melody being played within the manor as they drifted over the wall and into the forest, carried on the warm breeze.
When the golden-haired Queen-to-be reached a marble circle hidden from the sight of those within the manor by a fountain, she paused to listen to the music. After swaying back and forth for a moment, she turned, bowed to an imaginary partner, a sad smile on her face, and began to dance. He remembered standing, as if in a trance, and matching her graceful steps and pirouettes on the worn forest path in front of him, as if he were her partner in the dance below.
When the song ended, Guinevere bowed in his direction, unaware of his presence, less than a stone’s throw distant, but an eternity away. He had made the answering bow and watched her walk back into the manor, knowing it would be the last time he would see her before the royal wedding. The flame within had begged him to scale the wall and to take her to some faraway place, where they could be together, but in the end, he had done nothing. There was nothing to be done. Fate had already chosen Guinevere’s path, and he was powerless to change it.
An hour before dawn, the pounding of hooves drew the knight’s mind back to the present, and he watched Morgana, accompanied by Leofric and five other men, veer northward. He took a final look at the sky before leading his horse down the trail toward the north slope of the hill.
An hour later, Lord Aeron saw Morgana proceeding to the meeting place alone. As he watched from his vantage point atop the hill, a Pict warrior emerged from the far side of the clearing wearing a patchwork of animal skins. The knight noticed that both Morgana and the Pict were carrying bows, and arrows had been nocked in both weapons. The two talked for a quarter of an hour, and then the Pict left. As the painted warrior walked back into the forest, Lord Aeron noticed that the fletching on the arrows in the quiver on his back were a bright blue.
THE ROAD TO LONDINIUM
Percival checked his saddle one last time and turned back to the campsite. Cynric was talking to four of his men on the other side of the clearing. In the hour after sunrise, the archer and some of his men had met with a group of merchants in the forest south of Londinium and sold the bags of flour and beans they had carried with them on their trip. Now that the trade was done, Percival expected Cynric and his men to return to their camp to the south with the goods they had acquired from Londinium’s tradesmen.
As Percival watched, four of Cynric’s men mounted and headed south down the forest trail. The rest walked their horses over toward the Knight, with Cynric in the lead. Percival frowned and walked over to Capussa. The Numidian was sitting on a nearby rock sharpening his sword.
“What is this?” he asked, gesturing to the four horsemen leaving the camp. “Cynric and the rest of the men should be leaving as well. This is our agreed place of parting.”
Capussa smiled but didn’t look up.
A moment later, Cynric and seven of his men stopped a pace away. “Why aren’t you returning home with your other men?” Percival asked.
Cynric glanced at the departing men and then looked back at Percival. “We will return home, but later. We travel with you to find the Queen.”
Percival shook his head. “Archer, I cannot burden you and your men with the perils and hardships of this journey.”
Cynric nodded, his face set. “I know that, Sir Knight, but each of us has made our decision. We will travel with you.”
Capussa sheathed his sharpened sword, walked over to Percival, and gripped him by the shoulder.
“Well, then, we are a party of ten. A good number, I think.”
Percival looked over at the Numidian skeptically. “And you, of course, knew nothing of this?”
Capussa shrugged, barely restraining a smile, then he turned to the archer, ending further argument. “So, my friend, shall we get started on our quest to find Queen Guinevere?”
Cynric and Capussa exchanged amused looks, and the archer turned to Percival.
“Is that acceptable to you, sir?”
Percival looked at each of the men who’d volunteered to share the perils of such a journey and then answered, “I would be proud to travel in such company.”
Cynric turned to Tylan. The other man stepped forward.
“We had planned to take the road just ahead, on the south side of the Tamesis past the city, but the men from Londinium we bartered with this morn said two bands of Hengst’s reavers are spread out along the road collecting taxes. So we must cross the Tamesis and take the road and trails on the north side of the city. We’ll pass within sight of the north wall.”
“Is it wise to travel so close to the city?” Percival questioned. “Today is tournament day,” Tylan said, glancing at Cynric. “We should be able to pass by without being noticed.”
“Tournament day?”
“It’s something that Hengst holds in the old tournament stadium every month,” Cynric answered, his face tight. “He forces the people of the city to attend. The distraction will help us.” Then he nodded for Tylan to continue.
“There is a boatman awaiting us. He will take us to the north side of the river. The fog is heavy this morning, so we should be able to get across without being seen. Once we’re north of Londinium, we’ll stay off the main roads until we reach Corinium. We should be able to avoid the bands of brigands that serve as Hengst’s tax collectors in that area. From there, we can take the Roman roads most of the way to the abbey.”
Percival gave Tylan a solemn nod and said, “Then let us pray for a safe passage and begin our journey.”
FOREST ROAD EAST OF LONDINIUM
Percival eased his horse down the forest trail, following Cynric and Tylan. Capussa and the rest of Cynric’s men followed behind. The winding trail was so narrow they had to ride in single file, and on one long stretch they had been forced to dismount and lead their horses to avoid the thick canopy of branches and foliage overhanging the path.
Four hours after dawn, Tylan led the party of men to a small clearing hidden from the trail and dismounted. He walked over to the other men and pointed to the north. “Ten or so of Hengst’s men are on the road about a furlong up ahead. The trail is visible from the road there. We can wait and hope they move on, or we can try to climb over that hill.”
Percival looked over at the hill on their right. The slope was steep and thickly wooded at the bottom, but the tree line ended sixty or more paces from the crest. The Knight shook his head. “Let’s wait and see if they move along.”
Cynric and Capussa nodded in agreement. After the party had dismounted and tied their horses to a nearby tree, Tylan glanced around the clearing and growled, “Where is that boy? I swear—”
His tirade was cut off by the sight of one of Cynric’s men sprinting up the trail toward the clearing, fear etched across his face. Capussa and Cynric reached for their bows at the same time, and Percival grasped the hilt of his sword. The man stumbled to a stop a pace away from Tylan, gasping for breath.
“The Norsemen have taken Keil! He … went after a rabbit … they saw him … ran him down with the horses. He’s alive … but I heard them talking … they’re taking him to the tournament.”
A wave of emotions crossed Tylan’s face from rage, to fear, and finally to anguish.
Cynric stared at his friend for a long moment and then looked off into the forest when he spoke. “Tylan, I know the boy is your brother’s son, but—”
Tylan lowered his head and nodded, his face ashen.
Percival stepped over to the two men. “What is this ‘tournament’ of which you speak?”
Cynric gestured toward a small rise on the far side of the clearing, his face grim. “Come, you can see the tournament field from up there.”
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?”