THE TOURNAMENT FIELD IN LONDINIUM
ynric sat on the north side of the tournament arena in one of the upper rows of tiered stone seats. The surrounding crowd of nearly a thousand strong was quiet, submissive, and clearly afraid of the ten armed men standing along the wall that separated the stands from the tournament field below. Most of the people around the archer were men, but there were some women and even a few children.
The guards, who ranged from Norse warriors to common brigands, were armed with an array of poorly maintained swords, axes, and clubs. Four of them were sharing a large skin of mead, and the other six looked as if they’d been dragged out of bed after a hard night of drinking. Only one of the guards seemed interested in the crowd. His eyes were fixed on a young woman whose long, blond tresses had accidentally strayed from beneath the hood of her brown cloak, drawing the man’s attention.
Cynric glanced quickly over at Tylan and his other men. They’d taken up positions throughout the stands that would enable them to quickly kill the guards near the wall and then provide protective cover for Sir Percival. His gaze returned to the tournament field just as two of Hengst’s men walked through a gate, half dragging a young woman of perhaps sixteen years. Their entrance was met with a roar from the boisterous crowd of Norse warriors and local brigands seated in the rows of stone seats encircling the south side of the field. The woman in the brown cloak seated below Cynric started to rise when the captive was brought into the arena, but the larger cloaked figure sitting beside her quickly pulled her back down.
The two men led the captive young woman to the tall wooden post in the center of the field and bound her hands to an iron ring embedded in the wood. After she was secured, the smaller of her two captors tried to embrace her, but she kicked him with surprising strength, and he dropped to his knees in pain. This drew a howl of laughter from the men in the reviewing stand on the other side of the field. When the man recovered, he stood up and raised a hand to strike the woman, but his larger companion yanked him away from the woman and pushed him toward the gate they had entered moments earlier.
A murmur went through the crowd in front of him, and for a moment, Cynric couldn’t see what they were looking at. Then he saw Keil. He and two other bound men were being roughly herded onto the field by two guards whose dress and crude weaponry marked them as common brigands. The captive to Keil’s right was a tall, thin man on the edge of middle age. Cynric suspected he was a farmer, with a wife and a brood of children at home. The second captive, on Keil’s left, was short, square, and balding, and although he looked as though he might be able to defend himself, the ample belly overhanging his worn leather belt made it clear he would have no chance against Hengst.
When Keil glanced back at the people in the stands, the guard behind him shoved him, and he stumbled and fell. The brigand kicked him as he scrambled back to his feet, drawing a gasp of pain from the young man. Cynric gripped the long wooden bow hidden inside his cloak in quiet rage and promised himself that the man would be one of the first to die.
One of the brigands called out a guttural command, and the three captives stopped a step outside the ring of stones. Keil glanced over at the bound young woman, drawing another blow from the man behind him.
“Don’t look over there, dog. You’ll be spitted on Hengst’s sword long before your grubby—”
The man’s bellow was cut short by a cacophony of horns, followed by the opening of the main gate to the tournament field.
Cynric was surprised when Hengst walked through the gate without any ceremonial entourage, but then he decided the Norseman didn’t need one. A man who’d once seen the Norse warrior up close had told Cynric that Hengst’s face was his most terrifying feature, and now Cynric understood why. The Norseman’s mane of reddish-blond hair framed a bulging forehead, a broad face, and a massive jaw. An outsized bony ridge formed a roof over two blazing grey-blue eyes, a broad, flat nose, and a cruel, thin mouth. A red scar ran from the Norseman’s missing right ear across his cheek to the cleft of his jaw. The wound had taken a part of the giant’s upper lip and red mustache, giving his face a permanent snarl.
The Norseman stood over twenty-one hands tall, weighed more than twenty stone, and despite the tales told of his legendary bouts of drinking, eating, and wenching, he had lost none of his physical might. The bulging muscles in the warlord’s massive arms and legs rippled under his pale skin as he strode across the field.
The giant wore black leather boots, fine woolen breeches, and a heavy leather jerkin, but no chest armor. His forearms were protected by black gauntlets, but his upper arms, which were heavily scarred, were bare to the shoulder. A blackened steel shield was slung across his right shoulder, held in place by a leather strap. In his right hand, the Norseman held a long steel sword, the blade of which was resting on his right shoulder. In his left hand, he held a massive two-bladed axe, the neck of which rested on his left shoulder.
Cynric’s gaze returned to Keil and the other prisoners and the woman tied to the post. He could almost feel their terror across the dirt expanse separating them. Keil and the other three men tried to step back as the giant approached, but the brigands behind shoved them into the ring of stones encircling the center of the field.
When the Norseman reached the post in the center of the ring, he stopped a mere foot from the visibly trembling young woman and towered over her in silence. Then he let out a roar and buried the two-bladed axe in the wooden post just above her head. She screamed as if her arms were being torn from her body and then collapsed, sobbing hysterically.
As soon as the axe struck the wood, the crowd of Norsemen in the southern stands bellowed their approval. Cynric stared at the unruly mass of men. He knew they would pour onto the field seeking vengeance if Percival vanquished the monster now parading around the stone circle, with his shield and sword raised in triumph above his head. The archer quickly assessed his targets.
There were nearly two hundred men, and an equal or greater number of women. Less than half of the men were Norse warriors, and many of them were either drunk or working toward that goal. The rest were a motley collection of outlaws and brigands, men who served as Hengst’s tax collectors in return for a share of the scraps from his table. Cynric had told his men to focus their fire upon the Norse warriors. If they were killed or broken, the others would flee.
After three trips around the circle, the Norse giant stopped in the center and bellowed out his challenge.
“People of Londinium, I am Hengst the Butcher, Lord of Londinium and Southern Albion. Anyone who would challenge my rule, step forward, and try to take my beautiful head.”
The crowd in the far stands howled at the joke and then fell silent as Hengst continued.
“If you can defeat me, this woman shall be your slave, and you may have my kingdom—if you have the might to hold it against my kin.”
Hengst finished by pointing to the men and women in the far stands who thundered, “Never!”
Then the Norseman turned and faced Cynric and the people of Londinium sitting around him. His eyes roved over the silent crowd with scorn.
“And who among you would challenge me today? Who?” the giant bellowed.
Cold fury raged through the Archer, but he sat unmoving. When no response was made, the crowd in the far stand screamed insults and taunts as their champion stood awaiting. Then the boisterous cacophony suddenly subsided, and the tournament field grew quiet.
Hengst stood for a moment, appearing confused by the sudden stillness, and then turned around. His eyes widened.
Cynric followed the Butcher’s gaze. A man had entered the field from another gate. He was walking toward the stone ring.
It was Sir Percival.
* * *
PERCIVAL SILENTLY WATCHED the Norseman’s arrogant display from an archway on the west side of the tournament field, unseen in the shadows, and gauged the reaction of the crowds on both sides of the arena. He had heard raucous cheers and taunts like those of the Norsemen many times before in another arena on the other side of the world, just as he had watched many a gladiator revel in this adulation, only to die moments later. This was of no moment to him. What mattered on this day was not the clamor on the south side of the arena, but the silence on the north.
His gaze touched on the faces of the people of Londinium, staring at the cruel spectacle unfolding before them. Over the centuries, they had endured plagues, fires, and invasions, and yet each time, they had retaken and rebuilt what was theirs. Unlike Cynric, Percival did not believe their silence bespoke despair, but instead cloaked a terrible rage—a rage he intended to unleash.
Percival waited until the Norse giant had bellowed out his challenge before he emerged from the archway and started across the arena. The hood of Bray’s tattered traveling cloak hid his helmet. The rest of the garment covered his gauntleted forearms, the polished steel shield affixed to his left forearm, and the coat of arms emblazoned on the white tabard he wore underneath. The only evidence of a weapon was the pommel of the sword, just visible through a hole in the cloth near his waist.
He stopped ten paces from the ring of stones, shrugged off the wineskin draped across his right shoulder, and turned to the stands filled with Hengst’s supporters.
“I challenge,” he called out in a loud, clear voice.
Then he turned to the stands where the people of Londinium were watching him, with a mixture of incredulity and hope, and spoke in a loud and defiant voice.
“I challenge on behalf of the good people of Londinium. I stand in their stead, every man, woman, and child.”
When he finished, Percival turned to face Hengst, his visage only partially visible under the hood, and called out in a voice that carried no hint of fear, “Do you accept my challenge?”
The Norseman stared at Percival for a moment and then threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter, drawing a round of laughs and screams for blood from the crowd in the stands across the field. The people on the north side of the field were deathly silent. After enjoying the moment, the Norseman’s amusement turned to disdain.
“Step forward, you drunken beggar, that I may take your head, and then,” he turned to Keil and the other two men, “I shall spit the three of you, making it a foursome.”
Percival looked at the Norseman for a long moment, and then he made the sign of the cross. Hengst sneered, “Your prayers will not help you now, dog. Your life was mine the moment you entered this arena.”
“My prayer was not for me, Norseman, but for you,” Percival said quietly as he stepped into the ring of stones and drew his sword.
As he began to circle the larger man, he remembered Capussa’s words of advice: “You cannot kill this man too quickly. The crowd will see it as mere chance. You must defeat him in a way that destroys what he stands for.” Percival knew his Numidian friend was right. Survival alone would not bring victory. He had to rip away Hengst the Butcher’s cloak of invincibility, cast it into the dust, and trample it underfoot. Only this would spark the uprising he needed.
The Norseman made a show of leisurely taking the blade of his sword off his shoulder and lowering his shield. Then he exploded across the circle, bellowing a battle cry. His upraised sword sliced downward in a strike that would have cleaved Percival’s body from shoulder to waist had it landed.
The Knight sprang forward and to the right the instant the Norse warrior began his rush. As the giant raced past him, Percival smashed his buckler shield into the side of his head with bone-crushing force. The blow rocked the Norseman, and he stumbled and dropped to one knee. When he regained his balance and turned to face his opponent, blood flowed down the side of his face and one knee was covered in dust and blood. Percival waited in the middle of the circle for the Norseman to recover. He wheeled his sword in a circle, in a single fluid movement, inviting the giant to attack him again.
“Who are you?” the enraged Norseman roared as he warily circled his opponent in a fighting crouch.
Percival drew off his hood and unhooked the clasp at his neck. Bray’s cloak fell to the ground, revealing a white tabard emblazoned with a black circle, anchored with a white cross. A ring of swords encircled the cross. The largest and brightest of the swords bore the word Excalibur.
A murmur surged through the crowd on the north side of the arena, and people began to stand up and push forward. An old man in front yelled out, “It’s the mark of the Table!”
“I,” Percival answered in a voice that could be heard by every ear, “am Sir Percival of the Round Table, and I call upon you, Hengst, to account for your foul deeds. Yield and face the King’s justice, and you may be spared.”
The giant stared at Percival, the surprise on his face turning to a black rage. He spat in the dirt and pointed to the wall on his left.
“Do you see that sack of rags and bones hanging from the wall? Sir Dinadan he called himself … said he was a Knight of your precious Table, he did. I killed him, slowly. He died begging for his life, just like you will.”
Percival glanced over the Norseman’s shoulder at the remains of the body hanging from a crude hook in the far wall. The ravages of weather, and the teeth and claws of carrion, had rendered the body unrecognizable, but he could still make out the faint symbol of the Table on the now tattered and frayed tabard.
A picture of Dinadan, the dead and now defiled Knight, flashed through Percival’s mind. His brother Knight had been a square powerful man, always smiling and laughing when attending the many celebratory dinners held at court. Percival remembered the man’s petite and quiet wife, a Lady from Londinium. Dinadan must have been wounded at Camlann and then come to the aid of his adopted city once he had recovered.
Rage surged through Percival, but he mastered its power as quickly as it swept over him. Anger was a two-edged sword—one side of its blade made a warrior quicker and stronger, but the other made him precipitate and predictable. Hundreds of brutal training sessions with Capussa and the Mongol, Batukhan, had given him the ability to harness its power, while avoiding its weakness.
Percival forced a smile to his face and spread his arms wide as he circled the giant and spoke scornfully, his voice carrying across the field.
“Then come, Hengst, the butcher of farmers, tradesmen, women, and children; come and kill me. Or has Hengst the thief, rapist, and murderer grown fat killing the weak and innocent? Could it be that your arms have become as frail as your face is ugly? No? Then come and prove otherwise to the rabble over there that licks your boots!” Percival pointed his sword at Hengst’s supporters as he finished, drawing howls of rage.
Fury swept over the Norseman’s face, and he moved toward Percival, striking his sword against his shield. As he approached, Percival circled to the left and then to the right and then quickly back to the left again, forcing the giant to change his stance each time he moved. Hengst’s movements and his prior attack had disclosed a weakness. The Norseman was explosively quick in a linear attack, but he lacked the skill to adapt to rapid lateral movements.
Hengst closed to within four yards of Percival and once again rushed him, but this time he was more cautious, swinging his sword in a more controlled horizontal strike at Percival’s chest. Percival moved away from the blow, but he was forced to use both his shield and sword to stop the Norseman’s blade from cutting him down.
The impact of the clash momentarily numbed his shield arm and sent a lancing pain through his left shoulder. He bought a moment’s respite by stabbing his sword at the Norseman’s face, forcing him to step backward. After the exchange, Percival knew he couldn’t continue to trade blows with Hengst and wear him down. His blade was half the weight of the Norseman’s, and the power behind the giant’s strokes was so great any single blow could disable him, even if he was able to parry it. He would have to defeat the Norseman quickly using a high-risk maneuver the giant would not suspect.
As Percival circled to Hengst’s right, he watched the giant’s feet, knowing from the last two rushes that the Norseman would partially rise from his crouch a second before he lunged, and lead with his left leg. The second his opponent committed himself to a third charge, Percival threw himself forward in a dive that flowed into a roll. Hengst struggled to alter his own direction and, at the same time, change the path of his sword to strike his foe, but neither effort succeeded. Percival blocked the sword stroke with the shield on his left forearm and slashed the giant’s left thigh as he passed, drawing a scream of rage and pain.
As the Knight completed his roll and came to his feet behind him, the Norseman pivoted on his wounded left leg and wheeled around, swinging a crushing stroke at Percival’s head. Percival knew he was too close to escape the sweep of Hengst’s sword, so he wheeled inward, bringing himself within a foot of the giant, dropped to one knee, and plunged his sword in a reverse stroke into the giant’s chest with all of his strength. Hengst’s face contorted in shock, and his sword fell to the ground.
Percival stood and ripped his sword from the giant’s chest. For a moment, the Norseman stood facing him, his face a mixture of rage and disbelief, then he dropped to his knees and fell face-first into the dirt. A silence fell over the tournament field, and then cries of rage exploded from the Norse in the southern stands. Percival stepped over the body of Hengst the Butcher and walked toward the two brigands standing behind Keil. The Knight wheeled his sword in a circle with practiced ease as he approached. The two men hesitated and then ran for the main gate. Percival cut the captive men’s bonds, nodded to Keil, and then pointed to the woman tied to the post.
“Keil, free the girl, quickly.”
As Keil ran toward the woman, men armed with swords warily entered the tournament field through the main gate—Hengst’s men.
Percival knew his rescue was about to become a desperate battle of retreat, unless the people in the north stands joined him. He strode toward them and then stopped and pointed to the armed Norsemen walking through the gate.
“People of Londinium,” he shouted to the shocked and exultant faces staring at him in awe, “Albion is your land, and this city is your home! I call upon you to join me and take it back from these wolves. I, Sir Percival of the Table, call upon you to rise and take back what is yours! Rise!” Percival thundered.
Cynric, Tylan, and the rest of the men bellowed their approval and leaped out of their seats, running toward the guards waiting in the first row with swords drawn. Cynric shouted to the men and women around him. “There’s a thousand of us and less than two hundred of them! Rise and crush them!”
One of the guards started toward Cynric, sword drawn, but he stopped midstep as an arrow from Tylan’s bow struck his chest, knocking him over the wall onto the tourney field below. There was a moment of hesitation, and then it was as if a dam broke. The people of Londinium surged forward, threw the remaining guards over the wall, and jumped down to the tournament field.
The closest of Hengst’s men raced toward Percival with swords drawn, and the Knight turned to meet them. The first two men fell to the ground in rapid succession, pinioned by arrows from Capussa’s bow. Seconds later, Cynric and all of his men rhythmically sent arrow after arrow into the throng of shocked Norsemen. The more hardened warriors continued to run forward, but most of the men, who were common brigands, slowed, and some retreated as the men from the Londinium stands surged toward them, screaming for blood.
Two of the Norse warriors reached Percival; he dodged a blow from one and cut down the second. As he whirled to meet a second attack, he saw the man was already falling to the ground, cut down by Capussa’s blade. He and the Numidian then turned to face the rest of the Norse, but the attack had been broken.
The exultant crowd chased the survivors out of the main gate and into the streets beyond. As word of Hengst’s death spread, the crowd swelled and surged through the streets, killing or subduing the remainder of Hengst’s men.
Capussa walked over to Percival and pointed his sword at the slain giant.
“You have grown soft, Knight. For a moment there, I thought he had you.”
“For a moment there, I thought he did too,” Percival said, a small smile coming to his face. “Thank God I remembered Batukhan’s reverse stroke.”
“Bah! Your life was saved by the footwork and positioning that I taught you. That and relentless training!”
Percival laughed and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Whether it was both or neither, I am glad to be alive. Now, let us see if the good people of Londinium need any help with the rest of Hengst’s brood, and then,” Percival said, his smile fading as he turned to look at the remains of Sir Dinadan, “I have to bury one of my brothers.”