ABBEY CWM HIR
ister Aranwen moved from one chair in the sitting room out-Guinevere’s personal quarters to a second chair beside the window where the light was better, and once again tried to thread a string of yarn through the eye of an old wooden needle. Her vision was still as sharp as ever, but her fingers were no longer as dexterous as they used to be, making the task a daily struggle. At the moment when success seemed certain, the outer door to the room burst open, and Cadwyn ran in, whereupon she whirled about, pantomiming a sword fight.
Sister Aranwen was so shocked she dropped both her knitting needles and ball of yarn on the floor. For an instant, she watched the younger woman whirl about the room and then erupted.
“Cadwyn Hydwell! I swear by all the saints you will be the death of me! What is it you are doing?”
Cadwyn ignored the demand and continued to strike to the left and the right with her invisible sword, punctuating each blow with the cry, “He is invincible!”
Sister Aranwen put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to reprimand the young woman. Before she could say a word, Guinevere, drawn by the commotion, opened the door to the library and walked into the room. The nun quickly curtsied and then pointed to the whirling Cadwyn, who was still unaware of the Queen’s presence.
“I fear she has finally lost her mind, Milady, but then, I’m not surprised.”
Cadwyn stopped suddenly in the midst of another whirl, her face flushed as she curtsied to the Queen. “Milady! Forgive me … I … I ran all the way from the stables. It’s wonderful!”
Guinevere gestured to the pitcher of water and goblets resting on the nearby table.
“Please, Cadwyn, have a drink of water.”
“Yes, please do,” Sister Aranwen said wryly. “Maybe that will bring you back to your senses.”
Cadwyn ignored the water and spoke in a torrent. “Milady, Sir Percival … it is he! He, he challenged Hengst the Butcher in Londinium on tournament day. He demanded that the Norseman yield to the King’s justice or face his sword.”
The bemused smile on Guinevere’s face faded, and she raised a hand to her lips.
“No. That cannot be. He—”
Cadwyn, seeing her distress, rushed on. “Milady, Sir Percival slew the Butcher before all the people of Londinium … and then he called upon them to rise up … and … and, Milady, the people … they heeded his call! Londinium is free!”
Sister Aranwen’s eyes widened, and she looked over at Guinevere.
The Queen was staring at her young friend, a look of confusion on her face. “Free? I don’t understand.”
Cadwyn rushed over to Guinevere, an exultant smile on her face. “Milady, the people rose up and took over the city! Hengst’s men … they’re either dead or captured, or they just ran away. Londinium is free! It is free!”
Trembling, Guinevere slowly sat down in one of the chairs beside the table. Sister Aranwen hurried to sit next to her, laying one hand upon the Queen’s arm.
“Cadwyn, who … who told you of this?” Guinevere asked, the disbelief evident in her voice.
“Harri told me.”
Guinevere shook her head. “Harri?”
Cadwyn rushed on. “Milady, you told me to send three messengers to seek out Sir Percival. Harri—he’s one of Torn’s men—was one of the three. He stopped in Isca to stay the night, and the town was aflame with the good tidings. So he raced back here to tell us.”
Guinevere stared at the young woman, her face frozen, and then she slowly slid to her knees beside the chair and clasped her hands together in prayer.
“Thank God, thank God! Please, let us give thanks.”
Sister Aranwen gazed upward to heaven, not knowing if she was more grateful for the news or for the shining look on Guinevere’s face. Both were beautiful. She bowed her head then and felt Cadwyn kneel beside her.
After several minutes, Cadwyn whispered loudly, “Milady, there is more.”
Sister Aranwen scowled at the interruption and continued to pray, but when Guinevere made the sign of the cross and resumed her place at the table, the nun quickly stood and resumed her seat as well. For the first time in many a year, she felt a flicker of hope, but she kept any hint of the inner feeling from her face.
Cadwyn jumped up and took the seat across from the two women.
“Please,” Guinevere said calmly, placing both hands on the table in front of her, “tell me everything.”
The young woman opened her mouth to continue her story, but instead, struck her petite fists down on the arms of the chair and said, “Milady, he is invinc—”
“Cadwyn Hydwell, we have heard that!” Sister Aranwen interrupted. “Now please, tell us the rest of the bloody story.”
Guinevere’s eyes widened, and she restrained a smile. “Yes, please go on, my dear.”
“Yes, Milady,” she said, chastened for a moment, and then continued in a rush.
“Harri said that Hengst holds a tournament in the city every month. He forces the people in the city to come to it. He always ties a woman to a post in the middle of the tournament field and threatens to give the woman to his men unless someone comes to defend her. This time, Sir Percival walked out on the field and took up the challenge. They say he wore a knight’s tabard with the sign of the Table!”
Cadwyn stopped to draw in breath and then continued. “There was a terrible battle, and Sir Percival struck down the Butcher with a mighty blow. Then … then he turned to the people of Londinium in the stands, and he ordered them to rise up against their oppressors, and they did. Harri said there were bowmen in the stands—they were Sir Percival’s men. The bowmen and the rest of the crowd leaped onto the tournament field and killed Hengst’s men. Then the whole city rose up!”
Sister Aranwen sat on the edge of her chair, for once mesmerized by the younger woman. Guinevere was staring at her handmaiden, rapt with attention.
“And then what?” the nun prodded.
After a moment of hesitation, Cadwyn leaned over and said conspiratorially, “He is coming.”
Guinevere frowned. “Who is coming?”
“Sir Percival, Milady!” Cadwyn jumped out of her chair, her eyes exultant. “He comes here. The messenger said he is coming north at great speed. He travels with the man from Africa that Captain Potter spoke of, and others have joined him along the way. The people in Isca told Harri that his ranks grow with every league he rides.”
“Who are these people?” Guinevere asked.
“Harri said they’re just common folk. They come from the forests, the towns, and the villages. He does not call for them, but they come anyway.”
Guinevere stood and walked to the window and then spoke in a quiet voice. “Arthur said that Percival would return. He left me a note before he took the field at Camlann. I didn’t find it until months later. It was in a box of personal things I kept hidden. I … I didn’t think he knew about it. At first, I hoped and prayed what he prophesied would come true, but … as the years passed, I no longer believed.” She turned and faced Sister Aranwen and Cadwyn, a radiant smile on her face. “I should have had faith. God be praised. It has come to pass, just as he said it would.”
“God be praised,” Sister Aranwen echoed.
Guinevere moved back to the table and took her seat, a smile on her face, her eyes alight with joy. “We, my dear friends, have much to do before the good Knight pays us a visit,” Guinevere said. “So let us prepare.”
NORTH OF LONDINIUM
Ivarr the Red sat in an oversized wooden chair, salvaged from one of the burning houses in the village behind him, holding a pitcher of mead. The chair sat astride a path that led to a circular stone tower, thirty yards distant. During the Pendragon’s reign, the tower had been the quarters of a royal sheriff. It was about to become a funeral pyre for the men, women, and children of the village barricaded within.
The Norseman watched in satisfaction as his men piled logs, branches, and hay around the base of the tower. The village had nothing of value other than the villagers themselves. Those who surrendered when the fire and smoke made their refuge unbearable would be taken to Londinium and sold into slavery. The others would die in the flames.
Ivarr knew the village’s half-starved peasants would not sell for much, but then he hadn’t laid waste to the village for coin. He was sending a message. The village was located just across the river, marking the border between Morgana’s lands and those claimed by Hengst. He wanted Morgana to know he could ravage her lands as well, any time he desired.
“Ivarr!”
The Norse warlord took another leisurely drink from the pitcher of mead before turning to the tall, blond warrior walking toward him—Ulf. Ivarr disliked the man, but he had made him second-in-command. His fellow countryman was both a doughty fighter and a shrewd tactician. Smart men, Ivarr knew, were dangerous men. Keeping the other man close made it easier to keep an eye on him, and to kill him if it became necessary.
“Speak,” he ordered.
“A messenger has come from Londinium. He killed two horses getting here. He says … he says …” The man’s voice trailed off.
“Speak, or I shall have your tongue!” Ivarr growled.
The man swallowed heavily and continued, “He says Hengst is dead, and Londinium has fallen, my lord.”
Ivarr exploded out of his seat and faced the scarred warrior, his face a mask of incredulity and rage. “What! Bring this man to me!” he roared.
Ulf pointed toward the center of the village. “He cannot walk. We must go to him.”
Ivarr brushed the other man aside and walked toward the circle of men gathered around the village well. The crowd parted as the Norseman approached.
A small, filthy man was sitting on the ground gasping for breath. His face was battered and swollen and covered in a heavy patina of dust mixed with blood. Ivarr recognized the man. He was one of the brigands his brother used to collect taxes. He strode over to the man and kicked the ladle of water he held from his hands.
“Speak, dog! What is this about my brother?”
“He’s dead … slain by a Knight of the Table,” the man said in hoarse gasps.
Ivarr kicked the man viciously in the side. “You lie, dog. The Knights are all dead.”
The man groaned and held up his hands in fear. “Please, Lord Ivarr … I speak the truth. One lives. I saw him. He challenged Hengst on tournament day … and killed him. Then he called upon the people of the city to rise.”
“Rise? What do you mean, rise?” Ivarr demanded.
“To rise up against us, and they did. It happened so fast … there were too many of them—we were slaughtered.”
Ivarr stared at the man, struggling to contain his rage. “What say you? The city is taken? Who is this knight? How many men did he have?”
“They say he is Sir Percival. They say he returned from the Holy Land. I have never seen a man fight like that. I—”
Ivarr ripped his sword from its sheath and pressed it against the man’s throat.
“I asked you, how many men did he have?”
The brigand’s eyes widened as he gasped out his reply. “T-ten, m-maybe twenty, mostly bowmen.”
“When? How many days have passed since the town was taken?”
The man hesitated and Ivarr pressed the tip of the sword into his flesh, drawing blood. The man frantically tried to move away from the pointed sword as he answered in a raspy whisper. “T-two days ago, maybe t-three. Been riding for so l-long, I—”
Ivarr’s boot smashed into the side of the man’s head, and he slumped to the ground. The Norseman turned to Ulf, his face a mask of rage. “Every man with a horse will ride with me to Londinium, now. The men afoot will follow at a forced march.”
“But it is late in the day and the fortress—”
“We ride and march, now!” Ivarr shouted, putting the point of his sword against Ulf’s chest.
“So it shall be,” Ulf answered, a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes.
Ivarr turned to the men watching the tense confrontation and roared, “Abandon the siege! We ride and march for Londinium, now! Riders, mount your horses! All others prepare to march. You will leave your booty.”
Howls of protest followed the order.
Ivarr stepped past Ulf and jumped up on the stone wall encircling the well, so all of his men could see and hear him.
“Heed my words well, you fools! Hengst is dead! Londinium has been retaken by the Britons!”
The rumblings from the men ceased, and for the first time in hours, the small village was deathly quiet.
“You want your booty? Slaves to sell? Where will you sell them? Londinium is the slavers’ port, Londinium is where you spend your coin, and Londinium is where you sleep. Without that city you have no home, unless you would return to your cold, hard villages in the north, like a pack of cowardly beggars.”
The men were silent for a moment, and then a man in the front roared, “Never!” Others in the back took up the cry.
“Then we take back Londinium, and we shall show no mercy! Any man who stands against us shall be put to the sword, and his wife and children shall be sold as slaves!”
The Norsemen roared their approval.
“Now, mount! We ride for Londinium!”