LONDINIUM
ir Percival watched the raucous celebration in the town square from a block away, on the second floor of a three-story stone tower. In the middle of the square, four men were playing a lively tune on an assortment of pipes, flutes, and stringed instruments, and several hundred men and women were dancing a simple step to the rhythm. Hundreds more were outside the circle clapping and keeping time, while drinking what Percival suspected was beer or mead.
Two pigs were being roasted over fires that had been built at each end of the square. The people of Londinium had apparently decided to put the ample stores stolen from them by Hengst and his men to good use.
Percival’s gaze traveled from the square to the piles of burned and rotted timbers at the base of the tower—the remains of what had once been Londinium’s great cathedral. The Knight remembered attending a mass in the church on a Sunday morning in another world, in another time.
Arthur, Guinevere, Londinium’s Lord Mayor, and their retainers had been seated in the first pew on the right side of the church, and the Knights of the Table had occupied the pews behind them, in order of seniority. Percival and Galahad, as the Table’s youngest knights, had been seated in the last pew. The lesser knights were seated behind them. The pews on the left side of the church were occupied by the bishops and the great lords and ladies of the land.
Throughout the mass, Galahad’s blue eyes had roamed over the adoring women in the pews to the left, drawing smiles and twitters of laughter. Percival remembered surreptitiously striking his elbow into Galahad’s side during the reading of the gospel, after the young knight winked at a particularly attractive and attentive young noblewoman. Galahad’s grunt of pain had drawn an amused look from Sir Dinadan, the Knight of the Table killed by Hengst and left to rot in the stadium. He had been sitting in the pew ahead of them. Percival had buried the knight’s remains in the church cemetery just an hour earlier.
The bittersweet remembrances were chased away by a respectful knock on the old oak door separating the room from the corridor beyond. Percival walked to the door and opened it, revealing Capussa, Cynric, and a smaller man, whose face was all but hidden in the cowl of his cloak.
Capussa stood behind the man, and Percival noted his friend had his right hand resting on his belt, an inch from the haft of his dagger. Cynric stood to Capussa’s right, his eyes also wary. The archer nodded to Percival and spoke in a tone tinged with suspicion.
“Sir Percival, this man says that you know him. He says—”
“It is imperative that I see you,” the man in the cowl finished.
Percival’s face froze at the sound of the man’s voice, and then he stepped to one side and waved the men into the chamber.
“Please, come in and close the door.”
Capussa, his eyes still on the man in the cloak, followed him into the room along with Cynric. The archer closed the door behind them.
Percival turned to Capussa and Cynric and gestured to the man in the cloak. “Capussa, Cynric, meet Merlin the Wise, or should I say, Melitas Komnenos.”
There was an audible intake of breath from Cynric as the man in the cloak reached up and lowered the cowl from his head, revealing a full head of grey hair and a face that was all but obscured by a bushy grey beard and mustache.
Merlin turned to Capussa, his intelligent grey eyes scanning the man’s features with interest. “Numidian?” he asked.
Capussa raised an eyebrow and nodded. Merlin inclined his head and turned to Cynric.
“Cynric the Archer … you were in the Royal Fifth as I recall.”
“Yes, I was,” Cynric said, surprise in his voice.
“An exceptional outfit. You won the silver archer’s cup at the royal fair one year. A fine shot that was.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cynric replied, his eyes widening.
The grey-haired man turned to Percival. “As for the name, Sir Percival, if you don’t mind, just Merlin will do. It … reminds this old man of a happier time.”
Percival stared in silence at Merlin for a moment and then nodded respectfully. “Then Merlin it is.”
Merlin raised a quizzical eyebrow. “How did you know it was me? Even the Queen doesn’t recognize me with all this wretched hair.”
“In truth, I wouldn’t have recognized you but for your voice. You were clean-shaven and your hair was black, not grey, when I left.” Percival hesitated and glanced out the window at the crowd dancing in the street. “I only knew one Roman from the City of Constantine before I left. I met quite a few more on my … recent travels. Although you hide it well, you share the accent of your countrymen.”
Merlin looked at Percival for a long moment in silence.
“I fear you have every reason to bear me ill will, Knight, but there were reasons for the path we chose,” Merlin said in a voice laden with a thousand burdens.
Percival reached over and rested his hand on the older man’s shoulder.
“I am sure there were, Merlin, and I would like to know them one day. As for ill will, I bear you none. I followed the orders of my King. What befell me on my travels was the will of God.”
A sad smile came to Merlin’s face. “I so wish I had your faith, Sir Percival. As for what I would tell you of yesteryear, it must wait. Today, we face imminent peril.”
Percival gestured to a small table in the corner of the room that was surrounded by four chairs. “Please. Let us sit.”
As soon as they were seated, Merlin pulled a scroll of parchment from beneath the folds of his cloak and unrolled it on the table. It was a detailed map of Londinium and the surrounding area for forty leagues.
He tapped the map with one finger, indicating a square drawn beside the river Tamesis.
“You and your men, and the people of Londinium, achieved a great victory today, but it will all be for naught if you do not prepare for what is to come. Ivarr the Red, Hengst’s brother, is two, maybe three days’ march to the north. He returns from a parley with Morgana.”
The room was silent. It was as if the name had poisoned the air, and no one was willing to take the first breath.
“Morgana,” Percival said quietly. “What was the purpose of this parley?”
“A border dispute,” Merlin answered with a dismissive wave of his hand, “a matter of no moment. The threat we face today is from Ivarr the Red. He has two hundred men, all hardened Norse warriors. Possibly seventy-five are mounted and the rest are afoot. As soon as he learns of—”
“The death of his brother, he will seek vengeance,” Capussa finished.
“Mm … not quite,” Merlin said, leaning back in his chair. “I suspect Ivarr will welcome the passing of his brother. My spies tell me that he hated him as much as everyone else. No, what Ivarr cannot accept is the fall of Londinium. He and his fellow Norsemen have turned Londinium’s port into a slaver’s paradise. Every month, they round up and sell hundreds of souls into bondage and collect enough coin, along with the local taxes that they levy, to keep their coffers full of silver. Without Londinium, they have nothing.”
“We can fortify the town and hold him off,” Cynric said with conviction. “The people here will fight.”
“And what say you, my friend?” Percival asked Capussa, who was studying the map intently. The Numidian shook his head.
“If we had a month to prepare, I would agree with the Archer, but we have what, a day, maybe two? The walls that I have seen have not been maintained, and I fear the Norse still have friends in this town—friends who will open one of the city’s many gates while we sleep.”
“And so what do you propose to do?” Merlin asked, stroking his long beard.
Capussa turned to Cynric. “How will they come?”
Cynric traced his finger along a line on the map that began north of Londinium and ran south to the city. “Here. Ivarr will come down the Roman road. It is the quickest way.”
“Who controls these lands?” Percival asked, pointing to the lands alongside the road running north from the city.
“Local brigands and outlaws. They swore fealty to Hengst. He used them as tax collectors and sheriffs. The people in the area hate them, and but for the Norse, they would have put them to the sword long ago.”
“Ivarr,” Merlin corrected, “not Hengst, controls the men along this stretch of road, and they will surely join his force as he moves south.”
Capussa nodded and traced his finger along the Roman road to a place where it crossed a shaded area. “Archer, tell me of this ground, if you know it.”
“I know it,” Cynric said. “The road here crosses the Wid River. The surrounding area is a fen.”
“Fen?” Capussa questioned.
“A lowland area where the land is flooded. Passage on horseback is difficult and in some places, impossible.” The archer tapped a spot on the map. “There is a bridge here. Ivarr will have to cross the river there on his way to the city.”
“Many of the rivers we have passed have been shrouded in fog in the early morning,” the Numidian said thoughtfully. “Would this river be thus as well?”
Cynric nodded. “Yes, but it burns off by late morning.”
Capussa turned to Percival. “If you await this Ivarr, he will pick the time and place of battle, and his strength will grow as he nears the city. He is weakest now, and he will not expect you to attack him.”
Percival looked over at his friend, and their eyes met. Then he slowly stood up. “I agree. We must march north, in all haste, and take them unawares.”
“Do we march in the morning?” Merlin asked.
Percival looked out at the celebratory crowd and shook his head. “No, today, within the hour, if it can be done. I will speak to the people of Londinium. They must take the field with us in strength, or, as Merlin has said, all will be lost.”
“That,” Merlin said with a smile, “will just give me enough time to shave, which is something I’ve been waiting to do for a long, long time.”
MORGANA’S CASTLE
The persistent knocking on the outer door to her chambers drew Morgana out of a deep sleep. After glancing at the angle of the light flowing through the window, she climbed out of bed, pulled on a luxuriant white silk robe, and slid the bejeweled knife on her night table into one of the robe’s pockets. When she opened the outer door, Seneas was standing there, breathing heavily, a look of trepidation on his face.
“I trust you have a good reason for waking me?” Morgana said coldly.
Seneas nodded submissively. “Forgive my intrusion, Milady, but yes. It is a matter of urgency.”
Morgana stared at him, glanced past him into the hall, and then curtly waved him into her chambers.
“Come in.”
She walked across the anteroom, followed by Seneas, and sat down on a divan in the center of the room. She gestured to a chair across from her.
“Sit. Tell me what is so important that I must be awakened at this ungodly hour.”
Seneas bowed his head and quickly sat down. “Yes, Milady. One of your spies just brought word from Londinium. The man rode for almost two days without—”
“The message, Seneas,” Morgana said curtly.
“Hengst is dead, and Londinium has been retaken by the people.”
Morgana’s eyes widened. “What? Tell me of this—no, bring this man to me, now,” she said as she stood up.
“Milady, he is in need of—”
“I don’t care about his needs! I will have him tortured if he cannot rouse himself.”
“Yes, yes, Milady, a moment only, please,” Seneas said as he stood, bowed, and walked hurriedly to the door.
Minutes later, two guards came into her chambers, half carrying, half dragging a small man whose boots and woolens were caked in mud from his feet to his waist. Morgana looked at him in disgust. The man reeked of sweat and horse dung, and although she suspected he was barely twenty years of age, his drawn and pale face made him look ten years older. One of the guards started to shove the man to his knees, but he froze when Morgana spoke, her voice as sharp as a knife.
“Stop, fool! Have him sit on that wooden bench. I will not have him befoul my silken rug. Seneas, get him a drink of that wine there. Use the wooden cup.”
Morgana waited until the man was seated and had taken a long drink of the wine before she spoke. “Your name?”
“Ulric, Milady,” the man croaked in a hoarse voice.
“Take another drink of the wine,” Morgana ordered, reluctantly moving closer to the foul-smelling man. “You will tell me, Ulric,” she said in a tone laced with threat, “all that you know of recent events in Londinium. If you can do this, you will be well paid for your loyal service. If not, you will die this day. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, Milady,” the man answered in a rush.
“Then speak!”
“Hengst the Butcher … each month he has a tournament where—”
“I know of this,” Morgana interrupted. “Go on.”
“Yes, Milady. Tournament day was two, no, three days ago. Hengst came to the tournament field and called for challengers. None … none have taken up the challenge in years, so men are seized and forced to fight. A woman is tied—”
“As I said, I know of this tournament day,” Morgana said in a tone that made it clear he would get no more warnings. “Tell me what happened!”
“Yes, yes. Forgive me, Milady. But on this day, a man came and accepted Hengst’s challenge. He walked right onto the bloody tournament field, he did. At first, he was dressed in a ragged old cloak, but when the fight started, he took it off, and … and he was wearing the mark of a Knight of the Table! He said he was Sir Percival, and he called upon Hengst to yield or die. Hengst attacked him … there was a fight like none I’ve ever seen before, Milady, and this Sir Percival, he killed Hengst. Struck him dead, he did. Then he freed the prisoners and the girl, and … and then he turned to the crowd. He called upon them to rise up against the Norse.”
“And?”
“And? Oh yes, well Milady, the people in the stands, they rose up! There were bowmen among them. They knew what they were about, and there was a man with them, a man as black as coal—a warrior friend of Sir Percival’s. The crowd raged through the streets, killing Hengst’s men. Why, Milady, it was something to see! I’ve never seen a Knight of—”
Morgana turned a cold eye upon him and the man fell silent, a look of terror in his eyes.
“F-forgive me, Milady. That is all I know. Sir Percival and the people of Londinium, they hold the town now. There’s not a Norseman within miles, I suspect.”
Morgana picked up the dagger on the table beside her and approached the man. He pressed backward against the wall behind him, and his hands began to shake.
“Please, Milady. I’ve told you everything. I am a loyal—”
“Hush,” Morgana whispered. “Answer this next question very carefully, my loyal servant. Did you or anyone else see a man with Sir Percival—an old man, with slightly darker skin than one of your land. He would be a hand shorter than I, and he would speak your language like a man from a foreign land, as I do.”
Ulric looked to the left and right at his guards and then back at Morgana, terror growing on his face. He started to shake his head, but then froze.
“Wait. I did see this man—I mean, what I saw was a man of that height, but I couldn’t see his face or hair. He kept himself hidden. The hood of his cloak was always up, but this man, he, he did go to see Sir Percival. I watched the man with the coal skin and the man known as Cynric the Archer take him to Sir Percival.”
“And then?” Morgana demanded. “What else did you see?”
“That … that is all, Milady. I took to the road after that. I … I’m sorry, please …”
Morgana straightened up and smiled. She turned to Seneas. “Pay this man well. See that he gets a bath, food, and a night’s rest. Then he is to return to Londinium on a new horse.”
“Yes, Milady.”
She looked down at her spy. “You have done well, but you will do much more, and you will be paid well for your service … very well. You are to return to Londinium and follow Sir Percival wherever he goes. You will join his men, if you can do so without suspicion. Once every ten days, marked from this day, I will send a messenger to you. He will tell you that he knows your brother. That is how you will know him. Tell him all that you have learned of the man in the hooded cloak. You will also learn as much as you can about this Sir Percival’s plans. Do you understand this?”
The man nodded. “Yes, Milady. I will do as you say.”
“Good. Now go; bathe, eat, and rest. Then ride like the wind back to Londinium.”
“Yes, Milady.”
Morgana nodded to the guards as they followed the man out of the room. Seneas moved to follow them, but she raised a hand, and the old man stopped and turned to face her.
“Seneas, after I have bathed and eaten, I would speak to Lord Aeron of this.”
“Is this wise, Milady? He was once—”
“I will decide what it is wise, Seneas,” Morgana said sharply. “If Lord Aeron knew of this Sir Percival in his former life as a Knight of the Table, then all the more reason to question him on the matter. And if, as you have implied, his loyalty may be at risk, then I would know it now. But, in truth, I have no worries in that regard. Lord Aeron is a prisoner of his honor and his love for his precious Queen. He will not break his vow.”
“Yes, Milady, forgive me.”
* * *
LORD AEROD KNOCKED on the door to Morgana’s chambers. A servant girl opened the door and gestured for him to enter, and then left the room without a word.
“Come in, Lord Aeron, and seat yourself.”
Lord Aeron ignored the plush chair closest to Morgana’s divan and instead sat on a wood bench that he knew was placed there for the servants. A look of irritation crossed Morgana’s face, but it vanished a moment later.
“And how do you fare this morning, Lord Aeron?”
“I am well, but I suspect you didn’t ask me here to inquire after my health.”
A cold smile came to Morgana’s face. “No, I did not. I have every confidence that you will live at least as long as she does.”
The muscles in Lord Aeron’s face tightened, but he didn’t otherwise react to Morgana’s verbal jab. After a tense silence, Morgana spoke, her tone once again pleasant.
“Your fellow Knight, Sir Percival, is apparently not dead.”
Lord Aeron stared at Morgana, unmoved. He knew that words were just another weapon for her, and lies were her sharpest and most oft-used blades. Yet, he sensed a measure of unease behind the facade that was her cold, beautiful face, and a flicker of hope rose from the ashes within.
Morgana leaned forward, her eyes fixed on his, like those of a raptor a moment before its talons closed on its prey. “To the contrary, it appears that he walked into Londinium and killed the invincible Hengst the Butcher in a duel, on the tournament field, no less.”
There was a long silence, and every sinew in Lord Aeron’s body wanted to rejoice at the tidings, but he suppressed the feeling, knowing Morgana would see any reaction as a threat.
“Do you have a question for me, Milady?” Lord Aeron asked in a flat, emotionless voice.
Anger flared in Morgana’s eyes for an instant, and the knight watched as she regained her iron control. She leaned back against the cushions behind her and continued.
“Yes, quite the hero this Percival, and apparently, quite the leader as well. Why, after his victory over Londinium’s oppressor, this man demanded that the people of Londinium rise and throw off the yoke of the Norse rule, and they did just that.”
Lord Aeron’s eyes widened, and the flicker of hope within flared into a small flame.
“I don’t understand,” Lord Aeron said.
“Londinium has been retaken by its people. Hengst’s Norsemen are either dead or they have fled. Now do you understand?” Morgana said harshly.
“Yes,” Lord Aeron answered, not reacting to her ire.
Morgana stood up and walked to the window that overlooked the estuary and the sea beyond. A moment later, she turned around to face him, her face white with anger.
“Yes? Is that all you have to say, Lord Aeron, or should I call you Sir Galahad, now that your brother Knight has returned? Is this the first step in a scheme to resurrect that foolish Table that I sundered a decade past? Remember, your precious Guinevere’s life is mine to take at any moment, so if there is some grand plot afoot—”
Lord Aeron stood up and stared down at Morgana, struggling to control his rage. He had never known hatred until he met this woman, and despite his prayers, he feared a day would come when he would yield to its cries for vengeance and strike her down. At this instant, the screams for blood within him were deafening, but he ignored them, as he had done so many times before.
“Sir Percival,” he said in a voice of stone, “was sent on that fool’s quest a decade ago—a quest that I knew nothing about until after he’d left port. I have neither spoken nor heard from him since the day of departure, and I can assure you that neither he, nor I, envisioned, even in our vilest nightmares, the unholy havoc that you have wrought on this land. So no, Morgana, I have no knowledge of any plot, and as for the life of the Queen, we struck a bargain, and I have honored, and continue to honor, my promise. I expect you to honor yours. Good day.”
As Lord Aeron strode from the room and across the castle to the stables, a flood of emotions raged through him. A part of him wanted to ride like the wind to Londinium to see his long-lost friend, and another part prayed death would take him before Percival learned he served their common enemy under the nom de guerre, Lord Aeron.
As he saddled his black destrier, he heard a young woman’s voice outside the stable. He turned and looked out the open window at the nearby well, knowing he was invisible in the stable’s semidarkness. An older woman dressed in a worn woolen dress was struggling to lift a bucket full of water over the top of the well. Another woman, younger, but dressed in similar attire, ran over and helped her lower the bucket to the ground. The younger woman whispered something, and the old woman scoffed.
“What! I don’t believe it for a moment! It can’t be.”
The younger woman put her hands on her hips and said in an indignant voice, “It’s the truth, Maud! Alf, the stable boy, heard the messenger speak to the old Greek when he arrived. Sir Percival, a Knight of the Table, has killed Hengst the Butcher and retaken Londinium!”
The older woman shook her head. “One man! Even a Knight of the Table—and I tell you, Marian, they’re all dead—couldn’t take back Londinium from Hengst and his Norse reavers. No, it’s just idle gossip.”
Lord Aeron tightened his grip on his saddle’s girth strap and grew very still. As the women chattered on, he could see the gate to the castle wall being raised through the window. A moment later, two men on horseback galloped through the opening and down the road to the south.
“And I suppose,” Marian sneered, pointing toward the two men racing through the castle’s front gate, “those men are racing south at the break of dawn for nothing?”
Maud grabbed the younger woman’s arm in a tight grip, drawing a look of anger.
“Shush, Marian! I pray you’re right, but if you would keep that pretty head on your shoulders, I wouldn’t talk of the Table and the Pendragon whilst you work in this castle. Remember who rules here!”
Lord Aeron turned back to the horse and spoke quietly to his mount. “Londinium. Do you remember, brother, the last time we were there?” For a moment, Lord Aeron allowed himself to remember a time when he had another name, when life was not a place of pain and darkness.
It was the day of the annual parade. The Knights of the Table had ridden in procession behind the Pendragon and Guinevere through the center of the city. People had lined both sides of the street, waving and calling out greetings. In accordance with the rules of decorum insisted upon by Lancelot, the other knights did not acknowledge the cheers. They rode in silence, their faces carved in stone—the very picture of stalwart power. Much to Lancelot’s ire, the two knights in the rear of the procession, Galahad and Percival, often flouted this order. Worse, they did so with impunity, since Lancelot could not turn around and catch them in the act without violating the rule himself.
As the column had passed by one of the houses that overlooked the street, five or six young women standing on the second-floor balcony had cheered hysterically when Galahad and Percival came abreast of them and called out to the golden-haired knight.
Lord Aeron rested a hand on the saddle in front of him as he remembered the words they had spoken that day.
“Why, Sir Galahad,” Percival had said, glancing over at him, the hint of a smile on his face, “could it be those women have made your acquaintance?”
“Indeed, they have,” Galahad had said, unable to hide a smile.
“Hmm, I seem to remember that his high and mightiness ordered all knights to remain in camp last night.”
Galahad’s smile widened. “Well, let’s just say that Lancelot has his rules, and I have mine. You really must come along on one of these nocturnal romps. Life was meant to be lived.”
Then he turned to the women and bowed his golden head in their direction, drawing screams of pleasure.
“Percival,” Galahad said quietly, “since neither you nor I can have the woman of our dreams, why not drown our sorrows in the arms of those we can have?”
As the memory faded, Lord Aeron whispered, “It has come full circle. Where once you held back the enemy alone, and I came to your aid, now you have come to mine, and none too soon, brother, for I have grown weary of carrying this burden alone.”
* * *
MORGANA WALKED TO the window overlooking the estuary below, pondering Lord Aeron’s reaction to the return of his brother Knight. She sensed his nonchalance was feigned, but she did not believe he would try to join this Sir Percival and risk Guinevere’s assassination, at least not yet. Still, the risk was there, and killing him would end the matter.
In the end, she decided to keep the knight alive. His end would come soon enough, as would Guinevere’s. Morgana smiled as she remembered the particularly fine wine she had set aside to celebrate the death of the Pendragon’s Queen.
Morgana’s pleasant reverie was interrupted by a soft knock on the partially open door to her chambers. “Come.”
Seneas walked into the room and bowed. “Milady, may I ask what Lord Aeron—”
Morgana made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “No, you may not. Now tell me of Ivarr and his force. When will they reach Londinium and put an end to this foolish uprising?”
“Milady, they would already have arrived but for … a diversion,” Seneas said carefully.
“What are you talking about?” Morgana demanded.
“A second messenger has arrived, Milady. Ivarr and his men strayed from the road and attacked a town on the edge of your lands—on the border itself.”
“Tell me of this attack,” she said, with restrained anger.
“The town, or more of a village, is at a crossroads, a day and a half ride south. The herdsmen and farmers meet to trade—”
“What happened, Seneas?” she demanded.
“Ivarr and his men killed near half the people in the village and burned their homes. The rest took refuge in a stone guard. It seems they were about to burn them out, when they received word of the fall of Londinium. Ivarr left for the city at once, with his mounted soldiers. Those afoot were ordered to follow as fast as possible.”
A cruel smile crossed her face for an instant. She recognized the primitive message Ivarr had been sending by attacking the village. Such a fool, she thought. You will never see my knife, Norseman. You will only feel its blade.
Morgana glanced over at Seneas. “How many men does the Norseman have?”
“Near seventy-five mounted and over a hundred afoot.”
She nodded. “Others will join him as he approaches Londinium—outlaws and brigands looking to join in the loot and pillage when the town is retaken. The people of Londinium will soon regret their moment of impudence. And as for this Sir Percival,” Morgana said in a voice laced with scorn, “I should so like to see the pain in his eyes as his moment of glory turns to ashes.
“Yet, I would not have him die too soon. No, I need him to live long enough for me to lay my hands on his would-be mentor and guide, Melitas Komnenos. And then, Seneas, the devil himself shall gasp at the agonies that I shall inflict upon my teacher.”
Morgana punctuated her last sentence by driving the blade of her bejeweled dagger into the table beside the divan. Its flawless point found near a half inch of purchase before coming to rest.
Seneas took a step back. “Of—of course, Milady,” he whispered. “What—what would you have me do?”
“Send two more spies to follow this Sir Percival wherever he goes. Melitas will be where he is. I am to receive reports from each spy, every week, and they are not to know of one another. Arrange for riders to meet with them so this can be done. Go now. I will not allow the traitor to slip through my hands a second time.”