THE BATTLE OF THE RIVER WID
apussa stood overlooking the three lines of men on the slope thirty paces below him and nodded approvingly—the men waited patiently and remained as silent as a grave, just as ordered. The first two lines of men carried long wooden pikes with sharp points. The third was made up of men with swords, clubs, and an occasional spear.
The billowing morning fog rendered the path at the base of the slope, one hundred paces distant, invisible. That would change with the coming of the morning sun. If fate favored them, the fog would fade enough to make the Norsemen visible as they marched by, but not so much as to reveal the men waiting to attack on the slope above.
Capussa looked over at Percival, a pace to his right. Although the Knight’s face did not reveal his inner turmoil, he could sense his friend’s unease.
“You fear they cannot do this thing?” Capussa asked.
“I fear many things this morning, my friend,” Percival replied. “I fear I have unwittingly started a war that will bring more misery to a people who have already borne far too much pain and suffering. I fear many of these men will die today, leaving no one to provide for their women and children, and yes, I fear that men without training, who only yesterday were tilling fields, herding sheep, and milling corn, may falter when faced with hardened warriors like the Norse.”
“You worry too much, Knight. When this day is over, either victory shall be ours or we shall be dead,” Capussa said.
“That is reassuring,” Percival said dryly. “Yet, you are right. It shall be as God wills.” Then he walked to his waiting horse, mounted, and rode into the fog.
Capussa smiled and looked down at the ghostly lines of men below him.
“You have your faith, my friend, and I have my sword. Together, we shall crush them.”
* * *
IVARR THE RED watched in satisfaction as the last of the Norse warriors waded across the Wid River and joined the rear of the column marching south. The crossing was a league north of the bridge where they’d been ambushed the day before. Dawn was less than an hour away, and he intended to attack the enemy camp just after the sun rose. He smiled as he thought of the coming slaughter.
He turned to the old warrior mounted on a horse a few paces away. “You see, Geir,” he said with a scornful laugh, “your fears are those of an old man. When we return to Londinium, I shall send you back home with a ship full of slaves to sell. You can eat, drink, and get fat there with your share of the spoils.”
Ivarr smiled scornfully at the rage in the old warrior’s eyes and pointed to the line of men marching south. “Stay in the rear of the column, old man, and sweep for stragglers. You will be safe there.”
Then he turned and galloped after the column of men marching along the riverbank. The other mounted Norse warriors waiting on the riverbank roared with laughter at the insult and galloped after Ivarr, leaving the seething Geir behind.
When he reached the head of the column, Ivarr turned in his saddle and looked back at the line of men behind him and nodded in satisfaction. He had given two orders to his subcommanders when they gathered an hour earlier. The first was to summarily kill any straggler. The tired men marching behind him had taken the threat to heart. There were no gaps in the line. If anything, the fear of death had caused the men to march too closely together.
As the compact column marched through a defile formed by the slope of a hill on the right and the river on the left, the Norse warrior smiled as he recalled the second order of the day—no survivors. A moment later, the hill on his right erupted in screams, and a line of men bearing pikes drove into the men behind him. The Norse warlord began to wheel his horse around to face the enemy, but froze in mid movement at the sight of a fully armed knight on a giant black horse racing toward him at full gallop, followed by fifty other mounted men.
MORGANA’S CASTLE
Morgana stood on the battlement watching the line of thirty men marching toward the castle from the south with Ivarr the Red in the lead, riding a horse with a pronounced limp. Half of the men were wounded. Although she’d learned of the outcome of the battle a day earlier from one of her spies, the sight of the battered remnants of the Norse column was still a shock. The Norseman’s force of nearly two hundred strong had been all but annihilated by Sir Percival and his men.
She glanced over her shoulder at Lord Aeron, standing a respectful distance behind her. The knight wore a simple black tabard, woolen breeches, and leather boots. His eyes were fixed on the sorry column of men approaching the castle.
“In less than a fortnight, this Sir Percival has killed Hengst, retaken Londinium, and nearly annihilated Ivarr the Red’s force. Should I expect to see him at my gates in the morning?” Morgana said.
“He has neither the men nor the means to conduct a siege,” the knight answered in a voice devoid of emotion.
“No? I am told that he now has almost a thousand men.”
“I do not believe he desires to start a war.”
Morgana wheeled around, anger flaring in her eyes. “He’s already started one. Ivarr will not let this stand. He will seek to raise another force and retake the city.”
“And to wreak a terrible vengeance on the people of Londinium,” Lord Aeron said coldly.
“That he will. But then, that is often the fate of those who rise up against their masters,” Morgana said, a less than subtle threat in her tone.
“And is it your intent to aid him in this noble cause?” Lord Aeron said, his voice laced with contempt.
Morgana’s eyes narrowed.
“Remember your place, Lord Aeron. And as for what I will do, or not do, that is for me to decide. You will escort Ivarr the Red to the main hall when he reaches the gate, accompanied by two guards. The rest of his men are to stay outside the walls.”
“As you wish,” he answered and walked to the stairs leading off the battlement to the castle below, his face carved in stone. Morgana watched him leave and then returned to the battlement, fuming, and hissed, “Be assured, Sir Galahad, your brother Knight will not resurrect what I have buried.”
Two guards escorted Ivarr the Red into the castle’s main hall, without his sword. Morgana sat on the far side of a massive wooden table in a chair grand enough to be called a throne. There were no other chairs in the room. The guards escorted Ivarr to the table and stepped back a pace. The Norse war leader ignored the intended slight, but Morgana could sense the anger behind his calm facade.
She took in the Norseman’s filthy appearance, the wound to his left arm, and the dried blood on his leather jerkin. For a moment, she reveled at the Norseman’s humbled state, remembering his arrogance at their meeting just days earlier. Morgana nodded to the Norseman and spoke with a hint of amusement in her voice.
“It seems that your gods have abandoned you as well as your brother, Ivarr the Red.”
“We shall retake Londinium,” Ivarr snarled, “and those who rose up against us will wish they’d never been born.”
“And you will do all of this with, what … ?” She gestured one hand toward the window looking out on the courtyard. “The score of men outside my gates?”
The muscles in Ivarr’s jaw visibly tightened. “I will bring more warriors to this land.”
“As I recall, it was Roman gold that brought Norse swords to this island, not Ivarr the Red, or Hengst the Butcher.”
Rage flared in the Norseman’s eyes, and the guards at his sides stiffened. For a long moment, the Norseman stood motionless, his eyes locked on hers, and then he spoke in a cold rasp. “Do not be too sure of yourself, Roman. There are near a thousand men two days’ march south, and the man who leads them is a Knight of the Round Table. He will surely seek vengeance against the woman who pulled down his precious Pendragon and broke the Table. This reckoning may be tomorrow, or two months from now, but it will come, and I am the only one who can raise a force of Norse warriors in time to aid you in that fight.”
Morgana stared at the man in front of her, clad in dirty furs and skins, and weighed his words. Before the Norseman had walked into the room, she had decided to kill him once he told her all that he knew of this Sir Percival, but his words had shaken her. A thousand men led by a Knight of the Table and guided by the wiles of Melitas Komnenos was indeed a deadly threat. They might not be able to take her castle, but they could seize the silver mines, and such a loss would not be taken lightly by the emperor.
“Where will you find these new warriors, and how quickly can you bring them to these shores?” Morgana said, her voice revealing nothing of her inner tumult.
“There is a settlement of my people in Hibernia. I will raise a host there. Others will follow from my homeland.”
“You have no gold or silver, Ivarr the Red. How will you pay them?”
“I will offer them the sack of Londinium and the right to sell half its people into slavery.”
Morgana stood and walked to the window and looked across the courtyard. Lord Aeron was just outside the gate, talking to one of the wounded Norsemen. She turned around and said curtly, “What do you seek from me?”
“I need a ship with enough food and water for a three-day journey.”
“And what am I promised in return?”
“I will return with enough warriors to crush this Sir Percival … and I will give you the old man, a Roman, who now rides with him.”
Morgana’s face froze for a moment. Although she quickly recovered, she knew the Norseman had seen her reaction.
“Yes,” the Norseman said with quiet confidence, “the Roman you seek is with him. My spies tell me that this man and the man with skin like the night rarely leave the side of this Knight of the Table. You cannot take him without my help. Give me that ship and I will return with the forces needed to do this.”
Morgana stared at the Norseman for a moment before answering. “And why should I believe you will honor your word, Ivarr the Red?”
The Norseman drew a knife from beneath his jerkin, and the guards behind him started forward, but stopped when Morgana raised a hand. Ivarr held the knife in front of him and spoke in solemn voice. “This knife, Roman, was given to me by my father’s father. I give you my blood oath that I shall honor my promise, or die trying.”
As he finished speaking, Ivarr drew the knife across his palm, drawing blood. Then he closed his fist, and crimson drops fell from his hand to the floor.
Morgana watched the display with a smile. She believed the Norseman would honor his promise, if it was within his means, but not on account of his blood oath. His word, like her own, was not worth a farthing. No, Ivarr the Red would return for another reason—to regain the jewel that was Londinium.
“You shall have your ship, but my price is one slave for every two that you take or sell after the sack of Londinium, and I want the old Roman.”
THE RIVER WID
Percival looked back at the fifty men standing patiently beside their horses waiting for him to mount his black destrier. Shaking his head, he turned to Cynric.
“I am honored by their vow to serve as my retinue, but I neither deserve nor need an armed column to accompany me.”
“Sir, I told them that, but they’re free men, and they have made it clear that they intend to follow you, whether you like it or not.”
“What is it they seek?” Percival asked, confused.
Cynric scratched his head and looked over the line of men. “Sir Percival, things have been so bad, for so long, that what we were a part of—the Pendragon, Queen Guinevere, the Table—it is almost like a myth to them … a time of magic. And then suddenly, that myth has become real. Now they have hope. They believe you will resurrect what was, and they want to help … to be a part of that. And then there’s the baker’s wife …”
“The baker’s wife?” Percival repeated in confusion.
“Aye. She came with wagons of bread and told the men Morgana would try to kill you. She said it was their sacred duty to protect you, and—” he shrugged “—they intend to do that.”
Cynric moved a little closer and lowered his voice. “The truth is, Sir, we had to argue half the night to keep a lot more of these men from following you, and they may change their minds if you—”
“Delay any longer?” Capussa interrupted, clapping Percival on the shoulder. “Well said, Archer. I suggest we leave, Knight, before your retinue stretches from here to Londinium,” the Numidian finished, trying to hide a smile.
“Since I suspect your nightly tales may have contributed to this, maybe you can tell me how we will feed these men?” Percival said with a measure of exasperation.
Merlin, who was listening to the exchange with amusement, walked over to Percival and raised a mollifying hand. “Your concerns are well considered, Sir Percival, but I can assure you that we shall find ample food along the way. This day has been long in coming and preparations have been made.”
Percival looked at Merlin, a question in his eyes, but he nodded in acceptance. “So be it.”
As he turned back to his horse, the Knight looked out on the field below him, where a small army of men were loading wagons, packing up horses, and preparing for the march back to Londinium. He walked to the edge of the road, dropped to one knee, closed his eyes, and whispered, “May God keep them safe.”
After making the sign of the cross, the Knight rose to see hundreds of men staring at him in silence. He raised his right hand in a sign of parting and mounted his horse. As he rode off at the front of the column, the sound of hundreds of voices followed him.
“Sir Percival! Sir Percival! Sir Percival!”
After the column had ridden north for a league, Merlin rode up beside Percival and pointed to a square stone house by the side of the road.
“That’s an old Roman post house. The Roman road north is ahead. We should reach the town of Cestreforda by nightfall. The town escaped most of the ravages that occurred after the fall. We will find friends there.”
“I am grateful for your guidance … it has been many years since I traveled this way, but I sense that you would speak of something other than the road, Merlin.”
Merlin looked over at the Knight and then returned his gaze to the road.
“You must have many questions for this old man.”
“Many, indeed. Although, I fear I shall not like the answers,” Percival said quietly.
Merlin nodded but said nothing.
Percival was silent for a moment. Then he turned to Merlin.
“First, I would know of the Queen’s welfare and the state of the kingdom, but before you speak of these matters, I would ask that Capussa join us. He has agreed to complete my mission if I cannot, and hence, he must be prepared for what is ahead. Is that acceptable to you?”
“It is. He is a true and …” Merlin smiled, “a most formidable companion.”
Percival motioned to Capussa, who was riding to the right with two mounted bowmen at the head of the column. The Numidian slowed his pace and eased his horse into place on the other side of Merlin.
“My friend, I have asked Merlin to speak of the state of the kingdom. I would ask that you listen as well.”
Capussa smiled. “Why, it is a peaceful land where men of noble birth while away the hours drinking mead and catching fish. What else is there to know of it?”
A wry smile came to Percival’s face. Merlin raised a questioning eyebrow and then cleared his throat before beginning his narrative.
“The Queen is well. She lives at the Abbey Cwm Hir to the northwest, with her handmaiden, Lady Cadwyn, and Sister Aranwen.”
“I remember the Sister, but not Cadwyn. There was another …”
“Enid,” Merlin said. “She died of a fever. Cadwyn is younger … barely eighteen years but quite a tigress. She’s the Queen’s fiercest protector.”
Percival frowned. “You mean other than her knights and men-at-arms?” When Merlin was silent for a moment, the Knight’s brow furrowed. “Merlin, please tell me the Queen of the Britons does have men-at-arms protecting her?”
Merlin made a mollifying gesture as he answered, “There are men at the abbey who … have some skill in arms, and there are many hunters and bowmen in the nearby town that would come to her aid if—”
“So there are none?” Percival interrupted, shaking his head in disbelief. “How can that be? There were over three hundred knights when I left, other than those of the Table, and the King’s army was thousands strong. Were there none left who would defend their Queen?”
“Percival,” Merlin answered reassuringly, “she is not undefended. My spies track everyone who comes within a day’s ride of the abbey, and when threats have arisen, they … have been dealt with. Plans have also been made to defend the Queen, or to take her to a place of safety, if there was an attack in force.”
Percival looked over at the older man. “Forgive me. I thank you for your service to the Queen, but I still would know why she does not have a strong standing force guarding her at all times.”
Merlin sighed and looked at the winding road ahead. “You don’t know what it was like after the death of the Pendragon … the land descended into chaos. There was no King and no Table. As for the army and the knights … the army that fought at Camlann carried the field that day, but it died gaining that victory.
“After the battle, Morgana stopped paying the Norse, Pict, and Saxon sellswords that had followed her banner. With nothing to hold them together, they broke into roving bands and began to ravage the land. When the remaining foot soldiers, archers, pikemen, and knights that served the King—the few who survived—realized there was no one to lead them, and no one left to protect their women and children from being slaughtered, they did what they had to—they returned to their homes.”
“And you and the other members of the court … you could not hire a force of men to protect the Queen?” Percival asked with a measure of anger and frustration.
“Percival, we could and we did, but we had to do it in a way that would not draw Morgana’s interest. In the year after Camlann, she still controlled enough sellswords, brigands, and Norse warriors to mount an attack on the Queen—an attack that could have succeeded. We forestalled that possibility by convincing Morgana’s spies that the Queen was nothing more than a helpless, distraught widow cowering in a remote abbey.”
Percival’s ire abated, and he looked over at the old man.
“Forgive me. I … spoke in ignorance. The Queen has been well-served by your wisdom.”
“No forgiveness is necessary, and I suspect,” Merlin said with a chuckle, “that the Queen, and in particular Cadwyn, may have a different view on that matter.”
The trio rode on in silence for a while as Percival struggled to reconcile the kingdom of the present with the one he had left in the past. It was as if a cruel sea had swept over the land and left behind just a ravaged shell of what had once been.
After a time, Merlin turned to the Knight. “Percival, I have a question for you as well. Capussa has told me of your near death in the desert, and of the miracle that saved you. Can you tell me of this?”
Percival hesitated for a moment and then gestured to Capussa. “If Capussa has spoken of this, then you know all there is to tell. I was lost in the desert, on the brink of death, when I came upon a spring. It must have been blessed by the Almighty, for when I filled my cup and drank of it, my strength was restored, and my face and neck were cleansed of the many scars that I bore from … my time in the arena. Afterward, I rode on, for time was short. I had hoped to return to that holy place another day, but it was not to be.”
“A cup you say?” Merlin asked with a frown.
“Yes.”
“Tell me of this cup, if you will?”
“Merlin, it was not the Grail.”
“How do you know this to be true?” Merlin said.
Percival shook his head, and a sad smile came to his face. “Merlin, for six years I searched for the Grail. I can draw you a map of nearly every street in Galilee and Jerusalem from memory. I can tell you the names of the many priests, rabbis, and men of learning from Edessa to Damascus and from Jerusalem to Alexandria that I spoke to in my search. Some relinquished their knowledge willingly, others were bribed, and God forgive me, others spoke at the point of my sword. In the end, I failed. The Holy Grail remains lost.”
“Percival, forgive me,” Merlin said in a quiet voice. “I would not have you relive the pain of those times again. You need not speak of this.”
Percival turned and looked at Merlin, and then spoke with quiet conviction.
“My friend, that pain was lifted from me on that day in the desert, so I do not fear these memories. As for the cup I drank from, I will gladly tell you all that I know. It is little enough. When I arrived in Alexandria, I rode to the home of Jacob the Healer, only to find he had passed away a month earlier. I gave the writ of release from Khalid to Joshua, his son, so that all would know his sentence had been served. It was then that Joshua gave me the cup, along with my sword, and a long note from Jacob.
“Joshua told me that his father had left a deposit of gold in my name with a trusted Venetian merchant, and he conveyed his profound thanks, and Jacob’s thanks, for my sacrifice. As for the cup, Joshua told me that his father had died in the throes of a fever, and when he spoke of the cup, much of what he said made little sense, but some of it was clear.”
Percival looked over at Merlin, amused at the older man’s earnest attention to every detail of the story.
“Jacob said the cup was not the Grail, Merlin. That was the only clear part of Jacob’s fever-ridden ramblings. As for the note that he left me, it’s written in a language that I am unable to read. Joshua said it could be an ancient Aramaic tongue. You’re welcome to try your hand at deciphering it, and you can see the cup as well, but I would ask that you return them to me when you are done. Jacob the Healer saved my life, and these gifts are all I have to remember him by.”
“Percival,” Merlin said quietly, “if you would, please tell me the exact words Jacob is said to have spoken about the cup.”
Percival hesitated for a moment, remembering his parting words with Jacob’s son. “He told Joshua, ‘This is not the cup that the Knight seeks, but it is one that has served.’ As I said, Jacob was old and dying of a fever at the time. Do you still desire to see the cup and the note?”
“Yes, I would, if that is acceptable to you.”
The Knight glanced over at the old man and shook his head, a wry smile on his face.
“Then see them you shall, Merlin the Wise.”