NOVIOMAGUS REGINORUM
organa’s tent was set up a short distance from the crest of a hill, just outside the ruins of the Roman settlement of Noviomagus Reginorum. Nearly a thousand Saxons, Picts, and a motley assortment of local brigands and outlaws were camped below her in a broad, uneven crescent. As she looked down on the dirty, foul-smelling men who were eating, sleeping, and dicing in disparate groups, a wave of anger washed over the Roman princess.
A decade ago, the emperor’s gold had paid for the force she had led against the Pendragon at Camlann, an army that was tenfold the size of this one. This time, it was Morgana’s own horde of silver flowing into the pockets of the scum below. She intended to make Sir Percival, his army, and his precious Queen repay that outlay in both coin and blood, in full measure.
She started toward her incense-laden tent, hoping to escape the stench wafting up from below, when a shout drew her attention. One of the Saxons standing on the shore of the estuary pointed toward the sea. As she watched, a line of dragonships with their sails furled rowed into the estuary and began to land in the muddy flats below. Ivarr the Red and Sveinn the Reaver had arrived.
Morgana watched the incoming ships for a moment and then turned and looked to the right, where Lord Aeron’s tent stood alone, a half furlong distant from hers. His black charger was tethered to a stake behind it. The knight wasn’t visible, but the flap to his tent was open, and she knew he would be watching the approach of the men who had killed his brother Knights at Camlann. From this point on, she would have to watch him closely. If he wavered in his fealty to his promise, she would have the Saxons kill him.
The sound of hoofbeats approaching from the north drew Morgana’s attention away from Lord Aeron’s tent, to a rider she recognized as one of her spies. The small man quickly dismounted from his sweat-lathered horse and bowed to Morgana, a fearful look in his eyes.
“Speak,” Morgana said impatiently.
“Sir Percival marches south at speed, with an army of at least a thousand, Milady.”
Morgana was momentarily taken aback by the tidings. Merlin’s web of spies was more formidable than she suspected, and this Sir Percival was more decisive than she’d anticipated. She had hoped the Knight of the Table would not learn of the invasion until Ivarr and Sveinn had landed. This would have forced the Knight and his peasant army to make a series of brutal forced marches in order to intercept the invaders before they reached Londinium, leaving his soldiers exhausted before the final battle.
“Where? Where is he now?”
The messenger cowered as he answered. “I don’t know, Milady. I am the fourth rider in the chain, and all I was told is that he marches south.”
In her fury, Morgana reached for the jeweled dagger at her belt, but then she hesitated. She needed the fool.
“Do you know where the first rider in the chain came from?” Morgana snapped.
“Yes … yes, Milady, Isca, on the Sabrina River.”
She drew a handful of silver coins from a silken purse hidden within her cloak and dropped them at the man’s feet.
“You have done well. Buy a new horse and ride to Calleva. Tell the messenger there that he is to ride to Corinium. Once there, he must find out where Sir Percival’s force is camped and send word to me. Now go!”
“Yes, Milady,” the messenger said as he backed away.
Morgana walked to the ruins of a nearby Roman wall and unrolled a map across the top of it. The map showed the old Roman roads that ran throughout Albion. Abbey Cwm Hir was between sixty and seventy leagues to the north. If the Knight and his forces had left the abbey three days ago, and he’d pushed his men, they could have covered as much as twenty, perhaps even thirty leagues.
She suspected that the Knight had marched south from the abbey to Isca and crossed the Sabrina River using local ships and barges. From there, he would make for Corinium and then Calleva. From there, the Roman road east would bring him directly to Londinium.
Morgana looked down at the Saxon and Pict forces below, and those of the Norse disembarking from their ships. Their combined army would number close to two thousand five hundred men, and the Norse, although unruly, were seasoned fighters. Sir Percival’s army would likely be made up of farmers and tradesmen. If she could intercept the Knight before he obtained reinforcements from Londinium, she could destroy his army and then take Londinium at her leisure. She looked down at the Norse again. They would need to move quickly.
NOVIOMAGUS REGINORUM
Lord Aeron watched Ivarr the Red and a giant of a man with a mane of reddish-brown hair walk up the hill from the estuary to where Morgana was waiting. The two Norse leaders were accompanied by fifty warriors. Morgana was accompanied by Garr, the leader of her Saxon sellswords, and an equal number of Saxon warriors.
As he watched the Norse and the Saxons warily approach each other, the Knight considered attacking the Norse in the hope of precipitating a battle between the two suspicious groups, but then he rejected the idea. Morgana would have anticipated this possibility and assigned one or more archers in her camp to kill his horse if he made the attempt. She would also take great pleasure in sending one of her assassins to kill Guinevere in retribution.
When Lord Aeron had overheard one of the Saxons tell another warrior, two nights earlier, that they were all going to get rich sacking Londinium, he had discounted the comment. Morgana did not have enough men to take the city, and if that had been her objective, she could have marched directly there from her castle. It was only when he learned that she was meeting a large force of Norse warriors at this precise location that he grasped her plan.
Londinium would be the target of their combined attack, but it would also be the bait. Morgana knew his brother Knight would march south to defend the city, and her army, when combined with that of the Norse, would be large enough to crush his smaller force. Although Lord Aeron desperately wanted to forewarn his brother Knight, he knew he couldn’t leave the camp without his absence being noticed. At this point, all he could do was hope that fate would intervene and offer him an opportunity to save his friend and the kingdom—before the disaster he foresaw came to fruition.
THE CAMP OF THE QUEEN’S ARMY, NORTH OF CALLEVA
Percival looked out upon the near-perfect rows of tents and the wooden fortifications encircling the perimeter of the army’s camp with feelings of pride and trepidation in equal measure. From this distance, the disparate group of volunteers now called the Queen’s Army looked as if it had been forged into a disciplined and well-trained army. Percival knew the reality to be otherwise.
The men below were enthusiastic and committed to the cause, but many of them had never wielded a sword in battle. Such men couldn’t take on the Saxon and Norse warriors, at least not on even terms, and prevail. He would need more men-at-arms to gain victory in the coming battle, and those men-at-arms were not yet at hand.
The messengers he had sent racing to the north, seeking aid from the Legion of Marches, had not yet returned, and he was still waiting for Cynric and the mayor of Londinium to answer his call to arms. If his messages had been received, and if the forces requested marched without delay, then victory was possible. If not, he could be leading these men to their doom.
“Do I sense there is a measure of unease in your thoughts, Knight?” Capussa said as he strode up the hill toward Percival, followed by Merlin. Percival ignored the question and gestured to the camp below.
“You have done well with the army, Capussa.”
“We have done well,” Capussa said, placing one hand on Percival’s shoulder and a second on Merlin’s, “and I would also cede acclaim to the hundreds of veterans from the Pendragon’s army who have joined the ranks in recent days. But you avoid my question, Knight,” Capussa said.
“Yes, I have concerns,” Percival said, “Morgana, Ivarr, and this Sveinn lead a formidable force of hardened fighters. Our men—”
“Fight for their homes, for their Queen, and … they fight for you, Knight,” Capussa said. “As long as you lead, they will follow. They have what you call faith.”
“In truth, they believe you are invincible,” Merlin said quietly.
“As Capussa well knows,” Percival said, glancing over at his friend, “I am not. On many a day in the arena, his blade saved my life.”
“And, thank the gods, your blade saved mine as well,” Capussa reminded him.
“As for their faith,” Percival said, his gaze returning to the men below, “they need to place that in God, not in me, for divine intervention will be sorely needed in the days to come. And although I have prayed for it a thousand times on my own behalf, and I will continue to do so, it has rarely come to my aid.”
“Has it not?” Merlin said, arching his grey brows. “Yes, it is true that you have borne more trials and tribulations than any man I have ever known, and surely, any man who has endured so much would have every reason to believe his prayers for relief went unanswered. But I would ask you this: What man could have survived what you have endured without divine intervention—and that on a near daily basis?”
When Percival didn’t answer, Merlin continued.
“My answer would be few, maybe none. And I would ask you an even graver question. Could the Sir Percival who embarked on that ship a decade ago have done the things you have done upon your return? Could he have struck down Hengst the Butcher? Could he have inspired this army of volunteers to follow him?” Merlin said, gesturing to the army below. “And could he have accomplished all these things, as well as those that I believe are to come, without the assistance of a Numidian general who is a master of the art of war?” Merlin shook his head and smiled. “You see, I believe the Lord did answer your prayers, Sir Percival, and Albion’s as well. This land needed a sword forged in the hottest of fires to regain what was lost … and you are that sword.”
Percival looked at Merlin in silence for a moment, unsettled by the old Roman’s words. Then his eyes returned to the camp, and he spoke in a quiet voice. “If you are right, then I shall pray all the harder that I am worthy of this burden. God save me.”
“God save us all,” Merlin said.
“Well then ‘amen,’ as you Christians say,” Capussa said gravely.
Merlin and Percival looked at the Numidian in surprise and then burst into laughter.
“Is that not correct?” Capussa said gruffly.
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the three men, and Percival turned to see Keil jogging up the hill, dressed in the livery of the Queen’s Guard.
“Sir Percival, the Queen would see you,” Keil said with a gasp.
Percival restrained a smile. The young archer had earned his position by outrunning and outshooting all but three of the men who’d vied for a position as a member of the Queen’s Guard, although he still needed work with the sword.
“Lead, the way, guardsman,” Percival said, and followed the young man down the slope.
As he strode down the hill, he heard Merlin say to Capussa, “Come, my friend. Let us have that cup of mead. Sir Percival, in spite of himself, shouldn’t have to bear all the night’s merriment.”
Percival glanced up the hill for a moment, confused—merriment?
* * *
GUINEVERE, CADWYN, AND Sister Aranwen had taken up residence on the fourth floor of the royal waystation outside the town of Calleva. The circular stone tower stood on a rise at the edge of the encampment, surrounded by a stone wall. Percival, Capussa, Merlin, and the Queen’s Guard were quartered in the floors below.
As Percival walked up the rise toward the stone structure, his attention was drawn by the music playing in the grassy area just outside the waystation’s northern wall. Long tables of food had been set up, and a circle of grass set aside in the middle for dancing. When he stopped to look down at the feast and the festivities being prepared, young Keil walked over, his face alight.
“It’s Michaelmas, Sir Percival. The Queen ordered Merlin and Capussa to allow the men to celebrate. Why, I suspect the women in every nearby town and village will be coming here tonight.”
“You do, do you?” Percival said with amusement.
“Yes, sir. I mean, who wouldn’t want to dance with the men of the Queen’s Army? But don’t worry, sir, General Capussa is rotating the men in and out by company, so folks won’t have too much to drink, and the lines will always be defended.”
Percival smiled as he spoke, “Well, who am I to argue with the Queen?” When Keil turned and started toward the waystation again, Percival hesitated a moment and said in a whisper, “And God knows we’ll need the Archangel on our side in the coming days.”
When Percival and Keil reached the door to Guinevere’s chambers, the Knight nodded to the two guards on duty, and one of them turned and knocked respectfully. Cadwyn opened the door, resplendent in a long, yellow dress that flowed nearly to the floor, and gestured for Percival to come in.
“Sir Percival, please come. The Queen awaits.”
“Thank you, Lady Cadwyn. Please, after you.”
Percival followed the young woman to a large candlelit room at the end of a stone corridor, where Guinevere was seated at a wooden table covered by a white tablecloth. An array of plates filled with cheese, meat, and fruit were laid out in front of the two place settings at the table.
Cadwyn curtsied to Guinevere and disappeared into the next room. The Queen gestured to the seat across from her.
“Welcome, Sir Percival. Please, sit. It has been a long day’s march, and since tonight is Michaelmas, we should say a prayer of thanks and celebrate with a modest feast.”
Percival bowed, and spoke hesitantly. “Will Lady Cadwyn and Sister Aranwen be … joining our table tonight?”
“No, they have already eaten. It shall be just the two of us. Is that acceptable to you?” Guinevere said with the hint of a smile.
“Why yes, yes, of course, my Queen. It is always my privilege to dine with Your Highness,” Percival said quickly.
“And hopefully, your pleasure as well,” Guinevere said as she poured wine into the goblet in front of him.
“Always, my Queen,” Percival said, his eyes meeting hers.
“That pleases me, Sir Percival. Now, would you say a prayer for us tonight that is fitting for the occasion?”
“Yes, my Queen,” Percival said. Then he bowed his head, clasping his hands together.
“We thank you, Lord, for this bounty, of which we gratefully partake, and I fervently pray, on this feast day, that you grant the Queen and this kingdom the protection of the Archangel’s mighty shield and sword in the trials to come.”
“Amen,” finished Guinevere, nodding her approval.
The two ate and drank for several moments in awkward silence, and then Guinevere leaned back in her chair, her eyes meeting Percival’s. As the Knight looked at the Queen, her face seemed more beautiful and her eyes more alluring than he remembered from their last meeting. He reached for the wine glass in front of him, his throat suddenly parched, and took a drink.
“Sir Percival, I have watched you and General Capussa, and yes, Merlin as well, engage in quite lively conversation when you are together.”
“You have? I mean, yes, my Queen, at times we do talk thus,” Percival answered.
“And I have watched you laugh and smile with those men, and with the men in the camp as well.”
“Yes, that is also true,” Percival said, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“Then why, Sir Percival,” Guinevere said, with a smile in her voice, “do you find no occasion for mirth and joy when we talk? Since you do not converse thus with me, should I fear that you find me dull and dreary?”
Percival’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he was at a loss for words. “No, my Queen,” he said at last. “You are not dull or dreary in the least. In truth, I have never met a more interesting woman,” he said, struggling with each word. “It’s just that you are the Queen, and they—those you speak of—are my friends and brethren-in-arms.”
“Then I shall do away with that difference, with a royal command.”
“A command, my Queen?”
“Yes, tonight you shall address me, see me, and think of me, in all ways, as if I was just Guinevere—the daughter of the mayor of the local town yonder, or even that of a farmer, baker, or cooper. I would have us talk together … as we did on those morning rides so long ago.”
“But, my Queen—”
“Guinevere—just Guinevere,” she corrected, lifting a finger in a delicate remonstrance. “And you, you are just Percival, for the remainder of this night.”
Percival stared at the Queen for a moment in silence and then smiled. “Yes … Guinevere.”
“Now, Percival, I saw you, Merlin, and General Capussa laughing together today at the midday meal. Please do tell me what was so amusing that we might laugh together as well.”
Percival’s brow furrowed as he recalled the moment, and then a look of amusement came to his face.
“I was in the nearby town with General Capussa today, buying supplies, and one of the men from the town, a man who was as cruel as he was ugly, took it upon himself to bully one of our wagon drivers, young James. He told the lad that Morgana was a witch and that James had better run home to his mother before Morgana turned him into a frog.
“Well, General Capussa and I happened to hear this as we walked past the wagons to mount our horses, and Capussa,” Percival said with a smile, “is not, let us say, a man to suffer fools quietly. The general turned to young James and said, ‘I wouldn’t worry about that frog spell, James. Merlin says it does not work. But keep an eye out for the one that turns a man into a toad.’ Young James turned to the general, his eyes as wide as the eggs of robin, and said, ‘Does that one work, General?’ The general pointed to the bully and said, ‘Alas, it does James, and as you can see, Morgana used it on this man.’”
Guinevere burst into laughter, and Percival laughed along with her. Thereafter, the two of them talked and laughed together without reticence, reminiscing over happier times shared in the past. During a lull in their conversation, a lively tune from the celebration below could be heard. The Queen stood and walked over to the window, opening the shutters to reveal the dancing going on below.
“Come, Sir Knight,” she said, gesturing to the place beside her at the window.
Percival shook his head in mock sadness. “Alas, I cannot. My Queen has commanded me to only answer to the name Percival.”
Guinevere laughed. “Percival, then.”
As they stood by the window, watching the revelry below, the bard and the musicians began to play an old ballad that had been popular at court long ago, a song that would always fill the dance floor. Couples began to fill the grass square below set aside for dancing.
“Do you remember this song?” Guinevere said.
Percival hesitated and then nodded, remembering a distant night as if it were yesterday.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “It was played at one of the balls I attended at court.”
“And do you remember dancing to this tune?” Guinevere said with a smile.
“Yes … yes, indeed I do. Two ladies of the court insisted that I dance with them. Thankfully, I was able to do so without making too much of a fool of myself.”
“That would have been Ladies Evelynn and Isfair,” she said. “And as I recall, you danced quite well.”
Percival turned and his eyes met hers. “You watched—”
“I did,” she said quietly. “I wished that I might have danced in their places.”
“You—”
“Yes. So, must I also, as you say, ‘insist’ that you dance this ballad with me, Percival.”
“My—”
“Guinevere.”
She stepped away from the window and made a formal curtsy that was the prelude to the dance, and Percival, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward and made the required formal bow. And then they were dancing … stiffly at first, but gradually they both returned to a faraway place where they had both danced before, although not with one another.
Although the ballad was long, when it came to an end, and each of them gave their ending curtsy and bow, a part of Percival wished the song could have played on forever.
“Thank you, Guinevere. I … I shall never forget that dance,” Percival said.
“Nor shall I, and I fervently pray it is not our last,” Guinevere said softly.
“And I as well,” he said. They stood in silence looking at each other, neither willing to break the spell. Then Percival bowed. “I fear it is late, Milady, and I must see that the men are ready to march in the morning.”
“Yes, I understand,” Guinevere said, and he could hear the regret in her voice.
Percival bowed and walked to the door. Her words reached him just before he pulled open the door and stepped into the stone corridor.
“Did you ever … reminisce about the rides we took together in the mornings and the things we spoke of so long ago, when you were in that distant land?”
Percival turned and looked at Guinevere, and for a moment, he was once again standing in a cold stone cell gazing at the stars through a small barred window—stars he knew a woman with beautiful blue eyes and golden tresses could see in the skies over Albion as well.
“Yes, I do. Those memories … and the thought that someday I would see you again are what kept me alive in the arena. Good night, Guinevere.”
* * *
CADWYN WAS LEANING halfway out the window of the storage room next to the Queen’s chambers when Sister Aranwen, who’d just arisen from a nap, looked into the room.
“Cadwyn!” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
The young woman jumped down and strolled over to the next window, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Oh, just enjoying the air. It is such a beautiful night, don’t you think?”
“You can’t fool me, Cadwyn Hydwell. You’ve been eavesdropping on the Queen and Sir Percival!” Sister Aranwen whispered, glancing over her shoulder.
“I have not! Well, yes I have, and it’s wonderful! I think she’s in love with him, and he with her. I knew it would come to be!”
The nun turned around and started out of the room. “God save us. I swear, you will yet send me to an early grave.”
Cadwyn ran past the nun, blocking her path. “I’m right, and you know it,” she whispered insistently, hands on her hips.
Sister Aranwen looked away for a moment, and then she walked over and sat down on a small wooden bench. Cadwyn put a hand to her mouth and whispered, “You knew. You have always known.”
The older woman nodded silently, answering in a quiet, resigned voice. “I have. You cannot serve a woman for so many years and not know of things such as these.”
“Tell me, please!” Cadwyn whispered, sitting down by the older nun.
“Oh, Cadwyn Hydwell, you are quite the scoundrel!” she sighed, and then gave the younger woman a tired smile. “But you are a true friend to the Queen, and when I am gone, she will need all of your strength and love.”
“You’re not leaving, are you Sister Aranwen?” Cadwyn said, a look of concern coming to her face.
Sister Aranwen smiled. “Not yet, my dear, but in due time. So, yes, I will tell you things of yesteryear that may aid you when the time comes, but,” she continued sternly, “only if you pledge upon the blood of the Christ to keep them secret. Do you so pledge?”
Cadwyn’s eyes widened, and she hesitated. Then she made the sign of the cross and said, “Yes, pledge I do.”
“A woman of Guinevere’s station, a woman whose father was a man of great wealth and power, is merely a shiny jewel to be bought and sold in a world such as this, and so she was.”
“But Arthur—” Cadwyn interjected.
“Was a good and noble man, or he became such over time, and yes, he cared for Guinevere, and she … she adored him, but her adoration was that of a young woman for a man who is a mighty king; it was not love. Later—and you must remember that Arthur and Guinevere were only together for five short years—she came to respect Arthur’s desire to bequeath peace and justice to the people of this land.” The sister shook her head in regret. “Alas, that was beyond even his power. So you see, the Queen has never had the gift of true love.”
“But what of Sir Percival and Guinevere? You said—”
“Patience, patience,” Sister Aranwen said, clasping her hands together in her lap. “At Camelot, the Queen and her guards would ride every morning at the break of dawn before … before it became too dangerous. Since Arthur insisted that a Knight of the Table attend the Queen on these rides, Sir Percival rode with her on many a morning. At first, he was merely a guardian, but over time, they began to talk and share things with one another, and the Queen’s admiration for him grew. She said that he was the most interesting man she had ever met, and, I have to say, when she told me of their conversations, I, too, was intrigued. Well, with each passing day, their feelings for each other grew, and then one day … he was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. When the people of the Marches begged for assistance, Percival volunteered for the assignment and left that same day.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you said he cared—”
The nun held up one hand, and Cadwyn closed her mouth. “He did, Cadwyn. I believe that’s why he left. He is an honorable man, after all. Shortly after that, the Queen stopped going out for her rides. Oh, the threat of an attack was growing, but I also think that she couldn’t bear the memories.”
Sister Aranwen was silent for a moment, and then she continued, a distant look in her eyes.
“When she learned the King was going north to the River Tyne to meet a possible attack, she begged him to let her come along. At first, I couldn’t understand why, but when I learned Sir Percival had been ordered to march south from the Marches and to meet the King there, I knew.”
Cadwyn sat down beside the nun, her eyes rapt with attention.
“Arthur allowed her to come, but alas, she did not get a chance to talk with Percival. Instead, she almost saw him die in that terrible battle on the Aelius Bridge. That’s … that’s why Galahad has always been special to her. Percival would surely have died that day if Galahad hadn’t come to his aid.”
Sister Aranwen drew her black prayer beads out of her pocket and moved her fingers along the string in silence for a moment before continuing.
“A month later, Percival was sent to the Holy Land on that foolish Grail quest. The Queen tried to intercept him on the way, so she could at least say good-bye, but he was already boarding the ship when we reached the outskirts of the city. As we watched the ship disappear into the distance from a nearby hill, tears rolled down her face, but she never made a sound. So you see, they have been in love for a very long time.”
Cadwyn stared at the older woman, confused by her internal turmoil. “Why do you fear the Queen’s love for Sir Percival? Arthur is dead. I don’t understand.”
Sister Aranwen looked at the young woman, her eyes filled with apprehension.
“Cadwyn, I lived through Camlann. I saw Arthur and his legions march against Morgana once before. I fear that if … well, after having waited so long for him, he is lost that …” Sister Aranwen’s voice trailed off, and she bowed her head in silent prayer.
Cadwyn reached over and took the Sister’s hands in her own. “This time, it will be different, Sister Aranwen,” she whispered.
The older woman lifted her head. “I pray that you are right, child, I pray with all my heart and soul that it will be so.”
* * *
AFTER DRINKING TWO cups of mead with Capussa, Merlin returned to his quarters, intending to retire early, but he could not find the respite of sleep. The mystery posed by the note accompanying the wooden cup Jacob the Healer had given to Sir Percival consumed his thoughts. After an hour of lying awake in the dark, the old Roman arose, lit a candle from the glowing embers in the room’s small hearth, and returned to the desk, where the missive was hidden. He drew out the scroll and again struggled to unlock its meaning.
Percival had been right. Much of the note had been written in an Aramaic dialect that had not been used in centuries, one he could neither read nor seem to translate. Although Merlin understood the Greek and Latin words randomly interspersed among the Aramaic script, these did not provide any clue as to the meaning of the Aramaic words.
At first, Merlin had ignored the Greek and Latin words in the text, assuming they were nothing more than the irrational digressions of a sick old man, and focused on the Aramaic script. Since these words were unknown to him, he tried to ascertain their meaning by seeking out similar words in related languages, such as Hebrew and Syriac. Alas, this had come to nothing.
After seemingly endless hours of futile struggle, Merlin had turned his attention back to the Greek and Roman words in desperation, and over time, he came to realize that the Aramaic was just a ruse. The message was in the Greek and Latin words; they simply had to be assembled together in the proper order. He intended to find that order tonight.
When at last the cock crowed, signaling the coming of dawn, Merlin stood and walked over to the window and watched the sun rise. He had solved the mystery. Percival had been right. The cup given to him by Jacob was not the Holy Grail, but it was a grail that was holy.