Chapter 2
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Percivale rode his horse Onyx, so named because of its black color. He traveled along a forest road so narrow he and his companions had to ride single file with Percivale in the lead. He studied the underbrush on both sides of the road. It was dense enough to easily hid a band of brigands waiting in ambush. Like most new knights, the three possessed no armor and had only a weapon and a shield.
It was the morning of their fourth day since leaving Camelot and the forest burst with new life: trees filled with buds and immature leaves, birds chirped and a mild breeze rustled the branches.
Percivale still felt a hint of exhilaration about his first adventure. Even if it was a mundane chore of escorting a princess, he and his friends would get paid and have a success to brag about. He planned to use his share of the money to start buying armor. He grinned as he recalled his dream from last night. In it, his seven older sisters watched him ride out on an adventure. For once, they had to stop teasing him about being the baby in the family. His father had been determined that his only son wouldn't be a farmer. The father purchased an old axe and hired a retired warrior to teach Percival how to fight. Percivale become so adept with weapons, he won a scholarship to the Guild.
Percivale mused about how well he and the other two worked together. Both were two years older than his seventeen and had more experience than he did. Bors understood money coming from a wealthy family. He had spent a lot of time hunting with his father and uncles. As a consequence, Bors understood forest lore and was the one who recognized the possibility of an ambush. Gareth caught food and cooked the meals. It amazed Percivale how Gareth could take an unappetizing mess and make it taste good using forest herbs and his dried spices. You'd never think Gareth was the son of the king of Orkney in the far north. Gareth claimed he had participated in a number of cattle raids, the principal way warriors entertained themselves up north.
For his part, Percivale planned to use his drawing skills to produce a map of their travels. He'd present it to the Round Table when they returned from the adventure. Maps were always welcomed and valued even if many men couldn't understand them.
Percivale heard movement in the underbrush and hoisted his shield a bit higher. His groin flipped over twice and he thought he might throw up. Percivale released the reins on the horse to grasp the handle of his battle ax, holstered near his saddle. He stopped the horse so the hoofbeats wouldn't mask more sounds. Despite the pounding of his heart and the roar of his blood, he heard Bors and Gareth draw weapons.
Even with the great danger, Percival realized he was in his first fight, unlike Bors and Gareth. Both had battle experience. Percivale's career as a hero could end in a few seconds.
Percivale nudged Onyx with his knees and the horse moved forward. He heard more rustling and suddenly three archers stood on the road with drawn bows. Percivale had an urge to piss his pants and his stomach clenched up. He forced his paralyzed limbs to work.
Percivale pulled his ax free, raised the shield to protect his head and charged. He hoped the archers shot at him and not at Onyx.
More brigands appeared on the right side of the road as Percivale raced past them. Bors and Gareth would have to deal with them.
Three arrows smashed into Percivale's shield. The impact knocked him back in the saddle, but he managed to remain on the horse. He swung the ax at the archer on his right, sliced though the bow and struck the man in his shoulder. The man screamed and collapsed. Oynx plowed into the other two other sending them flying and roaring in pain. The one on the left crashed into the underbrush. The middle one landed on the road and rolled ten feet. He lay still with his head covered with blood.
Percivale turned his attention to the archer in the underbrush. The man struggled with the branches, pulled himself clear and fled into the forest.
Looking back, Percivale saws his two companions had dismounted and were going through the pockets of three blood-covered brigands. Sounds from the forest indicated at least one other robber had survived the ambush. Percivale jumped from his horse with shield and ax ready for more danger and nudged the wounded archer with a foot. The man looked at the ax and cringed. "What do we do with this guy?” Percivale yelled over his shoulder.
"Let him go," Bors replied. "He ain't gonna shoot any more arrows."
"Better move," Percivale told the archer. "You have to find your mates and get 'em to bind up your shoulder before you bleed to death."
The man heaved himself to his feet and lurched into the forest.
Percivale heard sounds of steps and whirled to face the road. The bloody-headed archer also made it into the forest.
"Find anythin'?" Bors asked Gareth. "I didn't."
"Nothin'." Gareth wiped his spatula on the shirt of a body. "I didn't think we get anythin' valuable from the bodies. These guys look poorer than we are, but you never know." He grabbed the dead body's shirt and dragged it off the road. "Don't wanna horse trippin' over the body."
Bors grabbed the other two bodies and moved them into the underbrush.
"That was fast thinkin', Perc," Gareth said. "You didn't give the archers time to get off a second shot."
"Yeah," Bors added with a grin. "The second shots could have been aimed at us."
Percival beamed with pride as Bors nodded agreement with Gareth's praise. He hadn't had enough time to think about the danger. Percivale had reacted as he had been trained to by Harry the Murderer.
With a battle under his belt, Percivale felt less concerned about disgracing himself and his family.
"As long as we're dismounted," Gareth said, "l'll find some quail eggs and other stuff to make a meal." He opened his saddle bags and took out his apron. It was fitted with dozens of small pockets, each filled with a spice, a condiment or an implement such as a zester.
~ ~ ~
An agitated Moxie paced her apartment. Where were her escorts? Her father had told her they would arrive at any time now. She yearned to get out the castle and be on her own, without Smedley's minions controlling her life and spying on her.
Two maids finished packing her clothes into four large trunks. She gave another look around the room she had lived in ever since her mother died so long ago. It held a bed, a chest of drawers and a couch. A fireplace and a single small window completed the inventory. She wouldn't miss this room located above the king's conference chamber. Water froze in the room during winter and became too hot to drink in the summer.
Recently, the maids had become unusually obedient and friendly. Moxie knew the reason; they wanted to leave the castle with her, but Moxie had no intention of taking anyone who would remind her of her past life. Moxie would start a new life with Gamel. Her only connection with her current life would be the clothes and personal possessions now packed in trunks secured with leather straps. The pink bridal gown had been placed in the top of one trunk, carefully folded to avoid wrinkling.
Moxie was sure Gamel's court would be more sophisticated than her father's court which was known only for its dullness. She and Gamel would host dinners that sparkled with conversation. There would be balls and she would wear new gowns and dance all night with Gamel. They would become as a famous as Artie and Guinevere.
As Gamel's wife, she planned on treating everyone with respect, even folks who weren't noble-born. After all, it wasn't their fault they didn't have a noble birth. She wouldn't follow her father's example. He treated everyone with disdain, abusing minister and the peasants equally.
Once she gave birth to a son, her father would have an heir to the kingdom. She stopped pacing and placed her hands on her hips, pulled a face and tapped one foot on the floor.
Both maids noticed Moxie's pose and fled the room after dropping curtsies.
Moxie pondered the one flaw in her new life. If Smedley died while her son was young, the kingdom would be ruled by a regency, probably headed by Gamel. Young kings like her son often ended up murdered because the head of the regency decided to make themselves the permanent king.
She shook a fist in the direction of Gamel's lands.
She had to find a way to ensure her son came into his inheritance even if Gamel was the Regent.
~ ~ ~
Merlin sat at his writing table in his lab in Artie's palace. Rowan had taught him a few new healing spells that could be used in football games and he wanted to write a treatise on it for other wizards.
While thinking about how to phrase a sentence, he knocked over his ink bottle and black fluid ran down the parchment making a dark blob on the right side of the paper.
He cursed and folded the paper in half to absorb the flowing ink and keep it from spreading to the table top.
He held the halves together until the ink had been absorbed, then he opened it. All of his writing had been covered with ink, but, to his surprise, the dark blob reminded him of a stand of oak trees where he had studied with the druids. He frowned in consternation. How could this ink blot remind him of something from many years ago? He turned the page upside down and looked at it again. He still saw the oak trees. What did it mean? Why did he see an ancient memory in the ink stain?
He stood and paced his laboratory. He ignored the table with dusty scrolls, burnt retorts, beakers half-filled with liquid and a copper tube with a valve in the middle. The tube had popped into existence after he had been distracted while casting a spell. He suspected the tube came from many years into the future.
The image in the ink still intrigued him. He returned to his writing table took a scrap of parchment and spilled ink on it. He guided the ink around the paper then folded it in half, held it that way until the ink had partially dried and opened the parchment. Merlin looked at it, but didn't see any images. He turned the parchment around and the hair on his neck stood on end. What he saw reminded him of Stonehenge, the theater-in-the-round not far from Camelot where the Smoke Contests and other performances were held.
He filled his pipe and lit it with a flame that erupted from his fingertip. He inhaled and blew a smoke bluebird. Merlin sent it flying around the room while he went back to pondering the ink stains.
For many years, Merlin had studied what he considered the 'real' magic in the world; the magic behind the working of the human mind. Could these ink stains be the breakthrough he had sought for so long? Were these spilled ink blobs the key to understanding the way the mind worked? Or at least to gaining some insights into the magic of the mind? All his studies over many years had yielded little information and most of that was hardly useful. And now, he sensed he was on the verge of a breakthrough because of an accident. How wonderful!
He made two more ink diagrams and marveled at how one of the the stains made him recall scenes from his childhood home in the wild Welsh mountains near the western coast of the British Isles. The second ink spot made him think of Camelot in the early days.
Over the next hour, he develop a plan to test the usefulness of the diagrams which he called rorschach blobs, 'rorschach' being the word the ancient ones used for 'fuck-up'.
His plan called for him to show the four diagrams to a number of people and record what they saw. With enough data, he might be able to figure out how the human mind worked.
He decided to start with Artie and then show them to some knights.
Rowan walked in and saw the ink-stained parchments. "What is this? You like playing with ink?" Since Rowan now officially coached the knight's football team, the Lady of the Lake gave Rowan permission to stay at Camelot until the season ended.
"No, I'm investigating the magic of the mind and I think I have the key to gaining some more understanding."
"Really?" Rowan raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Ink stains?"
Merlin looked at Rowan while he tapped his fingers on the table. Maybe she could give him a perspective different from the ones men would give him. "Do you ever see castles and such in clouds?"
"Of course. Doesn't everyone?"
"Well, I see images in these ink blobs just like I see images in clouds."
"So what does the clouds and ink blobs have to do with your magic of the mind?" Rowan asked.
"I think it will tell me how someone's mind works." Merlin picked up the first ink-stained parchment. "For instance, in this blob I see where I used to study with the Druids. It was in a stand of oak trees."
Rowan looked at the picture. "I see the ferry dock at the lake. That's how visitors get to the shrine and the Lady."
Merlin's stared at Rowan with his mouth open. She had confirmed his theory that different people would see different images. "What about this one? I see Stonehenge."
Rowan examined the parchment Merlin held up for her to see. "That's the lake as seen from the mountain behind it."
"And this one?"
"The shrine."
"And the last?"
"The herb gardens."
Merlin leaned back in the chair and crossed his arm. He knew he had discovered the key to understanding the magic of the mind and possibly even to control minds. This discovery could make him the most famous wizard of all time. He would become the "Father of the Magic of the Mind." It would be his legacy.
~ ~ ~
Percivale took a deep breath to calm his rapidly beating heart. Having never met royalty before, he was afraid of insulting the king through ignorance.
After leaving their weapons with a guard, the apprentice knights entered King Smedley's throne room. A squad of bored-looking spearmen stood off to the right. Percivale examined the old man sitting on the throne. A few white hairs covered part of his head which had a simple band of gold for a crown. Smedley had brown eyes, was lanky and stooped-shouldered as if he had carried a great weight for far too long.
"Greetings, King Smedley." Since Gareth was the son of a king, he spoke for them, and he dipped his head slightly while he spoke. "We're from Camelot. We're the escorts for the princess. I'm Gareth and these two are Bors and Percivale."
Bors and Percivale bowed as their names were called.
A young woman around Percivale's age stood close to the throne and he guessed it was Moxie. She was short with a stocky frame. Dark, beady eyes and a small nose were set in a flat round face. Percivale found her extremely plain.
"What's this?" Smedley stood up and glared at the knights. "For a mighty sum of seventy-five silver pennies, I get three inexperienced youths. I want real warriors. Go back to Camelot and tell Lancelot to send three other knights. Real knights this time."
"Lancelot chose us for this adventure," Gareth said, "and we're the only three you get."
"In that case, I'll pay each of you five silver pennies and not a coin more."
"You promised Lancelot seventy-five." Gareth stared at Smedley. "Renege on the deal, and you can hire your own escorts. We're outta here." Gareth addressed the king in an almost bored voice.
Smedley looked startled by Gareth's statement.
Percivale noticed Moxie's smile. She seemed amused that someone argued with her father.
"I'm sure," Gareth continued, "if we tell Lancelot you wouldn't use us, he'll pay a visit with the squadron of Round Table knights and tear down your castle. He's gotta quick temper, you know."
Smedley sat down and tapped his fingers on the arm of the throne. He stopped and summoned a man who stood in the shadows of a wood column. The man, younger than Smedley with a huge paunch, approached the throne and the two men whispered for a few minutes. The man drew back into the shadows and Smedley turned his attention to the escorts. "All right. You'll have to do. Your job is to escort my daughter, Princess Moxie," he paused to point at her, "to her betrothed. His name is Count Gamel and his lands are to the northeast."
"Sire," Bors asked, "why don't use your own troops for the escort? We saw enough of them around the castle."
"Because I don't want to weaken my defenses. King Leofric, may his soul burn in Hell, has sworn to conquer my lands and I don't want him to see I sent some of my soldiers away."
Moxie examined her escorts. She was impressed with Gareth, but anyone who stood up to her father impressed her. Gareth was tall and had broad shoulders. He weighed close to two hundred pounds, had short blond hair, blue eyes and a two-day growth of stubble on his face. He wore leather breeches and a linen shirt with no sleeves. Thick leather boots covered his feet. One of his massive biceps had a tattoo that read 'Kiss the Cook'. Moxie wondered what the tattoo meant. Surely, a knight didn't cook. Peasants always did the cooking.
Bors was shorter than Gareth and leaner. He had brown hair and eyes, plain features with even white teeth and large ears. He wore gray trews and shirt with black boots. He, too, had stubble on his chin and cheeks.
Percivale was the shortest of the three. While two inches shorter than Bors, Percivale had a stockier build. His hair was dark brown and was cut identically to the other two knights. She wondered if there was a requirement for knights to wear their hair short. Percivale didn't have stubble and dressed all in brown leather: boots, trews and a vest.
She appraised all three. Bors wasn't unattractive, but Gareth was more handsome. Percivale, on the other hand, was the most interesting of the three. There was an air of innocence about him, but he also carried himself with confidence.
Moxie realized she would be traveling with three strangers and wondered what life would be like outside the castle walls. She imagined it might be different what with the fresh air and sleeping in a tent. She hoped her escorts had been properly taught to respect her birth and would obey her orders.
"When can the Princess be ready to leave?" Gareth asked. "Will she ride inna carriage?"
"Immediately." Smedley shook his head. "She'll go with you on horse."
"What!" Moxie's face turned red. Hands on hips and tapping one foot, she glared at Smedley. "I can't carry all my trunks on a horse. I need the carriage."
"You're not using the carriage," Smedley snarled. "The road bandits are just waiting for the carriage to cross the drawbridge. They'll have you kidnapped before you go a mile. I'll get a ransom note within an hour of your leaving."
Percivale glanced at his mates. They gave him wary looks in return. Their 'easy' adventure had just gotten complicated.
"What bandits are you referrin' to, Sire?" Gareth asked.
"Word got out about Moxie's betrothal to Count Gamel and the bandits know she'll have to travel to his lands. My sources tell me a band or bands of them are waiting for her."
"We oughta leave inna middle of night so we can get past them before they realize the princess has left," Percivale said.
Gareth and Bors nodded.
"I'm not leaving in the dark," Moxie said. "I can't possibly be ready before the mid-day meal."
"That makes sense," Smedley said to Percivale.
"And we'll have to muffle the horses' hooves," Gareth added. "So they won't make noise crossin' the drawbridge."
"Then that's what we'll do," Smedley said.
"And I can't stuff my bridal dress into a saddle bag," Moxie said with a hint of panic in her voice. "It'll get wrinkled. Daddy, I need the carriage. I'm sure these three can fight their way through the bandit rabble."
"No carriage." Smedley crossed his arms and stared at Moxie. "You go on horseback and I don't care if your dress gets wrinkled."
"Well, I can never be ready in the middle of the night. It takes too long for me to get dressed."
"Daughter!" Smedley said. "You're leaving tonight even if I have to tie you up and throw you over your saddle." He picked up a parchment roll and handed it to Gareth. "Here are directions showing how to get to Count Gamel's castle."
Moxie looked at the knights and battered her eyes. "A girl needs her beauty rest, you know." She grimaced at them. "Surely, three heroes can protect me no matter what time of the day or night it is."
"We leave inna middle of the night," Gareth said in a stern voice.
Moxie placed her hands on her hips, tapped a toe and glared at Gareth.
Percivale had a premonition that escorting Moxie would be fraught with danger, and that she might be the biggest danger they faced, not the bandits
~ ~ ~
435 C.E.
The eighteen-year-old Lancelot sat on his horse and watched ten knights work themselves up to attack him. They were in a line and planned to surround him and then beat him senseless or worse. They were all older than he and they had reputations as great jousters and fighters. He had unhorsed all of them. Actually, Lancelot had unhorsed twelve, but two had broken bones and couldn't climb back on their horses. Since he was an unknown knight on his first tournament, they were out for revenge because he had damaged their reputations.
The archbishop of Poitiers, the sponsor of the tournament, sat under his canopy and glared at Lancelot. The old man was furious that an upstart had made a mockery of his tournament and he had ordered the ten defeated knights to attack the victor and never mind about chivalry.
When the knights still didn't attack, Lancelot decided to initiate the action. He gripped his shield, drew his sword, kicked his horse into motion and hoped none of his opponents would get killed. His horse broke into a canter and he aimed at the five knights on the right side of the line. Lancelot's charge took them by surprise and they couldn't react fast enough to defend themselves.
Lancelot's horse crashed into the fourth horse from the right. The impact forced that horse into the two to its left and three knights were knocked out of their saddles. With his sword, Lancelot dismounted another knight leaving only the one bewildered knight on the end of the line. That one sat immobile on his mount with his face guard still open.
Lancelot's momentum carried him behind the knights. He turned his horse and charged back into the fray. The five knights on the left of the line struggled to get their mounts around to face the threat, but Lancelot struck before they could get organized. He attacked their center. His mount crashed into the middle horse and bit it. That horse whinnied and shied away from the attack, blocking two other knights from attacking Lancelot who walloped away at the remaining two, unhorsing one and wounding the second. Blood flowed from under that knight's helm and ran down over his hauberk. The knight rode away from the melee.
Lancelot spun his horse and trotted over to where the remaining three worked at untangling their shields and stirrups. One stuck out with a sword. Lancelot blocked it, twisted his sword and took off the knight's hand. The other two saw the gushing blood and retreated. They were joined by the knight from the other end of the line.
The archbishop, red in the face, beckoned for Lancelot to approach. By the rules of the tournament, the horses and armor of the defeated knights were his. He had a suspicion that he wouldn't be allowed to enjoy the riches he had won.
"What's your name again?" the archbishop snarled.
"Lancelot, your eminence."
"Are you even a knight?"
"Not yet, but my father is a duke in Brittany and he promised to knight me on my next birthday." Lancelot had received a set of armor on his last birthday and had decided to join the tournament circuit.
"Not even a knight and you make a mockery of my tournament? It must be the work of the devil. Nothing else makes sense." The bishop turned to the sergeant-at-arms. "Arrest him and hold in the dungeon until I can question him about his pact with the devil."
The sergeant-at-arms blanched at the order and didn't move.
Lancelot and the archbishop both noted the look of terror in the man's eyes.
Lancelot sighed. All his dreams of winning fame at his first tournament had disappeared. Instead, the archbishop wanted him seized and tortured. He turned his horse's head.
"Stop, idolater. Surrender to my sergeant under pain of losing your soul."
Lancelot rode away but called over his shoulder, "Don't send anyone after me. They won't survive."
He rode out of town while pondering his future. The archbishop would spread the word, making it impossible for him to join any other tournament. If he tried to join one, he'd be seized. His only possible option was to take ship for another land. It was early spring and he had heard Saxon marauders always attacked Britain across the Narrow Sea. He could go there and join a king or war leader to fight the invaders. With a war going on, they wouldn't care what had happened to him over here.
He turned onto a road and headed for to the coast.