Merlin stayed at Tintagel Castle for several weeks as the plans for the forthcoming trip were put into action. As far as the townsfolk were aware, their King, his son and grandson, had been invited to Camelot for a royal ball, and Merlin had travelled down to check his cave which ran underneath the castle. The official story also ran that Arthur, on a Kingly whim, had asked Mark to bring along some of the famous tin miners of the region so they could provide him with a short tunnel under Camelot that could be used as a wine cellar.

Percival had been put to task sorting out equipment and supplies they might need, but Grayle had found himself at a loose end.

For several days, he had found himself wandering out along the headland to a secluded spot atop the cliff. Sheltered by wind twisted trees, it offered a level grassed area perfect for his training.

On the third day of preparations, he jogged to the clearing, loosened his shoulders in the clear morning air, and began practicing strokes with a long sword. The only sounds for a time were the keening cries of the gulls in the morning air, the faint swish of metal slicing through the sunlight, and the soughing of the wind through the branches of the beech trees behind him. It was utterly peaceful, and he was so engrossed in his sword work, and trying to remember what both Percival and Father Tristan had taught him, that he almost dropped his sword when a discreet cough announced Camlan's presence.

"Your grandfather thought perhaps you could do with a little company," the man said as he movedout from the cover of a newly budded copper beech.

Grayle lowered his sword and watched the man approach. He was about thirty, of average height and build, but moved like one of the big cats Grayle had once seen in a circus. His dark hair was greying at the temples slightly, and Grayle realised he reminded him of Percival. There was the same sense of tightly leashed aggression, but he was obviously highly trained in the use of weapons, or he would not be in Mark's employ.

"I always welcome company," said Grayle quietly. "Although I also enjoy my own."

"As it should be," noted Camlan. "You seem very at ease with yourself for a young man."

Grayle looked at him questioningly, an eyebrow raised.

"Your father mentioned you were devout," he explained. "He also mentioned you knew Tristan. From what I have seen of you, it appears he taught you well."

"You knew Father Tristan?" Grayle said.

"No, I knew Tristan," corrected Camlan. "He became a servant of Christ after I knew him. He joined Bishop Brian's 'Army of God' and marched to the Holy Land, helping to protect the clergy and pilgrims as a Church Knight. But when I knew him he was Uther's Champion. Once Arthur inherited the throne he was no longer needed. Then, to me, he was simply Tristan. A good man, a bonny fighter, and a bit of a reprobate too," he said with a wry smile. "He also taught me."

"He died," said Grayle simply. "In the last battle we fought against the tribes in the north. He saved Percival when we ran into a group of marauding tribesmen. Tristan was outnumbered, armed with nothing but a quarterstaff, and waded into a group of five of them. He almost made it too, but one of them went berserk and wouldn't go down. The man was all but dead and treading on his own entrails when he killed Tristan. Percival had opened him up, but had taken a blow to the head and had gone down. Tristan was the only thing that stood in his way."

Grayle bowed his head, studying the grip of his sword. "I was too late." He said quietly. "My arrow took the man through the throat, but not before he had run Tristan through. He died in my arms."

Camlan stepped forward and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I knew him well enough to know he would be proud of what you did when the raiders attacked the Castle the other day. Sometimes things happen that you have no control over. You must not, and should not, blame yourself for his death."

Grayle stood in silence, the cool morning air chilling his muscles, and then nodded his thanks at the man, relaxing slightly.

"Grayle," said Camlan softly. "Would you allow me to pass on what he and others have taught me? It would be my honour to teach a worthy student."

The boy moved away to look out over the sea, deep in thought, and Camlan began to think perhaps he had offended him. His hair ruffled gently in the breeze, and then the faint crash of waves from the incoming tide seemed to bring Grayle back to himself.

He turned, bowed to Camlan, and nodded, a smile lighting his face and making him seem even younger than his sixteen years.

~

Percival watched Camlan and Grayle run along the cliff path. They had been training together for over a week now, and occasionally he or Mark would join in to allow Camlan to watch instead of acting as a fighting partner. Already the lad seemed quicker, more confident, and had started training with weapons other than the quarterstaff, short sword, and bow.

"It's the right thing to do son," said Mark's deep baritone behind him. "Camlan is a superb fighter, and one of the best teachers I've ever seen. The lad is already easily as good as you or me. Although I suspect I've still got the edge over you of course."

Percival turned towards the mocking smile of his father, and punched him in the arm, trying not to wince as he realised his father had worn his chainmail under his cloak. He leaned over the castle ramparts, looking at the surf pounding the shore below.

"He fights very differently to you or I doesn't he?" said Percival. "You are powerful, loud, and fight with a sort of joy. I tend to fight like a ..."

"... complete bastard," finished Mark. "I've never enjoyed sparring with you, you know. You always start involving the furniture or a random meat pie or something: and yes, Arthur did tell me about that," laughed Mark as Percival looked up guiltily. "Honestly boy how can you fight with a meat pie? Talk about playing with your food."

"It worked though," smiled Percival. "Arthur brings up the Red Knight story every time we meet."

"How are things going with the preparations?" asked Mark, changing the subject.

"I think we're almost ready to go now. Sheriff Jonas will be left in charge, Morholt will take charge of the guard accompanying us, and I believe one of the Knights of the Round Table is on his way to help out in my absence too.

Mark paused and shaded his eyes, looking into the distance.

"Val, your eyes are better than mine, do you see a horse on the hill there?"

Percival squinted into the distance and then let out a yell of delight.

"It's Gornemant, Arthur has sent Gornemant! I can see the yellow stripe on his shield from here!"

Percival set off at a dead run towards the main gate, Mark following on more sedately behind him with a broad grin on his face.

When Mark finally reached the main gate, nodding to Morholt in passing, he found Percival embracing his old mentor, the grizzled older Knight smiling with joy.

Percival suddenly remembered protocol and let go of the man, dropping to one knee before him. "My Lord," he said quietly.

"Oh come here you daft boy," said Gornemant lifting Percival to his feet. He reached past Percival and shook Mark's outstretched hand warmly.

"Good to see you, Your Majesty," he said.

"For God's sake man, don't start with all that official nonsense, we've known you far too long. Come inside and have something to eat, and tell us what news is shaking the court of Camelot."

~

A day later, they left Gornemant standing on the battlements; his hand raised in farewell, Sheriff Jonas next to him. They had been told to head north-east to Exeter and meet with the Bishop there, who had requested a meeting.

Mark, Percival and Grayle rode at the head of the column, Camlan and Morholt behind them leading an honour guard of three soldiers. Merlin, a camp cook, and the pack animals rode behind them, and two further soldiers brought up the rear of the small column.

Grayle turned to look back at Tintagel Castle perched precariously on its dark and weathered lump of slate, and sighed.

"We'll be back soon lad," said Percival next to him.

"I know Val, but it would be nice to have a few more weeks of peace and quiet. I hadn't realised how much I missed this place."

"I think you carry your own peace with you son."

Grayle smiled at him, nodding, and then brightened up slightly as he thought of something. "May we visit the great cathedral in Exeter as we go through?" he asked. "I know it's only partially built, but it is said to be majestic already."

"Of course we can. Your grandfather hadn't told you the full details of our visit there, had he? We're scheduled to meet up with Bishop David while we're passing through. He's a good man and the one in charge of building the cathedral there. I think you'll like him. We'll be staying with him in Exeter for a few days while your grandfather sorts out some business, then we'll head on to Camelot."

"What of the miners?"

"They'll meet us in Exeter. A group of twenty from the Dolcoath mines at Camborne will be joining us, headed up by a foreman. Once they join us, we'll travel on and meet King Arthur for a full briefing on the situation on the Saxon Shore."

Grayle nodded "It will be good to see my aunt again. I understand I have a cousin now?"

Percival smiled. "Aye, a little girl of almost three years, she is said to be a bonny child."

"Honestly, you gossip like a bunch of women," grumbled Merlin from behind them. "Pick up the pace a little; I'd like to get to the Inn at Okehampton before it gets dark you know."

Mark clicked his tongue and dug his heels gently into his horse's flanks, the group moving noticeably moved faster as Merlin's grumbles faded into the haze of the morning.