Tintagel was in mourning. Their vibrant young queen had died in childbirth, King Mark visibly breaking down as he proclaimed the news from the high balcony above the Inner Bailey. His son and only heir had been stillborn; his wife following their child into the shifting mists of the netherworld.

Since the event, Mark had all but disappeared from public view leaving his Sheriff to run the town, which laboured on, subdued under its banner of black, the midnight dark flag flying from the highest tower of the castle.

Mark was a good and popular king, considered a fair and just man by all but the small criminal fraternity who managed to survive in the shadows. He had once passed a specially minted copper coin to all the children in the town, a gift to celebrate his wedding to his beautiful young wife, something Percival had treasured until he'd had to use it to pay for his mother's burial. He still remembered the dark and kindly eyes as the king had passed over the coin, seeing the fresh copper glint in his grubby hand.

Things had changed since then. Now Percival sat in the lee of a door in abject misery, trying vainly to find comfort enough to allow sleep. Winter approached and he knew he was going to be in trouble. His tenth summer had just gone, but for the first time in his young life he was utterly alone. His mother had died in the summer of some sort of wasting disease, and without her able to earn the odd copper he had no food, no shelter, and no hope. He had taken to stealing to support himself, and hated the fact he had to, terrified the town guard would catch him. He was well aware of what his mother had been, the other kids endlessly taunting the bastard: son of a whore. He'd heard the whole gamut of insults and had become virtually immune to them. His mother had loved him, that had been all that mattered, but now he was lost, and alone.

Wrapping the thin sack more tightly around his shoulders he tried desperately to think. He was tired, cold and wretched, but had kept himself as clean as he could, bathing in the cold grey sea, knowing that if he lost himself completely he would truly become the animal the other children suggested he might be. Percival played absently with a dagger he had stolen from a merchant. It was plain but well made and had already been used. His anger had got the better of him when he had turned on one of the older boys who had been taunting him. He'd narrowly missing cutting the boy, but put a deep slash in the boy's coat. He knew tomorrow they would come for him, knew he would have to fight as he'd always had to fight. His blue eyes blazed in the silvery darkness; fighting was the only thing he knew now, anger was the only thing that sustained him and made him feel alive.

He shivered and turned at a sound echoing down the alley. Footsteps; halting, staggering, and inconsistent. He looked out from his shadowed corner to see a large man meandering along the alley, having just left one of the local Inns. Light from the alehouse window briefly illuminated the man's features as he passed, and Percival was startled to see the haggard and grey face of his King. Grief was plain to see on his bearded face. The king had been crying and was now drunk, a staggering shambles of the man he once had been.

Percival looked at him in horror, stunned to see the man's decline from vital, caring monarch to street drunkard. Wondering whether to approach, he sat in statue-like indecisiveness in his doorway, until another movement caught his eye.

Two darkened forms were stealthily approaching the king from behind. Entirely wrapped up in his own private misery and inebriation, the king was utterly unaware of his surroundings, or his peril. The silvery flicker of moonlight on a naked blade from behind the king ended the boy's indecision, and he leapt from the doorway, shedding his thin covering, shouting in warning as he raced towards the king.

"My King, behind you, 'ware thieves!"

The King's head came up from his chest at the shout, and he spun around clumsily to face the two thieves who moved towards him. Drawing his sword from its scabbard he faced the men, weaving drunkenly in the confines of the alley.

"Good evening gentlemen." The baritone voice of the king punctured the gloom of the night, stopping the two thieves in their tracks, allowing Percival to move up behind him.

The king looked down at the boy, his small knife held aggressively in front of him, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you with me boy?"

Percival looked up at Mark and nodded mutely; his face pale, knife clasped tightly in one small fist.

"Good man," he whispered, turning back to face the two footpads who stood in front of him, naked blades glinting in the pale moonlight.

"You have a choice to make gentlemen. You can sheath your blades and move away, or you can test just how drunk you think I actually am."

The thieves hesitated, then rushed at the king who bellowed and attacked, sword whistling at breathtaking pace through the air. Percival, stunned by the ferocity of the attack could only watch as the king defended himself. Even inebriated Mark was formidable, his sheer bulk, power and training coming to the fore. But drunk he was, and it was only a matter of time before he made a mistake. All but forgotten in the gloom of the night, Percival shrank back against the wall and watched the fight unfold. Mark powered into the two men in front of him, blocked a stab from one man with his sword, and punched him in the face with his free hand. Eyes glazed, the thief slumped against the wall as Mark moved past him to take on the second thief. This man was more cautious after seeing his comrade removed so swiftly from combat: he held his long bladed knife in front of him defensively and circled carefully, looking for an opening. As Percival watched, the original attacker shook his head to clear his vision and, realising his co-conspirator held the king's attention, he moved cautiously up behind Mark, his knife ready.

Seeing the thief's intent, Percival sprang into action and sprinted towards the man as fast as he could, dagger held tightly in a sweaty hand. Raising his blade, the thief got in close to the king but bellowed in surprise as his attack was spoilt by Percival slamming his dagger into the man's leg.

Hearing the noise, Mark turned to see the thief immediately behind him. Reacting instantly, he turned and swung his sword across the injured man's neck, ending his misery. Mark staggered, the momentum of his sword's swing pulling him off balance and into the wall, the impact causing him to drop his sword, and the other thief struck.

He chose his moment well, the dagger coming in from above. Reaction kicked in and Mark moved desperately, his head jerking out of range, the dagger blow missing his neck but carrying deep into the king's thigh. Roaring in agony, the king reacted again, punching out and catching the thief, sending him reeling away into the shadows. The king staggered and leant against the wall breathing heavily in shock and pain, the dagger still buried to the hilt in his leg.

A shadow detached itself from its fellows deeper in the alley, and a new gleam of silver broke the night as the thief drew another blade from his boot.

Percival stood quietly in the dark, his heart racing, and then moved forwards, staying hidden in the shadows cast by the pale moon. His bare foot came down on something cold, and he looked down to see the ornate hilt of the king's sword on the ground.

A sudden scuffle broke the silence of the night again as the thief rushed to the attack, the king catching the wrist of the dagger hand as the blow came in. Weakened by his wound and inebriation, the king was losing the fight, and as kicks and blows rained in on him, he began to slump to the floor, still desperately trying to control the hand wielding the knife.

Percival picked up the sword, the discordant rasp of the steel on the cobbles alerting the thief who had just gained the upper hand, punching Mark hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor.

He turned around and smirked evilly at the boy in front of him. "And what do you think you're going to do with that little man? Eh? Do you think you're going to rush in and save him? Are you a hero, a knight in shining armour?"

The thief had laughed at him, taunting him, moving towards him menacingly. "You caused my friend to die."

"He deserved to die," said Percival hotly, tears of anger and fear flowing down his cheeks. "He was a coward, and so are you."

"Well said boy."

The voice came from behind the thief and, as he turned in surprise, the massive fist of Mark thundered into his jaw, spinning him around and sending him sprawling towards Percival who clumsily raised his sword in defence, neatly spitting the thief through the heart.

Percival watched the pale light of life fade from the thief's eyes and ran to Mark's side as the monarch slumped to the floor.

The following morning Percival awoke in a cell to hear voices outside the oak door of his confinement.

"My King, you are not fit."

"I am fit enough for this. You say he protected me?"

"When we arrived, we found you on the floor unconscious. He'd bound your wound with strips of linen from your shirt and had propped you against the wall with your sword next to you. He was standing in front of you brandishing a dagger at anyone who tried to get near you. It would have been almost comical at any other time, but he was absolutely feral. I've never seen anyone so angry. In the end, we had to dump a blanket on him and wrestle him to the ground, but he still managed to try and stab me even then. I'm just glad I had my chain mail on. We put him in here until you were fit enough to decide what you wanted to do with him."

"Thank you, Sheriff."

Percival recognised the deeply toned voice from the night before and struggled to his feet as the door opened. Light flooded in and was obscured briefly as the large frame of the King of Cornwall entered the cell.

The king walked in, sat on the pallet bed in the cell and looked at Percival thoughtfully. Mark looked pale, and black circles made his eyes look sunken in the semi-darkness of the prison.

"Are you well, my King?" Percival asked quietly.

"I am, thank you. It appears I owe you a debt of gratitude. I have little memory of last night, but witnesses have said you not only warned me, but stood by me, and then physically attacked the thieves who accosted me. That takes courage boy, and courage should be rewarded. Why did you get involved though, you had no reason to help me?"

"You gave me a penny," whispered Percival.

~

"Percival...." whispered Mark, his pain-addled senses still confused as he returned to a state of semi-consciousness. "It was the best penny I ever spent lad..."

"You," ordered Morgause, gesturing at Jowan. "Throw a bucket of water over him, and wake him up properly. We have work to do."

Her mouth turned up in a smirk, She reached to her belt, and drew the same knife that had dispatched Lancelot. Mark stared at her in fear and rage with his one remaining eye, fully awake now as water dripped from his hair onto the rotting tree trunk below him. He heaved in vain against the bonds holding him, manfully struggling for release as she approached him, smiling wickedly at his discomfort. His naked upper body was a bloody mosaic of small cuts and burns, inflicted over the course of several, pain-filled hours, his stoic refusal to talk seeming to delight rather than infuriate her.

"I do enjoy my work," she whispered into the King's ear, caressing the blade through the lobe and on into the cartilage above it. Once again he roared his agony at the uncaring blue sky above him. Morgause gloatingly waved the bloody trophy in front of his face, then tossed the remnants of the King's ear to the blood spattered grass below.