"Your grandson is getting ready to die."

Mark, who had been staring into the distance, came back to himself as Morholt's shadow fell across him. He sat morosely on the grassy lower slopes of Silbury Hill, not far outside the gates of the palisade. The earth was dry and the grass brown, and the lack of colour had done little to buoy his spirits. Merlin had made him walk outside the tent for the first time since he had come back to the camp, but the sun seemed to be doing little to improve the king's black mood.

"You're blocking the sun," he said bluntly.

"You really are a miserable old bastard sometimes, you know that?" muttered Morholt, and lowered himself to the grass beside him.

"I think you forget who you're talking to," snapped Mark.

"I think you forget who you are," said Morholt softly.

"What the hell is that meant to mean? You wander out here, block my light and then have the gall to insult me. How dare you. I ought to clap you in irons. Get the hell out of my sight."

Morholt stood up and leaned over him. "Make me. Actually, no, you're the king, why don't you order someone else to do it?"

Mark shot to his feet the pain of his leg wound causing him to wince as he loomed menacingly over the smaller man.

"I'll do it myself, you little sod." His left arm shot forward and he cried out in pain as the stump thumped into Morholt's chest. Reacting quickly, he grabbed with the other hand, lifting the man off his feet by his tunic until they were eye to eye.

"Well, I hang corrected, you made me." Morholt grinned at him crookedly, and quietly added, "look down."

Mark looked down to see the point of a wicked looking dagger hovering beside his crotch. He looked back into the smaller man's eyes and started to chuckle, placing Morholt gently back on his feet as he sank back to the grass. Morholt watched quietly and waited for what he knew would follow. Mark's chuckles changed after a few seconds, and he broke into body-shaking sobs, hiding his face from Morholt who knelt down in front of his king.

"I have known you all my life Mark," he started softly. "You have lost so much, your wife, your child, and now your hand and your eye. But, you have gained so much too; a son, a grandson, the adoration and fealty of the whole of Cornwall, the respect of your brother kings. Don't let all that fall to the ground with a few dead bits of flesh. You are still here, and right now your grandson needs you to be king, but most of all he needs you to be his grandfather, and your son need you to be his father. There is to be a fight to the death, and Grayle is at risk."

Morholt leaned forwards and grasped the larger man's shoulders, willing him to get to his feet, but unable to lift the larger man to his feet.

"I'm not fit to be king. I am a cripple. I cannot fight," said Mark bitterly, resisting the smaller man's efforts to get him to his feet.

"You were ready to fight me just then," he pointed out. "You still have your sword arm: we can strap a shield to your other. All you have to fight now is yourself."

Mark looked up and out into the distance. "I am a cripple," he repeated. "I will always need help."

"And you shall always have it, although I doubt you'll need it much." Morholt backed away from Mark and knelt in the grass in front of him, his head bowed in obeisance. "I am as ever, yours to command, my King."

As if on some unbidden signal, Gawain marched out from the palisade with a fifty-strong group of soldiers who were due to start practice manoeuvres. Located as he was just outside the fort, Gawain immediately spotted Mark and Morholt, and changed his direction, sensing something of import was happening. Halting his men in ranks facing the Cornish King, he marched up to Mark, knelt briefly with Morholt and, as Mark raised himself to his feet, he stood up to face him.

"Soldiers, ready for inspection, my liege."

Morholt stood up and bowed at Gawain. "Thank you, Sir Knight. My King, would you do the men the honour?"

Mark nodded and almost dreamily wandered up to the first rank, recognising one of his own Tintagel soldiers in the front line.

As he was about to walk down the line, the man cleared his throat nervously. "Permission to speak, my King?" he said quietly.

"Of course, Tavey isn't it?"

"Um, yes, my King. I er... I just wanted to say it's great to have you back sire, that is, well, we'd heard you'd been wounded, and we were all kinda worried, but well, um..."

The man faltered as Mark stared at him and suddenly knelt to try and cover his embarrassment. As one, the remainder of the troop knelt, bowing their heads to the stunned monarch in front of them.

Mark blinked rapidly in surprise and turned to Morholt who grinned at him. "You organised this didn't you, you bugger?"

"No, my King, I did not. It's called respect; you have theirs, and mine."

"And mine," added Gawain softly.

Mark blinked rapidly, the men silent and waiting for some response. He leaned forward and placed a hand on the kneeling man's shoulder. "Thank, you," he said quietly, then stepped back from the men.

Breathing in deeply, he roared an order into the silence of the cool morning air. "Right you lot, get up off your knees and get marching! Brechan!" A tall man on the front line with a sergeant's badge on his arm saluted as the men scrambled to their feet, and he called out "Take this motley bunch out for a march, look to the east please."

"Yes, My King," came the reply and Mark nodded to Gawain as he followed his sergeant.

Mark smiled hesitantly and punched Morholt on the shoulder muttering "bastard" under his breath.

"Always, my King," said Morholt winking at Gawain as he passed.

"Where's this fight?" Mark said, suddenly tense.

"On the other side of the palisade, my King," replied Morholt soberly, all trace of his earlier smile gone from his face. "Grayle intends to fight Camlan within the hour."

"Right, let's go." Mark marched off towards the fort, Morholt following in his king's wake. Merlin watched silently from the shadows of the guard tower above them as they passed, a faint smile on his lips.

~

Camlan stood alone in the centre of a wide ring of onlookers, the bright morning sun casting his shadow into long relief on the springy rabbit-nibbled grass around him.

Bishop David read aloud from a scroll. "You have been charged with treason, how do you plead?"

"I don't plead. I claim the right to trial by combat," said Camlan calmly.

David rolled up the scroll and looked at him. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"You know my circumstances, Your Grace," replied Camlan. "I claim my birthright and I choose to fight Grayle. Grayle, do you accept my challenge?"

"No, he does not," broke in the voice of Percival before Grayle could answer. Pushing his way through the ring of men, the knight strode fully armoured into the arena to stand in front of his son.

"Point of Law. He is still in training, and under the precepts of the Law, he cannot enter into a challenge unless given permission by his Guardian. I am his Guardian, and I deny that permission."

"Then do you accept the challenge, Sir Knight?" said Camlan mockingly.

"I do."

"No!" shouted Grayle. "He betrayed me. I will fight him."

Percival turned to Grayle, and looked him in the eyes, speaking softly. "He betrayed all of us Grayle. I'm afraid I can't let you fight son. This is my battle as a Knight of the Round Table, and perhaps more importantly as your father."

"But he'll kill you," whispered Grayle, tears standing in his eyes "I can't lose you."

"We all have to die sometime, and besides he doesn't know my fighting style as well as he knows yours. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve."

Grayle nodded and stepped away, taking off his helm. "I will pray for you."

Percival nodded and turned to face his opponent who was already limbering up.

"Don't worry lad," came the voice of Mark from behind Grayle, and a large hand rested gently on his shoulder. Mark was freshly bandaged, the white cloth across his eye a grim reminder of the recent past. He moved past Grayle and approached Percival, placing himself between Percival and Camlan, his back to his former sword master. "I'm sorry son, I haven't been myself. I probably won't be for a while yet either, but I am proud of you and what you have become. Remember that always."

Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out a small copper coin that he placed in Percival's hand. Percival looked at it in wonder, a youthful Mark imposed on one side, the other embossed with the face of his dead queen.

"All these years, father. You kept one for all these years?"

"I have a few around, it's rather a good likeness of her, but perhaps for us, it has another meaning too. It's definitely the best penny I ever spent." Mark placed his good hand on his son's shoulder and looked into his blue eyes, noting the pre-battle calm settling on him. He nodded at him and walked back to Grayle, who had now been joined by Gawain, and addressed Bishop David.

"Are you certain that under the Law this trial is just and reasonable?"

"I am. You have my sacred oath." David inclined his head at Mark who nodded back, grudgingly giving permission for the fight to commence.

"Have we finished playing happy families now?" said Camlan sarcastically.

Percival raised his helm to his head, lifted his sword, and nodded. The two men squared off, surrounded by a loose ring of onlookers. Camlan, grinning hugely. Percival, taciturn and solemn. Both fighters were clad in heavy chainmail and wore open helmets and gauntlets. Their legs and arms sported greaves, and both carried a hand and half swords.

They moved in close, and Camlan darted in a quick series of blows that Percival parried with apparent ease, his pale eyes missing nothing. He blocked a blow and lunged, Camlan moving backward as the tip of the bastard sword missed penetrating the chain mail shirt by a hand's breadth.

"Not bad old boy, you're quicker than you look." Camlan goaded.

Percival smiled thinly and moved back into range, his sword held low. Camlan lifted his own sword in response, and for several minutes, the discordant clash of fighting echoed around the silent circle of onlookers.

A block from Percival brought them in close, each holding on to the other's sword arm with the spare hand, looking into each other's eyes across the crossed blades.

Percival was breathing heavily, sweat beading on his brow. Camlan appeared untroubled and again smiled at the older man.

"You appear to be past your prime old man. Perhaps I should retire you. Once I kill you, the law states I can walk from here a free man, and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it. Too tired to talk? Shame, I was hoping to get to know you a little better before I kill you."

Percival grunted and shoved the man away, but instead of stumbling backward as Percival had expected, Camlan twisted, bringing his disengaged blade around low and fast. Reactions borne of long practice came into effect, and Percival's blade partially blocked the blow, Camlan's blade drawing blood, but not biting as deep into his opponent's thigh as he'd hoped.

Percival jumped back, blood streaming down his leg and Camlan followed him, pressing the attack. Grayle started forwards, but Mark's hand on his shoulder restrained him.

"You can do nothing lad, you must let the fight take its course. Have faith in your father and your God."

Grayle nodded and swung back to the fight in time to see his father's pot helm swept from his head by a misparried blow. Percival staggered backward, a new cut on his cheek.

Camlan withdrew, his breathing finally showing some signs of the exertion the two men had faced over the previous minutes. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and faced Percival, who stood, bloodied, and grim-faced.

"Shall we continue, Sir Knight?"

Percival nodded and Camlan suddenly ran full tilt at him, his sword sweeping up from ground level in an arc aimed directly at the main artery at the top of the leg. Percival dodged, but the momentum of Camlan's attack combined with a lowered shoulder carried him bodily into the Knight, punching him from his feet to land on the grass, the breath knocked out of him.

"Do you yield, Sir Knight?" hissed Camlan through his teeth, the smile gone now as he readied himself for another attack.

"I think not," Percival spoke his first words since the start of the battle, pain etched on his features, his breath coming in laboured gasps.

Grayle tried to move, but again found Mark's hand solidly clamped on his shoulder.

"He's going to kill him," hissed Grayle. "You must make him yield."

"I cannot, and will not. Have faith in your father Grayle. Camlan will make a mistake, and when he does, Percival will kill him. He will make a mistake..."

"You hope," muttered Grayle bitterly.

"He will make a mistake," said Mark again softly.

"So, the bastard Knight is defeated," gloated Camlan. "Yield, Sir Knight. There is no disgrace in defeat, especially not for the bastard son of a whore. Percival: the pretend Knight, Arthur's Pity," he mocked. "Yield, bastard, and live."

"... and there it is."

Grayle turned to look at Mark, his tone incredulous. "What?"

"Watch boy, watch and learn."

Percival had pulled himself to his feet and now leaned heavily on his sword. Blood stained his breeches, the cut to his face left a sticky trail down his neck, and his chain mail was rent where a savage blow had ripped it, leaving it hanging all but useless on one arm.

"May I?" he said to Camlan, motioning to his damaged chain mail.

"By all means old boy," replied Camlan. He was smiling again now, his wolf-like grin not reaching his glittering eyes.

Percival yanked at the torn sleeve of his chainmail, scattering links across the sward. He threw the tattered remnant to the ground and hefted his sword.

"Ready, bastard?" Camlan taunted.

"That's Sir Bastard to you." Percival's eyes narrowed, and he drew himself up straight despite the obvious pain of his wounds. Even in the border wars to the north, Grayle had never seen him take such a battering. He had learned to recognise the signs of his father becoming angry though: the man's expression was fixed, the tip of his nose had gone white, and he held himself absolutely still. It matched the atmosphere around him, which was utterly bereft of movement as the people watching held their collective breath in anticipation.

The quiet was broken by Percival who started to laugh softly. "I feel sorry for you, you know. Even if I lose this fight, you cannot win.

"You are a consummate warrior, probably the best I have ever fought, but you have sealed your doom. Even if I fall today, you have trained my replacement to a standard so high he cannot fail to defeat you. A couple of years from now at the most, you will die by his hand. Morgause is a witch, allied to a false king. You are nothing but a pretender; traitor to your friends, and your King. Shall we finish this? I'm getting tired of your petty ramblings," said Percival.

Camlan had gone white and was shaking with anger, but he managed a last harsh sentence. "You know nothing of me, but all you need to know is that you will die, now, by my hand," retorted Camlan.

"All of us die at some point. My father and son are here to watch me fall if fate has that in store for me. There is however one thing I do know about you. You cannot win because you are smitten with something unattainable. You are in love with Morgause." It was said as a statement, a flat accusation wrapped in a known truth.

"What did she promise you Camlan; her body, money, glory in battle? Ah, no. She promised you something more. Fame perhaps? Or is it the promise of a Knighthood in the new Saxon kingdom she and Hengist seek to forge through conquest?"

Percival reached with a free hand to the back of his neck and pulled a gold chain out from the front of his chain mail. Hanging on the end was a small golden pixie; identical to the one Camlan wore around his neck.

"Still feeling special old son?"

Camlan roared in anger, all sense of tactics forgotten, and leapt forwards, his sword whipping a series of powerful strikes at the helmetless Percival, who held his own sword with both hands and parried the frenzied strokes with efficient skill.

With every stroke, Camlan was shouting incoherently, spittle flying from his mouth as he bellowed his hate and anger at the bloodied Knight who faced him.

Camlan hacked at Percival, a couple of massive overhead blows sending the knight staggering backward on his weakened leg. As Percival managed to halt his stagger towards the crowd, he straightened up, and Camlan, finally seeing an opening, lunged forwards.

Tense with concentration, and chest heaving with the exertion, Percival waited. He'd been blocking the attacks two-handed, but as the next attack came in, he passed his sword into his left hand, parried the thrust, and slammed his now empty right fist into the side of Camlan's face.

Holding his sword in his left hand, Percival faced his opponent, who shook his head to clear the blow and spat blood and a tooth onto the grass.

"Surprise," said Percival softly.

"Never show any potential opponent all you know," muttered Grayle under his breath.

"Your father has always fought like a complete bastard," said Mark. "I almost feel sorry for Camlan. Almost."

Camlan stood silently, moving his jaw as he felt the growing bruise on the side of his face. He spat another gob of blood to the ground and massaged another loosened tooth with his tongue.

"I will kill you for that."

"You keep trying old boy, you keep talking too."

Camlan, breathing hard, leant his sword against his thigh, knowing the Knight would not attack. He unbuckled his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. Eyes narrowing, he suddenly threw the pot helm at Percival who calmly batted it aside, and swept his sword back into the attack trying to follow up the brief moment of surprise. As the attack came in, Percival braced himself in advance for the pain. There was only one way to finish this. He was weakening fast through blood loss, only his permanent battle anger keeping him upright. Camlan's blade came up and across, seemingly in slow motion. As it did, Percival threw his sword back to his right hand, and caught the incoming blow on the greave on his left arm, the glancing deflection forcing Camlan's incoming blade up at an angle. The shock and power of the blow made Percival gasp and numbed his arm from shoulder to wrist. A bone in his forearm cracked under the impact and Percival clenched his teeth against the pain. The abrupt glancing re-direction threw Camlan who tried in vain to control the blow, the re-directed blade nicking Percival's ear as it whistled past the side of his head. Percival, sword ready in his right fist, brought the weapon round in a short but powerful arc to land with sickening force in the ribs of his opponent, smashing through the battered chain mail. Ripping his blade from Camlan's body he followed the injured warrior as he staggered backward, continued the motion of his blade and swung his red rimed blade in a bloody arc to take him through the joint between neck and shoulder, the blade smashing the collar bone and crushing his throat.