Grayle tightened the cinch on his horse's saddle and glanced over at his foster father. Percival's pale blue eyes met his son's and a smile broke through the normally taciturn expression making him seem younger for a moment.

"Almost there lad," he said.

The boy nodded and surveyed the camp to see whether anything had been left behind. He held the hilt of the sword belted at his waist with his left hand, making sure the scabbard didn't tangle his legs; a lesson he'd learned early on in his training. Excited anticipation seized him, this was to be their last day of travel before they made it home to Tintagel Castle.

"Ready?" Percival's voice snapped him out of his reverie and Grayle nodded and reached for the reins of his horse. He stopped as five men stepped out from the shadows of the small wooded area that had sheltered them overnight.

"Val," he said softly to Percival, who watched their approach.

"Be ready," said the man quietly, and strode to meet the group of men who fanned out as they came closer.

"Good morning gentlemen, may I help you?" called Percival as he closed on the men. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grayle move further behind the cover of his horse.

"Give me your weapon," said the man without preamble, pulling a blade from his belt. As he did, the other men in the party pulled blades of varying descriptions, and a lone archer stepped into view to Percival's right, an arrow nocked and ready on the string.

"I take it you're not in the mood for a chat then?" noted Percival, reaching for his sword.

"Use the other hand," said the man.

Percival stopped, and clumsily removed the sword, which was scabbarded on his left hip, with his left hand. Once withdrawn, he held it upside down by the hilt.

"Now, tell your cowardly friend to come out from behind the horse."

"Time to come out and play Grayle."

Grayle leapt out from behind his horse, bow in hand, an arrow nocked and ready on the string. There was a soft thud and the arrow punch the opposing bowman off his feet, the other man's nocked arrow falling impotently to the ground. Percival changed his grip on the sword and backhanded it through the open mouth of the man who'd first spoken, dropping him to the ground in a gurgling bloody heap.

An arrow appeared in the shoulder of the man to Percival's left, spinning him to the grass, howling in agony. Grayle moved closer, nocking another arrow to his bow as he looked for a clear shot. The remaining three rushed at Percival, who drew a long knife from his boot and rushed to meet them, blade in either hand. Grayle watched as his father lost himself in the haze of battle, marveling as he always did at the speed and suppressed anger that marked the man's fighting style. Within seconds, a third man was down, another injured. The two remaining men tried to run then, bumping into each other as they fought to get away. An arrow took one, Percival's sword the other.

Grayle lowered his bow and watched as his father approached. His dark hair flowed to his wide shoulders and, as always after a fight, he grinned hugely.

"Well lad, now that we've warmed ourselves up, shall we wander on?"

Despite the slate coloured sky and threatening clouds, the castle perched on its wave-battered isthmus brought a smile to Percival's face as his horse crested the ridge a few hours later. Hair dancing around his face in the slight breeze, the last of the autumn leaves played restlessly around the hooves of his mount as he turned to look behind him. Grayle smiled back at Percival as he came in sight of Tintagel.

They dismounted and hugged, looking fondly at the place they'd both grown up, the place they called home.

"It's a bit different to the last time we were at this spot, eh lad?"

Grayle nodded in memory. It had been a long seven years. The last time he'd passed this way, it was in disgrace as an expelled thief and newly appointed Page to a young Sir Percival.

"Do you think I will be welcome?" he said quietly.

Percival looked at him proudly.

"You remember what King Mark said a few years ago when we saw him at Camelot. All is forgiven; you are my son, as I am his. This is your home now."

Grayle smiled nervously and then nodded. "It's been a long time."

They remounted and rode on along the path until they reached the main gate in the outer walls, dismounting once more as they reached the wooden drawbridge. The sun was just starting to dip below the horizon, losing the endless fight against darkness, and the all-enclosing grey of the fast approaching storm.

"My lord Knight," greeted a voice from the gatehouse.

"Captain Morholt," said Percival. "It's good to see you."

"And you, my Lords."

The captain looked at the younger of the two riders and smiled faintly. "I take it we'll be having less trouble with you than we did in the past, young Sir?"

A blushing Grayle passed over the reins to a waiting stable hand in silence but turned with a smile as the man muttered a few words under his breath. "We're all proud of you lad, well done."

Saddlebags on their shoulders, the two figures walked across the upper courtyard as their horses were walked to the stables. The area was virtually empty in anticipation of the incoming storm, and Percival and Grayle made their way swiftly along the narrow trail connecting the isthmus to the inner castle entrance. Reaching the top of the narrow slate steps, they paused at the small but heavily fortified door of the Inner Keep.

"Who goes there?" came the answer to Percival's knock, a beady eye peeking out through the small hole in the oak door.

"Percival, gatekeeper: son of King Mark, and Prince of the house of Cornwall."

The door swung open in creaking protest, and Percival stepped through the portal into a massive hug from his father.

Several hours later, three replete and comfortable forms rested in comfortable chairs in front of the fire in the great hall.

Mark sat, a broad smile on his face as he looked at his adopted son and grandson. They had been talking for hours, and Mark had quizzed both Percival and Grayle on all the latest news from Camelot, their time on the northern front fighting the Scots, and the state of the fragile peace Arthur had brokered with the Saxons to the east.

Grayle sat with a dreamy look on his face, staring deeply into the flickering flames of the dying fire.

"How's he getting on?" asked Mark quietly.

"Well," said Percival proudly, "his skill with a bow is almost unparalleled, and I'd say he'd give even you a run for your money with a blade. He is clever, considered, and fights with almost icy calm which unnerves many. He is ready for knighthood, but just needs to finish growing. He's only sixteen summers."

"You were only seventeen when I took you to Camelot," reminded Mark. "Has he been in battle?"

"Yes, several times now. Minor skirmishes mainly, but he has always acquitted himself well."

Mark raised his voice to bring Grayle out of his reverie.

"So lad, all you need to do now is find two Knights to sponsor you, and think of a man's name to take you forward."

Grayle lifted his head and smiled. "I was hoping my father and grandfather might be willing to act as sponsors."

"Hmm, well now. What do you think Percival, should we take the risk on this thieving Page?"

"Perhaps we ought to ask for some form of bribe?" suggested Percival.

"An ass perhaps?" noted Grayle.

Mark roared with laughter as Percival chuckled, remembering the original price of removing Grayle from Tintagel.

"A suitable price," said Percival smiling.

Grayle smiled again and looked back into the flames, the memory of his past bubbling up into his tired mind.

~~~

He screamed as the stallholder grabbed him.

After meeting the Knight, Percival earlier that morning, he'd been unable to think of anything else. The man had told him he was baseborn too. The son of a whore had become a knight!

Dreaming of a possible future that didn't involve stealing and begging, he had walked straight into the back of the stallholder he'd stolen an apple from earlier in the day. The man had reacted instantly, and angrily, grabbing hold of the boy and lifting him into the air, pinning him against the wall with his dagger pricking the skin on the boy's neck as Grayle kicked futilely with his child's small legs.

As Grayle had closed his eyes, shaking with fear, someone intervened from the crowd that surrounded them.

"Hold," called a powerful voice, "in the name of King Arthur."

"This is none of your business. This boy has stolen from me and I intend to carry out justice."

"Justice is meted out by King Mark or a representative of the Law. I am the Law. As an ordained Knight of the Round Table and envoy of King Arthur, I command you to release that boy immediately, or I will take action."

The stallholder released the boy, almost throwing him at Percival.

"I demand justice, Sir Knight. That boy has stolen from me too many times. I want him expelled from Tintagel."

"Expulsion can only be carried out by your Sheriff, or by King Mark himself."

"Did somebody mention my name?"

Mark appeared from one side of the crowd, and as people bowed in respect, he edged over to Percival, a question in his eyes.

"All yours son," whispered the King. "I think in this instance you outrank me old boy." Smiling broadly, Mark leant nonchalantly against a nearby wall and watched in interest.

Percival bowed mockingly to Mark, smiled thinly, and turned his attention to the squirming boy he now held.

"Did you take this man's goods?" he asked softly, looking directly into the boy's dark eyes.

"Yes, Sir. I am sorry."

"Dammit boy, do you have any idea of the trouble you're in?"

"I was hungry," the boy stated, his chin lifting in sudden anger. "There is nothing to eat for the likes of me."

As the boy began to open his mouth again, Percival silenced him with a sudden glare and turned back to the man behind him.

"Will you accept my assurance that I will discipline the boy, if I pay you for the stolen goods?"

The man looked at the Knight and then nodded abruptly, holding out his hand for the coins. As they clinked into his palm he looked up in astonishment.

"That is very generous Sir Knight, my thanks to you."

Percival nodded at him and turned back to the boy. "You will follow me." He ordered.

He looked across at the smiling King who still leant against the wall, and who had managed to acquire an apple.

"Would you accompany me, my King?" he said softly.

Mark nodded, tossed the apple core to a small crowd of squabbling gulls and, still smiling, followed the man and boy into a small inn.

"You are in my debt," began Percival once they were seated and had ordered some food.

The comment was directed at the small boy who sat opposite chewing contentedly, but rapidly, through a face full of pie. The boy nodded and carried on chewing.

"My King, may I presume you consider removal of this boy from Tintagel would be a good thing?"

King Mark looked stern for a moment and then nodded. The boy looked shocked, and then spluttered in indignation, but was silenced as a furious looking Percival cut across his protestations with a raised hand.

"May I propose a trade, my King? I would suggest that a fair swap would be removal of this boy from your estate in return for a small pack animal."

Mark smiled and held out his hand in agreement. Percival shook it, and the deal was sealed.

"You traded me for an ass?" spluttered the boy.

"It seemed appropriate," noted Percival, the corners of his mouth turning up as Mark smiled broadly.

"Are you sure about this Val?" Mark's serious tone cut across the boy's protestations and he sat quietly awaiting the response.

"I am. A good man once saved me from a similar position, and now perhaps I can repay the debt."

Mark inclined his head at the compliment and then rejoined the conversation. "I believe you have. God speed your journey son, I look forward to seeing you soon."

Mark stood and made to leave.

"Thank you, Father." Percival smiled and stood as Mark clasped his hand, but as the king started to move away he paused and turned to address the boy who sat open-mouthed at the exchange.

"This man has just saved you from a life of crime which, at the very least, would probably have resulted in you having your hand removed in punishment. You may not think you are lucky, but he is a good man, and you would do well to stay by his side."

Mark nodded a brief smile at Percival, and then swept out of the door into the mizzle and mist, disappearing swiftly into the enveloping greyness.

"He's your father?" the boy said.

"In a manner of speaking" replied Percival quietly "I was once like you. I came to the attention of a young King Mark, and he took me in as his own after his wife died. He was the father I craved, I was the son fate gave him. He put me where I am now."

"And now you have saved me," the boy whispered quietly. "Do you own me?"

Percival looked shocked at the question.

"You traded me for an ass," he reminded him.

Percival chuckled. "No lad. I traded the debt. I take you away from here, reduce petty theft, and gain a Page. King Mark loses an ass and gains popular support for removing a known thief from the town. I think I got the raw end of the deal though."

He leaned forward suddenly, gazing intently into the boy's dark eyes. "The deal is this. Once we leave the gates you are free to do as you wish, but you will never be able to come to Tintagel again unless I have freed you from service, or King Mark has agreed you have repaid your debt."

"If you stay with me, you will serve me as my Page. I will train you, feed you, and look after you to the best of my ability. It's entirely your choice."

The boy maintained eye contact for a few moments and then smiled. "I would like to stay with you, Sir Knight, and I promise I will never steal from you or anyone else again."

Grayle looked away, and Percival pretended not to notice the tears in the boy's eyes as he buried his face into the pie in front of him again. He looked out of the grimy window of the inn as the inconsistent and sudden sun burst through the clouds, happy that he had made the right decision.

"Mind you," he said thoughtfully. "If you keep eating so much we might need to get a bigger donkey."

~~~

A good trade for the price of an ass Grayle thought wryly to himself as he looked away from the flames. Finding himself nodding gently in his chair by the fire, he stood, excused himself and made his way to his bedchamber.

Grayle awoke the next morning to sunlight peeking shyly in through the upper windows of his room. It was early in the day, and once he had dressed, he opened the shutters wide, breathing in the morning air as the gulls cried mournfully at the wind. He looked down over the island, taking in the view of the eastern gate and the lower landing, which was heavily guarded at all times. Further to the east, was the small beach normally used by the fishermen. Looking at the sun he realised that despite the early hour, the fisherfolk would have already left to pursue the morning catch. He'd forgotten how wonderful the area around Tintagel looked in the morning sun. The dark grey rocks enlivened with random splashes of colour from clumps of grass and sea campion, and the gulls that swooped and soared, riding the ever-changing air currents around the cliffs. Further up the coast, the dark green gorse with its yellow flowers garlanded the slopes of the mainland, and as his gaze traveled back along the shoreline, all seemed at peace.

His eye was caught by a buzzard riding the wind, flicking its tail feathers almost lazily to maintain its steady sweep across the rabbit nipped grass. As he watched, the buzzard came in close to the castle, presumably looking for one of the rabbits living behind the walls. As it came past the window from where he quietly watched, a small movement caught his eye near the landing platform, the only seaward landing point connecting directly to the inner keep of the castle.

Another movement: the helmeted head of a guard came into view as the man stationed on the gate wandered into view, casually doing up his breeches. Grayle, who had been holding his breath with unreasoned tension sighed gently in relief and then froze in horror as the man suddenly pitched forwards into the grass.

As he watched, the distinctive weaponry of a Frankish Warrior hove into view immediately behind the fallen guard. He stood silently for the few seconds, seemingly waiting to see whether any alarm was raised, and then turned and raised his hand axe, signaling to unseen others behind him.

The gulls cried mournfully to the wind.