“Good morning crabapple,” Percival said brightly from the end of the table, where he crouched over a heaping plate of food. The lad was trying and failing to keep the mischievous grin from his face. It seemed the only thing he was never without.
“I told you not to call me that,” Lancelot growled as he sat down at the other end of the table. It was too early for Percival’s shenanigans.
Galahad grunted from his seat next to Percival, where he was wiping his trencher clean with a chunk of honeyed rye bread. “At least he doesn’t call you ‘chipmunk.’”
Lancelot struggled to keep a smile off his face at that nickname. Of all Percival’s ridiculous pet names for them, calling Galahad “chipmunk” had to be the best. The Norse man was built like a well-muscled oak tree. “I keep telling you to just crush his windpipe in your fist,” Lancelot said to Galahad while waving down a servant for a goblet of ale and a trencher of food. “That’d teach the lad a lesson.”
“I don’t think our king would like that much,” Galahad retorted.
“I wouldn’t like what?” Arthur asked, striding in, pulling his gloves off. It seemed their king had already visited the Round Table—the Roman amphitheater grounds—to prepare for this morning’s tournament. Did the man ever sleep?
“Galahad crushing the life from me, ye ken,” Percival said sweetly, batting his flaxen eyelashes. The knight was far too pretty for his own good, with straight chin-length copper hair that brushed at his pale square jaw. And he had only just turned eighteen. Lancelot sighed. Had he been so . . . obnoxiously cheerful at that age? He didn’t think so.
Arthur stood with arms crossed and a sideways look directed at Percival. “Indeed, if Galahad ended you, it would deprive me the pleasure of doing so myself. Is there a reason you’re in my chair?”
Galahad let out a deep booming laugh as Percival scrambled out of Arthur’s chair and into one across from the large knight. “Wanted to see what it felt like, Yer Majesty,” Percival said with a sheepish grin and clumsy half-bow from his chair.
“And?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow. His tone was light, but Lancelot could see the tension in the set of his king’s muscular shoulders. He was worried about the tournament today. It was too important to go awry.
“A wee too serious,” Percival remarked, stuffing his last piece of sausage into his mouth, adding, “Yer Majesty.”
Arthur nodded sagely. “A serious ass needs a serious chair.”
The knights burst out laughing, and even the servant who placed a trencher in front of Lancelot was struggling to keep a smile from his face.
Lancelot grinned at Arthur as he dug into his meal of venison sausage, trout, creamed barley, and stewed figs. When Arthur had become king, a part of Lancelot had worried that his ascension would change things between them, that his friend would become distant and unreachable. He was the only family Lancelot had, even if just sworn blood brothers. His concern hadn’t been warranted, however. For the most part, Arthur was one of them—a fellow warrior noble. Or at least, he tried to be.
“Keeping your own counsel?” Arthur nodded toward Lancelot, who sat all the way at the other end of the table.
“Trying to keep away from those two.” Lancelot nodded back at Percival and Galahad.
“All in good fun—” Percival began, but Arthur cut him off.
“The tourney grounds are readied,” he said. “We’ve at least three dozen knights signed up to compete, some hailing from as far as northern Ireland and Normandy.”
Lancelot nodded, grateful for Arthur’s change of subject. And then his mood soured as he thought of the last few weeks. He shouldn’t need his king’s protection from Percival and Galahad’s barbs. Lancelot was Arthur’s second-in-command, leader over all of Arthur’s soldiers. But these past few days, he had not been himself.
Their king continued to speak about the tournament’s details, but Lancelot only half listened, chewing his breakfast mechanically. How had things gone so wrong and so quickly? Lancelot had always loved the pleasures of men and women, and men and women loved to pleasure him. Dalliances had never felt like a curse.
Not until Morgana.
There had been something about Merlin’s apprentice, Arthur’s half-sister—from the first time Lancelot had laid eyes on her, she had fascinated him. Her beauty was ethereal and otherworldly, from the long ebony hair glinting auburn in the sun, to her discerning violet eyes, to the curve of her hips and breasts, arresting even in the simple gowns she wore while working in Merlin’s cave. Raised by the Lady of the Lake, Lancelot was no stranger to magic. But Morgana’s faerie power sang to him. A forbidden fruit that had to be tasted.
And taste her he did—all over the keep.
Heavens above, he grew hard just remembering the heat and desperation of their coupling. Nails raking down his back, teeth digging into the flesh of his shoulder. When she had suggested they marry, nuptials had seemed a novel idea. He was twenty-five after all, old enough to have sons several times over. And the passion—he couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t want that fire in his life. Almost as soon as he had agreed, he realized his mistake. There was a wildness in her eyes that unsettled him more than he cared to admit, and she grew jealous, deeply jealous, like he was now a thing that she owned, not a man with a life and a path of his own. But he didn’t know how to extricate himself from the match. Arthur seemed keen on the idea of strengthening his alliance with the Túatha dé Danann beyond his own blood ties; what king wouldn’t want the might of faerie behind his reign?
And so, Lancelot indulged in what he knew best: a distraction from his coming nuptials. He hadn’t sought out the two maids—he wasn’t that fool a man—but when they had offered themselves to him . . . well, he hadn’t said no either.
Morgana had torn into the room like a black thundercloud, and he feared for the girls, believing she would kill them in her rage. He had feared for himself too, if he were honest. Before him stood a black sídhe druidess, crackling with power and venom and vengeance. Pointing a finger at him, she spat a curse. A curse that sounded more like prophecy.
“If this is your wish,” she had sneered, gesturing to the two girls. “Then this is your lot. Never again will you know the pureness of love that flows between one man and one woman. There will be a woman, a Gwenevere pure like the white of driven snow. You will long for her with all your heart. Perhaps she will love you too. But, if you join as man and woman, she will not only bring your downfall, but the downfall of all you love.” Her violet eyes slitted in triumph. “Briton. And my half-brother, Arthur.” And with those cruel words ringing in the air, she had vaporized into a crow and flown through the opened window and into the moonless night’s chill.
The two girls had run sobbing from the room, clutching their clothes to their naked bodies. Lancelot sat, stunned, sheets draped around him as he digested Morgana’s words, turning each one over in his mind while trying to find a way in which his life hadn’t been irreparably changed. She had said he would love a “Gwenevere.” The name was a legend in Wales, a nearly long-forgotten Cymry word for a white enchantress, a white sídhe fae. Well, he knew no such woman. Even when he had lived with his elemental foster mother, they had encountered no such creatures. He had heaved a shaky breath. Morgana’s curse was meaningless.
“Lancelot?” Arthur was looking at him from the other end of the table. “You’ve paled as white as a ghost.”
Lancelot shoved his thoughts away and summoned a carefree smile. “Just wondering if we’ll indeed find a new knight today,” he said, redirecting to a safer topic.
“Merlin seems certain of it,” Arthur replied quickly. “We must all keep our eyes open. Amongst the competitors is a man who can break these wretched curses.”
Lancelot nodded, guilt flooding through him. He had never been worthy of Arthur’s friendship. He remembered clearly the day he had arrived in Caerleon at the age of fourteen, his foster mother, the Lady of the Lake, by his side. Uther was to foster and train him in t
he ways of war and men, as the prince Lancelot was born to become. He was old to begin such training, and Uther welcomed him with the same care he gave most of his subjects—thinly veiled interest. His foster mother departed in a misty vapor and left him to his own devices, and to the cruelty that followed for being fae-raised. The second time a mother figure had left him as an offering—or burden—for another to take in.
It was a time when Lancelot didn’t understand the ways of men after being raised by faeries. His fellow soldiers had been quick to teach him—taking turns either ignoring his presence or picking on him until he bruised and bled. He was an exiled prince, a title with no power, a man with no living biological parents. No kin that he could claim as his own. He had drifted through Caerleon, desperate for connection and finding little.
Until Arthur. Until his friend made Lancelot his blood oath brother during a village feast and claimed him before all. Uther regarded Lancelot as another son soon after.
But how had Lancelot repaid him? With curses. Arthur’s current struggles were all Lancelot’s fault. After Morgana had left his room, she had flown to Arthur to demand Lancelot’s head for his betrayal. Arthur’s refusal to give in to her demands invited the wrath of Morgana’s two fae sisters upon Briton. The kingdoms of Wales already questioned Arthur’s claim to the Pendragon title without their suffering for his decision to defend Lancelot. And then there was the third curse. The one for Lancelot alone. He knew he should have told Arthur, but he couldn’t bring himself to add to his friend’s worries. Lancelot would handle this one himself. As long as he stayed away from any stray Gweneveres, everything would be fine.
MY MOOD TEETERED between annoyance and awe as I surveyed the strangely round amphitheater from atop my mare. Wide grassy berms stepped down toward the enormous field below, where competitors swarmed like ants. I squinted as the sun glinted off a particularly bright set of armor. I snorted. A set that clean had never seen battle.
I straightened my own leather armor, wishing the plates and guards didn’t hang quite so loose. The ride across the Irish Sea and into the Severn Sea to the port of Cardiff, Wales had been nothing short of hell. Despite fair weather, my stomach had not taken kindly to the undulating waves or the rocking boat. I had passed a full three days at sea by spending equal times vomiting over the side and cursing Donal O’Lynn for setting me on this foolish quest. By the time I sighted land, I was weak from hunger and sick to my core. Two days of rest had restored my strength. Still, my agony had given birth to several creative ways to kill the man. I prayed to the sister goddesses that I would have every chance to use them.
But now I was here, and there was nowhere to go but forward. I clicked my tongue, urging my horse, Zephyr, down toward the field. The mare tossed her head, blowing out a snort that sounded skeptical. “I don’t know why we’re here either girl,” I muttered, patting Zephy’s dappled gray coat. I was grateful I had one ally here, at least.
Back home, clannsmen often snickered at my mount’s Greco-Roman name. But when a cleric had visited from the Holy Roman Church and uttered the old god’s name for the wind, I had known it fit her perfectly. My mare galloped light-footed, as though across clouds . . . the name was a far better moniker than the one my father had originally gifted her—Bolg Liath—Irish for “grey belly.”
A riot of colorful pennants fluttered above a gathering crowd. The people were clothed in fine velvets and silks, the garments trimmed in pearls and threads of gold. Everything about this land spoke of plenty. I considered my own attire of rough hand-spun linens, animal furs and hides, and worn, oak gall-stained leather armor. They looked crude in comparison.
On my ride from Cardiff’s seaport to Caerleon, my head had swiveled to take in the rolling green hills, golden fields, and tidy lime-washed villages bounded by neat stone hedgerows. A warm sun had shone down upon me from an azure sky, glittering off the crystal-clear rivers I had passed. Flocks of quail scattered before herds of red deer, who had hardly remarked my passage. My admiration made me feel slightly guilty, as I compared this verdant land to Northern Ulster’s wind-swept shores and craggy mores. Of course, I still preferred my home. Perhaps the thought of stepping foot on that cursed boat once more had made Briton look so appealing.
As I neared the amphitheater’s tourney green, I donned my stag helm. Few of the other competitors wore helmets yet, but I imagined those warriors were men. I doubted women could compete here. Briton was not as enlightened as her Celtic cousins across the Irish Sea when approving of female warriors—perhaps even women, regardless of station or occupation. Well, it was an easy problem to solve with my helm. Some men grew funny about fighting a woman. I would just as soon be treated like all the rest.
I slid off Zephyr and led her through a maze of swinging practice swords and chatting contestants, toward a bright tent slashed in the red and gold of Caerleon. Outside the tent, a wooden scoreboard towered above the crowd on tall legs. Painted placards, announcing the participants’ colors and crests, hung from numerous wooden pegs. I tied up Zephyr and ducked inside.
Two men, clad in black leather armor and red cloaks, turned as I entered. I nearly stumbled, glad that my helm disguised the blush heating my cheeks. Perhaps it wasn’t only the fair land of Wales that overflowed with abundance. Her men, it seemed, also put those of my homeland to shame.
The two before me couldn’t have been more different. The man on the left possessed black chin-length hair curling about his head like a halo, and blue eyes as piercing as ice. Dark stubble shadowed his olive skin, framing a mouth with full pouting lips that didn’t seem entirely fair on a man. Where the dark-haired man was tall and well-muscled, the man on the right towered over even him, with thickly muscled arms crossed over his well-sculpted chest. His blond hair was pulled into a messy top-knot, slightly darker than the honey-gold of his neatly-trimmed beard—a similar fashion to the Norse men in nearby Danish settlements.
I found myself wishing I had something to drink.
“Here for the tourney?” the dark-haired man asked. His voice was deep and smooth as silk, and he carried himself with an air of authority that was instantly recognizable. This man was in charge here. Perhaps only second to the king.
I nodded.
The taller man clapped his fellow on his shoulder. “Told you not to fret like a nursemaid. Things always turn out.”
A look of annoyance crossed the other man’s face. “You’re in luck. A Northern Lord’s son dropped out of the tourney. We’re in need of another competitor.”
“Good,” I said, lowering my voice in a manner I hoped was convincing.
The big man walked behind the table and took up a quill. “Name?”
I thought fast. “Er, Finn Allán. Of Clann Allán. In Ulster, Ireland.”
The man raised an eyebrow, turning his already handsome face truly devastating. Steady Fionna, I cautioned myself. I was here to get the sword and get out. I could ill afford any distractions, even such handsome ones.
“All the way from Ulster, eh?” He wrote my name down. “Nice to meet you Finn. I’m Sir Galijorheledanik of Swansea, but call me Galahad. And this is Sir Lancelot du Lac.”
“Throwing out your long name now, are we?” the dark-haired man, Lancelot, dryly quipped.
“Fretting like a nursemaid and jealous.” Galahad grinned and turned my way. “Sir Lancelot feels inadequate and needs to prove the size of his—”
“Don’t we all,” I interjected, hoping I sounded as ridiculous as these men. This earned me a large grin and a wink from the Norse man.
Lancelot placed hands on his narrow hips and was looking at me with his head cocked to the side. “Speaking of size, you’re awfully small. You sure you’re up to the task? The first bout is a four-man melee, followed by three more rounds of hand-to-hand combat. There are real warriors out there who’ve seen battle.”
“I’m sure,” I said, bristling. “I’m sure I’ve fought in more battles than many of yer so-called warriors.”
Lancelot an
d Galahad exchanged an amused look. “Why don’t you take off that helmet, so we can get a real look at you, boy,” Lancelot said. “The tournament is to first blood only, but that doesn’t mean men aren’t injured. I would hate to send a green lad out there to be ripped apart.”
I backed up a step, trying not to panic. “Ye wrote my name down. That means I’m in, doesn’t it?”
Lancelot took a step toward me. “Yes, but the king’s law—”
“Then I’ll see ye on the field,” I said and swiveled on my heel, striding from the tent with Galahad’s booming laughter trailing behind me.
I stalked toward the practice ground, my heart hammering in my throat. I felt uneasy in this new place, surrounded by these strangers, like my skin was on too tight. I prayed to the sister goddesses of war and fate that I could shake off the feeling before my time to fight.
Aideen’s heart-shaped face swam to my mind, and I let out a deep breath, centering myself. I knew why I was here, and I knew what I had to do. I had held a sword from the age of four and had fought with a fiann since my first blood coursed. These pampered men wouldn’t know what hit them.
THIRTY-TWO MEN COMPETED in the tournament that day. Well, thirty-one men and one woman. The first round was comprised of eight groups of four warriors, who would compete in a melee-style battle. I was in the last group and watched with interest as the other men fought before me, taking in the details, weapons, and fighting styles of each competitor. I would be pitted one-on-one with some of these men in future rounds. It would serve me to learn what I could.
Nevertheless, I found my eye wandering to the throne dais where King Arthur Pendragon surveyed the tourney. Even from a distance, I could see that the man was handsome—his short brown hair bounded by a circlet of gold oak leaves, his aquiline profile commanding in the morning sun. A sword hung from his narrow hips, decorated by a ruby atop the pommel. Excalibur. I set my jaw. That sword would be mine.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 3
