Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  The two warrior nobles from the tent flanked Arthur in the stands, along with another I hadn’t seen yet, a handsome young man with copper hair and an exuberant attitude. Arthur and his knights of Caerleon, the virile guardians of this realm.

  The winner of the tournament, if deemed worthy, would join these proud men as the fifth knight to defend this land. The thought made me uneasy. Deceit wasn’t in my nature. As far as I knew, these men had done nothing to warrant O’Lynn’s ire, at least not to justify stealing a priceless relic like Excalibur.

  I cast aside my sentimentality with a vicious shove. Excalibur was merely one sword. Little good the blade did while hanging on this pompous king’s hip. In my hands, this blade would save my sister and father and keep our clann from civil war. I would take Excalibur and flee this land. It mattered not whether these men were young or old, handsome or vile, honorable or cruel. I would take what was mine and never see them again.

  It was with that thought that I stepped into the ring, saluting my three opponents with the blade of my sword. The pommel’s worn grip soothed me, lulling my raging nerves.

  As the first man came at me, a beast in brown armor trimmed in gold, a grim smile broke across my face. I was ready.

  GALAHAD LIKED ROOTING for an underdog, and so watching the little warrior in the stag helm thoroughly trounce the competition pleased him greatly. His good cheer only increased as Lancelot’s eyes grew wider and more disbelieving. His brother-in-arms let out a muffled exclamation as the boy—Finn was his name—vaulted over his opponent and landed a blow on the man’s undefended left flank. Sometimes he thought Lancelot forgot that others existed in the world who were also good with a sword. It didn’t hurt for him to be reminded.

  Arthur appeared impressed as well. His king leaned forward, forearms resting on the rail, his forehead wrinkled. “Where did you say that fighter was from?”

  “Ulster, Ireland,” Galahad said. “Seems your reputation is spreading far and wide.”

  Merlin had joined them atop the platform and watched with fingers tented before him, still as a statue. The druid unnerved Galahad, with his gold-ringed eyes and whispered words. But Arthur trusted him, and so by extension, Galahad did too.

  “Do you sense anything about the competitors?” Arthur slid a glance to Merlin.

  The druid nodded his head up and down slowly. “There is something. A presence here that pulls to me . . . that is other. Hard to say where it comes from.”

  Galahad idly spun a ring on his right index finger, pondering what a strange twist of fate had brought him here to sup with kings and druids and the sídhe. He hadn’t believed Excalibur was cursed, not until he tried to pull the sword from the scabbard himself. Infernal faeries. What did this mean for Arthur’s sovereignty as king over the land?

  Savoring the reminder of simpler times, Galahad ran his thumb along the smooth silver of the ring. His father, a blacksmith in Swansea, made each of his eight children such a ring, swearing this token would always lead them home. The ring’s constant presence brought Galahad comfort, especially when his fate seemed too strange. Galahad spun the silver ring and gnawed the inside of his lip as he thought of his mother’s incurable optimism, even when she served soup thinned with water and stale bread. Her happiness was infectious and he grew up never realizing how poor they were in a large Danish seaport town that boasted several blacksmiths.

  Percival jogged up the steps to the platform, pulling Galahad from his thoughts. The young warrior’s pale brow furrowed. “I’m back from the surgery tent. The chirurgeon says that Lord Iwan is bleeding profusely and won’t be able to fight in the upcoming round.”

  The next moment, the crowd roared, drowning out what Arthur had opened his mouth to say.

  Galahad looked down on the field below. Finn had drawn first blood with a slicing blow across his opponent’s meaty thigh. Their match was over.

  “He fights like a wee banshee,” Percival remarked. “Watch out lads, we may soon be joined by the world’s smallest warrior.”

  “Lord Iwan would have fought this man?” Arthur asked, nodding to where the stag-helmed warrior stood before taking a long drink of ale. “Could the loser of Lord Iwan’s round fight instead?”

  Percival shook his head. “He was injured in their bout as well.”

  “What about one of the other competitors?” Lancelot suggested.

  “Someone already defeated?” Percival shook his head. “Nae, that wouldn’t be verra sporting.”

  There were supposed to be two more man-to-man matches before the victors of those would face off in a final battle. “I’ll fight him,” Galahad said. “His fighting style is unusual. It would be good practice.”

  Lancelot snorted, but Arthur nodded, gratitude flickering across his king’s leaf-green gaze. Lancelot and Percival seemed to sometimes forget that a knight’s job was to be of service to his king. That meant making your king’s life easier, not more difficult.

  Galahad stood and stretched, his back popping. He patted his stomach, now taut from the afternoon’s meal, though still rippling with muscle. “Wish I would have eaten a bit less,” he remarked.

  Percival laughed. “Gives him a fighting chance, aye?”

  “Get your armor on,” Arthur said. “We’ll delay by an hour.”

  GALAHAD HUMMED A jaunty tune as he walked onto the green grass of the tourney round. He enjoyed sparring with the other knights, but he knew each of their patterns by now. With Percival, the key was to be leisurely, fighting and striking until the lad grew impatient and opened himself up with a wild attack. Lancelot, who was a superior fighter when his heart was engaged, seemed so sure of his superiority that he often missed training. Often, after sparring for hours, he would begin to tire, his sword-arm growing heavy and his breath labored.

  It was Arthur he enjoyed sparring with the most. Arthur was careful, disciplined, and skilled. His king watched and analyzed and executed. The only weakness of Arthur’s he had discovered was caution. Openings that a more daring fighter would have seized passed Arthur by. His king needed to learn to take risks. Galahad tried to always be there with that painful yet cheerful reminder.

  The little warrior Finn was waiting in the fighting ring, his helmet still on. He was swinging a sword in one hand and an axe in the other with a coordinated precision that often eluded even the most seasoned of fighters.

  Finn turned and saw him approaching, his tenor voice muffled behind his helm. “I was hoping they’d send Lancelot.”

  Galahad chuckled, tightening his shield on his left arm. “I think he might be a touch afraid of you.”

  “Good,” Finn said.

  Galahad imagined his teeth bared in challenge.

  “You sure are hungry, boy,” Galahad said with a shake of his head. Had he been that eager for a fight, when he was growing into manhood? “Plenty of years to prove yourself.”

  “Why wait,” Finn roared, and then lunged at Galahad.

  Galahad brought his sword up in an instant and parried Finn’s attack. The force of the boy’s blow startled him. The fighter was strong, his thin short sword reverberating against Galahad’s longsword. And fast. Galahad retreated against the force of Finn’s assault. An axe and blade arced toward him in quick succession. The boy’s style—to surge forward in a furious assault, and with unexpected strength—set his opponent on the defensive until he made an inevitable mistake. Well, that was enough of that.

  Galahad roared and swung his shield at the boy, taking advantage of the significant height and weight he had on the other fighter.

  Finn moved impossibly fast, rolling away from his blow. Galahad advanced with sword and shield. He then struck in fast succession much as Finn had, but with terrible force. The boy withstood the assault with quivering muscle. Each strike was met with a pounding of metal on metal, metal on wood.

  Galahad found himself grinning. This boy was good. In the distance, a part of Galahad registered the cheers and hazzahs from the other knights, but his focus remained
on Finn. It had to.

  Finn came at him, throwing axe raised. With a loud cry, he buried the blade into Galahad’s shield. Galahad’s muscles bunched as he wrenched the shield back, pulling the axe handle from the boy’s grip. Finn’s silver eyes widened. A noticeable response despite his helm. Then the lad’s gaze riveted to the weapon he had lost. Galahad tossed the axed shield across the ring, priming to battle with only his sword. This would remain a fair fight.

  Finn rewarded Galahad’s honorable act by lashing out with his boot and connecting with the side of Galahad’s knee. Pain exploded up his leg. His knee buckled. But he wasn’t going down without returning the favor. He toppled forward. Catching Finn around the waist, he dragged the fighter to the ground, half on top of the man.

  Finn growled and jerked his sword’s pommel toward Galahad’s head.

  Galahad’s hand shot out and caught Finn’s wrist. So small. Yet so deadly. He bashed the lad’s hand against the ground again and again until the boy’s grip loosened and the sword tumbled from his fingers.

  Finn thrashed beneath Galahad like a wild thing. His small form remained enveloped by Galahad’s bulk despite his efforts. The boy was skilled with a sword, but man-to-man, there was no way he could match Galahad in raw strength.

  “Yield,” Galahad growled, bringing his sword against Finn’s throat.

  “Ye yield,” Finn replied, his voice as deadly as the grave.

  A sharp prick nicked Galahad’s neck. He peered sideways and blinked. Once. Twice. Finn had somehow managed to free a dagger, which was now leveled at the thick trunk of Galahad’s neck.

  Galahad started to laugh, the booming sound bubbling forth from deep within. “Good show Finn,” he said, and then pushed off the ground to free the other warrior beneath him. He offered a hand to help the boy up, but Finn ignored it, scrambling to his feet.

  Sweat dripped into Galahad’s eyes as he shook his head. What a strange man. “A draw!” he called out, turning to the stands where Arthur gaped, eyes round and mouth parted. Galahad’s booming voice carried over the crowd’s low hum, spectators who were no doubt scandalized by how Sir Galahad had been nearly beaten by an upstart. Galahad didn’t mind the prospect of losing so much. He had found his new sparring partner. “Your Majesty, the match should be declared a draw.”

  “A draw it is,” Arthur announced as he stood and raised outstretched hands to quiet the crowd. “Finn Allán of Ulster will advance to the final round.”

  Galahad sheathed his sword and retrieved his shield, pulling Finn’s throwing axe from where the blade was buried in the surface. He flipped the axe over in his hand and offered the weapon to Finn, handle first. “Good fight,” he said with a smile.

  Finn took the offered weapon silently, staring at Galahad in seeming contemplation.

  Without another word, Galahad turned and strode back toward the armory tent.

  It was only when Galahad was past the crowds and peering faces that he let his smile slip. A strange feeling had arisen in him when he gazed into Finn’s furious silver eyes. There was something strange about that warrior. Was this the other Merlin felt? Though Galahad didn’t believe in premonitions, his skin prickled with gooseflesh as a sudden feeling came over him—a feeling that somehow, this tiny, stag-headed warrior was the key to all their futures.

  ARTHUR HAD WATCHED in disbelief as Galahad, the strongest man he had ever known, was nearly bested by a fighter the size of a scrawny stable boy.

  He had declared the match a draw as his friend had requested, before turning to Merlin.

  The druid leaned forward, his fingers tight on the rail. His gold-ringed gaze followed the fighter like a hawk watching a mouse. “My king, I think we have found him,” Merlin said. “The fifth knight. The one I saw.”

  “Are you certain?” Arthur asked, his hand straying to Excalibur. He tamped down the tendrils of hope growing within him—what if Merlin was wrong? What if the tournament was a failure, if the knight who could break the curse wasn’t here? But what if the druid was right?

  How Arthur longed to draw his sword, to hear the clear ring of steel, to once again behold the faerie runes running down its length, urging the holder to “take me up, cast me away.” He knew his loyal knights and friends did not question his right to rule, or his claim to the throne. But the sovereignty goddess’ gift of Excalibur had made him, unquestionably, king of this land. If word of the sword’s rebellion got out . . . Arthur wasn’t sure how long he could fight off his challengers.

  “I am never certain,” Merlin replied, “but I do have a feeling. This is a path we must walk down longer.”

  “Then let us walk it,” Arthur said. “Percival, will you summon the man of Ulster? I would like to speak to him.”

  Percival leaped from his seat and bounded down the stairs toward the man. Arthur suppressed a smile. Percival’s youthful exuberance was equal parts endearing and annoying. Sometimes Arthur felt decades older than those around him. He tried to focus on the positive.

  Arthur glanced at Lancelot beside him, whose blue eyes were narrowed. He didn’t like how withdrawn his friend had been lately while he stewed in a world of his own thoughts.

  “Ask him to take off his helm,” Lancelot murmured for Arthur’s ears alone.

  “Why?” Arthur turned back toward the fighter who was summiting the stairs behind Percival. “We have never made such demands before.”

  “The king’s law,” Lancelot said.

  “There is no such law.”

  “Sure there is,” Lancelot said. “If you are king, your word is law.”

  “Finn Allán of Ulster,” Percival said, announcing the warrior.

  The short man bowed slightly, a fist over his heart. “Yer Majesty.”

  Not a low bow, Arthur noted. Some kings might be insulted by such a slight. Arthur was just amused. This fighter lacked respect for him. So why was he here?

  “Take off your helm and let us see you,” Arthur commanded.

  Lancelot leaned forward slightly in interest.

  Finn hesitated. “I would rather be judged for the skill of my blade than the look of my face,” he said. His voice was slightly accented, but clear and hard.

  “Are you refusing me?” Arthur slid a glance Lancelot’s way. What was the boy hiding? Was he disfigured? And did Lancelot know something?

  “I’m asking ye to let me win my final bout and prove myself worthy.”

  Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed as he nibbled the inside of his lip. “Why do you want to be a knight of Caerleon?”

  A split-second pause as Finn seemed to consider.

  “The truth, not what you think I desire to hear.”

  “Becoming a knight is the best way to help my family,” Finn said.

  Arthur nodded. “An admirable reason. Very well Finn, you will have one last chance to prove yourself worthy of knighthood.”

  Merlin leaned over, grasping Arthur’s wrist tightly. He whispered in Arthur’s ear: “Fight him yourself.”

  Arthur looked at the druid sharply. “What?”

  “Take his measure yourself,” Merlin said quietly.

  Arthur examined Merlin’s face for some explanation, and found none. The druid was as enigmatic as ever. But, he had learned to trust the man.

  Clearing his throat, Arthur stood. “I shall be your opponent for your last bout. Make yourself ready. The match shall begin within the next candle mark.”

  Finn seemed momentarily taken aback but covered his slip in reaction well. Then, he dipped his head in a slight bow and turned, stalking off the platform.

  “You should have made him take his helmet off,” Lancelot protested.

  “What do I care?” Arthur snapped, his patience at Lancelot wearing thin. “He could have the head of a donkey and I will knight him, if doing so means saving this kingdom.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “Besides, you’re pretty enough for three knights.” He gave Lancelot a playful slap on the cheek before heading off the platform to retrieve his armor.

&nbs
p; Percival’s laugh followed him down the steps.

  IT HAD BEEN since Arthur had fought in a tournament. Despite the dire circumstances, he found his steps light as a smile played across his face.

  The little warrior was in the corner of the ring and turned toward Arthur as he strode into the round. Arthur found the lack of deference strangely refreshing. The man from Ulster didn’t scrape and bow or even kneel to him. This was the part of being king he least liked—the endless parade of supplicants and nobles, trying either to win his favor or to gain a favor.

  “Not going to fight with yer fancy sword?” Finn nodded from Excalibur, still strapped to Arthur’s hip, toward the simple blade Arthur held in his hand. Arthur stifled a grimace as his mood dropped like an anchor. All right, maybe the man’s impertinence wasn’t entirely refreshing.

  “Excalibur is an enchanted blade,” he replied with a slight shrug. “Such a weapon wouldn’t be fair for a tourney.”

  “Then why won’t ye take your sacred blade off?”

  “Why won’t you take off your helm?” Arthur countered.

  Finn nodded at that, as if to give the point to Arthur.

  Galahad had returned to the raised dais, and now waved a flagon of ale, calling out in a cheerful voice, “Are you going to yammer all day like old women or are you going to fight?”

  It was all the encouragement Finn needed, for the man came at Arthur with a shout.

  Arthur had watched Finn fight in several bouts now, including the fight against Galahad. So, he was ready. He countered Finn’s furious strokes with parries and blows of his own. Their feet shuffled around the ring in a warrior’s dance.

  The fighting stretched on, each of them trying and testing, fighting and falling back.

  Arthur panted. Sweat poured down his face. His muscles burned and shook from the exertion. Still, he was surprised to find that he had meant his earlier comment. Finn could have the head of a donkey, and Arthur would still be happy to have him as a knight. Even if he wasn’t the man foretold by Merlin to break the curse. He could always use another soldier. But, if Finn was the man who would free Excalibur . . . Arthur had to know. Time to end this fight.