Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  And, so, he took a page out of Finn’s book. The warrior came at him with a particularly vicious swing. Arthur met it with his own blade. The two swords locked together. Finn strained against his sword, gritting his teeth while struggling to shove Arthur off.

  Arthur pulled out a wicked little dagger sheathed behind his back and, in one lithe motion, he sliced across Finn’s forearm. “First blood,” Arthur declared.

  The fighter’s eyes went wide. “Did ye just . . . steal my trick?” he asked, breaking away from Arthur, his sword tip drooping toward the ground.

  “Never let history say how we’re not adaptable here in the mighty City of the Legion.” Arthur grinned and, with a surreptitious motion, wiped the dagger’s blade across Excalibur’s leather grip.

  The effect was instantaneous. Searing light blasted from Excalibur, sending streaks of silver over the gathered crowd. Arthur threw up his arm to ward off the onslaught.

  Finn stumbled away from him as the crowd shouted in surprise—many pointing, a few running from the stands in fear.

  But as suddenly as the magic had begun, the light died, leaving Excalibur quiet and dim at Arthur’s side. Hope bloomed in his chest and he gripped the sword with a murmured prayer to the old gods.

  His sword yielded.

  Arthur pulled Excalibur from its scabbard, the sword ringing out in a single pealing note. The Sword of Light was as beautiful and deadly as the first day the Lady of the Lake had bequeathed the blade to him. He wanted to fall to the grass and weep in relief.

  Around him, the crowd stood in hushed awe.

  But Finn stood back warily.

  Arthur scrambled for an explanation for the sudden burst of magic. Only his knights and Merlin knew that anything had been wrong with Excalibur. And he intended to keep it that way.

  “I held this tournament to find a fifth knight! A fighter worthy to join my inner-circle of warrior nobles.” Arthur called out. His deep voice resounded throughout the amphitheater. “And now we have found one. Excalibur itself has recognized the divine calling of this man. You all were witness to its magic, blessing his service to our land. You have seen him fight bravely and valiantly today. Caerleon is fortunate indeed to have such a worthy warrior to defend her, as well as all of Briton.” His path was clear now. Though from a foreign land, Finn was Caerleon’s—and his—only hope.

  “So kneel, Finn Allán,” Arthur said.

  Finn did as he was told, his stag helm lowering before Arthur.

  “Do you, Finn Allán of Ulster, swear fealty to me as your king, to follow me into battle and protect the land I govern?”

  The stag helm lifted and silver eyes met his. “I do swear my fealty and my sword arm, My King.”

  “Then I, Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon, king of Caerleon, overking in the Kingdom of Gwent, and High King of Briton, hereby deem thee knight.” Arthur tapped his sword on the man’s shoulders. A thin tendril of violet light left Excalibur and touched Finn’s shoulders with each tap, and Arthur relaxed. The sword recognized Finn as belonging to his inner circle.

  “Now rise, Sir Finn Allán, knight of Caerleon,” Arthur said with confidence. But deep within, he wondered what sort of man he had just yoked to his kingdom.

  KING ARTHUR PENDRAGON was not what I had expected. I tried to shake my unease. His words—the phantom feeling of his enchanted blade—settled upon my shoulders like a stone weight.

  The crowd stood around the amphitheater, clapping and stomping their feet in jubilee. This unsettled me too. I hadn’t expected to be welcomed. To be celebrated. In truth, I didn’t know what I had expected.

  Arthur addressed the crowd. “Join us for a feast in the Great Hall! We will make merry and show our newest knight a true Caerleon welcome!”

  The hazzahs and hollers grew deafening, most likely at the prospect of free food and ale.

  The king laid a friendly hand on my shoulder. “I am eager to become acquainted with you Finn, and I know my men are too.” His touch sent tingles down my spine, and I nodded, unable to resist eyeing him sideways through the slit in my helm. Even with sweat beading on his tan brow, his helmet under his arm, he looked every inch a king. A square jaw and proud nose sprinkled with a light dusting of freckles, vibrant green eyes that spoke of a man of both wisdom and kindness, despite his youth. He had to be no more than twenty-two, yet he carried himself with the confidence of a white-haired ruler. And his smile . . . which he was turning on me right now. Lush lips, straight white teeth. Happiness transformed his face from handsome to knee-wobbling. A hay-loft smile, Aideen would have called it.

  “A man who was blessed with such a grin can expect to enjoy a trip to the hayloft,” I could almost hear my younger sister explain with a sly giggle. I swallowed back the ache tightening my throat. Was my sister safe? My father?

  It was as if Arthur could hear my thoughts. Well, thankfully not all of my thoughts. “You spoke of your family. I should like to hear of them, and your life in Ulster,” the king said. “I suspect you have a story to tell.”

  You have no idea, I thought darkly. I managed another nod.

  “Ah, Percival,” Arthur said, as the copper-haired young man vaulted over the railing of their viewing platform and down onto the ground before us. “Sir Percival of Caer Benic, the newest of my knights. Well, not anymore,” Arthur corrected himself with a rueful laugh.

  “The role of newest knight comes with all the shit jobs, Finn,” Percival said with a wide grin. “I for one, am pleased to pass the torch. Welcome to Caerleon, lad.”

  “There aren’t any shit jobs,” Arthur frowned, but his expression wasn’t serious.

  “Not for the king,” Percival shot back.

  To my surprise, Arthur just grinned. “One of the perks, my boy,” he said, clapping the other man on the shoulder. Arthur’s familiarity with his knights surprised me. Dál nAraidi clann chieftains were often close with their warriors, but I had expected a king of Briton to be aloof, to set himself apart. Arthur and his sword-brothers seemed—like friends.

  “Will you show Finn to an extra room, so he can bathe and change? Then bring him to the feast?” Arthur asked Percival. “Hope that’s not too much of a shit task for you.”

  “Nae, a job is far superior when there’s ale at the end,” Percival said, winking at me. “I think I can manage.”

  With a dip of his head, Arthur strode off, and I found myself walking beside Percival up to the wooden keep that was Arthur’s main fortress.

  Percival had the lanky build of youth, though his shoulders were broad under his leather jerkin, and he wore the sword on his hip with practiced ease. He’d fill out nicely in a year or two, I thought. His rich brown eyes were mirthful, framed by long copper lashes that would make any maiden jealous. I groaned inside, realizing that I was staring again. What was it about these men that addled my brain so?

  The memory of Galahad’s weight upon me set my cheeks flaming and a low heat coursing through my body. Never before in a fight had I ever seen a man as anything other than an opponent, a man to kill. But in that moment, my body had betrayed me. Every inch of me had wished that only night air separated us. My senses rebelled as if I could actually taste the salt and honey of his golden skin. The memory mortified me. A split second in battle made all the difference, and I had let the sweet daydream fill my mind. He had almost beaten me. Where would that leave my father? My sister? In my mind’s eye, I seized myself by the scruff of my neck and shook—hard. No more slips.

  From the amphitheater grounds, we followed a meandering path toward the keep, surrounded by chatting nobles and competitors. Arthur’s fortress was a thing of beauty, hewn from dark timber that shone with brilliant red oak hues in the afternoon sun. I could almost envision the Romans establishing this military location, as I had been told by an overly-friendly warrior between bouts. The Pendragon banner—a red cloth trimmed in gold with an ornate dragon for the High King of Briton—fluttered from the keep’s high timbered walls. The fortress sat atop a steep
grass-covered hill, making the keep nicely defensible, and also a nuisance to climb toward.

  The muscles in my legs burned as fatigue from the day’s exertions settled bone deep. The high adrenaline from today was quickly draining from me, leaving a growing, empty pit within. I needed to eat, then sleep, then eat some more.

  “I’ll get ye a room in the East Wing, that’s where Arthur and the rest of us knights sleep,” Percival explained. “Ye can bathe and change before the feast.”

  My stomach clenched. I knew I was avoiding the inevitable, but I didn’t want to face that moment—the very moment when my helmet came off and they all gaped slack-jawed as if I possessed three heads. Most men didn’t take kindly to losing to a woman, and I didn’t know enough about these four warriors to judge what their reaction would be. I would reveal my face after I had fortified myself with food. And ale. Lots of ale.

  “I would like to go straight to the feast,” I said, clearing my dry throat. “I’m starving.”

  A look of uncertainty crossed Percival’s face, but then he shrugged. “If ye want to be covered in sweat and dirt. Yer choice, lad.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll bathe tonight,” I added, finding that I didn’t want him to think me a total savage. But then I caught myself. What did it matter what this man thought? I would bathe in blood if doing so meant I could steal the sword and escape alive. I had only one objective. Excalibur.

  We crossed over the fortress’s sparkling moat and into the keep’s main courtyard, which brimmed with people in colorful dresses and coats. I craned my neck to take in three soaring towers and all the tidy rows of inner buildings constructed in cob and black timber fashion. Latticed windows scintillated in the warm sunlight and I squinted my eyes. I had never seen a structure so grand.

  “Ye will like being a warrior noble here, Finn,” Percival said with an air of infectious enthusiasm. “Food is excellent, the other knights are good men, and Arthur is a fair ruler. And women love braw knights,” he said to me with a waggle of his ginger eyebrows. “If ye can steal one away from Lancelot, that is. The lot of them seem to be twisted around his cock, if ye ken my meaning.”

  “Yer meaning is quite plain,” I said drolly. It didn’t surprise me to hear that Lancelot was successful with women. The man was the most striking in the entire striking bunch. His blue eyes alone were remarkable, somehow filled with both fire and ice.

  “Did I hear mention of my cock?” Lancelot jogged up behind them, falling into step beside me as we approached the Great Hall.

  “No one is interested in yer cock,” I retorted, prickling at his presence.

  “You would be surprised.” Lancelot slid me a smile and winked.

  I focused on the ground moving beneath my feet. Did he just . . . flirt? Did he know I was a woman? Or did he sway toward men? Regardless, Lancelot made me uneasy, no matter how handsome he was. Several times during the tourney, I had caught his stare. While others on the throne dais appeared surprised by my show, the slight furrow of Lancelot’s dark brows and the way his lips pinched suggested his disapproval. Of me personally or my prowess on the green? I knew not, and not knowing made him suspect as well.

  The dark knight seemed more relaxed now, more at ease. I peered back up and wished I hadn’t. He had loosened the buckles of his armor, revealing a glimpse of the broad plane of his chest through the low-cut neckline of his tunic. A finger of pale sunlight caressed his exposed olive skin and corded muscle. I swallowed thickly. Again. I really needed that ale.

  We passed into the raucous Great Hall and I gawked at the sight. Two huge wrought iron chandeliers hung from arched vaulted ceilings, coated in wax drippings, while colored glass on the Hall’s far end let in a kaleidoscope of rainbow hues. Dozens of long wooden tables flanked the room, their polished surfaces covered by an array of edibles. My entire clann could fit in this room. And be fed by this feast. I revised my assessment of Arthur’s wealth and status. Caerleon was a rich city indeed.

  I drew in a shaky breath and slowed my steps as my gaze locked onto the colored-glass windows once more. Windows could be stained? Or were they gems?

  “A coronation gift for Arthur from the Túatha dé Danann,” Lancelot said. “Presented by my foster mother.”

  “Beautiful,” I breathed. “Faerie made, then?”

  “The light glows more brightly in the presence of fae, so I was told.”

  I barely registered Lancelot’s words. Rainbow beams of light held me captive as the air fairly vibrated with a magic that sang to my blood. For a moment, I was transported away from today and my troubles. It was as if I knew this place, though nothing could be further from the truth. My pulse thrummed loud in my chest, my lips parted with a wonder I could not explain. And I forgot—forgot about the knights at my side and the helmet upon my head until he shadowed my mood.

  Lancelot stepped in front of my path—his ice-blue eyes flashing, his strong jaw set. “Do you wear that helmet to sleep Finn? Because you’re a knight now, so the helm should be removed before standing before our king.”

  And before I could get my hands up to ward him off, he pounced, seizing an antler and jerking the helm from my head.

  Cool air rushed in about me as my long white-blonde braids tumbled down over my shoulder. I took in a startled hiss of breath to smother the string of curses that threatened to bubble forth. Then, I squared my shoulders and drew myself up to full height, taking a perverse pleasure at the stunned expression on his face. Nothing for it. The deed was done. My secret was out.

  LANCELOT WASN’T SURE what he had expected under the crown of Finn’s antlers, but not this. A woman. King Arthur Pendragon knighted a woman.

  Even Percival, never without a jest or a jab, was rendered mute, his mouth slackened in shock.

  It was a peculiar sensation, the current of emotions flooding through him. Already the surprise was wearing off, bleeding into something deep and low and hot. For what a woman she was—this stranger they had tied their lives to.

  As if carved from marble, she had a face hewn of elegant lines and angles. Faint brows formed the trails of two shooting stars. White-blonde hair, plaited with black-stained leather in a cord of braids, bunched and draped over her shoulders. Her eyes glimmered like waterfall mist, her skin as pure and unblemished as an untouched snowdrift. She shone with a cold fire that called to him, a wild song that kindled an answering blaze within him, startling in its intensity.

  Fear seized his heart with a gauntleted grip as Morgana’s words echoed loudly in his mind. 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 two join as man and woman, she will bring not only your downfall, but the downfall of all you love. Caerleon. And Arthur.

  He had shrugged off the curse, dismissed her words as scorned nonsense. He knew no Gwenevere, no white enchantress pure as the driven snow. Or he hadn’t . . . then.

  “Sir Lancelot du Lac,” she said, holding her chin at a haughty angle. “Is something amiss?”

  Her words were a challenge, a dare. One he could not meet. For now, he saw the game she had played, saw how she had thoroughly out-maneuvered them. Arthur had made her a knight before the entire kingdom—an unmarried woman holding a noble title reserved only for men. No less, she had earned the spot. Gods help him, this woman outfought every competitor. She matched Galahad and Arthur blow for blow. Now they were too far down this road to turn back.

  “Yer a lass!” Percival laughed, his arms akimbo. “A bonnie one at that too.”

  Perhaps Lancelot would have been delighted, too, had things been different. There were worse fates than to live and train beside a gorgeous woman. But Percival didn’t know what this meant for Lancelot. For all of them. Didn’t understand the danger she posed.

  Arthur and Galahad chose that moment to stroll into the Great Hall. Arthur had removed his armor and once again donned his fine woolen tunic. His cheeks were flushed, a handsome smile on his face, al
most boyish.

  The smile disarmed Lancelot further, recalling memories of him and Arthur training with the soldiers, before Arthur’s father had died at the hands of Saxons and Arthur’s mother had declared never to remarry before disappearing into the Otherworld. When Arthur was a mere prince and not a King.

  Seeing Arthur happy should warm the stone cockles of Lancelot’s cursed heart. Especially as Morgana’s vengeance had fallen over them all like a heavy cloak. At times, he felt as though he were drowning in his guilt and shame—but never as much so as right now.

  Lancelot forced himself to watch when Arthur and Galahad noticed Finn—no, not Finn—who knew what her name really was. Arthur and Galahad saw her face first, for how could one not notice her ethereal beauty? Their eyes trailed down to the dull leather armor, the boots covered in dust, the sword at her hip. Brows scrunched, lips dipping into frowns, as they took in the helmet hanging limply in Lancelot’s hand. And then the widening of eyes, the inhaled hiss of breath.

  Arthur took a step back as though struck by an invisible blow.

  Galahad, however, let out a bark of shocked laughter, one big hand slapping his thigh.

  “Finn’s a lass,” Percival proclaimed, a giddy twinkle in the lad’s eyes.

  “Yer Majesty,” the woman said, lowering her plaited head. “I meant no disrespect. I wished only to be treated as an equal. To be given a fair chance.”

  “And you thought deception the only way to get it?” Arthur’s voice was cold.

  Lancelot could see his mind working, the thoughts flying behind his carefully-schooled features. “You thought we would not treat you fairly as you were?”

  “Would ye have?” Her head snapped up and she met his eyes with a challenge that burned bright and clean.

  Arthur looked away with a muttered curse. Uncertainty was an unfamiliar look on their king.