Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “Lancelot had a bad experience with a woman,” he practically blurted. “He’s still recovering. Dinnae take his winning personality personally.”

  She nodded, her face unreadable. They were reaching the end of the hallway now.

  “This is the biggest room in the North Wing. I hope it’s to yer liking.”

  Fionna nodded her thanks and pushed through the door, closing it gently behind her.

  Percival stood before her door, alone, with only her memory hanging in the torchlit hall. He found he meant it. He did hope she liked her time here. Because he wanted her to stay.

  ARTHUR DIDN’T LIKE being backed into a corner. And Princess Fionnabhair Allán had thoroughly and completely put him in one.

  The mood in his study was strangely subdued. The knights should have been cheerful, even jubilant, after the day’s excitement—tourney, feast, finding a fifth. But instead, each man seemed lost in thought. Lancelot stood by the hearth, staring into the flames; Galahad fixed on some distant point out the dark latticed window. Merlin was always enigmatic, so the look of quiet contemplation on his still form wasn’t quite so unsettling to Arthur.

  It was if something had shifted this night in the bedrock of their lives, tilting their course in an entirely new direction. Toward a path Arthur couldn’t see down. And that made him most nervous of all.

  Percival appeared in the doorway, a flush on his cheeks that seemed to breathe life into all of them. “Sorry I’m late, had to show our new knight all the perks of her new station, ye ken.” He flashed his incorrigible Percival grin.

  “She slammed the door in your face, didn’t she?” Galahad asked.

  “That she did, lads.” Percival ducked his head in a nod before falling into an upholstered chair before the fire, one leg slung over the arm.

  Arthur strode to the fireplace and leaned against the stone mantle, opposite of Lancelot, and sighed. His eyes were scratchy with fatigue and he had the start of a headache from all the ale, but he needed to talk this out, or he would never find peace tonight.

  “What are we going to do about Fionna?” Arthur asked.

  The room was silent, but for a pop of a log on the fire.

  Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll be the first to admit that her fighting skills are impressive. But we can’t have a female knight. Caerleon will be the laughingstock of Briton!” The British kings from other chiefdoms and kingdoms already thought him strange enough, what with his kingship bestowed by a magic sword and a cambion druid for his chief advisor. Would anyone take him seriously if he fought with a woman by his side?

  “Perhaps next time we shouldn’t knight anyone before we see their face,” Lancelot grumbled, not looking up from the flames.

  Arthur’s annoyance flared. “Thank you for that enlightening suggestion,” he snapped. He needed his second-in-command back, not this moody shadow. A similar moody shadow he sported when he had first arrived in Caerleon a decade ago. Lately, it seemed like the man wasn’t even here, his haunted gaze a thousand miles away. But where? What private hell was his friend lost in? And how could he bring him back?

  “Female knights may be a novelty in Briton, but in Ulster, women warriors are commonplace,” Merlin remarked.

  “The Norse and Saxons too,” Galahad rumbled. “Our shield-maidens fight alongside the men. They’re just as good at killing as their husbands, brothers, and fathers.”

  Arthur frowned. That was true. Norse and Saxon war bands, his enemies to the east, were filled with men and women alike. But . . . asking women to fight was not done in Briton. Women were to be cared for, protected. They were the land’s life-givers, the fair sex cherished for birthing strong warriors and kings for Britannia. Though Arthur had to relent. Fionna didn’t need his physical protection.

  “We all agree her fighting prowess isn’t a concern, yes?” Galahad said.

  The knights nodded.

  “And perhaps the nobles will talk behind our backs, but we’ve never cared what those pompous arses thought,” Galahad continued. “You’ve always done the unexpected, Your Majesty. Keep them guessing.”

  Arthur nodded in appreciation. That was true. But this cut to the heart of his concern, the one he was loathe to voice. It wasn’t so much Fionna’s femaleness that concerned him, it was her—Fionna-ness. The moment his gaze riveted onto her ethereal beauty and warrior’s build, he had wanted her. She was a portrait of contrasts, hard against soft, dark against light. Even dirty and sweaty, wearing leather armor and a scowl upon her face, she had stolen the breath from his lungs, had set the blood racing through his veins. Sitting next to her at the feast had been like being in his body for the first time—newly aware of each sensation. His stomach, flipping nervously; his skin, feeling alive and energized as if by a lightning storm. His cock, hard and insistent. Fionna was a tonic far more potent than wine—the stubborn set of her jaw, her earthy scent of heather and moss, the lilting accent of her words challenging him as an equal. She had swept over him, sending his head spinning. He didn’t know if he could focus with Fionna around, be dispassionate and fair and decisive. And that scared him more than even a faerie curse.

  And then there were his other knights. He had seen their eyes following Fionna like drowning men seeking air. They all wanted her. Four stags—one doe—there was only one way this situation would end. The stags would tear each other apart trying to get to her. He had trouble enough with Morgana trying to destroy his inner circle and his kingdom, in some twisted effort to repair what Uther had done to her father and their mother. He didn’t need the trouble Fionna brought, too. Fionna could tear them apart without even trying.

  “She’s very beautiful,” Arthur finally said, realizing he had been standing in silent contemplation too long. “I fear she could come between us. We’ve already had trouble enough of the female variety.”

  Lancelot’s face hardened, the firelight limning the hard set of his square jaw.

  “Never a worry,” Galahad said. “She’ll choose me. It’ll make it easy for the rest of you lads.”

  “I’m not sure walking tree trunks are her type,” Percival quipped. “She seemed quite taken with me this evening.”

  “Too bad you took a vow of chastity then,” Galahad retorted.

  “Only until marriage, ye big oaf.”

  Arthur held up a hand and the two fell silent. “I’m not worried about you two. Lancelot?” He spoke his friend’s name quietly, almost a warning hush.

  Lancelot met his eyes, and a cold frost crackled in his gaze, one Arthur didn’t understand. “I want nothing to do with her,” Lancelot sneered. “She brings trouble.”

  “I’m not sure any of you have a choice,” Merlin spoke, seeming to come back to life. The druid often fell still, his expression trance-like. Arthur had grown used to it, together with the wisdom that such a state would bring.

  “What have you seen?”

  “I have seen her drinking from the Blessed Grail,” Merlin said. “Isn’t that right, Percival?”

  Arthur’s head swiveled to look at Percival.

  An apologetic look was written across the lad’s face.

  “What’s this?” Arthur asked. Percival’s connection to the Blessed Grail had not yet borne fruit, but his magical affinity to the vessel was one of the reasons Arthur had knighted him. That, and his indomitable good cheer and purity of heart.

  “I thought I felt something,” Percival admitted. “When I was walking with her. It was fleeting, but I dinnae think I was imagining it. She’s connected to the Grail somehow. To the quest.”

  Merlin nodded. “She is the knight I had foreseen, though now her face has become clear. She is bound to you four, and you to her. The Fates did not make a mistake in sending her to you, Your Majesty.”

  Arthur crossed his arms, grappling with the excitement blooming within him. He knew he should send her away, that she would be trouble, but part of him was infinitely pleased that she had to stay. Arthur shoved that part down deep, locking the feeling withi
n himself. He was king. He did not have the luxury of giving in to mindless infatuation, even if she were of noble blood.

  “Seems we have little choice then,” Arthur said. “Are we in agreement?”

  “She’s nice,” Percival said. “I think we should keep her.”

  “She isn’t a stray puppy,” shot Lancelot darkly.

  “Your vote?” Arthur asked Lancelot.

  Lancelot gave a curt shake of his head, his unruly mop of dark curls swaying.

  Arthur swallowed his surprise. Lancelot saying no to a woman. This business with Morgana had indeed shaken him deeply.

  “I say yes,” Galahad rumbled. “She earned her place.”

  “Very well,” Arthur said. “But I will have a promise from each of you.”

  The knights looked to him.

  “You are my brothers. I will not have a woman break the bonds between us. If she chooses one of us, or none of us, the others shall respect her choice, and bow out gracefully, and with honor.”

  “Maybe she’ll want all of us,” Percival said with sly grin.

  Arthur massaged his temples. That headache had arrived in full force. “She will not tear us asunder. Do you so swear?”

  His knights swore, and Arthur prayed that the vows from his sword-brothers would be enough to withstand the coming storm that was Fionna Allán.

  NORMALLY AFTER BATTLE, I slept like the dead. But last night, sleep’s sweet embrace had eluded me completely.

  With a groan, I sat up amongst a sweaty tangle of linen and woolen bedclothes. I longed for the single woven blanket from my bed at home, as well as my wolf pelt for unbearably cold nights. Aideen had made me the blanket gracing my cot. I picked the colors of red and orange and purple, and then Aideen wove the hemp yarns into a masterpiece of intricate intersecting lines. That was what Aideen did—beautify the world around her. That was her gift, to bring beauty and life, while my gift was to bring destruction and death.

  It hadn’t mattered how different Aideen and I were though, we had been inseparable since my little sister was born. We were inseparable still, or at least we had been before Donal O’Lynn had snatched Aideen off the battlefield at Ballymena, while our clanns fought with an expanding Norse settlement.

  When we were girls, Aideen would sneak over from her own bed to mine more nights than I could count. And all to whisper stories and giggle beneath the rhythmic sound of our father’s snores that crested and fell like waves on the rocky shores of Lough Neagh. Even when we grew too big to both fit in my narrow little bed, I would turn sideways, fitting my body around my sister’s, stroking her rich auburn tresses as we murmured about lads from our village or fretted about our father’s stiffening hip.

  The last night we had bedfellowed, we had argued—Aideen insisting that she skirt the battlefield to heal our clann’s fianna who returned injured and dying. I had argued about the danger, feeling like flint striking across the hard rock of Aideen’s resolve. If there was one thing Aideen and I had in common, it was our stubbornness. And this was one time I took no joy in being right.

  Sunlight streamed through a crack in the heavy wool curtains of my room, setting dust motes alive and dancing like flecks of gold. I stood, stretching my sore body, before leaning over to touch my toes. Wrinkling my nose, I lifted the lid to the chamber pot and relieved myself, and then enjoyed a deep drink from a pitcher of water a servant left the night prior on an ornately-carved sideboard. Those tasks complete, I looked around the lavish room helplessly, wondering what on earth to do next. Why, steal the sword of course. But how?

  I looked about once more, taking closer stock of my surroundings. The plush woven carpet was softer beneath my toes than even the downiest pelt. Gold leaf and rich linen and wool fabrics decorated the room, from the large four-post bed, to the upholstered backs of chairs, to a vibrant tapestry covering one wall, depicting knights on unicorns battling dragons. Well, unless things were very different in Briton, more so than I realized, the mythical fight was mere fancy. Still, the amount of casual wealth in this fortress—in this room—was staggering. Bewitched, I fingered a silver candlestick inlaid with mother of pearl and calculated how much I could get by bartering the pair to the nearest Dál nAraidi clann. Maybe I could take a few things for my trouble when I departed.

  A churning feeling returned to my stomach. The grinding anxiety nearly stole my breath.

  The thought of stealing from these knights, from the king, unsettled me far too much. I wasn’t sure why, but a part of me cared what Arthur Pendragon thought of me. His nearness felt right somehow. As if we were fated to be bound to one another. At first, I thought my draw was to how his smile invited my troublesome thoughts. Then, over supper, I noticed how the freckles sprayed across his nose were only the darker few. Faerie kisses touched every part of him that I could see, even the very tips of his ears. I was undone and drank two goblets full of wine, simply to forget the man’s freckles, and smile, and the way he inclined his head just so when intently listening to another. Wanting to steal his good opinion of me would prove more unsafe than O’Lynn’s demand.

  So perhaps just the sword.

  A knock sounded on the door and I flew to it, grateful for a distraction from my uneasy thoughts. I yanked on the door’s iron ring to find a pretty brunette in a cornflower blue dress on the other side, teetering under the weight of several large bundles.

  “Hello,” the girl said, her voice sweet and tinkling. “I’ve brought you some things.”

  My breath caught. One of the bundles was my saddlebags. I pulled the heavy weight from the girl’s shoulder, and then hugged the familiar leather bag to my chest. Hopefully Zephyr wasn’t growing too fat and happy in the stables under Caerleon’s rich care. She would never forgive me once we returned to Ireland.

  The girl straightened, sighing with relief.

  “Come in,” I said, stepping aside.

  The girl placed the other bundle on the little bench at the foot of my bed and turned to me, her eyes downcast. “His Majesty thought you might need more clothes. He wasn’t sure . . . whether you would prefer dresses or breeches.” The girl hurried through the words as if slightly scandalized. “So, he sent both.”

  I bit back a smile. “Give the king my thanks. What do they call ye, lass?”

  The girl looked up, and I marveled at how her bright blue eyes matched her dress and envied the dimple in her chin. She was perhaps eighteen, just two years younger than me. “Margred, Your Ladyship.”

  “Simply call me Fionna, no need for formalities, please. May I ask for yer help?”

  Margred nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve been assigned to attend you. Whatever you need, Lady . . . er, Fionna.”

  “A bath,” I answered, hoping the blush I felt heating my neck didn’t wend its way upward to blaze my cheeks. I had consciously avoided peering toward the looking glass on the far vanity table. For I was sure I looked a fright after a day fighting under my helm. “Some breakfast, and then I want ye to tell me everything ye know about the king’s knights.”

  Margred grinned as if we had just shared a secret. “That I can do,” she said.

  AFTER EATING AND bathing, I felt more like myself than I had since leaving Ulster. I was as clean as a newborn babe, my long hair now washed, combed and loosely braided. All the clothes from my saddlebag were ripe from the sea crossing, so I dressed in clothes that Arthur had sent—an emerald green linen tunic trimmed in silvered threads, and tight brown breeches beneath. After I laced up my worn leather boots and buckled on my sword belt, I had to admit, I didn’t form an altogether displeasing picture.

  Once finished, I desired to visit the stables and check on Zephyr before seeing to any other errands and duties this day. Margred walked with me part of the way through the maze of corridors, and then pointed down the stairs and out into the bright morning sunshine before returning to her own duties.

  The lass had shared interesting tidbits about the knights, all of which kept with my own assessment. Arthur, proud and fai
r, with the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Percival—the jester of the group, his boasting and jokes hiding a sweetness and innocence that Margred hoped he would never lose. Galahad, a powerful warrior whose heart was as big as his stature.

  Apparently, he had been nursing an injured fawn back to health in the stables for a week before the stable boys grew any the wiser. If the village ladies hadn’t swooned for him before, that incident had seemed to cement him as one of their favorites.

  And then there was Lancelot, a man who loved women and was equally beloved by them. The gossip about his engagement to a dark fae princess, together with the relationship’s spectacular implosion, had been particularly juicy. Perhaps I could use this newly gained insight, somehow.

  I was pleased to find Zephyr tucked in a cozy stall, munching contentedly on a full manger of hay. The mare looked up drowsily as I entered her stall, huffing gently against my face in greeting. I looked her up and down, nodding in approval when I noticed how Zephyr’s hooves had been picked and oiled and how her coat had been brushed down to a sheen, not even a fleck of mud remaining from our voyage. Spoiled, indeed. My solid-treed saddle and bridle hung neatly from hooks on the wall, the leather padding and saddle cleaned and oiled as well. At least they treated horses right in Caerleon. And tack. My respect for the place increased.

  Pondering what to do next, I laid my forehead against Zephyr’s velvet neck. Margred had borne no message from Arthur other than the clothes; it would seem I had the day to myself. But how to use it? I needed to strategize, to plan my theft of Excalibur. Where to start?

  The sound of clashing swords reached my ears through the quiet for the stable. Curiosity piqued, I gave Zephyr’s forehead a last scratch before closing the stall door behind me.