I found Galahad and Lancelot in the stable yard’s bright light, sparring in furious combat, their boots eating up the paddock’s loose dirt, their swords flashing in the sun. I stilled in the stable’s shadow, my cheeks growing hot at the sight. Both men fought shirtless, their rippling muscles glinting with the sweat of their exertions. Galahad was huge, his biceps bunching under tawny-gold skin, the peaks and furrows of his muscled back a foreign territory I desperately wanted to explore.
Lancelot was smaller in stature than Galahad, though still tall and incredibly strong. He had nary an ounce of body fat on him. His rippling stomach flexed and tensed with each stroke of his sword. Veins roped down his powerful arms, both of which were tattooed from his upper chest and shoulders down in indigo swirls and knots—symbols of my people, the Gaels. And the Túatha dé Danann. Warrior marks. Lancelot’s dark hair hung in wet curls about his head, his expression deadly serious. He fought as though the Red Hounds of Cúalu were on his heel, his sword strikes as fast and deadly as a venomous snake.
My appreciation of his male form gave way to the appreciation of his skill—deep, intricate. He was better than me. My excitement flared. Years had passed since I had fought someone better. Or found someone to teach me more. There were lessons to learn from this man.
A ringing silence echoed in the wake of their battle—their weapons now tipped toward the earth. When had their fight ended? Had I truly given into reverie for so long? Lancelot glared at me from several paces away, his chest heaving.
Galahad, on the other hand, had a disarming grin stretched across his face.
I cleared my throat, disliking the feeling of being tongue-tied. But I shook it off and strode toward them. “Lancelot. Would ye spar with me?” I asked. Might as well get straight to it.
He shook his head, beads of his sweat flicking across my cheek. “Time to begin drills with my soldiers at the Round, Lady,” he grunted, before turning on his heel and stalking across the stable yard.
My teeth ground together, fury lancing through me at the slight.
“Don’t take his dismissal personally,” Galahad remarked, sheathing his sword. He strode toward the stable and then dunked his whole head into the nearest water trough. He came up with a flick of golden-blond hair, sending rivulets down the planes of his chest, each droplet of water sparkling like a diamond.
“Isn’t it personal?” I managed, my voice hoarse. Then I swallowed back the forming knot, unable to tear my eyes from the sight before me.
Galahad didn’t answer, pulling his hair back into a messy knot, securing his long, wild strands with a piece of leather cord. “I’ll spar with you,” he said, setting one hand on his narrow waist. “If you’re up for a rematch.”
I nodded, attempting to banish the memory of his weight upon me during our bout yesterday. “Goddess help me,” I prayed under my breath. A sparring round was not at all the type of rematch I wanted.
THE MORNING PASSED in a pleasant blur of sword strikes and parries, all the while surrounded by the steady moon of Galahad’s grin, the sun on his bronzed skin, and the sparkle of his eyes. It surprised me how quickly I settled into an easy rapport with the man, joking and fighting, giving each other tips and taking them. Galahad clearly took great pride in his fighting prowess, yet he was eager for me to teach him the fighting style favored by my fiann. I had thought of my war band brothers and sisters with a pang, and then shoved the feeling down and away from my notice. I would see them before long.
When at last my muscles were quivering, my mind a soft haze, I yielded, holding up a hand, the other on my hip. “I think I’ve had enough for one day.” I puffed in a few deep breaths, struggling to regain my wind after a particularly aerobatic sparring match.
“Thank the heavens.” Galahad’s muscled shoulders drooped. “Between you and Lancelot, I thought I might drop dead of exhaustion.”
I pursed my lips into a fine line at the mention of Lancelot. The exiled prince clearly distrusted me, and I needed to gain trust from all the knights to accomplish my dark deed. “Should I confront Lancelot?” I asked. “Find out the cause of his great dislike for me?”
Galahad shook his head, sheathing his sword. “Lancelot doesn’t like being pushed. I would wait. He’ll warm to you, eventually. The man has never met a beautiful woman he didn’t like.”
The tips of my ears heated at the compliment. “Very well.” I moved quickly past it. “I shall do as ye recommend.”
“I take my leave,” Galahad inclined his blond head toward me before bowing slightly at the waist. “I am off in search of a bath.” And then he spun on his heel and swaggered into the stable’s dark, leaving a heady scent of cedarwood and sweat and something else I couldn’t name in his wake, addling my senses.
At a clean trough, I took a long drink and then splashed the cool water on my face, trying to chill the heat of desire rising through my body. The sword. Focus on the sword, not on Galahad bathing. I closed my eyes and huffed, trying in vain to rid the delicious mental image from my mind. The sword.
A distraction was needed. Something. Anything.
As far as I knew, I had the afternoon to roam or train or indulge as I pleased. Idleness was as foreign as to me as this land and my muscles, though fatigued, itched to move. But I remained where I stood and closed my eyes, hoping to hear the land’s whispers. A breeze skipped over the grass and wildflowers in the paddock. I lifted my face to the warming sun. In a stall nearby, a horse nickered. Familiar sensations and sounds in an unfamiliar place. Perhaps exploring the grounds of Caerleon would prove diverting. I need to know the ins and outs of this fortress city for a quick escape anyway, including any back doors that led into the surrounding forests or to the River Usk.
A clanging rap faintly beat behind the other village sounds and I opened my eyes. A warrior should also make friends with a reliable smithy, I reasoned. Feeling a little lighter, I turned away from the stalls and surveyed the kingdom before me. First, I would wander the kitchen gardens adjacent to the stables. Perhaps next I would walk around the old Roman barracks the soldiers used, and then I would visit the blacksmith.
AFTER AN HOUR of exploring and an hour of watching several thousand soldiers spar in the Round under Lancelot’s guidance, I found myself ducking out a side door cut into the wooden keep’s wall, tucked behind the kitchen. A shadowed path led down from the hill, winding through the windswept grass toward the shimmering blue ribbon of the River Usk.
I stopped a moment and closed my eyes—I could not resist doing so all afternoon wherever I went—savoring the cool shade on my skin, the tang of wood smoke on the air, the chatter of crows gathered on tree limbs along the river or soaring high above. This country’s verdant beauty soothed my soul in an unexpected way. The forests here were different from the craggy heaths of Antrim, weathered and beaten down as though by a fellow warring clann. Different than the forests of Southern Ulster and Derry. This place was peaceful. But somehow vulnerable too. As though the land needed protecting. I bent down and plucked a vibrant pink wildflower that grew alongside the earthen path, twirling the stem in my fingers. I had never seen a hue quite like it.
“Campion,” a voice said, and I whipped my gaze up.
The druid, Merlin, stood farther down the path, his gray robes fastened with an intricately-engraved leather belt. I took his measure subconsciously, as was my habit. He was solidly built beneath those shapeless robes, probably just as fit and muscled as Arthur’s other warriors. His face was handsome and rugged in a way I would normally not think as beautiful—as if Otherworldly blood ran in his veins—though much of his face was covered in a trimmed brown beard. It was hard to guess his age. Thirty? But other moments he seemed far older, a preternatural knowing in his hazel eyes. The aura of magic about him set me on edge. The clanns believed that druids who were acquainted with divination could see to the truth of a person. Arthur mentioned how his druid practiced magic. Would Merlin see the real reason behind my presence in Caerleon?
But all he did was walk
closer, pointing at the flower. “Campion. The seeds, when ground, are useful for treating snakebites. Or cleansing the body from toxins.”
“And the bloom?” I asked, studying the flower cradled in my palm.
“Why, it’s very lovely.”
“So not useful at all.” I let the flower fall.
Merlin shook his head, and I found my eye drawn to the strange marks tattooed on the sides of his shorn scalp. So odd. “Beauty can be very useful. How else would the bees know how to find the flowers?” He knelt and scooped up the bloom I had dropped, and then tucked the flower into a little leather pouch on his belt.
I considered his words. I hadn’t found my beauty helpful in my world. At times, my fair colorings had felt a hindrance. But perhaps in this new one, my unusual looks could have its uses. I thought of Galahad’s comment. Would I dare try to use my beauty to melt Lancelot’s icy demeanor?
“Where are you wandering off to next?” Merlin asked. His tone was friendly, but the gold ringing his irises flashed.
“Oh, just exploring,” I said. “Trying to get the lay of the land.”
“Well, the only place down this path is my cave. I would be happy to give you a tour.”
My desire for immediate space from the druid and his all-seeing eyes warred with my practical side, which insisted that I also needed to know my enemy. Plus, I didn’t want to be rude and insult such a powerful man on my first official day.
“Very well.”
I followed Merlin down the winding dirt and rock path, almost to the fern-lined river bank below. The forest enveloped my senses and I breathed deeply the surrounding greens and sky. Before we reached the River Usk, we turned, ducking into a very peculiar space. The cave mouth was low and wide, but upon entering, I was able to stand up straight and—
“Skies above,” I whispered in awe.
Craning my neck, I gaped at the glittering ceiling, covered in tiny blue and white crystals. Merlin murmured a word under his breath and a torch flared to life in a wrought iron sconce fastened to the wall closest to where he stood. My feet forgot how to move as Merlin grasped the torch and began to move deeper into the cave.
“Come on,” he said, with an amused expression on his face.
I stumbled after him. That had been magic. Real live magic. The first I had ever seen.
The main cavern was furnished like a disorderly study, covered in a jumble of items with a purpose I couldn’t even guess. Merlin took the slightly-crushed campion bloom from his pouch and rested the bruised stem upon his carved wooden desk. “I admit, I had ulterior motives in bringing you here.”
My head jerked up, my senses suddenly firing in alert.
Merlin chuckled, settling into a chair in front of a strange rocky fireplace, currently empty of flames. “All I meant is that you’re a bit of a mystery to me. I would like to ask you a few questions. Would you care to sit?”
He gestured to the other chair, and I stiffly lowered myself onto the seat, albeit hesitantly. Fool Fionna, I scolded myself. I should never have agreed to come here or sit to answer his penetrating questions. But if I fled now, my departure would look too suspicious.
“You appeared so suddenly and have taken Caerleon by storm. Where again do you hail from?”
I relaxed slightly, reciting again the details of my heritage, my clann.
Merlin frowned. “Your father, Brin Allán you say? A chieftain. And your mother?”
I suppressed my own frown. Why did he want to know about my mother? “She was from my clann as well and died while giving birth to my wee sister, Aideen.”
“Do either of your parents have any . . . magical heritage?”
I recoiled. “Magical? No, we’re as plain as they come.”
“I doubt that very much,” Merlin murmured. “Any faerie blood?”
I shook my head. Faeries? What was this man on about?
“Do you take after your mother?”
I hesitated before replying, recalling my father doting on Aideen, stroking her auburn curls, telling her how much she looked like our mother. “No,” I admitted. Why? I wanted to ask, but I swallowed the word, afraid of what he might tell me, of what he might suggest. I belonged to Brin and Catríona Allán, and no one else. They were my parents.
Merlin seemed to take in my discomfort, and blessedly changed the subject. “Whatever your heritage, I am glad you are here. This is a treacherous time for Arthur’s rule. Your prowess and strength are a welcome addition to the court. Five is a sacred number, and Arthur needed a strong fifth for the days to come. I am confident he found this in you.”
Guilt needled at me, its dark tendrils snaking around my stomach and clenching tight. I wouldn’t be here long enough to help Arthur and his knights. Instead, I would be betraying them, leaving them even more vulnerable than when I had first arrived. But my loyalty didn’t lie here in Caerleon, no matter what oath I had taken. My duty was to protect my family, my clann. First. Always.
“I am grateful to serve among such brave warriors,” I managed when realizing he was waiting for a reply. “But I admit, I don’t understand what dangers face Caerleon? Seems rather idyllic here.”
Merlin sighed deeply. “This is Arthur’s story to tell. I would ask him, if I were you.”
“Perhaps I will,” I sprang to my feet, grateful for an excuse to leave his prying eyes. “Do ye know where I can find him?”
“Likely the library,” Merlin said, a weariness washing over him. “Always the library.”
I nodded my thanks and hurried toward the sunlight, leaving the druid to stare into his empty fireplace.
ARTHUR ONCE LOVED the library. This room was a place of respite, where he could find whatever knowledge he sought, and much that he didn’t know he needed. But that was before.
Now, he was growing to loathe this tranquil space. Arthur had spent every spare hour here since Merlin discovered the truth of Morgause and Elaine’s curse. The curse was about more than Lancelot’s betrayal of his betrothed. His half-sisters wanted the line of Uther Pendragon removed from Caerleon’s succession. Lancelot had only played into their plans.
If he hadn’t known better, he would have suspected that Morgana’s relationship with Lancelot was all a carefully-crafted plot. But he knew the truth. Morgana had loved Lancelot since she’d first met him as a young woman, when Arthur’s mother, Igraine, had taken Arthur and his half-sisters to the Isle of Man for a solstice ceremony. Lancelot hadn’t returned Morgana’s infatuation until well after she had budded into womanhood. Lancelot had claimed his longing was love, but Arthur didn’t think his friend knew what falling in love was truly like. He didn’t bond easily with others as it was, and certainly not with any of his sexual partners. The ability to remain objective was a perfect quality in his military’s commander. Fighting for another’s heart, however, wasn’t the same as clashing swords on the battle field. Or maybe little differed between love and war and it was Arthur who knew little about falling for another.
They were both hopeless.
He sighed and ran a hand through his short strands. Arthur had been combing through a stack of crumbling books as high as his waist for days, and he now focused on the two leather-bound notebooks containing his father’s neat notes. The pages were just beginning to reveal themselves to him after weeks of study and cross-reference. The Grail was crafted by the old gods of Albion for her protection against foreign kings and their poisonous gods. When the sacred vessel served a ruler, it also served his or her land. But the Blessed Grail only served a man or woman sovereign blessed by the Túatha dé Danann. In the wrong hands, the Grail could become a poison. The secrets of the Otherworld’s Grail—both a blessing and a curse. It was like these books spoke a foreign tongue to their Welsh and Breton minds, and his father, after years of study, had only just begun speak it. What hope did Arthur have in a few weeks? Percival knew even less of his own heritage, thanks to his fool mother. Arthur slammed one of this father’s notebooks shut with a huff, seeming to banish his fath
er’s watching spirit. He may resent his father’s domineering ways, but he didn’t want Uther Pendragon to see him fail either.
“What did that book do to ye?” a lilting feminine voice asked from the shadows of a tall bookshelf. Fionna stood there in a tunic of green, her pale-blonde hair freshly braided and corded with black leather. She looked softer this morning—hesitant. As if a new version of herself had emerged from the fierce warrior he had clashed wills with yesterday.
Arthur rubbed his scratchy eyes. “The book refused to yield its secrets to me,” he admitted.
She approached, lingering across from him, her long slender fingers tracing the table’s wood grain. Her hands were mesmerizing.
“Do most things yield to ye willingly, King Arthur?” she asked.
“A king does get used to having his way,” Arthur managed. It’s like her presence sucked all air from the room, leaving only Fionna. He knew not whether she meant her words to sound so alluring, but his growing cock was quite insistent that he found them so. Without the dirt and sweat of a day’s exertions, Fionna’s beauty was even more startling, her scent of fresh herbs and heather smelling like freedom, like moors and cliffs and wild places. Even clad in a man’s tunic and boots, he wanted to seize her narrow waist, to tangle his fingers in her hair and take her right there on the library table. He feared if she ever put on a dress he might implode where he stood.
But she was speaking. He tried to focus on her words, to banish his illicit daydream. She was asking him about the books.
Arthur cleared his throat. “They’re books on the Blessed Grail legend. My father studied them in his youth. Discovering the Fisher King’s castle became an obsession for him as he grew older.”
“Ye sound disapproving.” Fionna turned a book around until the title faced her. “Yet ye follow in his footsteps?”
“Not willingly,” Arthur growled.
“Ye are compelled?” She raised one pale eyebrow.
“By necessity, My Lady. It’s complicated.”
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 8
