Fionna pulled a chair out from the neighboring table, spinning it around and dropping into the seat. It was impertinent for her to sit without him giving her leave, but Arthur found he rather liked her defiance.
Her knee brushed into his as she adjusted her position while looking at him expectantly. “I think it’s time I hear this story, Yer Majesty. I am now a knight of Caerleon, am I not?”
Arthur nodded reluctantly, trying to banish the tingle that a single touch of her knee sent up his leg while also ignoring his disappointment at her knee’s absence. It was a knee, Cerridwen save him. What was he, a celibate monk from a secluded cloister, swooning at the touch of a woman’s knee?
He shifted his attention to the more important task at hand. What should he share with Fionna? He had knighted her, but still, he didn’t know her. Until she proved herself loyal, he didn’t want to share the depth of Caerleon’s vulnerability with her. The truth of the faerie sisters’ curse.
He chose his words carefully, like a horse picking its way down a shifting mountainside. “The Blessed Grail has the ability to break any enchantment, even fae magic, and heal all afflictions set upon a sovereign-blessed man and his land. I recently encountered some . . . difficulty with several sídhe fae. Having their Grail in my possession would provide Caerleon with protection against any retaliation they might further attempt.”
“Does this have anything to do with Lancelot’s disastrous engagement to Morgana, yer half-sister?” Fionna asked, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “I hear she apprenticed under Merlin’s instruction for a spell.”
She had been in Caerleon less than twenty-four hours! How did she—
“Servants talk.”
Her smile broke free and he became a man possessed, staring beyond rudeness and far beyond his good senses. Her radiance rivaled the first ray of sunshine that appeared over the horizon, bathing the landscape in golden light. The brilliance transformed her face, from one of cold, unapproachable elegance to something more. Something hard earned—and all the more precious for it.
Shifting in his chair, he broke the enthralling silence, his voice hoarse. “I’m not sure why you even needed to hear this story from me, then.”
“I needed to know why the Grail is so important. Everywhere I turn, it’s all I hear of.”
“Merlin foresaw a fifth knight that would help us find this Grail. That’s why we held the tourney.”
She recoiled slightly, playing unconsciously with the end of one of her braids. “And ye think this fifth knight is me?”
“I wouldn’t have knighted you if I didn’t.” Arthur smiled shyly.
“But I know nothing about this Grail. I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I could be of help. Perhaps this honor was meant for someone else.” Her silver eyes met his, and there was an apology there that he didn’t fully understand.
“Do not worry so,” he reassured her. “Even if I made a mistake, Excalibur didn’t.” He patted the sword hilt at his waist.
Fionna’s focus shifted to his sword like a falcon catching sight of prey. “Ye wear Excalibur even here?” she asked softly. “Is it so dangerous for ye in yer own keep, surrounded by barracks and soldiers?”
Arthur shrugged. “No, princess. Habit, I suppose. It’s more comfortable to have Excalibur with me than not.”
“Please, call me Fionna.”
“If it pleases you, Fionna.”
“Yes, Yer Majesty. It pleases me.” She flicked her gaze to his, held him there a beat, then returned focus to Excalibur. “Do ye never take your sword off?”
“Only to sleep,” Arthur said, his cheeks heating, then added, “Naturally.” Did her cheeks redden as well? Or was he imagining it?
“And the flash of violet light . . . that was magic? That was Excalibur . . . choosing me?”
He stood, pulling Excalibur from its scabbard, handing his sword to her. “See these runes carved into the blade? It’s faerie made. My sword possesses a magic even I don’t understand. But Excalibur responded to you, that was clear to see and how I knew, Fionnabhair Allán, that you were our needed knight.”
Fionna held the blade reverently before setting the sword gently on her knees, and then she ran her fingers over the runes, the sheen of the blade. “A remarkable weapon.” Her touch lingered on the sword for a moment before she handed Excalibur back to him, almost regretfully.
He sheathed Excalibur again, relaxing slightly as the familiar weight settled again at his side.
Silence fell upon them, and Arthur found himself biting his lower lip, anxious, wishing he could kiss her. Never feeling so awkward in his life, he struggled for another topic. Perhaps their previous one was safer than he originally thought. “We will leave to find the Grail as soon as I figure out where we’re going,” he said with a little laugh, turning back to the books and away from her. The desire to chase her lips with his was growing by the second. Did they taste of the wild strawberries they enjoyed mid-day in the Great Hall?
“Perhaps I could help ye look.” She pulled one of the books closer.
He softly said, “I wouldn’t accomplish much with you here, Fionna.”
“Why?” She cocked her head.
Arthur realized his misstep and fumbled to cover it. “I . . . I work best alone, is all.”
“And what am I to do in the meantime, Yer Majesty?” Fionna traced her finger along the spine of the book next to his hand. “Do I have duties as a knight? Tasks I must complete?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I do all day?” Fionna asked, gesturing wide. “I’m not used to such free time.”
“Oh.” Arthur furrowed his brows. “The other knights never seem to complain. Your time is your own, to train, or study, or find leisure that suits you. Lancelot trains the soldiers, but he seems to have that well in hand. I will assign tasks, if I have them. I’ve received word of raids near the Kingdom of Gwent’s northern border. Once my scouts return, I may dispatch several soldiers under the direction of my knights to secure our borders.”
“So, in the meantime I . . . do whatever I fancy?”
Arthur nodded, slowly, his brows still furrowed. Why did she seem so put out? Lancelot, Galahad and Percival enjoyed running their own days. Though, perhaps, if he had given Lancelot more to keep busy, they wouldn’t all be in their current predicament.
Fionna snatched a book off the table, and tucked the tome under her arm, standing. “Then I think I will learn about the Blessed Grail legend. If I am meant to help ye search, then I better know something about this sacred vessel.”
With that pronouncement, Fionna spun and strode out of the library, leaving Arthur with one less book and the laces of his breeches strained tight.
LANCELOT NEEDED A hobby. Once, enjoying the company of women had been his unofficial hobby. But it seemed dalliances were yet another thing Morgana had ruined. There was always the company of men, he supposed. Though, engaging in relations with either gender didn’t feel satisfying for once. He couldn’t pretend away how his careless choices harmed the people—and the land—he cared about. A people and land he was willing to die for. Maybe that was why his mood felt as black as tar. When was the last time he had been celibate for a whole month? At least Percival didn’t know what he was missing out on.
This morning, Lancelot visited the stable yard to clear his head from yesterday’s fog, to exhaust his body until he had no energy left to remind him of how alluring he found their newest knight. The plan had worked for a time, but then she had appeared, like a specter from a dream. He was too spooked to remain in her company. He didn’t trust himself around her.
Still, from the shadows, Lancelot had watched as Fionna sparred with Galahad, jealousy twisting in his gut. Fionna was the siren and the rocks, and Lancelot wanted nothing more than to bash himself against them, to be bludgeoned and torn apart by loving her. Needing to leave but unable to remain away, he drank in the sight of Fionna from afar. Every flash of her sword, every peal of her laughter ringin
g out bright and clear, the look of her cheeks flush with exhilaration from the fight. He drank long and deep before he finally made himself turn away, walking stiffly back toward his chambers.
He really did need a hobby. Double drills for the soldiers? Archery? Hunting, perhaps? A hunt might be good for him. Maybe he should talk to Percival. What did celibate knights do all day?
LANCELOT HAD SETTLED on a nap, and so was quite disoriented when a knock sounded on his door. He stumbled to open it, his eyes blurry with sleep. On the other side stood a wide-eyed servant.
“His Majesty asks that you attend him in the throne room. We have an ambassador from Tintagel.”
Tintagel. The word struck him like an arrow, jolting him awake. “A moment,” Lancelot said.
He flew about his chamber, grabbing his boots and hopping into them quickly, pulling a gray-blue tunic over his head. He retrieved his sword belt from where he’d abandoned his effects on the floor and buckled the leather and weapon around his waist while hurrying after the servant. Lancelot ran his hands through his hair, trying to tame his wild curls. An ambassador from Tintagel, where Morgana and her sisters lived. This couldn’t be good. What fresh horrors had Morgana, Elaine, and Morgause decided to visit upon Caerleon now?
Arthur was sitting on his throne, the carved, high-backed chair gilded in gold. His king thought the throne too ostentatious, but for moments like this, it suited. Percival stood on Arthur’s right, leaving a spot for Lancelot between them. And on Arthur’s left stood Galahad and Fionna. The image of the three other knights startled him, and the reality of his predicament truly began to sink in. She was a part of their lives now—day in, day out. They were five. Gods help him.
“Nice of you to join us,” Arthur murmured as Lancelot took up the position by his right hand.
“Do we know why they’ve come?” Lancelot asked.
“Regardless of their reasons, I ask that you please remain quiet.”
“Even if you’re in danger?”
“From an ambassador?” Arthur narrowed his eyes to slits. “Do not cause a scene. I need to mend relations not give Tintagel an excuse to declare war.”
A muscle twitched in Lancelot’s jaw as his king held his gaze. Their ambassador was still fae and, thus, still dangerous. Still, he ground out a simple, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Satisfied, Arthur nodded to the servants by the door, who opened the two large wooden doors.
The ambassador was strangely beautiful, typical of most sídhe males. Unnaturally tall and thin, though well-muscled, and pale as a stalk of winter grass, bleached by the cold. His nose, cheeks, and jaw cut at captivating angles, and his lips curved upward in a disdainful twist. Fae. Lancelot found his hand gravitating toward his sword hilt. Though the ambassador was the sort of male Lancelot once enjoyed when he roamed the sídhe courts for pleasure, he never forgot fae were predators and humans mere prey.
Arthur seemed to little mind the ambassador’s strangeness. Or his rudeness. Or his king merely did a better job of hiding his sentiments than Lancelot. “Welcome to Caerleon,” Arthur said warmly. “I hope your journey has treated you well.”
“Well enough,” the faerie male sniffed. His tunic glimmered a pale green with embroidery in a pattern of twisting leaves running up the sleeves. “My name is Alworn. My mistresses, the ladies Morgause, Elaine, and Morgana desire to express their congratulations to you for your joining of a fifth knight.”
Arthur’s brow wrinkled slightly at that. “Our new knight was only selected yesterday. But your journey must have taken a week at least . . .”
Alworn inclined his head to acknowledge the incongruity, a small smile twisting his arrogant mouth. Lancelot wanted to smack the insolence off his perfectly sculpted face. Bloody faerie magic.
“As you no doubt know, the mistresses of Tintagel are powerful priestesses. They had foreseen the knighthood of Fionnabhair Allán, and they celebrate her arrival.” Alworn’s eyes swiveled to Lancelot, and the man’s shit-eating grin broadened. Lancelot’s blood heated. Of course, Morgana knew Fionna would be joining them, and knew Lancelot could not help but love her. The cruelty of Morgana’s curse took his breath away. Here was the woman Lancelot hadn’t known he wanted—no simpering maiden swooning at his feet, but a woman fierce and bold as she was beautiful. An equal. And Morgana had made sure he could never have her—that he would live the rest of his days with an empty bed and aching balls. Gods, he wanted to break something.
The ambassador continued. “My mistresses relay their pleasure in how you have taken a fifth knight of such unusual skill and power, and a woman no less. For surely it could not have been easy for Lady Fionnabhair to overcome the prejudices of Briton to rise so far. They wish to give her a gift for her bravery and courage.”
All eyes turned to Fionna. She held herself stiffly, her lean face betraying no hint of what she might think of the male’s offer. Lancelot wanted to lean over to tell Arthur to reject the gift, but Arthur was already nodding. “Lady Fionna?” He gestured her forward.
Lancelot cursed inwardly. Faerie gifts came with strings attached. Strings tied to unforeseen dangers and tricks. He didn’t know what the sisters had against Fionna, but this “gift” surely brought trouble.
Fionna glided down the stairs to stand before the ambassador, her eyes narrowed in such a way that made Lancelot wonder if she had ever met a fae in the flesh. If not, he hoped she well remembered all the faerie stories she had surely heard over the years, and would guard herself against tricks or unwittingly given favors.
Fionna’s tunic and sword were odd for a lady in Arthur’s throne room. Yet, she appeared every inch regal—an Irish warrior princess—looking Alworn straight into his unnatural aquamarine eyes, framed by white lashes. Seeing the two of them face each other gave Lancelot pause—it was like peering into the reflection of a looking glass. Fionna’s pale coloring and white-blonde hair mirrored Alworn’s. Though, Lancelot knew people of the North were fairer in coloring, even with hair so blond the strands shone white as Fionna’s. He had traveled once to northern Ireland and the Kingdom of Denmark. And he knew the Kingdoms of Strathclyde and Alba in Scotia as though his own hunting grounds. Still, the pair of them together unsettled him.
The ambassador presented a small wooden box carved with snaking vines and glistening dewdrops, and Fionna took it, opening the lid. Lancelot craned his neck to see while fighting his urge to rush down the steps and bat the box out of her hand.
“A necklace,” Fionna said, holding up the gift. The silver chain held a pendant shaped like a budding lily, iridescent and sparkling and pure white. “Lovely,” she said, bowing before the male.
Good, she didn’t thank him.
Alworn inclined his head. Again. “It would please my mistresses greatly to see you wear their gift, I’m sure. May I?”
“Of course,” she said after a moment’s pause, handing him the necklace. She pulled her long cord of braids over one shoulder and turned her back to the man. “I fear this isn’t proper attire for such a grand necklace,” she added with a little laugh.
Warning bells rung in Lancelot’s mind. “Don’t—” he grit between clenched teeth, but Arthur grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, silencing him.
Lancelot ground his teeth together harder as Alworn clasped the necklace around Fionna’s neck, letting the chain fall. “Lovely,” he murmured, echoing her earlier sentiments.
“We must celebrate your visit here,” Arthur said to the ambassador. “We will have a feast tonight in your honor. Perhaps we can convince Lady Fionna to wear something to better suit her new gift?”
Fionna glared daggers at Arthur as she stalked back up the stairs to resume her position at Galahad’s side.
Arthur chuckled nervously. “Or perhaps not.”
Alworn dipped his head. “I look forward to the feast, Little Dragon King.” The ambassador turned and retreated from the throne room.
“Thank you for attending,” Arthur said once the thick doors closed behind him. �
��And Fionna, thank you for entertaining the ambassador so graciously.”
She gave a curt nod while inspecting the necklace hanging around her swan’s neck.
“Sir Lancelot, a word?” Arthur asked, and the others took his cue to disappear.
Arthur stood as the others filed out, stretching his back. “That chair is as hard as a rock,” he complained.
“You shouldn’t have let Alworn place that necklace on her,” Lancelot said, gritting his teeth again. “We know not what the pendant does.”
“Perhaps, but if we had refused the gift, it would have further alienated Morgana and her sisters from us. And we can ill afford more enmity between the Tintagel and Caerleon.”
“Still—” Lancelot protested.
“I chose a risk of harm over a certain one. Sometimes that’s the only choice before a king.”
Lancelot studied his fingers, the muscles in his jaw clenching tighter. He decided not to mention how Arthur had chosen a risk to Fionna over a risk to his rule, which didn’t seem very kingly at all. But he supposed Fionna was part of his rule now, so perhaps Arthur saw them all as one and the same.
“Lancelot,” Arthur said. “Might be best if you skip the feast tonight. With your and Morgana’s history . . . we should minimize your interaction with Tintagel for the time being.”
“Very well,” Lancelot said woodenly. How things had changed. A knight of Caerleon, banished from a feast in his king’s own Great Hall. “But promise you will be careful, Arthur Pendragon. Do not thank the male, or you will be beholden to him or his mistresses. Remember, when you sup with sídhe faeries, you must be on your guard.”
THE GREAT HALL looked resplendent, all dressed up for the feast. And so do I, if I don’t say so myself, Galahad mused to himself. Candlelight flickered across the hall as though dancing will-ó-the wisps. Fern and wildflower garlands draped across rafters and festooned banquet tables. And fresh rushes released a soft, earthy scent with each step.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 9
