Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “Would your skin leave stardust on my lips?” he whispered hoarsely into my neck.

  Arthur stroked my ear and pressed a kiss to the delicate flesh right beneath my lobe. I couldn’t stop the shiver of pleasure that ran through me, all thoughts fleeing from my mind. Arthur smelled like the forest—oak and cypress and . . . home. My heart nearly stopped. Home? But I didn’t have long to think of what that could mean when he trailed a line of kisses down my throat and over my collarbone. My head fell back, my breath trembling. I no longer thought of tainted wine or faerie swords or anything but Arthur. This close, he was magnificent. My fingers took on a mind of their own and roved over the hard lines of his muscles under his soft tunic, caressing each dip and valley, while my eyes took in the freckles across his nose, the gleam in the golden crown across his brow. This man was a king. This land, this fortress, these subjects belonged to him—he could have anything he desired. But he wanted me.

  And I wanted him.

  His mouth captured mine, and my eyelids fluttered closed as my world tilted on its axis. I melted against this strong, thoughtful man, the room around us fading away. There was only Arthur, and the velvet strokes of his tongue against mine, and the heat pooling between my legs. His lips were firm and soft, and he tasted of May wine. Of magic.

  My eyes popped open. This wasn’t Arthur. This was the wine. Arthur and his court were under attack. My heart grew sick. I would rob him and betray him, but the manner in which I would do so was of my choosing. Not like this. I would never leave him like this.

  It took every ounce of my self-control, but I pulled back from Arthur’s heady kiss.

  His green eyes were hooded with longing, his breathing rapid.

  “I’m sorry, Yer Majesty,” I said. “But we must stop.”

  Arthur’s brows creased before he dipped down for another taste of my swollen lips.

  “I said no, Yer Majesty.” I shoved off him and fled through the crowd toward the large hewn doors, feeling the crawling gaze of Alworn on my back.

  I stumbled against the stone wall outside of the Great Hall, my hand on my chest as if the pressure from my palm was the only thing keeping my heart from beating out of my body. An errant tear broke free and rolled down my flushed cheek. Two days in Caerleon and I was a wreck. Galahad, Percival, Arthur . . . my emotions were ragged, my body desperate with need. Who was I—this gasping maiden in a hallway, so thoroughly disarmed by the knights of Caerleon? I needed Fionnabhair Allán back. I needed my fiann; I needed my armor; I needed someone to slap sense into me and tell me to do what needed to be done.

  “Lancelot.” I said his name like a prayer. Blessed goddess, I needed Lancelot.

  POUNDING ON LANCELOT’S door startled him out of his bitter reverie. He unwound himself from his chair, where he had been staring morosely into the fire.

  More pounding, followed by a muffled shout. His name.

  He huffed, stalking to the door and yanking it open. “I thought I wasn’t welcome—” The words died on his tongue. Fionna. And Fionna’s breasts. His gaze traveled down her midnight blue dress that dipped low Roman style. A dress, he cursed silently, that hugged every curve of her firm, supple body. He thought he had a fighting chance of resisting her when she was dirty and sweaty and strapped into her armor. But like this? . . . Sweet merciful gods. Tamping down his desire, he snapped, “What do you want?”

  Perhaps he did too good of a job, because Fionna recoiled slightly, her expression darkening. “I’m sorry to interrupt yer valuable time, but I thought ye would wish to know that yer king and fellow knights have fallen under a strange spell.” She whirled to go, tossing over her shoulder, “I must have been wrong about ye.”

  He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”

  She looked down at where his hand held her captive. Clenching his jaw, he released her more than a little reluctantly. It was the first time he had touched Fionna, and felt the heat of her. The realness.

  “Tell me,” he somehow managed.

  “The ambassador offered a toast. May wine he brought from Tintagel. I think the bottle may have been laced with something.”

  “They drank faerie wine?” Lancelot asked, incredulous. He stabbed his fingers through his black curls with a furious groan. He never should have let Arthur banish him from that feast! His hand fell to his waist in angry defeat. Arthur was altogether too trusting sometimes.

  Guilt wrinkled her smooth brow. “I do believe so, yes.”

  “Rule number one when dealing with faeries,” Lancelot seethed, “don’t eat any food or drink they offer. Idiots!”

  When Lancelot was a young lad of twelve, a lord visited the Isle of Man. Drunk on faerie mead, he had grown so enchanted by Vivien, Lady of the Lake, that he cut off his own feet in order to become a merman and wed her. So drunk with magic was this visiting lord that he had failed to see Vivien’s two feet planted in the wild grass and ferns. Lancelot had watched in horror as the noble bled out—the man grinning with the headiness of death. His foster mother knelt in a pool of the dying man’s blood and kissed the final breaths from his lungs, then used his air to blow his limp body into the rippled surface her lake like a dandelion on the wind. Traumatized, Lancelot had refused any drop of alcohol until well past his eighteenth birthday. The memory sent a shudder down his spine.

  “I think they didn’t want to offend him,” Fionna offered weakly.

  “Of course,” Lancelot sneered. “When someone offers you poisoned wine, of course you drink it, so as not to offend them!”

  Fionna set her jaw, as if steeling herself against the buffeting force of Lancelot’s anger.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through gritted teeth. “What are they doing? Just dancing? Making merry?”

  A blush colored Fionna’s cheeks, the rosy hue softening her seemingly untouchable beauty. “They’ve grown . . . forward.”

  “Forward? Spit it out woman.”

  “Arthur kissed me,” Fionna whispered, a hushed confession. She peered over her shoulder before settling a level gaze back onto Lancelot. “And Galahad asked me to come to his chamber. And Percival . . .” she ran her hand over her eyes, as if attempting to banish the memory. “They’re not themselves, Sir.”

  “Bloody hell,” Lancelot muttered, pulling his door shut. “Let’s go.”

  Fionna hurried after him down the hallway, the folds of her gown clutched in her fists. “How are ye going to fix them?”

  “Damned if I know,” Lancelot shot back. “This is magic wine. We need druid magic.”

  “Merlin!” Fionna’s eyes lit up. “I forgot about him.”

  “Probably the first time that’s happened,” Lancelot said wryly. He looked at her sideways, trying to ignore the pleasant bounce of her breasts as she strode beside him. “When I get my hands on Alworn, I’m going to throttle that male. Like Morgana and her cursed sisters haven’t wreaked enough havoc on Caerleon!”

  Fionna looked at him with interest. “What do ye mean? What else have they done?”

  Lancelot realized his mistake too late. Arthur hadn’t told Fionna yet about the curse. He raced for an excuse as they rounded the corner into the main hallway that led to the Great Hall. “Morgana demanded that Arthur execute me for my . . . crimes against her. She didn’t take it kindly when he refused, swearing vengeance.”

  “Execute ye! That’s preposterous. Ye weren’t even married yet.” Fionna’s lips formed a straight line. “Aren’t faeries notoriously promiscuous? Ye would think Morgana would be a little more understanding.”

  “Morgana is wrath and ruin, not understanding. She’s unlike any other faerie I’ve known,” Lancelot admitted.

  “Oh goddess,” Fionna breathed as they passed through the wide-open doors into the Great Hall.

  The scene was even worse than Lancelot could have imagined. Arthur, Galahad, and Percival were standing in the middle of the spacious room, shouting at each other—a circle of wary onlookers curving around them. Treacherous Alworn was nowhere to
be found.

  Percival pushed Galahad with an angry oath, who pushed the younger man in return, sending him stumbling back into a hapless lord standing nearby.

  “I claim her,” Arthur shouted, and the sound of steel echoed in the room as he drew Excalibur. “I am king and you will, therefore, desist all claims!”

  The circle of onlookers stepped back. Gasps and worried whispers fell over the gathering like rain.

  “Arthur!” Lancelot pushed through the crowd, Fionna close on his heel.

  Arthur, Percival, and Galahad spun toward him, each of their blank faces homing in on Fionna like hungry predators catching the scent of prey.

  Lancelot skidded to a stop, throwing up an arm to stop Fionna from approaching any closer.

  At the sight of the clashing stags, Fionna blanched, burying her fist in the tunic at Lancelot’s waist. She took a step behind him, shielding herself with his body. “It’s worse than when I left,” she said and, for the first time, Lancelot thought he heard a waver of fear in her voice.

  “Fionna,” Arthur strode toward them first, Excalibur swinging wildly in his hand, his green eyes glowing with need. A path parted between them as feast-goers scrambled away from his careening weapon.

  Lancelot and Fionna backed up slowly toward the door, her other hand grasping his wrist, even as he held his arm out over her protectively.

  “Feast is over,” Lancelot bellowed to the other guests. “Time to retire to your chambers. The show is over.”

  “Where are you going?” Galahad rumbled angrily. Galahad and Percival were following like fish on a line, towed by an invisible current. Linked inextricably to Fionna.

  “Fionna,” Arthur begged. “Please—”

  “Put away Excalibur, Yer Majesty,” Fionna commanded, still backing away slowly into the hallway. “And come with me. Ye . . . ye shall have what ye w-wish.” She stumbled over the words, the strain evident in her voice. “All of ye.”

  That well and truly hooked them. The three men followed like eager puppies, and Fionna turned to Lancelot, her eyes shining with angry tears. “It’s awful,” she said. “Their free will is gone. How could someone do this to another human being?”

  Lancelot squeezed her hand once before forcing himself to let her go. Her righteous anger for his sword-brothers touched something deeper within him than even her haunting beauty. He struggled to ignore it. “Faeries aren’t human beings,” he said. “We’re pets to them. Playthings. You can’t trust them.”

  She stared at him in horror—one beat of his thundering heart, then two—before they ducked out the door and into the cool of the night. The moon was full and low that night, illuminating the rocky path as they picked their way toward Merlin’s cave.

  Lancelot shivered, the skin on the back of his neck crawling with the feel of someone watching him. He took a steadying breath. The night’s events were simply unsettling him. They weren’t actually being watched.

  “Where are we going?” Percival asked behind them. His voice was dreamy—false.

  “Somewhere to be alone,” Fionna said, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, her hair shining like a halo around her.

  They ducked into the darkness of Merlin’s cave, their party silent but for the rushing of the River Usk over the mossy rocks below. The sharp tang of herbs and the cave’s musty smell washed over him and, for once, Lancelot found the scents comforting.

  “Merlin!” he called out, his deep voice echoing on the damp stones. A torch on their right sprang to life, and they all jumped back.

  “I thought we were going to be alone,” Arthur said suspiciously.

  Fionna shushed him, then whispered, “Soon, My King.”

  From the flickering shadows, Merlin appeared, his gold-ringed eyes glowing in the dark. “All the knights of Caerleon at my door—I sense magic.”

  “Faerie wine,” Lancelot said, disliking the pleading in his tone.

  Merlin clucked his tongue but motioned them forward into the main cavern. “Come, fool lads.”

  Galahad cozied behind Fionna, snaking his arms around her waist and burying his face into her hair. “At last,” he whispered. A hand roamed up her taut stomach toward her breasts; the other seized her chin and tilted her head back toward him.

  Jealousy roiled hot in Lancelot at the sight of Galahad’s hands where he wanted his own to be.

  “A little help?” Fionna yelped, trying to squirm out of Galahad’s iron grip. The knight was lowering his lips to the curve of her neck. “I don’t want to hurt him. But I will—”

  Merlin murmured under his breath and the three enchanted men swayed on their feet as their eyes fluttered shut. Lancelot lunged for Percival, catching the wiry lad before he toppled forward, while Merlin went for Arthur, catching him under the armpits and lowering him to the floor. Galahad, who was thoroughly twined about Fionna, crashed backwards like a felled tree, pulling her down onto him. With a muffled curse, Fionna rolled away and flopped onto the floor as Galahad’s huge arms went limp.

  Reclining on one elbow, she panted for breath. “A little warning next time, druid.”

  Merlin inclined his shorn head and walked to his shelves, pulling items into his arms.

  “Can you fix them?” Lancelot asked.

  “I can,” Merlin said. “The magic in the wine was more whimsical than deadly. Lighthearted faerie fun. I can undo it.”

  “Remind me to never have fun with a faerie.” Fionna pushed herself to her feet and straightened her dress, pulling her long, flowing locks and braids over her shoulder.

  “It’s lucky you two didn’t drink the faerie wine.” Merlin deposited his ingredients onto his carved desk, then looked at both he and Fionna.

  “I wasn’t there,” Lancelot said. “Or I would have stopped the fools from drinking the wine too. But . . .” he turned to Fionna, his brows drawing together. “Why didn’t you drink the wine?”

  Fionna shrugged, an unreadable emotion playing across her face. “I simply didn’t want any,” she said. “Alworn left me far too unsettled.”

  Lancelot nodded slowly, studying her, trying to read the truth behind her silver eyes. And failing. There was something she wasn’t saying. She may have clasped his hand that night, but he would do well to remember: their fifth knight kept her own counsel.

  THE CROW WATCHED from an oak branch as the fae male transformed into a white wolf and loped into the night-shadowed forest. She launched into the air, silently tailing him until he reached a safe distance from prying human eyes.

  The crow flapped her moonlight dusted wings, swooping onto the deer trail the white wolf followed. She cawed as he approached.

  The wolf’s hackles rose, an answering snarl escaping his snout. The night provided ample darkness and whispered prayers and she transformed in a rush of wind and decaying leaves.

  “Alworn,” Morgana said simply, touching the wolf on his head.

  Her ambassador vaporized into his male form, all slender lines and angles. His haughty gaze found hers before, remembering himself, he stumbled into a hasty bow—one knee to the forest floor, his head low.

  “Your Highness,” he intoned. “How may I serve you further this night.”

  “I require your confession.”

  He looked up then, graceful eyebrows drawn together. Under the moon’s watchful eyes, his hair glinted silver and his eyes paled to their unnatural aquamarine shade. “Confession?”

  “Do not play coy with me, Alworn. I observed the whole sordid affair from the rafters.”

  “Then surely you saw how your brother and his knights made fools of themselves with the witch.”

  Morgana laughed. Crows slumbering in the branches above awakened and joined their caws of laughter with hers.

  A sliver of fear tightened the muscles of Alworn’s beautiful face.

  She stepped close and traced along his bottom lip, drawing blood with her sharp fingernail.

  “Surely you witnessed how our May wine failed to enchant the witch. Why is this, dear Alworn?�
�

  “I am as baffled as you.”

  Morgana bared her teeth as blood dripped from Alworn’s mouth, then leaned toward his ear. “Convince me not to peck your eyes out,” she whispered, her voice sultry and inviting.

  “Must be her . . . m-magic protecting her. B-but the necklace,” he stammered. His body shuddered under her touch and she smiled, satisfied. “She w-wears the n-necklace you enchanted, Your Highness.”

  “Yes,” Morgana hissed, drawing out the sound until the word slithered from her tongue into his ear. “The necklace.” Releasing him, she stepped back. “It is enough, for now. I will spare your eyes this time. Do not fail me again or you will wander blind until a pack of wolves scents your weakness and shreds you to ribbons.”

  “You are m-merciful, Your Highness.” His eyes fixed onto the dirt beneath his feet.

  “Go, Alworn.” Morgana touched his forehead and he vaporized into his white wolf form once more. “Be swift. Return to Tintagel and keep my sisters company.”

  The white wolf tucked his tail and loped into the distance, disappearing between the inky silhouettes of tall, swaying trees.

  A dark breeze ruffled Morgana’s hair and she lifted her face to the sister moon. “Guide my journey . . .”

  The rest of her whispered prayer was lost to the night as the crow appeared once more. She joined the twinkling stars and low-hanging clouds high above Caerleon, her mind filled with thoughts of freedom, and magic, and revenge.

  I PRESSED MY forehead to the slick glass of the latticed windowpanes and tried, in vain, to cool my feverish skin. An hour had passed since Merlin’s magic banished the strange enchantment gripping Arthur, Galahad, and Percival, since the five of us walked in silence back up the path to the wooden keep.