Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  We parted ways by the corridor’s mouth that led to my room, the knights heading to theirs. I had never seen them so morose, or so quiet.

  I didn’t know if the men remembered what they had done while in the faerie wine’s grip, but I did. My body burned with the memories. Arthur’s velvet tongue in my mouth; Percival’s hand gripped tightly in my hair; Galahad’s massive arms locked around me. Their remembered words were flint striking in the dark of my mind, kindling a fire within me that burned so hot it frightened me. And then there was Lancelot—ornery as a penned stallion one moment, ready to protect me with his life the next.

  Even I had my limits as a seasoned fighter. I could fight one—maybe two—men. But three strong, skilled warriors? A sick feeling twisted in my stomach once more. I both enjoyed and loathed their advances, for how the feelings forced me to question my morality and sense of honor, while also embracing how each man made me feel desirable. The nausea swirled stronger and I had to admit the real truth— my mind was drifting farther and farther away from my father and sister and the sacrifice I must make for their lives.

  I pushed back from the window, heaving a sigh, before crossing the room to the sideboard. I poured water from a silver pitcher and splashed cool liquid onto my face, desperate to find myself again. My body no longer felt like my own. Nor my heart. Many a song declared the misery and ache of a stolen heart. Is this what I felt? My heart torn between two lands and two callings?

  I blotted my face dry. I didn’t understand this . . . this confusion. I had been with two men before—one, a lad from Aghanravel, another a warrior in a fiann I fought beside. Both had been pleasant enough experiences, though short and somewhat underwhelming. In truth, I had set thoughts of sex aside and dismissed intimacy with another as something that held little interest to me. Fighting and sparring and honing my skills as a warrior—these were the physical activities that inflamed the passion in my blood.

  Until I came here.

  I wondered if I knew myself at all. I thought of Lancelot’s question about the faerie wine. I had hoped neither he nor Merlin would pick up on my sudden discomfort. I should have known I wouldn’t be so lucky to escape their inspection. I didn’t know why I had lied. I drank the faerie wine. So why wasn’t I affected by the enchantment? Did the tainted May wine only affect men? Or could I have some other magical immunity?

  The silver necklace dangling around my neck caught the firelight, and I lifted the pendant, examining the jeweled lily. Could the necklace be a form of protection? My skin crawled at the thought of anything from Alworn touching me. I grew overcome with the need to toss the gift far from me. I reached back to remove the necklace, but the clasp stuck. My fingers fumbled with the delicate mechanism. I grunted, spinning the chain around, trying to work the clasp from the front. The clasp’s lever didn’t budge. I tried to pull the chain off over my head, but the length was too short, too tight. Frustrated, I yanked on the chain and grimaced at the biting pain in my neck.

  I let the necklace fall, huffing. I guessed Tintagel’s gift was staying on. For now.

  Between the excitement of Alworn’s attack, the ache in my loins, and the guilt-tinged pang in my chest, sleep would elude me tonight. I slipped out my door into the dimly lit hallway, candle in hand. Perhaps I could find a book in the grand library to explain my immunity to the faerie wine. That would set my mind at ease.

  My jittery mood settled as soon as I had a task before me. My shoulders sagged slightly in relief. Nothing like boring, dusty books to distract me from the tumbling confusion in my head and the yearning heat deep in my belly.

  Or so I thought. The library was lit from within. Candlelight flickered gentle amber light onto the stone walls.

  “Fionna . . .” Arthur whispered my name from behind a table. Shadows smudged the skin under his eyes.

  I briefly contemplated excusing myself, but it was the look of him that convinced me to move forward. His short hair was tousled, his full lips pinched, his brow twisted with worry.

  “Yer Majesty,” I said, needing the formality to remain. I settled into the chair across from him, grateful for the expanse of wood and books that stretched between us like a barricade.

  “Please Fionna, Arthur is fine,” he said, his voice soft and shy. “Percival calls me ‘pumpkin’ behind my back. You may at least call me by my first name.”

  A smile tugged on the corner of my mouth. “Pumpkin?”

  He closed his book and, in a single blink, met my gaze. “I don’t understand his reasons. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he crowns you with a mildly insulting moniker as well.”

  “Percival’s terms of endearment?”

  “Precisely.” Arthur smiled weakly over one of his books, his eyes glossing red in the candlelight. “About tonight . . .” He rose from behind the table and knelt at my feet, bowing his head. I bit back a gasp, unable to process a king lowering himself before me as Arthur did so now, his shoulders slumped, dejection posturing the angle of his head. “I cannot express how utterly sorry I am for what happened, for my behavior. All of our behavior.”

  “Do ye . . . remember?” My cheeks flamed and I swallowed at the forming knot in my throat.

  Arthur lifted his head and searched my eyes, almost pleading. “I wish I did not, but I do. Every wretched moment.”

  His confession stung. Wretched? He wished to forget our kiss? Or the different sort of magic that enveloped us as our lips touched and breath mixed? But even as the thought surfaced, I scolded myself. Of course he desired to forget. He had embarrassed himself in front of his entire court. Anyone would want to forget such a moment.

  “I did not behave as a king should, nor a man of honor,” Arthur continued, his voice shaking. “I deeply regret how you were subjected to my shameful actions. I shall never forgive myself nor will I ever forget.”

  I softened. “Ye were not yerself, Arthur.”

  “Matters not, for tonight still happened. Do not excuse how we—how I—treated you, and publicly no less. You’re not an object to appease our carnal urges and deserve my utmost respect before my court.” He rubbed his face, as if he could banish the memories. “My father . . .” Arthur trailed off, leaning his head back to gaze at the ceiling. I watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed and his eyes blinked back growing emotion.

  “My father and my mother,” he began, almost a whisper. “Their union was not . . . consensual. He used magic to disguise himself as Gorlois—the Duke of Tintagel, a fae male from the Túatha dé Danann who gave up immortality for my mother, and my half-sisters’ father—and then Uther bedded my mother. That same night I was conceived, my father placed Gorlois at the front lines in a battle against several Saxon clans and . . . and he died—violently. His body was returned the next morning to Tintagel, mutilated. I . . . I was eighteen when my father died after he drank from a spring the Saxons had poisoned in his war camp. The Lady of the Lake dissolved any gossip of my rightful claim to Caerleon’s throne through Excalibur.” Arthur’s green eyes brimmed with anguish as he met my gaze. “I am born of rape and deceit, and I watched my mother live under Uther’s obsessive claim over her for eighteen years, helpless. I swore that I would never condone that form of cruel behavior in my kingdom. To allow a woman to suffer such indignities where I had the power to stop it.” His green eyes searched everywhere, landing anywhere but my face. “And then to find . . . it was I . . . who perpetrated them.” His voice lowered to a near growl as he said, “Perhaps I’m more like him than I thought.”

  Grief flooded through me like a swollen river. How was it possible for a man in this dark world—a king no less—to have such a tender heart? In that moment, I would have done anything to soothe the guilt chafing at Arthur. Even, it seemed, tell the truth. “Our kiss was consensual,” I managed, swallowing.

  Arthur’s eyes met mine as the words hung between us. “You forcefully had to tell me no and shoved me away.”

  “A surprise, certainly. The wrong venue, absolutely. But . . .” I cl
osed my eyes, struggling against my embarrassment. What was I doing? Admitting to the king of Briton that I had wanted to kiss him! Was I a fool? I opened my eyes again, meeting his firmly. “Yes, I had told ye no, and I do not make excuses for ye. Simply, I knew ye were under a spell ye could not control. If I continued our kiss, is that not the same as taking advantage of ye?”

  His chest rose and fell, though a hint of light chased away the shadows on his beautiful face.

  “And, if I had truly felt unsafe,” I continued, encouraged, “I would have knocked ye on yer arse, king or no.”

  A sad smile touched his lips, flushed from his sorrow. “I imagine that’s experience talking?” he asked, softly.

  “Men have a funny way of feeling entitled to something from a woman, especially when their blood is up. I’ve had to remind a few over the years that my body belongs to no one but me. And yer body belonged to ye, not the faerie wine.”

  He bowed his head toward me, the lines on his face relaxing. He whispered, “Thank you, Fionna.”

  “Ye’re welcome, Arthur,” I whispered in return, my heart squeezing in my chest.

  He slowly rose to his feet and locked eyes with me before returning to his seat, saying, “Quick thinking, finding Lancelot. You’re an asset to this kingdom. We’re lucky to have you.”

  His praise warmed me like a hearth in winter. Who was the eager puppy now? I wanted this king’s gratitude, his esteem. His view of me shouldn’t matter, but skies, I found that I craved his good opinion. What would it do to him when I took the sword? The one granting him sovereignty over his land? Or when I fled from here? What would it do to me? How had I sank so deep so fast? The longer I stayed here, the greater my blood price would become. I needed to focus. I needed to remember my father and my sister, held prisoner by Donal O’Lynn. In danger.

  It was in that moment that I saw what my muddled emotions had hid from me. My vision narrowed to a point. Arthur’s hand rested on his thigh, where his fingers normally curled around the pommel of Excalibur. A pommel that was conspicuously absent.

  I hissed in a breath, trying to keep the excitement from my face. He didn’t have Excalibur with him. Now was my chance.

  Then pain lanced through me. Blood drained from my face as I accepted my fate. I would deal with my treacherous heart later. First, I had to save my father and sister from certain death.

  “Are you well?” Arthur asked. “You seem as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I scrambled for an excuse, standing. “My mind refused to tire after all of today’s excitement, but exhaustion has finally found me. With yer leave, I will retire to bed.”

  “Of course,” Arthur said, rising to his feet and bowing. “I should probably head to bed as well.”

  “No!” I nearly shouted, before realizing how unhinged I sounded. “I disrupted yer study. Please, stay and finish whatever ye were working on. Perhaps tonight will be the night ye will have yer breakthrough and find yer Grail.”

  “Your lips to the gods’ ears,” Arthur said, lowering himself back into his chair.

  I relaxed—slightly.

  “Good night Arthur,” I whispered, my eyes tracing the planes of his handsome boyish face, memorizing every inch.

  For what I really meant was goodbye.

  MY FOOTSTEPS THUNDERED in my ears as I hurried toward the East Wing. My heart galloped in my chest like a wild stallion. Was I really doing this? I was really stealing Excalibur.

  The fortress slumbered at this hour, and no one blocked my passage. Not that they would have any reason to, I reminded myself. I was a knight, after all. I could go anywhere I pleased. I straightened my shoulders and slowed my steps. I needn’t skulk about like a common thief. Though you are a thief, my conscience whispered at me. Curse you, Donal O’Lynn for putting me in this impossible situation!

  Perhaps I could leave a note. I dismissed that idea as soon as the thought surfaced. A note would be a clue to help them find me more quickly. Best that they not know why I’ve left or where I journey. A messenger then. When the deed was all said and done, I would send a messenger to explain everything, especially where to find O’Lynn. A grim smile crossed my face. That would be a worthy vengeance. As soon as I had my family free, my fiann would join with Arthur and his warriors in slaying O’Lynn and reclaiming Excalibur. Relief swelled in me. The very thought was enough to quiet the guilt gnawing at my gut.

  The corridor leading to the knights’ rooms was dark. It seemed a lifetime ago when I had pounded on Lancelot’s door, demanding his aid. This night had felt like five nights, these last few days—a lifetime. I passed Galahad’s door next and an ache of desire coiled deep within me. In other circumstances, I would have accepted Galahad’s invitation gladly. And then I passed Percival’s door, and whispered an apology. An image in my mind of his unflappable smile falling when he heard of my betrayal was almost too much to bear. I looked away, toward the staircase at the end of the hallway. Arthur’s chamber tower. I could do this.

  “For ye, Aideen. Papa. For ye, I’ll do anything,” I whispered to the shadows as I crept up the stairs.

  Arthur’s door was unlocked and I slipped inside silently. I let my eyes adjust to the dim space first, taking in my surroundings. His chambers were slightly larger than mine, but not by much. Nor were they gaudy and ostentatious as some kings favored. Rather, his personal space was neat and orderly, with simple, carved-oak furniture, and tidy stacks of books. A sad smile crossed my face at how very Arthur it all was. And then I went to work.

  Knowing my time was short, I turned every inch of his chamber upside down as quickly and as delicately as I could. The four-post bed, the oak-hewn chest, the heavy desk, the bookshelves. Excalibur was large with an Otherworldly shine, incapable of hiding. Yet, the faerie sword was nowhere to be found. I rose to my feet after riffling under the bed for the second time. No, definitely not there. I brushed off my gown and huffed.

  Slowly, I spun around again, taking in every nook and cranny. The coveted sword wasn’t here. Excalibur wasn’t with Arthur, but it also wasn’t here.

  My mind raced as I slipped down the stairs and back into the corridor. Chewing on my lip, my feet dragged as I twisted and untwisted possibilities. Perhaps Arthur had left the sword in Merlin’s cave? I paused and closed my eyes, trying to replay the scene in my mind. Had Arthur removed Excalibur when Merlin administered the antidote to the faerie wine? If the sword was indeed with Merlin, I had no chance of stealing the blade tonight. But . . . if he had left Excalibur somewhere else—

  “Fionna?”

  A baritone voice startled me. My hand flew to my chest as I jumped as though a startled deer.

  “Galahad . . .”

  I pressed my body to the far wall as I willed myself to calm. I had been so lost in thought, I hadn’t realized that I had stopped right in front of his doorway. Which he was now filling. Shirtless. His long blond hair tousled around his shoulders.

  I swallowed as I took in his form, limned in torchlight—the flat planes of his pectorals, the rippling expanse of his abdomen. Behind me, I placed my palms flat against the cool stone wall. Without anchoring myself to something real, I feared I might float away. Had a man ever looked so devastating in firelight?

  “What are you doing in the East Wing?” he leaned one muscled arm on the doorjamb.

  I practically groaned at the way the movement displayed his muscles before me, my skin coming alive in his presence. “Couldn’t sleep,” I managed. “Simply enjoying a midnight walk.”

  “And your walk brought you to my door?”

  His low chuckle rumbled through me, hardening my nipples against the fabric of my dress. I licked my dry lips.

  Galahad shifted in the doorway, and I pressed myself harder to the far wall. With this space between us, I could retain some coherence of thought. If he came over here . . . I might grow weak, to my shame as a tested warrior.

  Goddess, he moved toward me—was before me in a flash, his calloused hands taking one of mine. He loomed in
my vision, a golden sight that I wanted to drink in until I drowned. Without a sword in my hand, without my armor on, I felt small compared to him. Distinctly female.

  “Please forgive me for my ungallant behavior tonight,” Galahad said. His dark blue eyes were earnest, sorrowful. “I would never think to impose myself on a woman who was not interested. My mother and sisters would have my hide, if they knew.” A sad smile flitted across his lips. “If I offended you, I apologize profusely.”

  “I wasn’t offended,” I managed to say. My voice sounded hoarse to my ears. “I understood there were . . . extenuating circumstances.”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. “You are most gracious for understanding.” The light in his eyes shifted, sending a trill of excitement up my spine. “Though, I would be false if I said I had not thought of my invitation before.” His thumb drew lazy circles on the back of my hand. “Though I am naught but villager’s son compared to other company you could keep, know that you are welcome in my chambers any time it pleases you.” He winked at me before leaning forward and placing a soft kiss on my cheek, bracing one hand against the wall by my head. His lips were like a brand upon my skin, marking me his with one simple gesture. He lingered there, his lips hovering by my ear, the heat of his bare skin and his breath warming me like a Beltane fire. Allowing the choice to be mine.

  I didn’t want the choice to be mine. I wanted his passion to overcome my senses, my better judgment, so I could tell myself in the morning that I had been swept up in the madness of his offer. But that would be a lie. My emotions warred within me—wanting this man yet knowing my betrayal would hurt him even deeper should we become tangled up in each other’s lives this way.

  Galahad pulled back, sensing my hesitation, a sweet smile dimpling his cheek. Did he fear I judged him for his birth status? My heart spasmed painfully with the increased space between us, seizing my will. I had been teetering on the edge of a knife’s blade, and I threw myself off it.