Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  Percival frowned. He knew Arthur spoke not of books, but of his mother. Married to another man, until Uther Pendragon cast his eyes on her, and coveted her for himself, using fae charm to disguise him as the Duke of Tintagel. He supposed Arthur had ghosts enough of his own to haunt his past.

  “You can have them, if you so desire,” Arthur continued. “The books. I didn’t know they were here. But they’re yours by right.”

  Percival shrugged. “They can stay in the library with their bookish brethren. The Grail quest is more than enough legacy for me.”

  “Do you know where Lord Bronn lives?” Arthur asked hopefully.

  “It’s been a long time. But I think he lived in Chester, North of Wales in the Kingdom of Mercia. I think . . . I think we visited him once.” Percival closed his eyes, trying to focus. “I have a memory of his manor. There was a statue shaped like a gryphon, and a huge oak tree that I played in. A brook I fell into. An old Roman fort is nearby. Aye, I believe I could find my way back there.”

  “That’s not far. Perhaps a three days’ ride, if we stick to the Roman roads.”

  Percival raised an eyebrow. “Do I sense an outing in our future?”

  “After the messiness of last night, a journey will do us all good. Plus, there’s been raiding near Ewloe, not far from Chester.”

  “What, the Kingdom of Gwynedd dinnae fight raiders now? I always did think the Northern Lords were all bark and no bite, a bunch of self-important arseholes. King of the Britons, ha! Does their king still claim this ridiculous notion despite the Lady of the Lake’s pronouncement that ye are the rightful Pendragon?”

  Arthur played with a worn corner of the leather-bound book in his lap. “There was a call for aid to all the Kingdoms of Wales, be they king or peasant. The raiders have left a trail of wreckages down the River Dee. Perhaps we can speak with the townsfolk of Ewloe to ask if they know of Lord Bronn as well as see if we can take care of whoever has been terrorizing them. We can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Count me in. Let us Southern lads show those pompous Northern Lords who the real Head Dragon of Wales is.” Percival threw his covers off, springing to his feet. The thought of a trip out of the keep—a real chance to find the Grail—had invigorated him, banishing his headache.

  Arthur groaned, shielding his eyes with a hand as he stood. “Give a man a little warning next time.”

  Percival looked down at his naked form. “I could say the same for ye. Ye’re the one who barged into my chamber unannounced.”

  “I’ll consider myself reprimanded.” Arthur strode toward the hallway.

  “Arthur,” Percival said, and this king paused at the door. “When do we leave?”

  “No time like the present. I’ll tell the servants and have Lancelot ready the soldiers to stand guard. This morning.”

  “Excellent,” Percival said, hands on his hips.

  “And Percival?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Wear pants.”

  BACK IN MY armor, I felt more like myself than I had in days. My knives were strapped into their vambraces on my forearms, my sword on my hip. Now if only I had armor to surround my heart. And this damn faerie necklace off. The thing was clasped tight, refusing to yield. I had even tried to cut the chain free with one of my knives, to no success. I supposed the necklace was staying, for the time being.

  Zephyr plucked an apple from my hand. This was our tradition before I cinched her saddle tight and loaded her up with my bedroll and saddle bags. She pawed the hay in her stall until I offered her another freshly plucked apple from the neighboring orchard. She could smell her favorite treat in the pouch hanging from my sword belt and I smiled.

  Only an hour earlier, Percival had shown up at my door, bright eyed and bouncing, announcing how we were leaving on a mission. I had nodded cheerfully, hiding my discomfort the best I could. But when I had closed the door, I sagged against the rough wood with a shaky breath. I wasn’t sure what I feared most. To be alone with all four knights? To find an opportunity to steal Excalibur? Or afraid that the others would see how something had happened between me and Galahad? My skin flushed as I thought of last night.

  Zephyr curved her head back toward me, lipping my hair with her soft mouth. I leaned my forehead into her velvet neck, breathing in her comforting scent of hay and leather. My pulse became a wild, unfettered creature as the scent of leather reminded me of another. To distract myself, I braided a piece of Zephyr’s mane, an occupation to banish the tempest of sensations flooding over me of where Galahad’s fingers had marked me like woad. I didn’t think I would ever be the same.

  I had told myself I was going into Galahad’s room last night only to keep him from suspecting the real reason behind my presence in their hallway. But that wasn’t true. I entered his private chamber because I had wanted to, because I had desperately longed to forget myself for a while, yearned to feel the earth beneath me and the heavens before me when man moved both while loving a woman. And goddess, I received more than what I had bargained for, and then some.

  Galahad’s touch—his expert tongue—had me burning and quivering in an explosion that swept me away, obliterating my universe into nothing but a sweet ache and pleasant haze. And beyond his devilish smile, his playful banter, had been an earnestness and care that shook me more than my climax had. Galahad cared for me. Truly. And when I took Excalibur and ran, it would ruin him. My deceit would ruin them all. I feared O’Lynn’s task would ruin me.

  “You’re looking well this morning, Fionna,” a man’s voice purred from beyond the stall. I turned and hid my surprise when my eyes locked onto the source.

  Lancelot.

  “Ye as well,” I said, forcing a smile on my face. It was true, the man did look beyond handsome, with his ebony hair tousled from sleep, his leathers partially unbuckled to reveal the broad plane of his chest. A peek of indigo ink brushed along his upper chest, near his shoulder, in vined swirls and lines. I forced my eyes back to his and said, “Fair morning for a journey.”

  “Indeed. A fine spring day.”

  It seemed that some of Lancelot’s ice had thawed, and I felt I should not let this moment pass, even if we had little more to discuss than the weather. “Thank ye for yer assistance last night. I am in yer debt.”

  Lancelot waved a hand. “Think little of it. If someone was indebted to me each time I saved these animals from a tight spot, I would be staggering under the weight.”

  “Isn’t it a touch early to be stroking your ego, Lancelot?” Galahad chose that moment to swagger up, clapping the other knight on his shoulder.

  Lancelot pursed his lips, but his blue eyes were mirthful. “It’s never too early to stroke anything, that’s what I say.”

  Galahad boomed a laugh. “I would have to agree. What about you, Fionna?”

  I busied myself with tightening my saddlebags, but I could hear the grin in his words. “I’ll leave the stroking to ye men.” I pushed out of the stall and pulled Zephyr’s substantial body between myself and the two men. The heat in Galahad’s expression as I passed by made my body clench with need. Skies, this would be a long few days.

  “Glad to see you’re back to your old self, crabapple,” I heard Galahad say behind me.

  “You and me both, chipmunk,” Lancelot replied.

  I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling.

  THE DAY GREW warm and bright, and Arthur and his knights were in even brighter spirits. Galahad seemed able to talk to me without filling very sentence with sexual innuendo and, after a few miles, I relaxed into Zephyr’s rocking gait, laughing and jesting with the other knights. Even Arthur seemed to have forgotten the mess of the faerie wine, his cheeks flushed with life, his green eyes as rich as the forests surrounding us. I felt comfortable with these men, as comfortable as I was with my fiann, though I had only known these knights for a few days, and I had fought in my fiann for years.

  The realization snuffed out my good mood. My eyes flicked to Excalibur hanging at Arthu
r’s side, the rubies in the pommel winking in the sunlight. The sword suited Arthur—a beautiful blade for a beautiful man. To see such Otherworldly beauty hanging on Donal O’Lynn’s hip would pain me to no end. The man deserved nothing so fine. The man deserved a knife in the gut.

  Arthur slowed Llamrei, his black mare, to match Zephyr, and smiled at me. He didn’t wear his golden oak-leaf crown today. Without it, he looked lighter. Freer. I said as much, and he smiled ruefully. “It pinches.”

  A startled laugh escaped my lips. “Ye’re not what I expected, King Arthur of Caerleon.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I am really not sure.” It was the truth. “For a man who’s supposed to conquer all of Briton, ye seem remarkably content just riding through the countryside.”

  He snorted. “Conquer? No. The only reason I even accept Excalibur’s charge to wear the coveted title Pendragon is to hopefully prevent even more war. Briton has bled enough since the Romans. And I like to think I am a decent enough king. I would do what I could to rule Briton justly.”

  “Ye’re a wonderful king.” My voice grew soft. “All of Briton will be lucky to have ye, once united.”

  “Thank you Fionna. I’m sure life is quite different here than the home of your father and clansman you’ve left behind. I hope you’ve found your time pleasant.”

  “Most pleasant.” I swallowed, trying not to think of Galahad’s honey-blond head between my legs. “In truth, I enjoy not being a princess—with the eyes of everyone constantly upon me.”

  “I doubt they’re looking just because you’re a princess,” Arthur said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.

  I looked at him in mock confusion. “Why King Arthur, whatever could ye mean?”

  He blushed and, for a shy heartbeat, appeared a young man and not a battle-worn king. A small smile flitted across his lips with the amusement on my face. “I promised Percival I would make you wear your helm all the time, so as not to distract us.”

  “And a sackcloth shift!” Percival called out from behind us. The young man was eavesdropping. I swiveled in my saddle to stick my tongue out at him, and he grinned, giving a little bow in his saddle while Galahad laughed beside him.

  “Very well,” I said. “Though my helm pinches, I’ll wear it, so long as ye all wear yers too.”

  “Why Fionna . . .” Lancelot and his mount took the spot on my left, flanking me and Arthur. “Does this mean you find us distracting too?”

  A smile twitched on my lips. “I think there’s a reason why Arthur’s feasts are attended by two women to every one man.”

  “Hmm,” Lancelot seemed to ponder. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “That’s because when ye bed one, she becomes invisible to ye!” Percival called.

  “Percival.” Lancelot turned back toward the other man. “I’m in need of a sparring session tonight. I think you are too.”

  Percival groaned so loud a flock of birds alighted from a nearby copse of trees. “There’s no healer for miles!”

  “I’ll spar with ye, Lancelot,” I offered. The man’s skill with a blade impressed me, and I wanted to try myself against him.

  The playfulness slipped from Lancelot’s face, leaving an emotion I couldn’t quite read.

  “Unless ye’re scared.”

  Lancelot inclined his head, accepting my challenge. “Saved by a woman, Percival,” he called back to the other knight.

  “Saved by a knight,” Percival replied. “And a gallant one at that. Fionna can carry me off into the sunset any time.”

  WE MADE CAMP in a meadow nestled between a grove of beech trees and a winding stream. The evening was warm, and I laid my bedroll down beside a scattering of wildflowers. The knights made quick work collecting firewood, watering the horses, and arranging bedrolls. Arthur did his chores as cheerfully as any of the knights, reminding me yet again he was no ordinary king. No ordinary man.

  After a meal of cured sausage, rye bread, and goat’s cheese, Lancelot stood, stretched, and gestured to me. We tramped through the wildflowers together, our swords in hand, and squared off against each other while the setting sun gilded our landscape.

  And then, as easily as if he were tying his boots, he came at me.

  Lancelot’s movements were as smooth as water over the stones of a river—each one flowing into the next. His footing was firm, his stance unshakable. He kept twisting his attacks, working his way around me until the sun glared in my eyes.

  “Quit it,” I panted, feinting at him and finding only air.

  He chuckled. “A smart warrior uses the terrain around them.” He attacked, his flashing sword coming at me with one, two, three blows in quick succession.

  I bared my teeth, my frustration growing. He was winning. My sword arm felt like a ton of bricks, and sweat poured down my forehead, stinging my eyes. But I was too proud to yield, to admit defeat. I caught sight of a discarded tree branch on the ground and stifled a smile. I danced around him and redoubled my attack, driving him back toward the branch. Closer—closer—our blades met and locked, and we grappled against each other, the veins in his arms straining. I pushed with all my might, and his feet tangled in the branch. My eyes narrowed with victory, only to widen in surprise as he hooked his hand in my sword belt, pulling me down after him.

  We hit the ground in a tumble, the meadow’s tall grass a screen of golden-green around us. My heart hammered in my chest as his weight settled half atop me; as I realized, this close, his blue eyes were flecked with silver, that he smelled of mint and fresh soap.

  Lancelot was looking at me, examining my face, my eyes, my mouth. He brushed a long, white-blonde tendril off my neck, his fingers grazing the soft skin there. For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.

  But then he pushed himself up, offering me his hand once he stood. “Good fight.”

  I took his hand, pulling myself to my feet and trying, terribly, to ignore the feel of his calluses against my palm. “Someone once told me that a smart warrior uses the terrain around them.”

  He snorted, before turning back toward the camp.

  I headed to the stream, needing a moment to compose myself, to pull the pieces of myself back together. I splashed cold water on my face, my neck, my chest. I walked back to camp on wobbly legs, knowing that it wasn’t the night’s exertion that was shaking me. It was this place. This land of caramel sun and sweeping verdant meadows. It was these men. Charming and arresting and playful and kind.

  I walked past where the others chatted around the fire, to my bedroll. Tears were prickling my eyes. As I reached my bedroll, I stopped in my tracks. There where my head would lay down to rest, sat a bouquet of bluebells and violets. I didn’t know which of the men had left them for me. It didn’t matter. I fell to my knees, lifting them up in my shaking fingers. The dam burst within me, and I shattered.

  THE MELODIOUS CHIRPS of robins and goldfinches pulled Lancelot from the cold, rocky ground beneath his bedroll. Upon opening his eyes, his gaze flitted across the campfire’s ring of stones and onto Fionna’s angelic sleeping form. The white tendrils and corded braids of her hair seemed to glow in the dim light of dawn, her skin smooth and milky as marble. One hand clutched a dagger, tucked neatly under her bedroll, beneath her cheek. The image was so very Fionna. How could a single sight fill him with so much joy and equal parts despair? He heaved a sigh and pushed up, running a hand through his bed-mussed hair.

  “Not you too, brother.”

  Lancelot shifted to look at Arthur. The man pulled his scarlet cloak tighter around his shoulders, then clasped hands around his drawn-up knees. Arthur was studying her too, his eyes drinking her in.

  “I wish I could say otherwise,” Lancelot admitted.

  “Tell me we’re not lost,” Arthur said, his voice quiet and tender.

  “You’re not.” A stone dropped in Lancelot’s gut. Still, he quirked an eyebrow playfully. “The king usually gets the girl.”

  “Even if that’s true, how could I enjoy my life know
ing my pursuit deprived my dearest friends of their happiness?”

  “I do not know. But these sentiments are why you will remain our dearest friend. No matter what happens.”

  Arthur squinted up at the lavender and gold brushed sky, a wistful smile crossing his face.

  Feeling restless, Lancelot rose to his feet and dusted off his breeches. “Now, let’s talk of more pleasant things. Faerie curses and vengeful half-sisters and ex-betrotheds.”

  Arthur laughed. “As you wish.”

  THE ROMAN ROAD to Chester was a well-worn route through fertile green farmland and peaceful woods. As their band rode by, deer scattered in their path and herds of sheep watched with placid black eyes. Lancelot reveled in the sun’s warm caress on his skin while the cool spring air kissed his cheeks.

  He almost felt like himself again.

  Here, he could almost forget.

  They passed through the shade of beech and maple trees. The filtered light dappled shadows across the mossy, leaf-littered forest floor and craggy stones. This was a place where the fae might govern, but the passing greenery felt friendly, almost welcoming. Lancelot flitted a veiled glance Fionna’s way. Not for the first time, he wondered about her. There was something “otherly” about her that reminded him too often of Vivien, his foster mother. Fionna said she didn’t possess any sídhe blood, yet she rode through the trees like a faerie queen. Perhaps he only noticed her noble heritage and bearing and nothing more.

  The sunlight brightened as the trees thinned. His horse danced for a moment, most likely from the shadows elongating up ahead in the clearing. He shushed his stallion gently and nudged him along. His stallion’s ears flattened and his muscles from head to tail quivered, but he obeyed Lancelot. They were just passing out of the forest and into a meadow when Lancelot noticed that Arthur had fallen behind, his horse now pulled to a stop.