Lancelot was on his feet in an instant. “You sure?”
“It’s a big bloody sword, I’m pretty damn sure,” Arthur snapped. “None of you have seen her?”
The knights shook their heads.
“Could there be more Irishmen about?” Percival asked. “Could they have taken her? And the sword?”
Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know how they could have moved past without me waking. I suppose stealing her out from underneath me is possible.” As horrible as that would be—an injured Fionna being captured by a hostile clan—the thought was far preferable to the other one that seized him.
Of course, it was Lancelot who voiced his real concern. “Or she took your sword.”
“Fionna wouldn’t have stolen Excalibur,” Galahad protested, pushing up from the table. “She swore an oath to serve Arthur. She’s loyal.”
“Stop thinking with your cocks for one minute,” Lancelot said. “We’ve known her for less than a week. She showed up out of nowhere and disguised who she was to win the tourney. She seduced Galahad—”
“I seduced her, man,” Galahad rumbled. “Get your facts straight.”
“I thought you said she showed up at your room?” Lancelot pointed out.
“Well, she was . . . in the hallway. She didn’t exactly knock on the door.”
“You know who else’s room is down in that hallway?” Lancelot lifted one dark brow. “Arthur’s. Perhaps she went to seduce him, and you got in the way.”
Lancelot looked from Arthur to Galahad, his blue eyes sharp as daggers. It took all of Arthur’s self-control not to look away from his knight’s accusatory gaze. If what Lancelot was suggesting was true . . . Arthur’s mouth went dry. Last night’s stolen kisses and heated caresses jumped into stark relief, exposed under the piercing light of Lancelot’s suggestion. Had Fionna only kissed him last night to lull him into a false sense of security, so she could take his sword? His mind rebelled at the notion. The thought was too terrible.
“What night was it that you and Fionna . . .” Arthur trailed off.
“The night of the faerie wine,” Galahad said.
Arthur wracked his brain again, recalling. “I wasn’t in my room that night. I was at the library.”
Galahad crossed arms over his chest, and Lancelot frowned, dragging angry fingers through his hair.
“Disna matter,” Percival cut in. The young man had been staring forlornly at his plate, and now stood. “She’s our fifth knight. Excalibur chose her. And she’s the key to finding the Grail. I feel this as surely as I breathe. Perhaps she was taken, or perhaps she took the sword herself. If she did, I’m sure she has a good reason.”
Lancelot sighed. “The world doesn’t work that way, lad.”
Percival jutted his chin out stubbornly. “Just because ye betrayed Morgana disna mean Fionna will betray us.” The other knights flinched at that, but Percival pushed on. “Wherever she is, Excalibur is with her. We need to find them both. Every minute we waste here is another minute between us.”
“Percival speaks sense,” Arthur relented. At this moment, it didn’t really matter who had taken his sword. They just needed to get Excalibur back. “Be ready to ride in five minutes.”
The knights flew from the room, gathering belongings, and then dashed toward the stable to saddle their mounts.
Arthur was glad that his body knew by heart the familiar motions of saddling and bridling Llamrei. For his mind was useless to him, trapped in a spinning loop of fear and sorrow and self-loathing. Excalibur was his most precious possession, the gift that marked him as sovereign over Caerleon, the Kingdom of Gwent’s overking, and the High King of all Briton. First, Morgause had cursed his blade, and now, he’d lost it, all in a span of a month. Were the gods testing him?
Perhaps he didn’t deserve to rule Briton, if the promise of one night with a beautiful woman was all it took for him to abandon his charge to rule this land. Fionna. Bewitching and fierce . . . and duplicitous? He didn’t want to believe this version of Fionna possible, but Lancelot was right. They knew little about their fifth knight, despite how deep the connection he felt with her. Perhaps she was a spider, carefully spinning a web of illusion and lies—a trap for a king. His face burned with shame at the thought that what he and Fionna had shared may have only been a clever ruse. Is this what his half-sister felt, he mused, when Lancelot had betrayed her? Embarrassed her before the entire kingdom? Arthur felt a newfound surge of kinship.
Llamrei stamped her hoof and Arthur started, realizing he was pulling the girth too tight. “Sorry girl,” Arthur murmured, slipping the buckle into the correct notch in the leather. He led Llamrei into the open and swung onto her back.
Arthur’s shame burned into anger and he let roiling feelings spark into a blaze within him. He welcomed the searing heat, a purifying fire burning away the softness of his emotions. The weakness of his desires. Until only rage remained.
A grim smile split his face. They would track and capture whoever had Excalibur. Perhaps Fionna was guilty, perhaps not. Whoever the thief, when he found them, he would make them pay.
A SMALL PART Lancelot refused to believe that Fionna would betray them. Lancelot saw the dim hope in Arthur’s eyes. The rigid set of his shoulders spoke of Arthur’s desperate prayer that Fionna had been taken somehow—that she wasn’t the treacherous snake she now appeared to be. But, sometimes, the simplest explanation was the right one.
The wind streamed through Lancelot’s hair, his horse’s rocking gait smooth beneath him. They were eating up the ground in their pursuit of her, or whomever had the sword.
“Arthur!” Galahad’s booming shout sounded behind them, almost stolen by the wind and the distance. But their king heard and turned his mount, galloping past Lancelot, to where Galahad had stopped and pointed to a patch of mud on the road. “Tracks. A single horse.”
Galahad and Lancelot exchanged a grim look. One horse meant just Fionna. She hadn’t been taken. She had stolen the sword and run. All on her own. Sometimes Lancelot hated being right.
Arthur straightened in his saddle. “This is a well-traveled road, we don’t know—”
Galahad cut in gently. “Possibly. I think it’s safe to assume the tracks belong to Fionna’s mount.”
Percival was shaking his head, as if he didn’t want to believe it either. A surge of compassion for the lad overcame him. True, perhaps Lancelot was more jaded than most, but there came a point in every man’s life when he realized that life and love wasn’t all courtly romance and fair maidens. Men were moths and women the devouring flame—they kept a man warm at a distance, but if he were foolish enough to get too close, they would burn him up in an instant.
Arthur was nodding woodenly, processing Galahad’s unwelcome words, before saying, “Good. If we only face her, then Excalibur will be easier to recover. We ride.” He kicked his horse’s flanks. Llamrei spun about and then launched back into a gallop.
Lancelot sighed, urging his charger forward to match Arthur’s pace.
It didn’t make sense. Morgana’s curse had said the Gwenevere would tear them apart. Would ruin Caerleon. And Fionna was certainly doing that, by taking Arthur’s sovereign blade. But . . . Lancelot hadn’t slept with her. He had exercised superhuman restraint against the most fascinating woman he had ever met. So . . . why was the curse coming true? Could Morgana have lied to him somehow about the nature of this curse? He didn’t think that was possible. Fae couldn’t lie. But they could omit details. He wished he had his foster mother to talk to about this situation. Vivien would know a thing or two about curses.
Should he tell Arthur? He looked at his king’s back a few paces before him. No. Lancelot didn’t think he had ever seen Arthur so unmoored. Now wouldn’t be a good time to tell him. Besides, he didn’t even know if his curse had anything to do with the current situation. He had stayed away from Fionna. He had done his part, regardless of how hard his heart and loins pulled him toward her with a ceaseless tug.
/> They continued to ride, past the raided village of Ewloe down the River Dee. Countryside blurred in greens and smoke. The stench of death carried on the wind and followed their trail.
Perhaps only a half hour later, they approached a crossroads and Arthur held up a hand as he reigned his horse in. Both he and Arthur slowed to a stop. Galahad and Percival were close behind and quickly came clattering to a stop as well. Their horses huffed and heaved for breath while anxiously pawing the ground. Each poor mount was caked in dust and sweat.
“I think I should have done without breakfast,” Percival muttered, twisting in the saddle to relieve a crick in his side.
“That way leads to another port on the River Dee a touch southeast of where we stand,” Arthur said. “The village there would be the fastest way for her to sail north to the Irish Sea since Ewloe’s destruction.”
“There’s smoke on the horizon that way,” Galahad pointed out. “It’s the nearest port outside of Brunanburh. The raiders would be fools to land in a Danish sea town, though. If the Uí Tuírtri visited this shore, the village southeast of here would have been ravaged before Ewloe. There might not be any boats there either.”
“Or anyone to man them,” Arthur agreed. “North we go, then. To Brunanburh. The river port is less than two hour’s ride that way.”
“If she made straight for Brunanburh, she could already be on a boat,” Lancelot offered apologetically. “She likely has at least a few hours on us.”
Arthur’s face blackened.
“If she tried for the River Dee, she would have lost a few hours,” Galahad pointed out.
“She isnae on a boat,” Percival said. He was staring into the distance, a strange expression on his face. “She’s coming up that road.” He pointed to the left, from the direction of the river village. Lancelot stilled, the hairs on the back of his arms raising. He’d been around magic long enough to know the tell-tale mental tug and intuitive heightened awareness, and magic was definitely dancing in the air.
“How do you know?” Arthur asked. “Makes little sense that we would catch up with her so soon.”
Percival shook his head, his copper hair flashing in the sun. “I just know.”
“So, we take her.” Arthur’s fists tightened on his reins. “And whoever she’s with.”
“Arthur, are you mad?” Galahad protested. “Do you want to get killed? If we get into an all-out chase with her then someone will break their neck. Or end up on the point of a sword. And I don’t know if you remember, but Fionna isn’t bad with a sword. It might be one of us.”
“What do you propose, then?”
The words were tight, clipped. The strain of this was breaking Arthur. Lancelot could visibly see his struggle. Gods, his king really loved Fionna. How could she have spit in his face like this? Especially after the tear of village raids and the loss of Lord Bronn? After their small band had made her one of them? Welcomed her into Caerleon with open arms?
“We lay a trap,” Galahad suggested, pulling Lancelot from his ranting thoughts. “Perhaps Percival was right. Maybe she had a good reason for taking the sword. If she did, I for one would like to hear her tale before we come to blows. Let us not strike first and ask questions later.”
“What kind of a trap?” Arthur asked.
“I will wait here for her. You three sneak around and hide—someone beside the road where we came, the others on the River Dee side. She’ll slow when she sees me blocking the path. I’ll find out what I can. If she tries to run, she’ll be surrounded. We capture her, hopefully without killing her,” Galahad looked meaningfully at Lancelot, “and get back the sword.”
Lancelot grunted. It’s not like he wanted to kill the woman! He was just apparently the only one of them who hadn’t completely lost his mind for her.
“She comes soon,” Percival added, his voice faint.
“Hurry,” Galahad ordered. “To positions.”
Arthur didn’t seem to mind being commanded in that moment.
“I’ll cut through the woods and circle back around to her,” Lancelot said, trying to be kind by giving his grieving king the easier route. “Arthur, you take the road from Chester. Percival, wherever you would like.”
Arthur nodded and Lancelot wheeled his horse, plunging into the sparse forest bordering the road. He looked behind him and didn’t see Percival following. The knight must have decided to go with Arthur. Fine. It would be good for his friend to have moral support, if he had to do the worst.
Lancelot slowed his horse to a walk when he got far enough from the road to be hidden from sight. Then he turned to cut parallel to the path Fionna would emerge from. He wouldn’t have to go far to be able to circle around and pen her in.
Trepidation filled him as the sound of stilted hoofbeats reached his ears. Whatever came next, it wouldn’t be pretty.
GALAHAD SAT AT the crossroads, his heart in his hands. A small plume of dust rose in the distance as a rider limped up the road from the River Dee. How could the rider be Fionna? How could it not?
It’s strange how much had shifted for him in the past few days. As effortlessly as a thread on a loom, Fionna had fit into the fabric of their lives as if she had always been there. Had there ever been a time when she wasn’t supposed to be their fifth? It felt hazy and distant—her presence in their lives a given. And then this morning, everything shifted again. But now, instead of feeling comfortable and right, things felt strange and chaffing, like putting one’s boots on the wrong feet. Fionna wasn’t their enemy. Galahad didn’t know why she had taken the sword, but he knew this much at least: she wasn’t their enemy.
The white of her hair and the foam-flecked flanks of her limping horse came into view first. Had Zephyr thrown a shoe? Or gone lame? His eyes traveled back to Fionna and his pulse stuttered at the sight of her, each wounded beat of his heart panging with confusion.
Galahad took a steadying breath, clicking his tongue to turn his large charger sideways, to block most of the road. With Zephyr’s injury, he knew she couldn’t gallop away. This was more for show, to gain Fionna’s full attention. He kept his sword in its scabbard, though he rested his hand on the big pommel. He prayed he didn’t have to use his blade. Might as well cut off his own arm, as cut down Fionna. Still, through his trepidation, he marveled at how quickly he had come to love her. And love her he did.
Fionna caught sight of him and hauled on her gray mare’s reins. Spooked from the pain, her horse slid to an agitated stop in a clatter of hooves just feet from Galahad. Fionna’s lovely face was covered in a sheen of sweat, her white braids a wild tangle behind her. Her expression—he recognized it. Grief and heartbreak thinned her pink lips into a tight line, weariness drooped her proud shoulders. And over those shoulders, strapped to her back, the glittering pommel of a sword that winked in the morning sunlight.
Excalibur.
“Good morning, Fionna,” Galahad said, grateful that his voice was clear and strong.
She let out a strangled laugh. “That’s all ye have to say to me?”
“A few other things come to mind, but I thought we could skip those and be civil. Give us the sword, Fionna.” He held out his hand toward her, like one might toward a wild animal, to let the beast test the stranger’s scent on the air. “Excalibur doesn’t belong to you.”
“I know,” Fionna choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. But I need this sword more than Arthur does.” Her mare danced beneath her, seeming to sense her rider’s anxiety.
Galahad tensed, in case she was about to bolt. Though, her mare wouldn’t travel far, if she did. And Zephyr could become permanently damaged too. He decided to keep her talking.
“He needs Excalibur most of all. Without this sword, his claim to the kingship of Caerleon, the Kingdom of Gwent, and all of Briton is lost. You swore an oath to protect him, to serve as his knight. Did that mean nothing to you?” He didn’t ask the question that was ringing loud in his mind. Did we mean nothing to you? Did I?
Fionna l
ooked up at the heavens, her mouth twisting as if she was fighting back tears. “Of course, my vows meant something. But I made another oath. As a daughter. And a sister. And that means more. It has to.”
Galahad frowned. What was she talking about?
“Galahad—I’m sorry for what I did to ye. Our time together, every moment meant something to me. But we can never be.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said tenderly. How was he to show her how much their moment had meant to him too?
She plunged on, choking on her apparent anguish. “And tell Arthur . . . tell Arthur I’m sorry. That I appreciated all he did for me. All . . . that passed between us.”
“Tell him yourself,” Galahad suggested. “Come back with us. Return the sword. Our fellowship can be as it once was.”
She shook her head, her braid whirling. “That’s impossible Galahad, and ye know it. I’ve ruined everything. The only chance I have now is returning home with this sword.”
“You’re not leaving Briton with Excalibur. Do you think Arthur would not come for you? That he would not ride to the ends of the earth to take back what is his?”
“I just need Excalibur for a time. After that, he can have his sword back. I’ll even help him get his blade back.”
“I don’t understand.”
Fionna licked her lips nervously, her gaze darting around as tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry Galahad, I’ve tarried too long. Tell the others . . . I don’t know. Something to make the betrayal softer.”
Even knowing an attempt to flee might happen, despite her horse’s injury, Fionna’s sudden motion to spur her mount into action startled him. The little mare was fast as the wind, whickering in pain. And, then, they were thundering past him on an uneven gait down the road to Brunanburh, the one direction they hadn’t placed a trap.
Galahad swore, kicking his mount to follow. He hadn’t thought she’d be able to get past him so nimbly!
Fionna was already putting distance between them. Galahad narrowed his eyes against the grit her horse kicked up, his focus on her form before him. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, a black steed and rider appeared directly in Fionna’s path.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 18
