Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  Historical inaccuracies:

  We set our tale in the mid-11th century. By this time, druids had appeared to have died out for nearly 800 years (if they ever existed at all. Historians are unsure). Forgive our creative license, but Arthurian Legend just wouldn’t be the same without Merlin.

  Also, the official term “knight” was first noted in the late 11th century, after the Norman invasion. Until then, they were just known as noble-titled warriors.

  Éire (or Hibernia) was the name for Ireland then. But we went with Ireland for general audience simplicity. Just like we went with Wales instead of Cymru or Waelus. I know, I know . . . sorry. We used so many foreign words/terms for non-UK residents that we wanted to keep some things familiar.

  Chipmunks don’t exist in the UK. We also know this. But, it was such a fun nickname for Galahad and one the vast majority of our readers would be able to imagine. PLEASE let us have this fantasy. PLEASE. It’s a historical fantasy, people. Not a historical documentary. I mean, people don’t shift into crows either. Sooo . . .

  Kings of Tara were ancient kings of Ireland, but not a High King. In fact, there were many Kings of Tara, all throughout Ireland, even in Ulster though the Hill of Tara is located in Leinster. Why so many Kings of Tara? The title “King of Tara” was simply a title of authority granted by the High King of Tara (so they carried the authority of Tara). And many Kings of Tara ruled simultaneously. But the Hill of Tara was the seat for the High King of Ireland, which is not the same as a King of Tara. I know, confusing. For simplicity sake: High King of Tara has the seat of power, ruling from the Hill or Tara. A King of Tara carries the authority of Tara regardless of where they live. So, why did I put this in the inaccuracies area? Because this is a slippery slope of information that I’ve discovered many from Ireland don’t fully understand either (and I asked several contacts in Ireland for clear historical definitions and it was murky, but this seemed to be group consesus. But if you have different and well-cited details, please email me) . . . AND Kings of Tara are in Irish Mythology, even the Ulster Cycle. So when it comes to historical accuracy? Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll claim mythology references to stay safe. Especially as Fionnbhair is a character who is connected to the Ulster Cycle. More on that in another historical notes *winks*

  Earlier versions of The Fifth Knight had Londonderry instead of Derry. We’ve fixed this mistake. We had betas from Ireland, Wales, Norway, and Scotland. Still, things slip through despite all efforts for accuracy. Our apologies for showing our American ignorance with terrible American reference guides. We try. We really do try. Have mercy on us *falls to knees and begs* The story was fun, right? Riiiiight?!

  And, finally, castles didn’t appear until the 12th century, also thanks in part to the Normans. Wooden fortresses and manors were all that existed until then. Still, we used the term “Castle of the Maidens” as that is integral to Arthurian lore and even has Celtic ties.

  There’s far more Arthurian lore and history to discuss, which I will delve into after book two--as mentioned above. Especially information on who “Gwenevere” actually was in the myth origins of Arthurian Legend.

  If you’ve read The Biodome Chronicles, then you’ll recognize my ending: all errors that may exist while trying to represent Celtic and Welsh culture, mythology, geography, and Arthurian Legend elements are entirely mine. I am a storyteller, weaving together information that builds and forms worlds in our imaginations. In the famous words of Nennius, a ninth-century Celtic monk, “I have made a heap of all that I could find.”

  Your Knights of Caerleon lore keeper,

  Jesikah Sundin

  .

  DEDICATED

  To the truth seekers and

  road trip enthusiasts . . .

  This swoony faerie tale is for you!

  The Third Curse . . . a Celtic Arthurian Legend Reverse Harem Fantasy tale of betrayal and fated love.

  Five cursed knights.

  A dying land.

  An enchanted bowl shrouded in myth and legend.

  Irish warrior and fifth knight Fionna Allán agonizes over an impossible choice. Either she saves her father and sister by betraying the three knights and king she loves, or she chooses her heart and dooms her family to death. Determined to find another way, Fionna strikes a bargain with Arthur Pendragon. She’ll join his Grail Quest in exchange for his promise to ransom her family.

  Arthur is convinced that Fionna is a key to finding the legendary Grail. The mythical bowl is the Kingdom of Caerleon’s only hope to break Morgan la Fay’s curse, the dark spell now sickening Arthur’s people and withering his green lands. But the Grail will not yield its secrets easily. To find the relic, the five knights must undertake a perilous journey to the Scoti Kingdom of Alba and into the depths of the misty Otherworld and beyond.

  Each knight’s honor will be tested—and so will their hearts—as Arthur, Lancelot, Galahad, and Percival’s love for their fifth knight grows more entangled by the day. But no trial shakes their tightening bonds more than an unexpected discovery. A third curse. A truth so devastating, the revelation may tear them apart and grant Morgan la Fay the power she craves over Caerleon and all of Briton.

  Experience the Legend today . . .

  Suitable for readers aged 18+

  BRINY AIR RUFFLED the crow’s feathers as a westerly wind skipped across the fathomless blue sky. Below, war tents and craggy moors dotted the landscape. The male who smelled of bitter lust and greed was nearby. Even now, high above the human clamor, she could smell his heart’s whispered prayers.

  The crow swooped low, gliding past sweat- and dirt-covered males and females and smoke-clouded cook fires. There. The hide tent with the ornate wooden frame. A caw rumbled from the crow and a nearby murder darkened the clear sky. Black feathers rained down, falling upon the encampment like dark, silent omens. With mortal eyes now fastened above, the crow soared low to the ground and slipped into the power-hungry male’s tent, landing on his throne of black thorns.

  A sharp gasp caught the crow’s attention and she hopped on her feet until she faced the back corner. In the bed, crouched in a thin shift and surrounded by furs and blankets, lay a young woman with hair like tumbling autumn leaves and eyes the color of freshly-tilled earth.

  Delighted, the crow cawed and the girl startled back, unable to move far. A metallic scent filled the air and the crow fluffed her feathers at the blissful fragrance. A drop of blood fell from the girl’s knotted wrists, which now tugged hard on the short rope that was tied to the tent’s center beam.

  “Please . . .” the young woman rasped. “Do not harm me, I beg of ye. D-D-Donal threatened that . . . that ye would peck my eyes out, if I . . . I did not please him.”

  Shadows and the desperate prayers of vengeful men at war wrapped around the crow in spectral ribbons. Brittle leaves on the tent’s earthen floor caught flight and swirled about in a macabre dance. The small, young woman bit back a shriek and curled into herself to become even smaller at the sight.

  Morgana relished Aideen’s fright, settling into O’Lynn’s black throne as a heady sigh left her chest. Her claw-tipped fingers gripped the arms for show, her black feathered dress fanning over her legs and ruffling as though a thousand birds in flight. “Now, now . . .” Morgana cooed in a saccharin voice. “What would your brave warrior sister think of you this moment?” She lifted from the throne gracefully and moved toward the witch’s kin slowly, each step calculated. “Does she know you are a coward? That you sold your pathetic life to a ruthless man to buy your father a few more days on this goddess-forsaken land?”

  Tears gathered in Aideen’s soft brown eyes and Morgana tilted her head and blinked. “You poor lamb.” Reaching the bed, she slid a sharp nail down the girl’s cheek, across the throbbing pulse in her neck, down farther to where the young woman’s thunderous heart told Morgana everything she needed to know. A hidden strength lay beneath the fearful overtures.

  She bared her fangs and Aideen stilled, a catatonic animal attemp
ting to hide her trembling adrenaline. “I will not peck out your eyes today, for I have use of you yet. But you have given me an idea. How to torment your dear sister.”

  She spun away from Aideen and sauntered back toward the throne, saying, “If only you could see your sister now, writhing naked in the arms of various men, laughing, flirting, indulging in sensual pleasures, while you quake at the thought of the single touch of your husband. So unfair.”

  Aideen pushed against her restraints and spat, “Fionnabhair would never abandon me or Father! Ye lie! Ye’re a queen of lies!”

  “Do I now?” A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. “We shall see.”

  Just as the words left her lips, the tent’s flaps opened and Donal O’Lynn marched in, halting mid-stride. His gaze raked over Morgana and she twisted sideways, allowing him a better view of her breasts and narrow hips. O’Lynn was weak, easy to manipulate. A soft female body was all it took to stir his blood into submissive obedience. Morgana tilted her gaze toward Aideen, a cruel smile curling her lips, before turning back toward O’Lynn.

  “You wed the girl, I see,” she began.

  “Aye, two eves past.” O’Lynn strode toward Morgana.

  She licked her bottom lip at his approach and his eyes shuttered. “I have visited the port towns of Ulster and spoken to several ship makers.”

  “Oh?” Donal slowed before her, his eyes taking in her curves, the ones practically spilling out of her slitted bodice. “And what do ye want with ships? I married the younger Allán princess to punish her whore sister and seize the Allán lands as my own. Do ye plan to parade my bride across the sea now?”

  Morgana hissed at the mentioned of the witch and O’Lynn’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Ye promised me power,” he practically growled. “Ye promised me kingship. I followed yer directions and the only thing I have at my hip is this wee slip of a girl.” He leaned in close to Morgana and whispered, “A man of power craves more to keep him warm at night than this.” He flung his arm out in Aideen’s direction and the small, young woman sucked in a sharp breath.

  “A man of power also craves war.” Morgana trailed her nail across his bottom lip, before leaning down and nibbling the soft flesh with the points of her fangs, until he yielded to her with a moan. Satisfied, she flicked her tongue out to soothe the pain, then whispered, “Why let a female knight gain you a kingdom with a stolen sword when you can conquer a high king and steal the crown for yourself.”

  Donal separated enough to trace the curves of her breasts with the tips of his fingers, his voice ragged with need as he murmured, “Why indeed?”

  “You want me?” she purred.

  “Ye know I do.”

  “Bring war to Briton and defeat Arthur Pendragon and . . .” His eyes lifted to meet hers, his chest rising and falling in an alluring rhythm. The panting tempo of a stupid man. She blinked slowly at him. “And I will fulfill your every fantasy.”

  “I would die happy in your arms, Morgana,” he growled.

  She smiled as the shadows and whispers returned, swirling about her body. “Of course, you would.”

  The crow cocked her head and stared at the delicate female on the bed.

  A tiny smile of challenge crossed her dirt-smudged face. A hidden strength, indeed.

  With a flap of her wings and a loud caw, the crow leaped into flight and left the hide tent to join her dark sisters in the sky.

  ARTHUR SLUMPED INTO a chair before the fireplace in his chamber, toeing off his muddy boots. Seven moons and seven suns had passed since he lost Excalibur and then regained his sovereign-blessed sword again. Seven days since he had almost executed the woman he loved. Seven bloody awkward days.

  Never had he been happier to see his fortress—to be blessedly alone. The sheer force of will needed to maintain a demeanor of regal aloofness on the ride back to Caerleon had been exhausting. He had wanted to rage and scream and weep at how close he came to losing everything—his kingdom, his kingship. Fionna. But he couldn’t let his knights see—these men who were as close to him as brothers—how much nearly executing Fionna had shaken him. Because no matter how close they were, he was still their king and, therefore, he needed to stand apart. And they were competitors for Fionna’s heart. Even now. He made his knights swear that Fionna would never come between them. But he could feel the rip and tear already. In his own heart.

  Arthur nodded his thanks absentmindedly as a set of maids hurried in, carrying buckets of hot water to a big copper bathing basin. His mind was filled with Fionna. He was all sensation and torment when it came to her. The sweet ache of the night they had spent together, the sharp cut of her betrayal. The staggering relief as she stepped in to embrace him, to accept his forgiveness.

  Was it a mistake to forgive her? His heart shouted a vehement, “No!” But his heart wasn’t particularly trustworthy as of late.

  Fionna had tried to corner him time and again, from the very first day of their ride back. To explain or thank him, he wasn’t sure. He just knew he couldn’t face her. Not yet. He felt unsettled and raw, and the sight of her—the sorrow in her silver eyes—seemed to tilt his world farther. He had avoided her, attending to his horse, the fire, his fingernails, anything in the immediate vicinity that wasn’t Fionna. Eventually, Lancelot had taken her aside and spoken quietly to her. And though her lovely face had darkened, she took whatever advice Lancelot had offered, and blessedly let Arthur be.

  Arthur closed his eyes as the splashing sound of water being poured into the tub soothed his tension. Now, if only he could leave her alone.

  ARTHUR LINGERED IN his bath for far too long, until the water cooled to lukewarm and colored gray from the grit of his journey. He had asked the others, including Merlin, to gather in his study after bathing and filling their bellies with food.

  His chest tightened, and then a ragged breath fluttered free.

  “You can’t avoid her forever,” he muttered to himself. He had nursed his wounded heart and pride long enough. It was time to put the events of the past week behind him.

  Time to be a king again.

  Arthur was feeling more like his old self when he strode into his study. He wore a linen tunic in a rich burgundy shade, black breeches, and polished black leather boots. The gold oak leaf circlet rested on his head and Excalibur swung at his hip. The sword would never leave his side again. Not while he lived.

  He was the last to arrive, from all appearances; the other knights were arrayed in various chairs around the room. Lancelot, in a blue tunic that set off the black of his hair and the sky-blue of his eyes; Percival, sitting behind Arthur’s desk, his feet up with a book in his lap; Galahad, dwarfing one of the two armchairs by the fire, polishing a dagger. And Fionna, in the other armchair, her hands in her lap, her head tilted down in a look of contrition that fit her about as well as a jester’s motley on a yuletide goose. Her white-blonde hair was now washed and rebraided. But rather than a dress that would set off her curves and softness—a dress like the one she had worn for the faerie ambassador’s visit—she wore a simple tunic and breeches like a man. At least, dressing for practicality suited her. And helped him to see her as a fellow knight—not as a woman.

  Merlin strode up to Arthur and clapped him on the shoulder, pulling Arthur from his rambling thoughts. “I sense that you’ve endured an eventful week,” the druid said. The gold rings of his eyes flashed with magic and compassion.

  “That would be the understatement of the century,” Arthur murmured, forcing a laugh. “Good to see you, my friend.”

  “Likewise.” Merlin’s hands disappeared back into the pockets of his coarse, gray robes.

  Arthur marched to the front of the room by the fireplace and turned, crossing his arms across his still too-tight chest. “Have the knights filled you in on our journey?” Arthur asked Merlin.

  “Yes. Though I suspect I received the . . . abridged version.”

  Arthur nodded. “Good. All the details of our trip to find Lord Bronn are not im
portant. There is only one focus we must concern ourselves with now. Finding the Grail and curing this unnatural curse that has befallen Caerleon.”

  “Lancelot said the land’s curse affected the river?” Merlin asked. “Caerleon’s waters are poisoned?”

  “That’s what we saw,” Galahad volunteered. “Everything the river touched withered and died, whether flora or fauna.”

  “We haven’t yet received reports of any human deaths,” Merlin said. “But this poison will spread quickly, now that the curse has fully begun.”

  “I will send word to the villages, instructing them to test the water before drinking from their wells, streams, or river,” Arthur said. “This sickness . . . it is unnatural. Reminded me of old tales of Fomorian magic.”

  Merlin narrowed his eyes. “Indeed. They have not emerged from the sea’s abyss in decades.”

  “Not the same as permanently banished, druid,” Lancelot tossed out.

  “True. And if they have emerged, we have much to fear.”

  Arthur pressed his lips together. “We must find the Grail soon or there won’t be anyone in Caerleon left to warn.”

  Merlin turned to Percival. “Tell me of this stone you found. You are certain of the runic message?”

  Percival sat up, pulling his feet off the desk. The copper-haired lad looked older, more world-weary. Perhaps he felt the weight of their quest settled squarely upon his shoulders. “Aye, I’m certain. The stone revealed a riddle to me. Across the wall and atop the rock hill, the blessed five shall drink their fill.”