Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “And you’ve interpreted this to mean that Caer Benic is the Kingdom of Alba, located near the Strathclyde city of Castellum Puellarum?” Merlin tilted his head, considering. “I concur.”

  “We must leave at once,” Arthur said. “Caerleon grows sicker with each passing candle mark.”

  “Don’t leave in undue haste,” Merlin said. “Knowing the location of the Grail is not enough. There are powerful magics that protect the vessel of the old gods. You must be prepared to face each defensive measure.”

  Arthur grimaced, though he knew Merlin offered wise counsel. “Very well. Tell us. How can we prepare?”

  Merlin paced across the room, his gaze sharpening as his pupils narrowed. “Legends speak of three sacred relics that will aid the seeker in finding the Grail. The key, the stone, and the sword.”

  A tiny smile tugged the corner of Galahad’s lips. They all recognized the patterned cue of Merlin’s bardic nature as a lore keeper. A story was about to unfold.

  “The Otherworld,” Merlin began, “is comprised of three realms. The spirit lands of the Mother Goddess, the Underworld, and the In-Between. These realms are woven into the fabric of Earth and are as natural to her lands as they are unnatural. Three realms with three ways to enter but only two ways to leave, three ways to see what human eye cannot but five ways to unsee, and three ways to defend your mortal soul from immortal blood but only one way to truly lose your soul.”

  “Faerie riddles,” Lancelot practically moaned. “Druid, our patience runs thin.”

  “Impatience,” he hissed, his pupil’s growing narrower, “is a fool’s temptress. She will only lead you to ruin and shame. The real object of your affection is worth every wait, wouldn’t you agree, Faerie Prince?”

  Lancelot clenched his jaw.

  “Where was I? Oh yes. The Story of Three’s. Three sacred relics tied to the Grail, each object won with a test. One to prove what a man will sacrifice himself for. One to prove the true measure of strength. The last to prove whom he will serve.”

  “The key, the stone, and the sword,” Percival murmured.

  “The key to unlock the Otherworld,” Merlin finally began to explain. “The stone to see invisible magic. And the sword to slay lies for truth.”

  “Do you know the location of any of these relics?” Arthur asked, his stomach churning in endless knots. He had to agree with Lancelot. Merlin’s words set his mind spinning.

  Merlin shook his head.

  “So, we have four quests now, instead of one?” Lancelot asked, incredulous.

  “Perhaps not,” Merlin said. “I know of a woman who might be able to locate the key for you. She is a Bone Carver in Maesbury Marsh. If I were you, I would inquire with her first.”

  “And if she cannot help us?” Galahad asked. “What then?”

  Arthur felt the air in his lungs grow hot as panic began to boil in his blood. “You must accompany us, Merlin. I will fall on my knees and beg of you, if I must. I can ill afford to fail this quest. My people do not deserve to suffer for my half-sister’s thirst for war and death. You are best equipped to interpret any clues we may find. And to neutralize any hostile magic we encounter.”

  Merlin leveled his all-seeing gaze at Arthur as his lips pressed into a straight line. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but I cannot go.”

  “And if I demand it of you, as your king?”

  “The standing stone spoke of the blessed five. Not the blessed six,” Merlin countered, but Arthur understood the underlying message. Merlin was not his to command, for he belonged to the gods, not man.

  Gritting his teeth, Arthur turned away, nearly flinching when Merlin continued. “And unless my counting skills have fled me, you are the blessed five. Isn’t that right, Percival?”

  “He speaks truth,” Percival said with certainty. It was strange to see the lad without a jest on his lips. Unsettling.

  “And if I might say,” Merlin turned his keen gaze to Fionna, “your fifth knight is strangely quiet. Are you well, My Lady?”

  Fionna had been sitting silently, staring into the fire for the duration of the meeting. At Merlin’s address, she looked up. “I am well. I will go where my king commands, of course. I had nothing of import to add to yer comments, druid.”

  Merlin’s eyebrows nearly met his hairline as he turned to Arthur.

  Arthur shifted uncomfortably. He understood what Fionna was doing. Acting contrite to prove her loyalty in the face of her betrayal. But this pale, meek version of Fionna wouldn’t do. No, this wouldn’t do at all. It pained him to see her so—the fight snuffed out of her, the fire doused. The Fionna he knew was a force of nature—a shooting star of passion and power. He thought he would rather lose her again than keep this caged, dim copy of the woman he loved. A woman he had pushed away in his anger and grief. And in his fear. She knew the beating rhythm of his heart, knew him in ways unlike any woman before her. As a bastard-born prince—and now a king—he had guarded himself from intimacy . . . until her. Another rip tore through his chest, the bleeding gap growing deeper. Wider. Perhaps the water around Caerleon wasn’t the only thing poisoned.

  Arthur gave Merlin a little shake of his head, shoving down his troubled thoughts. Caerleon needed to be his priority. Not Fionna. After they found the Grail, he could deal with the mess his life had become. Not before.

  I COULDN’T BRING myself to meet Arthur’s eyes. My gaze darted everywhere else—the floor, the fire, the nick in my leather belt—but I couldn’t bear the look in his eyes. Arthur may have forgiven me, but he hadn’t forgotten. He probably never would.

  The weight of what I had done pulled at me like a stone dropped in a pool. True, I did have my reasons for stealing Excalibur—and good ones at that. But now I knew not what would become of my father, Brin, and my sister, Aideen, while held prisoner by our enemies, Clann Uí Tuírtri. Surely their chieftain, Donal O’Lynn, would realize soon how I had failed in my mission, if he didn’t know already. What would he do to my family in his anger? The very thought of how they may suffer for my weakness, for my inability to finish the one task O’Lynn set before me as ransom for their lives, tormented my tattered heart.

  Nor could I live with how my knights suffered for my duplicity. I knew they did, each one, even the aloof Lancelot, who seemed to relish in my betrayal with black satisfaction.

  Perhaps the weight I felt wasn’t my guilt. Perhaps I am the millstone, dragging down those I love into the dark abyss where even worse monsters dwell. I held in a ragged sigh and chanced a look around the room.

  The knights were leaving Arthur’s study, filing out one-by-one. Galahad and Percival each slipped me an encouraging smile, one I tried my best to return. I thought I could find my way back into the blessed good graces of those two. Arthur and Lancelot? . . . Another story.

  My body ached, more so as I pushed myself up from the chair. Only Arthur and I now remained in his study. He had partially turned away from me and fidgeted with a book on a shelf to appear busy. Pain from my shoulder injury throbbed, a pain I could account for. The rest? It was like my body manifested the sorrow of my soul—my heart. I felt old and worn. He appeared similarly. Gone was the boyish smile and the summer light in his earthen gaze. Now, dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath his eyes; his beautiful lips pulled tight into a thin line. Still, I wanted to reach out, to do something to bridge the chasm of our brokenness. Our wound screamed silent between us, a jagged sensation that rippled the air.

  “Yer Majesty,” I said, not yet ready to leave. There was so much I wanted to say to him. The unsaid words burned within me. But he didn’t acknowledge my request for his attention, though the sudden rigidness of his posture suggested that he heard me. I drew in a shaky breath and blew it out slowly.

  “That night—” I began and stopped. A knot in my throat tightened but I pushed forward. “That night meant something to me. Ye mean something to me—”

  “I have been thinking on the matter of your honor price,” Arthur said in reply, cutting
me off. He twisted toward my direction and snapped shut the book in his hand.

  I blinked in flushed surprise at the harshness of his rebuke, of his dismissal of my heartfelt confession. The memories of our reunion on the road to Brunanburh—of Arthur’s hands running down my back in soothing lines, his strong arms circling my waist protectively, me sobbing into his chest—now seemed a distant dream. He placed a carefully built wall between us and meant to keep each stone intact. Well, if that was how he wished our relationship to be, then I suppose that was how we would have it.

  “An honor price . . .” I hadn’t been expecting this, though I should have offered one myself. An honor price was a sum paid to the kinsmen of an injured clannsman as recompense for the injury. Was there any price that would make right what I had done?

  “Of course,” I managed. “Whatever ye think is fair . . .”

  “I think your assistance in locating the Blessed Grail is sufficient payment for breaking your oath,” Arthur said. “I realize what you sacrifice by remaining here.” His face was impassive, but there was sympathy in his grass-green eyes that twisted my heart anew. How very Arthur, to worry for me despite what I had done. This gave me hope. If he worried for me, if he understood what was at stake, perhaps he could find room for me in his heart once again. But even as the fevered hope surfaced, I dashed it. Things would never be as they once were. I needed to hold myself apart. For all our sakes.

  My heart most of all.

  “If ye think this price is sufficient,” I said, “I will devote myself to helping ye find the Grail and heal Caerleon. Yer land and people don’t deserve to suffer such a cruel fate.” The poison I had seen seeping through the lifeblood of Caerleon, of all of Briton, chilled me. I knew faeries could be fickle vindictive creatures, but to force such suffering on innocents was unjust.

  And I had to admit, a part of me was curious. Percival and Merlin both had named me as an integral player in the quest for the Grail. Why? I thought of when Merlin asked me about my mother, his strange gold-rimmed eyes blinking in the dark. Why had he seemed so certain there was something unusual about my heritage? Perhaps I would find answers on this journey.

  “If you join our Grail quest,” Arthur said, “your help will repay this honor price and more.”

  I wanted to swear to him that I would never hurt him again, but I knew this promise was one I couldn’t keep. After all, I hadn’t foreseen how the goddess would set our fates against each other last time. How could I be certain heartbreak wouldn’t happen again?

  “I hope there is never more to repay,” I said softly.

  Arthur gave me a terse nod. “On that we can agree.”

  I wanted to reach out to him, to run my hands through his hair, to feel the firmness of his muscles beneath my fingers. But I stilled my hands at my sides. I had lost such privileges.

  “I was also thinking on your family’s situation,” Arthur continued. “It doesn’t sit well with me that they might suffer while you aid me here in Caerleon.”

  The air burned in my lungs as I held my breath.

  “With your permission, I would like to ransom your family.”

  A faint gasp escaped my knotted throat, too overcome by his kindness, his generosity. Arthur attempted to hide a blush by pretending to inspect the spine of the book in his hands. “Of course,” I whispered with relief. “I would be most grateful for yer aid. But I fear nothing short of Excalibur would be payment enough.”

  Arthur’s mouth set in a thin line once more. “Every man has his price,” he murmured. “Even this O’Lynn. Besides, my motives are not entirely selfless. Perhaps my envoy can discover the identity of this friend of O’Lynn’s who set us all down this wretched path.”

  “Yes, please, if ye can save my father and sister . . . I would be forever in your debt.” I let out a hollow laugh. “Even more so than I already am.”

  “Very well.” He flit his gaze my way for a single shuttered heartbeat, before pivoting toward the bookshelf once again. “I will send my man, and keep you apprised of his progress.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sensing I was being dismissed. I suppose this was a better conversation than I could have hoped for, far better than I deserved. I would take it.

  I wandered into the hall, my surroundings dissolving into the roiling tempest within me. When my thoughts resurfaced to the present, I found myself ambling through the fortress toward the stable to check on my mare, Zephyr. Another loved one I had wounded with my foolish flight. Galahad had promised to send for the farrier, but I feared what the doctor might find. What if her tendon was permanently damaged? If I lost Zephyr too . . . I shoved the thought away. No. That would be too cruel a hand for the goddess to deal me.

  When I entered the stable, I found a wizened man in Zephyr’s stall, a puff of white hair at his temples. He seemed to be mumbling to himself as he examined her, disappearing behind the stable door as he leaned down to examine the cannon of her leg.

  I started as another head popped up in exchange, this one a mess of black curly hair. Lancelot. I must have said his name out loud because he turned to me, his expression darkening.

  “How is she,” I asked, pressing myself against the stall door, then reaching my hand out to stroke Zephyr’s nose.

  “A strain,” the little man stood. Despite his small stature and advanced age, he looked fit and strong. His rolled-up tunic sleeves revealed wiry forearms, his brown eyes clear and sharp. “She should stay off this leg for two weeks at least, no hard riding for a month. But she’ll recover. She’s strong.”

  I sagged against the stall in relief. “Thank ye.”

  The farrier pushed out through the door, brushing the hay and horse hair off his hands. He turned to Lancelot. “I’ll send His Majesty my bill.”

  “You always do,” Lancelot said with a laugh.

  I watched as the little man strolled out of the stable before turning to Lancelot.

  He gave Zephyr a pat, and she lipped his curly hair in response, nickering.

  I narrowed my eyes. When had they become so friendly? “What are ye doing here?” I asked. My tone came out more accusatory than intended.

  “I see no need to take your treachery out on the mare,” Lancelot practically sneered. “She’s a fine beast.”

  “I know,” I said. “I raised her from a foal.”

  “Guess that’s one thing you did right,” Lancelot replied, shouldering past me.

  I narrowed my eyes farther and marched after him, grabbing his arm and spinning him around. I might be contrite around the other knights, but Lancelot . . . Lancelot infuriated me. And it felt good to feel something other than guilt for a change.

  “If we’re going on this quest together, we better find a way to get along,” I practically spat. “Ye’ve been cold from the start. So, tell me, Sir Lancelot, what in the bloody hell did I ever do to ye?”

  FIONNA WAS A biting winter wind and the scorching summer sun when angry, a true sight to behold. But Lancelot knew this dark, all-consuming emotion intimately—he was a master of icy fury himself. He was angry at her, angry at Morgana, angry at himself, angry at the whole damn situation.

  He took a step closer to her, leaned in, then grit between clenched teeth, “What did you ever do to me? Besides cheat your way into our knighthood, lie to us about your reasons here, steal my king and friend’s most precious possession, and make the knights of Caerleon fawn all over you like lovesick idiots?” Lancelot threw out his hands. “It’s so hard to pick just one!”

  “I didn’t cheat my way into the tournament.” Fionna pointed her finger in his face.

  He let out a harsh laugh. Of all her numerated wrongs, that’s the one that bothered her?

  “I just made sure I had a fair shot. And yes, I lied and took Excalibur, but ye dismissed me the moment my sex was revealed! Why?”

  Lancelot looked at the timbered ceiling, a muscle in his jaw pulsing as he searched for any explanation but the truth. That Morgana had cursed him. That she had foretold
how he would love a Gwenevere, and that their coupling would destroy Arthur and all of Caerleon. And that he was growing more and more certain that the white enchantress foretold was indeed Fionna.

  “The truth, Lancelot,” Fionna spat. The way she hurled his name, the way her Irish brogue danced across the syllables, full of passion and fire . . . it nearly undid him. She stood just inches from his rigid body, hands firmly planted on her slender hips, waiting. He tried not to look at her lips, not react to the warm breath pulsing on his skin. It was nearly impossible. Her silver eyes glittered like diamonds amongst the drab brown of the stable.

  “Why do you deserve truth when you’ve told us nothing but lies?”

  “I haven’t lied,” Fionna said, her voice thickening. “Not about the things that mattered.”

  Lancelot heaved a sigh and flyaway strands around her face fluttered. “Your presence changes everything. We were a brotherhood. Allies, friends, kin. Now? I don’t know what we are. Perhaps we haven’t come to blows yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” His gaze caressed the curve of her blushing cheeks, her flushed lips, and drank in how her breasts rose and fell in a furious rhythm, before he continued in clipped tones. “We’re . . . competitors. Rivals. Arthur thinks a promise is enough to keep us from turning on each other, but he’s naïve.” Lancelot’s eyes snapped to hers once more. “I know human nature. We’re heading for a fall. It’s inevitable.”

  “Rivals?” Fionna asked quietly.

  “For your heart, Fionna,” Lancelot derided, rolling his eyes. Fool woman would make him spell it out?

  She reared back a few steps, as if struck.

  “Ye said we . . .” she whispered, her lips trembling. “We’re . . . competitors.”

  “Would you like a prize?” Lancelot nearly spat at her. “Congratulations. You’re beautiful and I desire you, like the rest of my besotted brothers. Are you happy now?”