Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “No.” Tears were gathering on her pale lashes.

  Lancelot closed his eyes, steadying himself, trying to rein in the wild fury galloping through his veins. He took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I made a mistake with Morgana and it cost us all dearly. Me, Arthur—Caerleon is still paying for my weakness.” His lids blinked open and his gaze captured hers. “When I look at you, I see another mistake waiting to happen. So, I must hold myself aside. Do you understand?”

  Fionna’s shoulders raised a notch higher. “I understand. But believe that I would never ruin what ye and the other knights have. I wouldn’t allow ye to turn against each other.”

  Oh Fionna, Lancelot thought. Don’t you see that you already have?

  She continued, “I would leave before that happened.”

  He struggled to keep his voice even, calm. “Then why didn’t you leave?!”

  “I—I tried.”

  “You let yourself get caught.”

  “Let myself?” her brows furrowed. “Zephyr injured herself, and the boats in the harbor were cinders . . .”

  He stepped toward her again, their bodies nearly touching. Wanting her to breathe in every spiteful word, he lowered his face toward hers, and darkly whispered, “You are one of the smartest and craftiest warriors I have ever met. Yet you chose to take Excalibur without a clear exit strategy, in strange territory, on a black night, when you were weak from an injury. Fionna,” he breathed her name, bitter, pleading, “if you had wanted Excalibur, really wanted that damn sword, you would be in Ulster by now.”

  Her mouth opened and then slowly closed as she took in his meaning. The whole scenario was clear as day to him. She hadn’t wanted to succeed in stealing Arthur’s sword. She hadn’t really wanted to leave.

  “So, you see,” he said, taking a few steps back, wanting her to feel the sudden cold of his distance. “You’ve chosen to stay, even if you don’t truly know it yet. But that means there can be a happy ending for only one man. Once you choose, perhaps the tension between us will ease. Still, for the unchosen . . .” Watching Fionna with whoever won her heart would be torture.

  Fionna twisted a braid in her hand, her eyes fixed on the hay-strewn floor of the stable. “Why can’t . . .” she seemed to draw her courage around herself, looking up. “Why can’t I choose all of ye?”

  Lancelot snorted. “That’s a bit greedy of you, isn’t it?”

  She set her jaw. “Is it such an outlandish desire?”

  By the gods, she was serious! “Perhaps not among the faerie folk, but humans generally seem to gravitate toward one mate.”

  “Perhaps in Briton, but not always in Ireland,” Fionna said. “There are women in my clann and other Dál nAraidi who have more than one husband.”

  Lancelot raised an eyebrow, temporarily lost for words. The idea was intriguing. He had always enjoyed the company of both men and women, and society’s prudish insistence on traditional modes of virtue and chastity had always annoyed him. But despite his modern proclivities, he had never considered such an arrangement could be possible in Briton.

  “I admit, I have not heard of such marital relations existing in other Gaelic lands.”

  “There are plenty of reasons to take more than one husband. To increase warriors for one’s clann, for political alliances, to keep the gene pool varied. Women are equal to the men in Ireland. If a man wants multiple wives to bear him sons to farm and daughters to gain him bride prices, then a woman can have multiple husbands for a stronger homestead and financial prestige among her clannsmen.” Fionna softened her voice and said, “Least of all reasons? That ye love yer men.”

  “And here, when I was with two women, I got a whole kingdom cursed,” Lancelot remarked dryly.

  “I always thought Morgana’s reaction too harsh . . .” Fionna’s words trailed off as she shifted on her feet and cleared her throat, her gaze darting around the stables. “I am not suggesting such an arrangement between us. I don’t even know if such a relationship would be possible here, or if the other men would desire or tolerate this solution. All I know is that I feel a tie between each of us, a kinship that I cannot deny. My heart belongs to each of ye. The sacred five Merlin speaks of? Perhaps we are more than our simple number of knights.”

  Lancelot nodded begrudgingly. He felt this connection too. There was something that tied them together. This tether had always existed. Though, he had previously thought those intimate feelings just the mere bonds of brotherhood, his affection and regard for the warriors whom he had grown up with and respected. But Fionna’s addition had completed the circle somehow. No, not a circle. A pentacle. With each point inextricably linked to the other.

  “Perhaps ye do not trust me yet,” she continued in his silence. “But ye have my word, Lancelot. I will not tear yer brotherhood apart. Perhaps we can find a way . . . where no one needs to choose. And no one is left in the cold.”

  The silvered ice of her eyes bore into the glacial blue of his, challenging him to see the possibility. The very thought that each of them could find love in Fionna’s arms, and she in theirs? A beautiful dream.

  But only a dream. For Lancelot would be left in the cold, no matter what happiness the other knights found. Morgana ensured that cold, aching loneliness would be the only future in store for him.

  PERCIVAL WAS A fount of nervous energy as he bounded across the keep toward the stable yard. He could hardly believe this day was truly here. They were riding out to find the Blessed Grail. Years he had been waiting, learning, chaffing under the weight of his father’s legacy, his Fisher King heritage. Yet now someone had smiled upon him. The Mother Goddess? The sídhe, perhaps? Who the hell really knew? Whoever they were, they had shown him something that could save Caerleon, save his king’s rule.

  Finally, Percival would have a chance to prove his worth to his king and his fellow knights. Not to mention relieve himself of this cursed vow of chastity. Good riddance there.

  Their fifth knight was in Zephyr’s stall, a wistful smile on her face as she brushed down her mare.

  “Fionna!” Percival said, and then winced at how his greeting came out—far too eager and excited, like a little boy before a giant rain puddle. If he were to compete for Fionna’s heart, she needed to see him as more than a green lad. He was a man. A warrior. A sídhe-blessed Grail prince. He cleared his throat, lowering his voice a touch. “How is she?” he asked.

  “On the mend,” Fionna said, giving Zephyr a final pat. “Feels wrong to journey without her, ye know?”

  “She’ll be fat and happy when we return, ye’ll see.” Percival smiled. “Do ye need a mount for the trek?”

  “Already handled,” Galahad boomed in his deep baritone, leading a saddled white mare from her stall.

  Percival pursed his lips. Of course, Galahad was already here, seeing to Fionna’s every need. He was a worthy opponent for their lady knight’s heart, and Percival’s excitement over their departure dimmed.

  “Aster is a fine mount,” Percival murmured in quiet reassurance. Fionna quirked an eyebrow at his apparent shift in mood, so he quickly added, “Swift and surefooted. She’ll treat ye well until ye get back to Zephyr.”

  “Thank ye both.” A touch of a wry smile flitted across Fionna’s face.

  Percival pushed into Kit’s stall, pulling his tack off the hooks on the wall. When he turned, he was surprised to find Fionna lingering there by the door, watching him work. She rested her elbows over the stall door, gnawing the inside of her bottom lip, her eyes darting around Kit’s stall, looking everywhere but him. Uncertainty was an uncommon look on her, and he furrowed his brows.

  “Percival,” she said, hesitating. “I haven’t had a chance to thank ye.”

  “Och, lass. Fer what?” he asked innocently, though he knew of what she spoke.

  Fionna rolled her eyes. How did she make an eyeroll look so lovely? “Ye know what, ye wily fox. For riding to my rescue at the last moment. For vouching for me. For stopping Arthur from . . .” she swallowed.


  “Nae, he wouldn’t have,” Percival said.

  “He seemed fairly intent upon his course,” Fionna countered.

  “I helped remind him, sure. But Arthur would have stayed his hand, ye ken? It’s not in his nature. He sees the truth in people, and judges them thusly. And ye, dove, are a good person.”

  “Am I, now?” she let out a harsh laugh, examining her fingernails. “I feel I hardly know myself anymore. Ever since I came to Caerleon, I’ve felt . . .”

  “Confused? Overwhelmed?” Percival suggested, throwing his saddle over Kit’s withers. He knew what she was experiencing. The first couple of months had been much the same for him when he had first come here. “Arthur is like . . . a lodestone. I don’t know if the attraction is because of Excalibur, or this place, or the Pendragon lineage, but he pulls people to him—he shapes the course of their lives by his very presence. It’s easier if ye dinnae resist.”

  A smile quirked on her lips. “When did ye become so wise?”

  “Stick with me dove, I’m full of surprises.” Percival winked at her.

  Fionna laughed, the sound bright as a babbling brook yet soft like snowfall on leaves. It warmed him. She had been too quiet and withdrawn since they had returned from Ewloe.

  “I almost feel normal with ye,” Fionna said. “Though I know that’s not possible.”

  Percival gave an experimental tug on Kit’s girth. The gelding liked to hold his breath to keep Percival from buckling his saddle as tightly has he should. Clever beast. Percival pulled the strap another notch tighter. Then he pushed open the stall door, and Fionna backed up, holding the door open for him. “Ye can feel normal with me,” Percival said, as Fionna fell into step beside him. “I know ye may not believe me for a time, lass. But I forgive ye.”

  “I’m grateful to have one of ye on my side,” she said.

  “They’ll come around,” Percival said. “We understand yer reasons. I might have stolen Excalibur myself, were I in yer position. Well, except for the part about kissing the daylights out of Arthur. He’s not my type.”

  Fionna’s face turned scarlet. “Ye know about . . . our night together?” she whispered.

  “Our rooms shared a wall. I’ve heard Arthur snore, and the sounds coming from his room were certainly not the snoring kinds.”

  Fionna buried her face into her hands.

  “Never fear, My Lady,” Percival said cheerfully. “I consider ye kissing the king a mere setback in my plans to convince ye that I am the knight most deserving of yer affection.”

  His tone was lighthearted, to put her at ease and numb her embarrassment. But he meant every word. Fionna had neither declared that her heart belonged to Arthur nor Galahad, despite having shared intimate moments with each. That meant Percival still had a chance.

  Fionna placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled. “Percival, ye wonderful, foolish man.”

  “We usually leave off the ‘wonderful’ part,” Galahad said, swaggering over, looking as big and as brash as ever. Percival swallowed a moment of envy. It wasn’t fair to have to compete with muscles like those. But, he reminded himself, what Galahad offered in brawn, Percival more than made up for in wit. And what woman didn’t like to laugh?

  Arthur and Lancelot were standing across the stable yard, speaking quietly, as servants affixed heavy saddlebags to their mounts, laden with provisions for the journey.

  A look of quiet thunder crossed Arthur’s face as he saw Fionna standing between Percival and Galahad. His hand strayed to Excalibur at his side, as if checking that the sword was still there. Percival stifled a sigh. He did believe that the easy peace they had once enjoyed between the five of them would return. But healing took time.

  Arthur and Lancelot strode into the stables, their boots crunching over the dried meadow grasses strewn across the yard. Lancelot caught Percival’s eye, a dark look on the man’s handsome face as he darted a quick look at Fionna before seeking Percival’s attention once more. Percival cocked his head and arched an eyebrow, a gesture that seemed to calm their dark knight a smidgeon. A reaction that also made Percival’s pulse secretly blush. For some odd reason, the man seemed to quietly seek Percival’s comfort, and often. Lancelot answered Percival’s silent questions with a faint shake of his head, before crossing muscular arms over his chest and returning his focus back on Arthur.

  Percival studied the way Lancelot’s soft black curls fell across the frosty blue of his eyes and how a light shadow of stubble covered the firm set of his jaw. A strange tingle brewed in his chest, one Percival didn’t quite understand. Or had ever when around him.

  Blinking back the direction of his thoughts, Percival offered Arthur a nod and asked, “Are we ready, My King?”

  “As ready as we can be for a journey into the unknown.” Arthur’s voice was clear and strong. Percival recognized the tone—the one he used for kingly speeches and formal occasions. A tone that hardly seemed appropriate for just the five of them.

  Percival opened his mouth to make a quip, but a black look from Lancelot shut it again. Percival narrowed his eyes playfully in reply, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out instead. Fine. If Arthur needed to hold himself apart, then so be it.

  Arthur continued. “We all heard Merlin. We may face trials and tests, strange and foreign magics. The guardians of the Grail will not yield their sacred vessel willingly. First, we must find this relic, and then we must prove ourselves worthy.”

  Fionna paled, though her jaw was set with determination. She had faced trials aplenty the last few days. Percival didn’t blame her for not wanting to forge ahead so soon.

  “Should any of you encounter or feel anything strange, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, you share it. Especially you, Percival,” Arthur said. “We can’t afford to miss a clue. Or a warning.”

  The knights nodded.

  “Then we ride to Castellum Puellarum,” Arthur said. “To hunt a Grail.”

  “Your Majesty!” A servant in Arthur’s red and gold livery was running from the direction of the keep, his round face red. He blew out a breath as he skittered to a stop before them, giving a hasty bow. “Your Majesty, a messenger.”

  “What is it?” Arthur asked, his eyebrows drawing together.

  “There’s been an attack near Talgarth,” the man panted.

  “What kind of an attack?”

  “The Twrch Trwyth.”

  Arthur recoiled, and Lancelot let out a string of curses under his breath.

  “The Twrch Trwyth in the Kingdom of Gwent?” Arthur’s hand tightened on Excalibur’s hilt.

  “What is this . . .” Galahad stumbled over the name. “Twrch Trwyth?”

  Fionna’s lips thinned to a straight line. “A legendary faerie boar from Ireland.”

  “Though, this is not the first time Twrch Trwyth has visited Wales,” Arthur added. To Galahad, he said, “I grew up on stories of this faerie boar. The monster was responsible for the destruction of many villages, leaving a path of ravaged homes, crops, and livestock across several neighboring kingdoms nearly a century ago.”

  “I thought the faerie boar was killed during Culhwch’s impossible tasks?” Fionna asked.

  Arthur considered her, as if forgetting that she was in their company. “I was under the same impression. I was told the faerie boar fell off a cliff into the sea.”

  Fionna’s eyes widened. “To the realm of the Fomorians.”

  “This could be another of Morgana’s schemes,” Lancelot practically spat. “Designed to keep us from the Grail and, thus, the cure for her curse. The curse is the more pressing threat.”

  “Perhaps,” Arthur said to Lancelot. “But the Twrch Trwyth rampaging through my lands will leave a trail of carnage behind even more quickly than the curse. Talgarth is on the way to Conwy, if we continue this path as you and I had discussed in the war room.” Arthur turned to the servant. “Tell whoever brought these dark tidings that King Arthur and his knights will ride to their aid.”

  “So, we ride fer Tal
garth,” Percival said, offering Arthur an encouraging grin. “To hunt a faerie boar.”

  “And then to Castellum Puellarum to hunt the Grail,” Galahad added.

  “This quest is going to shit already,” Lancelot muttered under his breath

  GALAHAD RODE THROUGH the thick forest behind Fionna, watching closely as she swayed with her horse’s easy rhythm. She held herself stiffly, as if even the gentle gait pained her.

  “Fionna,” he called out.

  She turned to peer back at him, and a grimace of pain lined the set of her mouth.

  Trotting up beside her, he asked, “How fares your wound?”

  “Fine,” she clipped.

  “You’re a horrible liar,” he remarked. “I’m amazed you were able to keep your true goal from us for so long.”

  “The wound pains me still. There. Are ye happy?”

  “No, not at all. I don’t wish you pain. Did you have the chirurgeon look at your shoulder?”

  “Aye, I did. He complimented yer stitching. There’s nothing the wound needs but time.”

  Galahad frowned. “Arthur shouldn’t have made us leave on this quest so soon.”

  Fionna let out a hollow laugh. “Yes, well, it isn’t my place to tell him otherwise.”

  “I see what you’re doing,” Galahad quietly replied. “But by trying to appease him, to be agreeable and cooperative, is just another form of being false.”

  Fionna opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “This quest doesn’t need your placating. Our mission, our very lives need your fire and your fight. Your wisdom.”

  “I don’t know how to be around him,” she admitted with a sigh. “I don’t know how to be around any of ye.”

  “Just be who you are, Fionna. That’s all we ever wanted.”

  “I fear I don’t know myself anymore.”

  “You do.” Galahad offered her a kind smile. “You didn’t spend so many years on this earth without learning a thing or two about who you are. Just because a man holds your family for ransom—and forced your hand—doesn’t change this truth.”