Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  Galahad had found a doctor last night, but the man had been attending a woman in labor and promised to come when he was free. Apparently, it was a long labor, the poor woman.

  Lancelot swung his feet off the bed and stood. He stretched, lifting his arms above his head until his back popped. “I feel like a new man.”

  Healing so quickly seemed a peculiar thing. How could he be so injured yesterday, yet be fine this morning? But, this miracle wasn’t the strangest magic I had encountered since arriving in Briton. Not even this week.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come,” Lancelot barked. His eyes were bright, his color high. He seemed back to his old self. I shoved down a bubble of remorse for the loss of the sweet, quiet Lancelot I had lain beside during the night. It was good that he was healed, I admonished myself. We could now continue the quest.

  The door opened to Arthur in a fresh tunic, his short hair ruffled as though finger-combed through with water. Shadows beneath his eyes spoke of a sleepless night, but his voice was cheerful. “You’re up. From Galahad and Percival’s description, I feared we would have to leave you.”

  “Fit as ever,” Lancelot said, slapping himself on his broad chest.

  Arthur narrowed his eyes, but there was a smile on his face as he said, “I suppose we have Fionna’s tender ministrations to thank for your miraculous recovery? For surely you wouldn’t have exaggerated your symptoms . . .”

  I covered my chuckle with a hand. “I assure ye, Yer Majesty, if I ever catch the faintest whiff of any of ye trying to milk an injury for sympathy, ye’ll be receiving a not-too-tender kick to the arse.”

  Arthur threw back his head and laughed, and the sound warmed me, making up for the icy daggers Lancelot was now shooting my way.

  “Ye should have seen him last night. He could hardly dismount his horse. Lancelot is far too proud a man to fake an injury so severe.”

  “Are we done speaking of me as if I’m an invalid?” Lancelot asked.

  “I don’t know, what do you think, Fionna? Seems there are a few more jokes to be made.”

  “We don’t want to hog them all though,” I countered, sliding our dark knight a sly grin. “Percival would be beyond cross with us.”

  Lancelot threw up his hands, then began buckling on his sword belt. “What’s the plan today.”

  “We’re near Maesbury Marsh, where the bone carver lives,” Arthur said. “We should pay her a visit before we head back to the main road.”

  “Who is this bone carver person?” I asked.

  “I am not sure exactly,” Arthur said. “She is a legend. But if Merlin thinks she can help us, it’s worth the trip.”

  “The Bone Carver is as mysterious as the Otherworld’s mist,” Lancelot volunteered, darting a glance Arthur’s way. “Some say she walked the Earth before man was born. Some even believe humans are made from her very bones and that she still carves life into existence from the bones she gathers. Maybe Merlin believed she could carve us a talisman.”

  “Made from her own bones?” I asked, mouth agape.

  Percival’s ginger head popped around the corner. “How’s crabapple doing? Feeling sour this morning? Though, not sure how you could be with such a lovely bedmate.”

  Lancelot scowled, and a blush rose on my cheeks.

  “Has anyone thought of securing me a horse?” I asked, changing the subject. “Poor Aster didn’t last long.” I realized then how lucky it was that I wasn’t riding Zephyr. I mourned any animal’s death, but Zephyr would have been a blow to my very soul.

  “We’ll find one in the village before we head out,” Arthur said.

  THE ROAD NORTH of Maesbury Marsh wound through thick forest, gnarled and old. The ground grew soggy beneath our horse’s hooves, and the foliage began to change from the beech and ferns of the forest to the reeds and wildflowers of the marshland. Frogs croaked their warnings with every hoofbeat. Fireflies danced around the rushes and reflected off the blackened water—almost pretty, but they reminded me too much of will-ó-the-wisps, leading us to our doom.

  “Not sure why anyone would want to live way out here,” Galahad muttered, his eyes darting around the marsh and moss-draped tree cover.

  “I suppose if you’re a creepy old woman who likes to carve bones, a stinky marsh might just be the perfect location,” Percival added, chipper as usual. How the lad wasn’t nonplussed by the sights around him was beyond me. Then again, he grew up isolated in a forest with an eccentric mother.

  “Shhh . . .” Arthur peered over his shoulder, then furrowed his brows. “She might hear you.”

  “Who is she, the Mother Goddess?” Percival quirked an eyebrow.

  “We don’t know how much farther,” Arthur practically whispered. “We might be on her doorstep even now.”

  The knights fell into an uneasy silence at that, their heads swiveling back and forth, eyes peering into the marsh and to the shadows beyond. The smells of rot and brine tickled my nose.

  I didn’t see the moss-greened structure at first. The bone carver’s cottage blended into the forest, so overgrown with roots and vines that the home seemed a living thing itself. A faded red door and the puff of wood smoke from the chimney were the only signs that this place belonged in the mortal realms.

  Arthur dismounted first and the rest of us followed, a bit reluctant to make this woman’s acquaintance. There was something ancient about the cottage—something other. The horses nickered nervously, stamping the ground as we tied them to a gnarled fencepost. An animal awareness shivered down my skin.

  The door opened slowly, and within I could see only darkness, like peering into the throat of a great beast.

  “Greetings,” the woman said. Her voice was not that of an old crone like I had expected, but smooth and melodious. The lilting sound perked my curiosity to see her.

  “Not often I receive visitors out this way. Please, come in.”

  One by one, we filed into the cabin, exchanging uneasy glances. Galahad placed a protective hand on the small of my back, as if to steady me. His touch stoked the fire within me instead. I missed Galahad. His strong hands, his honeyed kisses. I wanted to feel again what had passed between us—that and more. I stifled a sigh, trying to tear my thoughts from the emotion this man’s simple touch could garner from me.

  The cabin was much larger than it appeared from the outside, boasting one large circular room and holding all a person might need. A bed, a washbasin, a desk cluttered with papers and quills. Surprisingly mundane furnishings crowded one half of the space. But then there was the rest. Shelves of oddities—desiccated bodies of insects and small rodents and snakes. Jars of powders and liquids, whose purpose I couldn’t dare imagine. And bones. Shelves and shelves of bones and teeth and skulls. The smell of the place was cloying, thick with smoke and a sweet odor that swirled about in my head.

  “My name is Arthur Pendragon,” Arthur began. “Overking of Gwent. I have come to request your aid in our quest to find the Blessed Grail.”

  I could see her now, and was surprised by the woman’s beauty, despite her age. Her sleek, gray hair was roped into a thick braid over one shoulder, her fine features delicate and elfin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful in her youth. And now in her current age? She produced a feeling of wisdom and power. So much so, my hand strayed toward the sword at my hip.

  “And what makes you think I can help, Little Dragon King?” the woman asked.

  “My druid, Merlin,” Arthur answered.

  “Merlin?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

  She had heard of him. Although I supposed most in this part of the world had.

  “Who else have you brought?” she asked, turning her deep black gaze to each of us in turn.

  “These are my knights. Galjorheledanik of Swansea, Lancelot du Lac, Percival of Caer Benic.”

  “Ah. A Fisher King. Perhaps you do not need my aid with him by your side.”

  “Och, I fear ye overestimate me, My Lady,” Percival said. “Tho
ugh . . . what should we call ye?”

  “The Bone Carver.” A smile played on her lips as she regarded Percival. “Or the Mother Goddess. Whatever you prefer, Grail prince.”

  Percival’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. “I meant no disrespect,” he whispered, his brown eyes wide.

  The Bone Carver turned toward me, and I could see Percival sag with relief from the corner of my eye as the weight of her attention passed from him. Icy fear crystalized in my veins. The woman stared as if she could see to my very core. My fears and doubts and shortcomings. All of them, laid bare.

  “This is Fionnabhair Allán,” Arthur said, “Princess of Clann Allán and the newest knight in my court.”

  The woman drifted toward me. Reaching out a hand out, she lifted one of my braids from my shoulder and examined my hair. I struggled to hold myself still, not wanting to insult the woman, but wanting desperately to be away from her. “An unusual knight,” she mused to herself. “Very unusual indeed. You have power, fair Fionnabhair. Yet you do not use your magic. Why?”

  My skin crawled beneath her scrutiny, and I buried my hands in the fabric of my tunic. “I don’t know to what ye refer,” I managed. “I’m a warrior. And a knight. I use those skills plenty.”

  The Bone Carver regarded me with an expression that I thought might be patronizing amusement. The searing gaze rankled me. What was this mad woman on about?

  “Very well. You may keep your secrets. For now.” She whirled to Arthur, and it was my turn to sag with relief. “You have brought me something. I can taste its magic in the air.”

  Arthur reached out to Galahad, who handed him a satchel. Our king then pulled one of the boar’s tusks out and handed the ivory to her.

  “These are from Twrch Trwyth. The faerie boar.”

  The Bone Carver took the tusk with reverence. “Oh yes, Arthur Pendragon. I will fashion you something from this, an object unlike anything in the mortal world.”

  “And this . . . object will aid us in our quest?” Arthur asked, his voice nearly breathless with excitement.

  The Bone Carver nodded. “Do you have the other tusk as well?”

  Galahad handed the ivory over to Arthur.

  She regarded the two tusks with a wild gleam in her eye. “The second tusk will serve as payment. Are we agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Arthur said.

  “You have come to the right place, dear knights. Wait and see what I shall carve you.”

  RAIN SPLATTERED ACROSS Galahad’s unbound hair and shoulders as he stomped through the mud toward The Dancing Boar, the horses now bedded down for the night. The Bone Carver needed one more day to carve her object from the boar tusk. “Return tomorrow before the noon meal,” she had said from her moss-draped doorway.

  They had ridden into the yard behind the inn after the sun had set, a nightfall that was far too young. The strangeness was only confirmed when the innkeeper shared how they had departed five hours earlier. Yet the Bone Carver was only a thirty-minute trot from the inn.

  Lightning flashed through the night air followed by a rumble of thunder. After kicking the mud from his boots, Galahad entered the inn and wiped the trailing raindrops from his face. If only he could shake his unease at the strange afternoon as easily.

  Fionna peered up from a table near the hearth. Firelight flickered in her gaze as she studied how his dampened tunic clung to his chest and stomach. Heat curled in his groin and flushed to his limbs. Their eyes touched for the briefest moment before she returned to her flagon of ale. He was glad to see how her spark and confidence had returned, especially when their king wasn’t around. Arthur and Lancelot must have turned in for the evening.

  Percival, noting his and Fionna’s exchange, practically rolled his eyes.

  Galahad slapped the backside of Percival’s head and then fell into a seat right before the fire. “Fetch me an ale, lad.”

  “Fetch yer own, ye big oaf—”

  “Need a drink?” A serving woman asked, leaning onto the table.

  Her tightly-laced bodice fell forward, and gods. Large, soft breasts rose and fell in front of Percival’s ale-flushed face. The kind of breasts a man could happily bury himself into and forget to breathe. Apparently, Percival had a similar thought. Galahad tugged on the back Percival’s tunic to reel the younger knight back against his seat. Percival shot a look like daggers at Galahad, making him grin.

  “Ale,” Galahad said, pushing a copper across the table.

  The barmaid pushed it back. “Free with a kiss.” Her rouge-painted lips tilted in a seductive smile. Loose blonde curls fell over her shoulder as she eyed Galahad, her delicate eyebrow arched. “Or ale and a meal on the house, if you would like me to help you into dry clothes.”

  “I’ll take a free ale,” Percival chirped. Galahad still had a grip on the lad’s tunic and held him in place.

  Fionna cleared her throat and pretended to inspect her dagger, now in her hands.

  “Just an ale,” Galahad said with an appreciative wink. The barmaid pouted and then pushed off the table toward the barrels and caskets in the back. When she disappeared, Galahad released Percival’s tunic.

  “I’m not a wee lad.” Percival scowled and shoved to his feet. To Fionna, he softened his voice, as if embarrassed, and said, “See ye in the morning, dove.” And to him, “Ye get the floor tonight.”

  With that, Percival’s lanky form marched from their table and down the hallway to the private two-bed room they shared with Fionna. Arthur preferred his second-in-command to keep guard when he traveled and rested in public places such as this. Though, Galahad thought it might be more from habit—the two had shared rooms since they were lads.

  The barmaid returned and placed a large mug of ale before Galahad, gifting him another glimpse of her bouncing cleavage. Even he had to resist the pull toward falling into her bodice. Mayhap he was too harsh on his sword brother. Still, Percival was a strange dichotomy. Percival the warrior knight and Percival the sheltered young man from the forest. Odin’s blessing, Galahad was well acquainted with maids by Percival’s age. The young man should be allowed to play too. Sighing, Galahad eyed the half-empty mug of ale Percival had left behind and grabbed it, taking a long swig before gulping a few swigs from his own cup. Finished, he tipped back in his chair, resting his head, eyes closed, and enjoyed the warmth of the hearth.

  “Ye’re certainly pleased with yerself.”

  He cracked open one eye and focused on Fionna. “Not pleased. Warming up.”

  “Perhaps ye should change into dry clothes. Ye reek of horse.”

  A grin stretched across his face. “Strange how getting me out of these wet clothes seems of utmost concern to the fair maidens of this inn.”

  Fionna sheathed her dagger and then leaned forward on the table. A mischievous glint glimmered in her gaze. “I think I’ll go keep Percival company.”

  His chair screeched as the front two legs slid back onto the floor. “And what do you plan to do with him?”

  “Wouldn’t ye like to know.” Fionna downed the remaining dregs and slammed her mug onto the table. “See ye in the morning, chipmunk.”

  As she angled through the crowd of men and barmaids, he watched her narrow hips sway with each angry step—hips that fit perfectly in the palms of his hands. Hips that had once moved in rhythm to his. Galahad practically groaned as his cock stirred to life with the mere memory.

  A man, deep in his cups, reached out and slapped Fionna across the arse. She whirled on him fast. The man didn’t have a chance to blink before she slammed his head to the table, spitting next to his face.

  “The next time, I’ll cut off yer balls,” Fionna hissed.

  Men roared with laughter, a few cheered. Fionna slid Galahad a satisfied smirk and then waltzed away, down the hallway. To Percival.

  Wait. Was that an invitation to join?

  Oh gods.

  In a flash, Galahad was on his feet and pushing through the crowd, his ale forgotten.

  Fionna li
ngered outside his and Percival’s door, and so Galahad stepped away from the lantern light and into the hallway’s shadows. A few seconds later, Percival appeared, his mouth open with surprise. Before disappearing into their room, Fionna shot Galahad an impish smile.

  The damn woman. Still picking a fight with him.

  His long strides ate up the distance to his room in seconds. Without knocking, he pushed open the door and found Fionna and Percival in the center of their shared chamber, her lips pressed to the young man’s, his arms practically limp on her waist. Was this Percival’s first kiss? He didn’t know. Nor was Galahad sure how he felt seeing Fionna kiss another. Jealous . . . or aroused?

  Unaware of his presence in the doorway, Percival gripped Fionna’s hips tight in his hands and tugged her against him. Fionna gasped and pulled back, her eyes wide, uncertain.

  They stared at one another for a few erratic heartbeats, unspoken words passing between them. And then Galahad saw the shift, the moment Fionna looked at Percival, not with pity and surprise, but as a man who aroused her interest. Her fingers sank into his copper hair as her lips returned to his. And Percival deepened their kiss, as if he were a seasoned expert.

  Galahad quirked a brow, resisting the urge to grin. But then Fionna’s hands dipped to Percival’s waist and begun unbuckling his belt and Galahad knew he needed to step in. She probably didn’t know the rules of his vow.

  “He might have a heart attack, if you go too fast,” Galahad said, shutting the door.

  “Come to chastise me, have ye? Not my fault yer ego can’t handle that Fionna regards me as more than a chaste weakling.” Percival glared at him once more. A strange look for their incurably happy knight.

  Galahad smiled at him, not to mock, but in understanding. This was the challenge of a man, not a boy. And, if he were honest with himself, Fionna wasn’t too much older than Percival. And he fully considered her a woman.

  Fionna finished unbuckling Percival’s belt and let it drop to the floor. The clanking sound filled the tense silence between them, until she asked Percival, “What do ye want?”