Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “Curses,” Fionna muttered, though she arranged her features in greeting.

  Something had shifted in Lancelot, and though the change was subtle, Percival knew his sword-brother’s moods and mannerisms well enough to recognize the difference. The tense shadow that had draped over him since Morgana had lifted. Once again, his eyes were bright and sharp, his chiseled profile held high. He wore a tunic as blue as the sky, the neckline unlaced to reveal the lean muscle there, the pattern of ink across his skin that longed to be traced by gentle fingertips. And skies above, he wanted to explore those dark swirls and patterns. Percival swallowed and brought his mind back to the present. Lancelot was a cursed man no more. Arthur’s proud second-in-command had returned to them, and just in time.

  “You look as if you’re heading somewhere.” Lancelot stopped before them, his keen eyes locked onto Fionna. “Out of the keep?”

  Percival looked to Fionna, for the lie that would roll smoothly off her tongue. But she seemed at a loss for words. “We—” she managed, clearing her throat.

  Percival jumped in, his mind whirring. “Fionna wanted to take Zephyr for a short ride. To . . . test her leg. I thought to accompany her. We’re, um, going to inspect the wall, to ensure there are no areas ripe for a breach.”

  Lancelot’s gaze flit back and forth between them. “Wise idea,” he finally said, slowly drawing out the words. “We haven’t inspected the wall yet. Be careful though. Reports put O’Lynn’s men on our southern shore, perhaps less than an hour’s ride. There could be scouts.”

  “We’ll be watchful,” Fionna said, a grim smile on her lips.

  “See me when you return,” Lancelot said. “Some of the men who have come in from the villages are willing to fight. I could use your aid in outfitting them as well as putting them through a few rounds of basic training.”

  “Of course,” Percival said brightly, pulling Fionna past. “We’re at yer disposal.”

  Lancelot arched an eyebrow but let them pass.

  “Och dove, I thought ye were a better liar than that,” Percival whispered.

  She shook her head wearily. “I’ve had enough lies for a lifetime. I think they’re all spent.”

  “Ye’ll have little need of them when this is all done.”

  “I hope yer right.”

  PERCIVAL AND FIONNA rode through the blighted countryside in silence, tense and alert. Lancelot’s warning was fair. Caerleon wasn’t safe anymore. There could be enemies at any turn. As they rode closer to the gray waters of the Severn Sea, Percival felt as if a hand seized his chest, squeezing tighter with each step. Surely, they were upon the invaders by now.

  Fionna reigned in Zephyr, looking ahead with a peculiar expression. A grassy hill topped with a thicket of trees arose to the left, and the road curved around the slope, disappearing into the distance. She nodded up to the left. “We should have a good vantage point from up there. Let us get off the road and see if we can spot the enemy.”

  Percival wasted no time directing Kit with his knees to head up the hill. “I feel something,” Percival said. “Perhaps it’s my imagination, but it’s . . . cloying. Almost a strange thickness in the air too.”

  Fionna nodded. “I feel it too. It feels like—”

  “Magic,” they said together, sharing a disquieted look.

  They trekked around the shadowed-side of the hill, to avoid being spotted. Once arriving at the hill’s backside, they walked into overgrown trees and across a blanket of thick ferns and mossy ground. A scattering of trees showed blackened signs of the curse’s blight, but mostly they were surrounded by greenery.

  “Let’s dismount and leave the horses here,” Fionna said. “I don’t want a stray whinny alerting anyone to our position. The horses should be well-hidden.”

  Percival nodded and dismounted. They tied their horses to a tree and crept toward the front edge of the hill. Toward a view he had hoped never to see on Caerleon’s fair lands. An invading army.

  From the shadow of the canopy, the O’Lynn camp was stretched out before them. Hundreds of tents hugged the circumference of a small port town, one that looked overtaken by the enemy. Flags of blue and yellow with a snarling wolf fluttered in the breeze.

  Fionna growled beside him, as though she were ready to surge down the hill, sword bared.

  “Patience, dove. We must be smart about this. Now, do ye have any idea where yer father might be held?” Looking down below, their task suddenly seemed even more of a fool’s errand. To bumble about amongst thousands of hostile warriors, searching for one man . . .

  “O’Lynn is a warrior,” Fionna said. “But he likes his comfort. He has injuries that pain him. He will have taken up residence in the grandest home in the village.”

  “The inn then,” Percival said, gesturing at a three-story timbered building perched below. “Full larder, warm fire, comfy beds.”

  “He would keep his prisoners close by. Would a town like this have a gaol?”

  Percival shook his head. “Nae. Only the stocks here.”

  “Then, he would keep him somewhere easily closed off. Out of the way.”

  Percival wracked his brain. “Like a cellar?”

  Fionna’s eyes lit up. “Would there be a cellar beneath the inn?”

  “Aye.”

  “The cellar beneath the inn, then. That’s where we’ll find my father.”

  It seemed a thin thread indeed to stake their lives on. “Fionna—” he began.

  “Let’s head back to the horses,” she said, striding into the trees.

  He followed. “I know he’s yer father . . . but if we defeat O’Lynn, we’ll free him soon enough. Perhaps we should wait.”

  “Ye heard what Vivien shared. My father may be the only one with answers about my mother. Whether . . .” she trailed off.

  “Whether ye are borne of a goddess,” Percival finished.

  She gave a curt nod. “If I truly have some power, then we may need my magic to defeat O’Lynn and Morgana. We can’t wait.”

  “I ken, lass. But to walk into the middle of an enemy camp—” Zephyr and Kit whickered in greeting as they emerged back into the clearing where they had left them.

  Fionna rounded on him, her face a twist of emotions. “I shouldn’t have asked this of ye, Percy. I took advantage of yer feelings for me, for I knew ye wouldn’t say no. But I can’t ask ye to risk yerself. Ye should go back to Caerleon. I’ll do this alone.”

  Percival stepped in closer, taking her face gently between his hands. “If ye think that the only reason I’m here is because ye tricked me, then ye ken me less than I thought. And if ye think I could leave ye here to go in alone . . . well, then ye don’t ken me at all.”

  She tried to look down, but he held her face gently, tilting her chin back so she was forced to meet his eyes. “I am here, dove, because yer cause is just, and because I love ye. Ye don’t have to carry these burdens alone anymore. I will help ye find the truth of yer past, just as ye helped me find mine.”

  Her chin quivered as she pressed her lips together. She closed her eyes, her white eyelashes brushing her soft cheeks. “I don’t know how to thank ye,” Fionna eventually said. And then her eyes snapped opened, and a different light glowed in them—a gleam he had seen only once before. “That’s not true. I do know how to thank ye.”

  Then she surged against him and pressed her lips to his. A crow startled into flight from a branch above them—the last thing he saw before losing himself completely to her kiss.

  THE CROW GLIDED over the forest surrounding Caerleon, wings aloft with giddiness over finding a male and female who belonged to the Little Dragon King. Alone.

  Just over the crest of maples, birch, and evergreens, an encampment came into view. Hide tents surrounded a small village. Smoke curled from thatched, lime-washed homes as well as from the inn and several fire circles dotting the premises. In the distance, longboats moored up the banks of the River Usk and against Caerleon’s coastline along the Severin Sea.

  La
nding between a cluster of ferns and a moss-draped tree, the crow called upon the shadows of the forest and the blood-thirsty prayers of the nearby warmongers. Leaves and fallen lichen swirled around her until her female form materialized beneath a canopy of sun-dappled green maples. She then eased from the forest’s edge and into the encampment. Dirt and sea grimed warriors—men and women both—stopped what they were doing to watch her swaying body walk past. Her skin fairly glowed in the pale sunlight, her face and clothing unblemished from travel or camp set-up.

  The guard before O’Lynn’s tent moved to block Morgana, but only for half a heartbeat. Bowing his head, he stepped aside and allowed her to enter. Incense wafted to her nose as she stepped through the flaps and into the lantern lit space. In the corner, the older man glanced up from where he sliced an apple from a crudely made corner table beside his cot. A cot occupied by the Allán waif, Aideen. Dark circles bruised her seasick gaze and Morgana smiled.

  “Feeding your pet?” she asked O’Lynn.

  “She must earn her food,” he muttered under his breath as he went back to slicing a chunk of apple. “So far, the lass continues to displease me.”

  “Poor man,” Morgana cooed. “I bear news that will surely please you.”

  At that, he looked up and arched an eyebrow. “Do ye now?”

  “The witch is just over the hill with that Fisher whelp.”

  The younger woman gasped before she whispered, “Fionnabhair . . .”

  “Yes,” Morgana hissed, drawing out the sound. “Your sister is in the woods with a young lover. Did you honestly believe she would come and rescue you?” Morgana laughed low in her throat. “Poor lamb. Your hope is a foolish waste of the energy you barely can spare. Especially as your name is not the one leaving your sister’s mouth in a breathless gasp right now.”

  O’Lynn pushed from his chair, throwing Aideen a glare, before marching to the tent’s opening. When alone, Morgan sat on the edge of the cot and tilted her head. “He is a beautiful lad, the Fisher King. Copper hair, dark earthen eyes framed by long lashes, a boyish smile, and a fine, muscular body. Just two years older than you, I believe. And he loves her. The stench of his pheromones perfumed the trees and moss.” Aideen turned her head toward the tent’s wall, blinking back the forming tears. “And she fancies herself in love with him too. All of them. Including the abomination of a king, Arthur Pendragon. All this emotion, all this falling in love while you waste away beneath the hateful hand of your husband.”

  “Lies,” Aideen spat. “All ye speak are lies.”

  “Then why do you cry?” Morgana arched to a stand, satisfied with the girl’s roiling pulse and seething breaths.

  O’Lynn stomped into the tent with a handsome man at his side. “This is Níall, one of my finest warriors. He’ll take one of my fiercest fianna to kill her.”

  Morgana flashed a delighted glance at Aideen’s teeth-bared expression as the girl strained against her chain in fury, and then she gracefully slinked toward Níall, examining the warrior. “The witch is a capable warrior,” she said to O’Lynn. “Sending a fiann crashing through the forest will only serve to alert her and send her scampering back into the safety of Caerleon’s keep. He should go alone. Or perhaps with one other.” To the warrior, she said, “Come upon her quickly and with stealth, while she is otherwise engaged. This is how you shall end her.”

  “Very well,” O’Lynn said grudgingly. His obedience training was coming along nicely. “Tell him exactly where ye last saw the witch and he’ll run her through and then dump her carcass before King Arthur’s gates.”

  “Follow the crow, she will guide you.”

  SUNSHINE POURED INTO my body as Percival tugged me closer, deepening his kiss. His warmth permeated every part of me with a bubbling urge to frolic and tease and laugh. But instead, my body yielded completely to the dancing rhythm of his lips and the gentle hands that roamed my back.

  Until he lost his balance and jerked out of our embrace.

  I yelped as he fell into a bush only to laugh a heartbeat later when Kit nodded his head up and down before nickering his displeasure. Percival’s horse nudged him through the leafy boughs with his nose, stamping an impatient hoof.

  “Aye, I see ye. Dinna fash yerself.” Percival brushed dead leaves and twigs from his breeches and hair as he climbed out of the underbrush. Kit nickered again, and Percival rolled his eyes. “Ye know ye’re the only one for me.” Percival blocked Kit’s view with a hand and then winked at me. I bit my bottom lip to stifle my snicker. “Here,” he cooed and offered up an apple from his saddle bag. Kit lipped the apple, then wuffed at Percival’s cheek, before taking the apple from his hand, turning his attention to his treat.

  “The stallion fancies ye,” I taunted in a sing-song voice. “A jealous male, if ever I saw one.”

  “A wee too leggy for my taste.” Percival flashed me a cheeky grin. “Smothering hen too. A lad needs his freedom.”

  “Leggy?” I pretended to be outraged. “With such criticisms, I wonder what ye must think of me.”

  Percival stepped close—a good head taller than me, no less—and narrowed his eyes as he slowly inspected my legs, arms, torso, and face. “Open yer mouth and show me yer teeth.” Not expecting this request, my mouth parted in shock and Percival’s lips twitched. “A little wider. Cannae see the back.”

  Realizing my mouth was agape, I clamped my jaw shut and then smacked him across the upper arm. “Ye brute!” His laughter filled the woods around us and my heart soared at the rascally sound. Still, I placed fisted hands on my hips and glared at him. But he laughed only more. So, I picked up a handful of leaves from the forest floor and threw them at his face.

  A leaf fluttered directly into his mouth, to my wicked delight. He sputtered, spitting brittle pieces out while batting at the others hitting his face, hair, and chest.

  Now I laughed. “Yer lucky I didn’t knock ye back onto yer sorry arse.”

  “Och, ye’ll pay for this, dove,” he declared, then pounced at me.

  I spun away with a shriek, but not fast enough. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to him until his mouth collided with mine in a triumphant kiss. Gods, his lips. They were Otherworldly and full of impish magic. But I couldn’t give into his attempts at distraction, even if his very touch was bliss. Which encouraged an idea. A plan that would be too easy, for I knew he felt the same as me. And, as expected, he deepened his luscious kiss and melted against my body, just enough that I could place my leg between his and then kick his heel out from underneath him. Percival’s arms flew out in surprise, a waterfall of leaves splashing into the air as he landed with a satisfying thwump.

  And then I ran.

  I charged into the forest, ripping through ferns and undergrowth, unable to contain my glee. But I didn’t get far. Percival hooked me around the waist and yanked me to a stop. An embarrassingly girlish squeal escaped me as we tumbled to the ground in a fit of laughter, his body settling atop mine.

  Silken, copper strands curtained around my face as our mirth faded into soft smiles. His dark brown eyes crinkling with affection. My fingertips tracing along his jaw and then across his bottom lip. My chest heaved for breath and I wanted to moan with the arousing feel of my hardened nipples brushing against my chestplate. Memories of his stomach muscles, limned in candlelight, and the way he stroked himself as Galahad pleasured me teased my growing need.

  Part of me knew this was foolish to give in to our carnal urges at this moment—that we were exposed here, so close to our enemy’s camp. But the wood was thick and gnarled, and I felt safe here, with the tall trees standing sentinel over us. We had seen no signs of Uí Tuírtri scouts coming this way while we watched the camp. And we had hours left until dark. I could think of no better way to pass the time.

  So, I tucked strands of chin-length hair behind his ear, then kissed him. Long. Slow. Every sensation languorous and yearning.

  Pulling away, he caught his breath and whispered, “I ache for ye.”

  “Make me
yers,” I whispered back.

  A crooked smile flitted across his lips. “Why did we wear so much armor?”

  “Protection against me, of course.”

  “Aye, ye weaken me senseless.”

  “Let’s remedy that.”

  “My weakness for ye?”

  “No,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “The armor.”

  From my position beneath him, I began unfastening his leather chest piece. Then I unlaced the bracers tightened at each wrist. I ran my fingers along his well-sculpted arm—an archer’s forearm—calling back images of him on horseback while shooting from his longbow, his burnished hair tossed about in the wind. Heat kindled in my belly at the feel of his hardened body. Slowly, I moved up his abdomen and pectorals to his collarbone, where I unclasped the leather armor around his neck.

  I would be his first, the one to awaken his body to a form of pleasure unlike any other. A part of me wanted to roll him over to gain control. To ride him until his every muscle tensed and shuddered with release. Until he moaned and clawed at the dirt and painted my bare skin with the earth stained on his fingertips. But this moment was his to control, his to navigate and discover. And mine to enjoy. For he chose me, and I would not disappoint the man who gifted me with his laughter and his heart.

  His innocence.

  He smiled sweetly, dipping down for a kiss. “I’ve waited my whole life for ye. I would search for the Grail and fight monsters all over again, just to prove myself worthy of yer love.”

  “Percy . . .” My heart clenched at his confession. “Ye have always been worthy of my love. There is naught to earn, ye silly goose.”

  “Sure, but I’m not made of tree trunks like Galahad or an experienced lover like Lancelot or as dreamy as Arthur.”

  “Dreamy?”

  He quietly laughed. “Ye think he is, admit it.”

  “Sir Percival of Caer Benic, Fisher King and Grail Prince, the only matter I’ll discuss right now is how much I fancy ye.” I tried to hold a straight face, my voice even as I added, “Which is unmeasurably more than Kit.”