Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  My heart galloped like Zephyr in an open field as we snaked between tents and cookfires, making our way into the outskirts of the village. The familiar sounds of a Dál nAraidi camp should have soothed me, but they set me more on edge. I wiped my palms on my breeches, cursing silently to myself. Give me a fair fight any day. But I was not cut out for sneaking around like a silent assassin.

  My nerves were frayed to a single thread by the time we reached the village center, where the proud inn stood. Candlelight poured out the leadened window panes, together with the sounds of carousing. The Uí Tuírtri were clearly enjoying Caerleon’s bounty. Hopefully they were now well into their cups.

  One warrior stood guard before the cellar doors, and I smiled grimly. Percival and my deduction had been correct. Someone was in there. I turned to Lancelot to find him already moving, silent and quick as the wraith he had prompted us to be. In a few heartbeats, Lancelot had run up behind the man and slit his throat, catching his body and then dragging him into the dark shadows of a nearby alley.

  Percival raised an eyebrow and we darted out to help, grabbing the deceased’s legs and carrying him out of sight. The man’s eyes were open as his lifeblood poured out, but I considered him little. This man was guarding my father. Perhaps starving him. Beating him. He deserved no quarter.

  I fumbled along the man’s belt with numb fingers until I was rewarded with a ring of keys.

  Rising as one, we poked our heads out of the shadow of the inn and surveyed the square. Two Uí Tuítri warriors were strolling across the dirt expanse, horns of ale in hand. I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Lancelot. Would they notice how the guard was missing?

  But the warriors passed through with a loud guffaw of laughter, and I let out a breath, my lungs burning for air.

  “Now,” Lancelot said.

  We darted out into the open square, and I felt as exposed as I had while standing naked before those foul Uí Tuítri bastards. My hands shook as I tried one key and then another. The key’s jangling sound seemed deafening in my ears, and I cringed. Any moment, I swore the inn’s front door would crash open with a cry.

  One of the keys slipped into the lock and turned with a click. I hauled open the door and Lancelot and Percival hurried inside as I urged them on.

  I followed, pulling a knife from my belt as I heaved the door shut behind us with a muffled thunk.

  As the door closed, we were swallowed completely in darkness. My senses roared to life as I gripped the dagger tightly. The smell of earth washed over me, the leeching cool of being underground pebbling my skin. We hadn’t considered this. We didn’t truly know what would await us in the dark.

  “Who goes there?” A thin voice called out. “Is this a new game?” That voice. Recognition roared within me. Followed by relief.

  “Father?” I called out, taking a blind step forward.

  “Fionnabhair?” His voice—my father’s voice. Alive. Here.

  A sob escaped me, and I sheathed my knife, shuffling forward.

  “Fionna,” Lancelot hissed. He reached for my shoulder, but I shied away until his grip slipped from me.

  “Da,” I said, my hands out before me, reaching for the familiar form I longed to touch again, the wiry beard, the strong shoulders.

  And then another hand made contact and cold, gnarled fingers twined with mine. We crashed together like a wave against the rocky shore, and hot tears spilled past my self-control to roll down my face. My senses told me he was thin and weak and dirty—but none of it mattered. He was my Da. He was alive. And he was here.

  THE PATH FROM Elathia’s throne back to Vivien’s portal had transformed. Gone were the gentle scenes of faerie lights and fantastical flowers. Their path was now overgrown with thorns and gnarled brambles. Though it seemed Elathia was holding true to her side of Galahad’s bet—letting Arthur, Galahad and the Cauldron of Plenty leave her court—she clearly wasn’t pleased about it. And, therefore, didn’t intend to let them go easily.

  Arthur and Galahad navigated through the tangle of rambling limbs, ignoring the thorns tearing at their tunics and rending sharp slices across their arms and chests. Though no words passed between them, it was clear a similar sense of urgency gripped them both. They needed to get the hell out of here before Elathia changed her mind.

  Galahad clutched the Cauldron of Plenty to his broad chest, as if it were the most precious possession he had ever held. For perhaps it was. This strange silver bowl—the shrunken cauldron—was the very relic that would save Caerleon. And Arthur’s kingship. If they could only get through these cursed thorns!

  Arthur was about pull Excalibur from its sheath and set to work like a common woodsman when the dense thicket cleared.

  “Thank the gods,” Galahad said.

  “I’m not sure the gods have sway here anymore,” Arthur muttered. “We go together,” Arthur added. He grabbed Galahad’s wrist and then they pushed through the portal Vivien had created.

  And landed back into the Great Hall at Caerleon.

  Arthur leaned over in physical relief, his hand on his stomach.

  “The portal closed,” Galahad said, heaving a sigh while running a hand through his long, wild strands. “Just like Vivien said. They can’t follow us.”

  “We did it.” Arthur laughed. “I can’t believe we bloody did it.” He turned to Galahad. “You bold son of a bitch. I can’t believe you bet yourself.”

  “Well, I knew you weren’t leaving Excalibur, and I wasn’t leaving you.” Galahad grinned. “So, I figured we might as well get comfortable.”

  “Did you see the look on Elathia’s face when I crossed back over the lake with Excalibur?” The faerie had practically spit at him, pointing her finger like a spear. “A bet well made. Now take the Cauldron and go.”

  Galahad guffawed. “I thought she had downed a tankard of vinegar! She was not pleased with you, Your Majesty. Not one bit.”

  Arthur laughed, reveling in how the tension drained from him each time he did so. They were back. They had the Cauldron. And with this relic, their chances of defeating O’Lynn and Morgana’s army increased tenfold. Allowed them to feed Caerleon until they could figure out how to cure the curse for good too. “Shall we go find the others?”

  “I’ll make sure to regale Fionna with tales of your brave deeds.” Galahad grinned again.

  “And I yours,” Arthur said, clapping Galahad on the back.

  But the others were nowhere to be found. Not Lancelot, nor Percival, or Fionna.

  Arthur and Galahad finally found Merlin. The druid stood atop one of the keep’s towers with eyes glowing in the darkness.

  “You have returned,” Merlin said. He raised an eyebrow. “And with the Cauldron of Plenty, though smaller than I expected. I see Danu’s steward is friendly to our cause.”

  “Not exactly.” Arthur exchanged a wry look with Galahad. “We have a bit of a tale to tell. Do you know where my other knights are?”

  Merlin nodded out into the darkness. “They return anon.”

  Arthur frowned, squinting into the night. “They’re not here? But I left instructions—”

  “I suspect they have a tale to tell as well,” Merlin interrupted.

  “How fares the keep?” Galahad asked, ever the diplomat.

  “Preparations for war are coming along well. But, if I may—” Merlin reached out a hand for the Bowl “—we need provisions. I will set up in the Great Hall. Galahad, please have all manner of food available brought to me?”

  Galahad handed over the Cauldron stiffly, nodding. Arthur understood. After what he had almost sacrificed to gain this relic, he must feel a bit attached.

  Hoofbeats reached Arthur’s ears, and he leaned over the wall to identify the riders. Fionna and her dappled mare Zephyr came into view first, their white and silver hair and coat appearing like a specter in a distance. But . . . there was someone behind her on the horse. A man.

  A story to tell indeed. “Come,” Arthur said. “Let us meet them.”

  Ar
thur and Galahad were standing in the courtyard when the keep’s thick doors were cranked open. Fionna, Lancelot, and Percival rode in. Guilty expressions colored their faces when they spotted Arthur and Galahad.

  “You’ve returned,” Lancelot said carefully, swinging down from Cheval.

  “You, too, have returned,” Arthur said dryly. “Though from where, I’m uncertain—”

  “This was my idea,” Fionna hastily interjected, swinging down from her own horse. Lancelot was crossing to help the man dismount behind her. When the older man’s feet touched the ground, his knees buckled, and it was only Lancelot’s strong grip that kept him from falling.

  Fionna crossed to the older man’s side and drew his arm around her shoulders gently, and with reverence. Together, Fionna and Lancelot helped the man forward, to stand before Arthur.

  “Arthur, meet my father. His Majesty, Brin Allán, King of Tara, Chieftain of Clann Allán.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened. Fionna’s father! How in the ten hells . . .

  The man shrugged off Lancelot and Fionna’s help and drew himself up to his full height. He was dirty and clearly malnourished, but there was a well of strength there that Arthur recognized. The man was as tall as he, and broad of shoulder, with a warrior’s carriage. He looked to have a handsome face beneath the dirt and beard, the crinkled lines around his brown eyes speaking of laughter and kindness, in a time long past. “Forget all the formalities. I haven’t been king of a pile of cow shit since O’Lynn took me. Call me Brin, lad.” He held out a hand to Arthur.

  Arthur laughed, and then took his hand, shaking it. This man was Fionna’s father. This man, if Arthur had his way, would be his father-in-law. He was struck by the importance of this moment. “I see where Fionna gets her fire.”

  “Och, between her and her sister, it’s a wonder the lasses didn’t burn my keep down.”

  “Da,” Fionna chided, but her eyes shone with happy tears, her face rapt.

  “Welcome to Caerleon, Brin. I suspect you have need of food and a hot bath, though in what order, you may choose.”

  “Thank ye for yer hospitality, King Pendragon.”

  “Please, call me Arthur.”

  Brin inclined his head. “Arthur. If it’s all the same to ye, I would like to drink an ale, catch up with my daughter, then plan how we’re going to beat the shit out of O’Lynn and that faerie bitch at his side.”

  “Hear, hear,” Lancelot murmured.

  Arthur grinned. “Brin Allán, you are welcome indeed.”

  I DIDN’T WANT to break contact with him. My father. I held tight under his arm as we walked slowly toward a chamber next to mine, where Arthur’s servants were already arranging a meal, a hot bath, and a change of clothes.

  “I’m gonna lose my fingers if ye keep squeezing so tight.” He looked at me sideways, a hint of mirth in his eyes.

  “Sorry,” I said ruefully, only loosening my grip slightly. “I think I’m still in shock that ye’re actually here.”

  “Ye and me both, my duckling. When I heard yer voice in the dark . . .” he trailed off, his eyes growing distant. “I was sure it was another of that witch’s foul tricks.”

  The mention of Morgana set my pulse pounding. “Did she mistreat ye? Did he?”

  “No more than ye might expect. There was mocking and humiliation, and drunken nights where the Uí Tuítri thought I would make a fine punching bag. A man comes into this world naked and without pride. I supposed it was too much to expect that I would depart for the Otherworld any different.”

  “And a woman?” I asked softly, but he never answered me. We had reached the chamber next to mine and walked through the open door slowly as servant hurried about making his room ready. I took all the activity in, afraid to ask the question on my lips. “How is Aideen? Did . . .” I didn’t know what to ask. Visions of my vibrant, sweet sister at the mercy of those monsters colored my vision blood red.

  Brin sighed heavily. “They held her apart from the men, thank the gods. She got the taunts and the jabs twice as bad as me. As much as I hate to say it, O’Lynn taking her as a bride might be the best thing that could have happened to her.”

  “How could ye say such a vile thing?” I snapped. “The man’s a foul brute!”

  “Aye, but she’s his now. And, thus, off limits. She’ll be treated with respect, cared for. As much as I hate the thought of that man’s hands on her, Aideen is strong. A woman can endure one man’s unwelcome advances for a time. Without losing herself.”

  The servants poured the last of the steaming bathwater into the copper tub and curtseyed their leave. “Spoken like a man who’s never had to endure such advances,” I muttered under my breath, thinking of the Uí Tuírtri warrior scrambling atop me, believing he was entitled to my body. I didn’t know what trauma Aideen would have suffered in O’Lynn’s hands. But I prayed Brin was right. That she was strong enough to endure it.

  “Let me help ye,” I said as he took unsteady steps toward the bath.

  “Help me by grabbing that ale I asked for,” he replied gruffly, pulling his impossibly-dingy shirt over his head, before leaning one hand on the tub’s rim.

  The sight of his back stole my breath. Beneath the film of dirt and grime, his skin was crisscrossed with dark bruises and scabbed cuts. His once muscled form had shriveled from malnourishment. For the first time, he looked not like a King of Tara, the proud Brin Allán who had helped Brian Boru, then High King of Ireland, subdue the Norsemen out of the Kingdom of Dublin in the Battle of Clontarf. But now he looked like an old man. “Oh Da.” The words slipped from my lips, and he stiffened.

  “I don’t need yer goggling, I need that ale!” he barked, and I turned to the tray of food the servants had left, giving him some privacy to finish undressing.

  When I turned back with his blessed ale, he had slipped into the tub, a look of bliss on his face. I handed him the drink and he took a long swig, before releasing a satisfied sound.

  “By the goddess,” he murmured. “Thought I might never feel such pleasures again. A hot bath, a good ale. The sight of my beautiful Fionnabhair.” He looked up at me, and I thought I glimpsed a flicker of emotion within his eyes, before the warrior’s shield slid down once again.

  “Do you want me to leave ye?” I asked, though I had a list of questions as long as my arm that I was desperate to ask him.

  “Nay, don’t leave, daughter,” he said. “I’ve need of ye yet. Pull up that stool.” So, I did, pulling a stool up beside the tub and perching upon it. “Hold this,” he said, and I held his ale while he ducked under the water all the way, running his hand through his matted hair. The bathwater was already gritty and gray.

  He came up for air and took his ale back. “Get me one of those chicken legs, eh?” He nodded back toward the tray of food.

  “I see why ye want me here,” I said but my words were gentle, and I retrieved the requested chicken leg for him.

  “Not just that,” he said. “I want to hear yer story. Why the hell ye’re—why we’re—in Briton. How ye became a knight of Caerleon. How ye came to live in this fine keep with the favor of a High King.” He waved the leg around.

  “How about a trade?” I offered. “Because I have questions for ye too. Ye ask one, I ask one.”

  He inclined his head. “Start talkin’. And while ye do, grab me a piece of that bread.”

  As he munched on the bread, I told him of Morgana and her sister’s hatred for Arthur and Lancelot, as well as their three curses. O’Lynn’s deal with me—to steal Excalibur from Arthur in exchange for their lives. I told him how I failed—how the knights stopped me on the road to Brunanburh in Northern Wales. But how they spared my life. Because they had learned I was a key to finding the Blessed Grail.

  “And them sparing ye had nothing to do with how they all look at ye like lovesick whelps?” My father asked, now gnawing through a piece of roast venison.

  My cheeks heated. “We have . . . come to care for one another. It played a part.” I was reluctan
t to share the extent of how. Not that I thought he would judge me for loving four men—having multiple lovers, especially among warriors, was as common as clover in Ireland—but for fear that he would judge me for putting my heart over his and Aideen’s safety. Their very lives, even. For how could he not? I cursed myself for this predicament daily.

  “So,” he said, “somehow, we bumbled into the middle of a faerie war, and that idiot O’Lynn is merely a piece on the game board?”

  I nodded. “That’s a fair summary.” I sighed. “I suppose I’m a piece too.”

  My father shook his head. “You were. But you’ve made yourself indispensable to these knights of Caerleon and their king. You will be a queen soon enough.”

  My blush deepened as my father voiced my secret hope. But also, if it was indeed true that I was a Gwenevere, then he already knew I would become queen one day. A queen destined to save a king.

  “My turn,” I said, voicing the question that had been crystalizing in my mind for weeks. I was grateful that I could speak the words without wavering. “Who is my mother?”

  My father froze with the ale horn halfway to his mouth. He lowered his drink slowly, his brown eyes penetrating my own. “I always knew we would visit this topic someday.” He swallowed. “First, know that my wife Catríona loved ye. She loved ye like her own daughter.”

  A numbness overtook me at his words. Catríona Allán wasn’t my mother.

  “It was, eh, twenty-one years ago now. I was riding through the woods near Aghanravel. Beautiful spring day. The buds were bright on the trees, birds flitting about. I came upon a woman. As beautiful as a field of wildflowers. Hair brown as loamy soil, skin soft as cotton-grass. Just standing there in the middle of the forest, wearing this gown of white. No horse, no possessions, just standing there. Like she was waiting for me. I stopped to see if she needed assistance. Things were fairly peaceful then, but still, there were dangers that could face such a fair maiden alone. She told me her name was Danu, and that she was waiting for me.”

  I hissed in a breath. “The goddess?”