I softened, stroking his cheek, feeling the smooth skin of his fresh shave. “Never was there a more generous man than ye, Arthur Pendragon. It is one of the many reasons I love ye.” An idea was churning in my mind, a dream I kept locked tight in the deepest recesses of my heart. A way that all of us might be together. If Arthur was open. And his words warmed me that he might be. But Arthur deserved a wedding. A bride. A queen. Just as I had moments with each of my knights, my king deserved a moment all to himself. “I choose all of ye, it’s true. Ye each own a piece of my heart. But let us think only on the piece you hold tonight. Ye and me. I would have us focus on our joy. To celebrate our love. There will be time to discuss a different future, with all of us together, as one.” I hoped.
Arthur nodded, exhaling. “I would like that very much.”
“Shall we?” I held out my hand, and Arthur took it, threading his fingers through mine.
“We shall.”
The servants had managed to find bouquets of wildflowers and bows of greenery to festoon around the tables nearby where Merlin stood. Candles flickered on stands behind him while unlit tapers rested in the hands of those who gathered. The room crowded with people, nobles and villagers alike, who had been ushered inside the safety of the keep’s walls from O’Lynn’s ravaging. In the front row stood my knights, even Lancelot. I swallowed, trying to catch his eye, but he looked straight ahead, his rugged face stoic. I tucked thoughts of them aside, as carefully as a baby bird. I had meant what I said. Arthur deserved my undivided attention at our wedding.
Merlin raised his hands above his head and said, “Let us form a circle and bless this place.”
I joined hands with Percival and Arthur, who joined hands with the other knights and nobles until we formed a circle. The remaining crowd stood at our backs as we watched Merlin lift a bundle of burning sage and meadowsweet.
The druid paced the perimeter of the circle, saying, “Elements of the north, come. Elements of the east, you are welcome. Elements of the south, join us. Elements of the west, attend us now. Gods and goddesses, we invite you to witness and bless the sacred union between Arthur Pendragon, High King of Briton, to his land, the Gwenevere, daughter of Danu, and earth- and sovereignty-goddess.”
Murmurs rumbled around the circle, curious eyes glancing my way. But I ignored them all.
Merlin reached for the Blessed Grail on the table behind him and then dipped his fingers into the enchanted bowl. “We cleanse this circle of any wickedness and impurity.” Lifting his fingers from the water, he flicked droplets across the stone floors as he paced round and round. “May only goodness and health flow from these stones and dance in this air.” When complete, he set the Grail back onto the table and then approached me and Arthur. “Come, My King and his faerie bride. Step into the circle’s center and open your hearts to the Earth and all her blessings. She smiles upon your union this day.” The rings around Merlin’s eyes flashed gold as his pupils narrowed to slits. “Yes, she has many riches in store for you both.”
Arthur led me to the center, weaving his fingers with mine. His chest rose and fell in a quick rhythm, much like my own. An energy was present, one that flowed through my veins, my muscles, tingling, dripping sweet like honey until the very sensation coated me completely.
Merlin next grabbed a candle from the stand behind him and lit Lancelot’s candle, who then lit Galahad’s, then Percival’s and so forth until the circle illuminated with tiny, sinewy flames. The image was magic itself. The amber glow painted me and Arthur in flickering shadows and light. Dressed in the Pendragon red, we appeared as though fire-breathing dragons. Mighty. Immortal. And fierce.
With a ceremonial hemp cord, Merlin began tying a knot over my and Arthur’s clasped hand, his lips moving in ancient incantations and blessings. Arthur’s green eyes met mine and held me captive. He was the blazing hearth fire of home, a soothing cool breeze in summer, a sturdy oak rooted deep in the earth, and a warm rainfall in spring. But most of all, he was my king and I was his land. And, from this point forward, I possessed power over his kingship as well as the health of his people. A power he granted me willingly.
My knees threatened to buckle, my legs wobbly. Even as Arthur spoke his vows and I spoke mine. Even when Merlin removed the corded knot from our hands. And when Arthur placed a crown of golden holly leaves and berries upon my brows. Together, we ruled the seasons, all the elements, light and darkness and, through our consummation, fertility for the land and her people.
The bright, tingling power surged through me and my head grew faint at the Otherworldly feel of Arthur’s mouth pressing against mine. “My Queen,” he whispered across my lips, claiming the breath in my lungs and the very beat of my heart. Ribbons of smoke twirled and writhed upward from the many candles now snuffed out in people’s hands.
The crowd cheered around us. Then the knights and nobles rushed toward us in a crushing embrace.
I floated on wings of ebullience through the quick, makeshift feast. Nodding when I should and answering questions as they crossed my path. But my head was full of Arthur. An energy was building within me. The same energy that entered me in the circle’s center. I thought I would burst as my heart cried out to know his pulse intimately. Then he grabbed my hand, a boyish smile on those very lips I wanted to taste again, and he led me out of the Great Hall and toward the gardens.
WANING SUNLIGHT HALOED Arthur in billowing golds and corals. The evening wind toyed with his shortened strands and carried to me the verdant scents of an oak forest, freshly cut apples, and spiced wine. I wanted to bury my nose against his skin and breathe deeply.
He led me past the kitchen garden to a seam in the timbered wall nearby. From the naked eye, the hidden opening appeared as though solid beams of hewn wood. A continuing wall. But, once through the opening, a new world spread out before me, one I had never encountered in all my explorations. “Beautiful,” I said under my breath.
Slowing to a stop, Arthur cupped my face, his eyes searching mine. “I love you, Fionnabhair Allán,” he whispered. “With your permission, I would know you completely.”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Ye have my permission, Arthur Pendragon.”
His eyes shuttered as he drew in a giddy breath. “We should be alone here. Safe from both prying eyes and invading armies.” He gestured to the wild garden around us, secluded by several trees and a partial timber wall jutting out from the keep, but protected by the outlaying defensive wall. Flowers in every color of the rainbow blanketed the ground and climbed trellises all around us, as though a storied faerie garden. “This was my mother’s favorite spot when she wished to hide.” His smile dimmed. “But I would be glad to build new memories here with you. Happy ones.”
I placed my hand on his chest and he looked away, brows furrowed, though he continued to cradle my face in his hands. “I am sorry we cannot journey into the forest alone,” Arthur said.
Danu had explained to me that the best chance of awakening my powers would be found if we lay together upon the earth itself. “I care not where we make love,” I replied. “Only that my heart can finally know the beating rhythm of yers.”
He returned his gaze to mine in a single, soft blink. “Then, My Queen,” he whispered, “marry me to the land and make me your king.”
We couldn’t shed our clothes fast enough. Though, at the same time, we wanted to relish each new flash of skin. He untied my gown from behind until the bodice slipped down my arms and gathered at my breasts. The silk caressed my body and I shivered with delight, anticipating Arthur’s touch. His lips pressed to my shoulder. Then his mouth traveled to my neck, until he nibbled on my ear lobe.
“Not even the beauty of the moon compares to you,” he whispered in my ear. His warm breath pulsed onto my skin and my eyes fluttered closed. “Nor do the stars in the night sky hold a flickering candle to the soft lines and curves of your body.”
Pleasure rushed through me at his poetic words and the sultry gravel of voice.
“Y
our breasts,” he continued, his hands cupping the soft mounds and encouraging my gown to pool at my feet. “Your skin, and goddess above, your hips . . . they hold a spell over me.” He stepped away from my back and turned me gently but firmly to face him. And, when his lips brushed along mine, he whispered, “And your mouth. You taste like an orchard in bloom. I want to savor your every kiss.”
My fingers trailed down the freckles of his muscled chest as his lips captured mine. His skin was deliciously warm and drew me closer until my breasts pressed into the hard, ribbed lines of his torso. I ached to be surrounded by him, to drown in the heat of his passion. His arms wrapped around my waist as his hands splayed across the toned lines of my back as our kiss deepened.
His touch humbled me––reverent and soft––as if I were the most fragile thing he had ever held. And perhaps I was, for I knew I claimed not only his heart, but his land. I owned him completely now, and there was no going back. Other marriages may handfast for a year and a day, but not ours. We were forever bound before the gods and elements.
Gently, he lowered me beneath him in the swaying wildflowers. The moss and grass cradled my trembling body. The energy wanted release. Wanted him.
His fingers tenderly brushed strands of flyaway hair from my face as his eyes drank me in. “I am so in love with you,” he said. “I am lost in this feeling.”
“Come find me, then,” I said in playful reply.
A shy smile played across his lips. This boyish side of him always pulled on my heartstrings. We were a king and a queen, a ruler and a demi-goddess. But this moment, as I took in his rising blush, cherished each freckle on his face, felt the way his fingers grazed along my side, past my hip, to my thigh, we were just a boy and a girl. In the face of our enemies and tribulations, it was easy to forget that I was only twenty years old and he just two and twenty. But here, our kingdoms and duties and powers fell away until our breath formed the wind fluttering the leaves above us and our bodies became the very earth we lay upon.
He slid into me as we kissed, and I gasped as the building power swirling within me released into him. He sucked in a deep breath, his eyes closing with the feel me. All of me. The ground beneath us tremored, similar to my experience with Percival. And, for a single sand of time, I thought of this, how both Percival and Arthur were sovereign-blessed kings, and how I had joined with them both and only when the earth lay beneath my back.
Then we began to move, all else forgotten but Arthur. His strong arms embraced me as his hips ground into mine. I could feel the sculpted muscles of his chest, his stomach, the way the muscles of his back rolled beneath my fingertips. He was beautiful, a breathtaking dance of passion and love, infused with the headiest romance I have ever known. Even the way his body moved was poetry.
His lips kissed down my throat and then dragged back to mine. “I want to become the sun in your hands,” he whispered. “To burn . . . to know total destruction.”
My breath stirred for an intoxicating beat of my heart. And then I rolled him over until he was pressed into the moss and grass. Wildflowers swayed around my head and the wind fingered through the long tresses rippling down my back. The sun sank behind the walls and trees and brushed the sky in streaks of lavender and indigo.
Our eyes locked as my hips began to roll against his. “Burn, My King,” I said, and his arms fell over his head as pleasure rippled through us both in glittering waves of bliss. Light and sensation filled my body as I watched this gorgeous, powerful man surrender to me. Bearing his neck and leaving his body vulnerable. I understood his demonstration of submission and tears pricked at my eyes. He would lay his life down before me to destroy and make whole.
“Arthur . . .” I moaned his name when the earth rose up to consume me. I was every blade of grass, the breaking dawn, the life-giving soil. Glistening dew drops rolled down my body like twinkling stars. My fingernails dug into his pectorals as he heaved for breath, his lips flushed with arousal. His fingers gripped my arse, pulling me tighter against him. Deeper. With every thrust of his hips, I died. With every roll of mine, I was reborn.
The swirling, tingling energy—l could now name the sensation. Thousands of roots curled through me and anchored me to the earth in sensual touches. Unfurling leaves of feral light shimmered along my self-control until every scintillating beam bloomed in my core. I turned to fire, ablaze with the feel of Arthur’s body tangling with mine. He was an oak tree and I was his life-giving energy, our limbs the rambling roots burying deep into the soil of our future.
In this place, we were a mighty force. Armies blew away before us in a hot gust of fury. The ground healed and brightened to every vibrant shade imaginable. Our love was immovable. Our destiny unshakable.
Arthur cried out first, his body arching in muscled spasms of pleasure. I cried out next as my body became moonlight—silvered, crystallized dust and the throbbing illumination of an entire star-flecked sky. We remained still, basking in the glow of our love-making. Even as his seed dripped from my thighs and anointed the ground.
His eyes fluttered open and then he stared at me in hazy bliss. I had married my king to the land.
My hand fluttered up to feel the curve of my ear. It was human as always—no sharp faerie point. And though I had felt a taste of the earthen magic brewing inside of me when we joined, it had drained from me with our climax. I now felt the same as before. A warrior princess from across the Irish Sea who held the heart of a king and his three knights. Sated and languid with the love of a king, but not magic. Not . . . godlike. Disappointment welled within me. Perhaps I wasn’t the Gwenevere and my vision of Danu had been induced by desperation alone.
I looked around the garden and frowned. No change. Same as when I drank from the Grail at the Red Spring. Same as when I joined with Percival in the forest, even though the earth trembled beneath me.
Arthur caressed my cheek. “My wife . . .”
Tears gathered on my eyelashes and spilled down my cheeks. “It didn’t work,” I said through the lump growing in my throat.
“Fionna,” he whispered softly. “You are all I have ever wanted. Anything else you bring to our union is a bonus. But you . . . you are more than enough. You’re my every heartbeat. My very breath.”
He wiped away a tear with his thumb and then gathered me to him. There, in this hidden garden, Arthur held me as I wept, our bodies entangled, my head pressed into the crook of his neck. I had once stolen his sword and risked his kingship. Now, I represented the very land he ruled. And I was still broken.
THE STENCH OF burning feathers carried on the wind. An insufferable scent. O’Lynn’s war camp must have burned dead crows and their fallen throughout the entire night.
But the reeking haze in the air wasn’t what truly bothered Lancelot.
The keep felt different this morning. Lancelot felt different. As if a weight hung around his neck, a heavy shroud cloaking his body and blocking out the air and light. Was it the enemies surrounding them, pressing at their walls with oppressive presence? Or was it the fact that Fionna was wed. She was his queen. And she was Arthur’s. And queens didn’t deign to fraternize with mere knights. Even if they were exiled French faerie princes.
Last night, as the delicate circlet of holly leaves was placed on her brow, Fionna had looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. And more distant. She had tried to catch his eye a dozen times, as she stood in the circle at the ceremony, as she sipped from a golden goblet at the hasty feast. He couldn’t bring himself to meet those silver pools. To see in them all that could have been. And would never be. Was it better to taste heaven’s sweet essence and then have it ripped from you, or to never know? Lancelot thought he preferred the latter. It was ironic, in a way. In the end, Morgana’s curse wasn’t even necessary. Fate saw fit to rob Lancelot of the only woman he had ever truly loved. His Gwenevere.
He trudged outside to meet the others where they were to gather before the gates. It was time for Arthur to treat with O’Lynn and Morgana. A risk, but
a risk worth taking if it bought Fionna enough time to break the géis and unlock her powers.
At the gates, she was the only one waiting. Gone was the gauzy dress of last night, the one that hugged every lithe curve. She was back in her boiled-leather armor, her swords at her hips, her hair braided in a long tail down her back. She turned as he approached, as if she felt his very presence.
“Lancelot,” she murmured, her hand drifting to her heart as she gazed upon him.
“My queen,” he said, bowing deeply at the waist.
“Don’t do that,” she crooned. The space between them felt as wide as the waters separating Britannia from the mainland.
He muttered, “It’s only proper.”
“Since when are ye concerned with propriety?” she asked. “Ye don’t fawn over Arthur like that. Nothing has changed. I’m still me.”
“Everything has changed,” he replied.
His words were flint, lighting the fire in her eyes. She stepped toward him, and he stepped back. “It changes nothing about how I feel for ye.”
“I’m sure your husband would have something to say about that.” Lancelot knew his words were unfair. Especially as he knew why they had wed so suddenly, with so little discussion. But he couldn’t help it. Two days ago, he had been buried to the hilt in this enthralling woman, his heart soaring as though he had never flown before. And now she was wed to another.
To Arthur. His brother.
Percival and Galahad approached, and Lancelot seized upon the distraction. “You ready Percy?” he asked, but Percival ignored him, approaching Fionna and pulling her into an embrace. “Congratulations, dove,” he said, and Fionna leaned into him, burying her face in his chest.
Lancelot exchanged a look with Galahad as his chest tightened with envy. How did Percival do that? Make affection look so easy. Let the twists of fate fall from his shoulders like water off a duck’s back? Perhaps Percival’s love for Fionna was purer than his own. A love little concerned with propriety or jealousy or competition. Unconditional. That was Percival. And one of the reasons his own heart desired this man for himself as well.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 54
