Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “And I want yer pain.”

  Then, to his surprise, she bit him, where she had been feathering soft kisses a moment before. The points of her short canines broke his skin and sank into him as she lapped at the wound. Fire rolled across his shoulder and curled into his chest. Her tongue then flicked at the bite to soothe the wound.

  She had bloody claimed him as her mate!

  In the way of the fae!

  “Oh gods,” Percival whispered at their side. He had nearly forgotten about the young man in his delirium.

  Overwhelmed with emotion, Lancelot tangled his fingers back into her hair and yanked her lips to his in a bruising kiss. They collided in a heat so intense, he felt the steeled remnants of every bit of grief melting away. She was an inferno of passion and pleasure and he wanted to burn to ash with every searing touch of her body.

  “Tell me ye want me,” she whispered into their kiss.

  He smiled. “I want you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I want you all my days,” he replied in a heady whisper.

  Fionna grabbed his shoulders and shoved him down toward the moss. But, before his head touched the forest floor, he rolled her onto her back. Then he pushed into her in a single, quick thrust. And again. Each pump of his hips as hard and fast as his pounding pulse. She traced her fingers along the swirls and knots inked onto his chest and shoulders.

  “I want yer strength, Prince Lancelot du Lac. My husband.” Her eyes flicked to his.

  His breath caught as he blinked back the hot tears gathering behind his eyelids. “I want your strength, Fionnabhair Allán. My Gwenevere.” He lowered and softly tasted her lips and whispered, “My faerie wife.”

  In a rush of breath, his heart emptied into the moon-touched magic of their kiss as the heat of his body emptied into hers. The ground beneath her gently quaked and Lancelot orgasmed again, moaning her name to the night sky and the stars above.

  In the wake of release, lichens bloomed on the trunks of neighboring trees and across stones. Spectral ribbons of mist slithered across the pond and rolled onto the banks, where reeds and water irises sprouted and then speared up into the blue, shimmering air.

  GALAHAD BIDED HIS time by staring into the fire and drinking mead. Lancelot and Percival had been caressing the tantalizing curves of Fionna’s naked form following their intimacies—one man before her, the other behind. Galahad wanted her to rest before enjoying him next, especially after their bout earlier this evening in the pond. A corner of his mouth quirked up. Gods, he loved it when she stormed in fury at him.

  “Thinking of my victory over ye?”

  She now stood before him. A soft glow illuminated the pale skin of her luscious body in the firelight.

  He grinned, slow and lazy. “I demand a re-match, Lady.”

  “Do ye, now?”

  Galahad fell back onto his bedroll as Arthur snorted nearby. Their king had also imbibed in a few chalices of honeyed wine. “Are you afraid you’ll lose?” Galahad teased.

  Fionna knelt between his legs with a mischievous glint in her eyes. And then she began kissing his calf, behind his knees, and up his thighs. At his groin, she lifted her head and met his shuttered gaze. “I hear fear in yer voice, fair Knight.”

  He boomed with laughter at her attempts of intimidation. As his humor faded into the dark air, she licked up the hard length of his cock, and his quieting laugh quickly dissolved into an appreciative moan.

  “Ye want more?” she asked.

  “What’s your price?”

  “Beg me.” Her eyes were bright with mirth.

  Lancelot grunted with approval on the other side of the fire circle.

  Galahad pushed up onto his elbows and arched an eyebrow her direction. “I might need another sample of your ardor first.”

  “Like this?” She swirled her tongue across the crown of his cock and all the breath in his lungs expelled on the airy wings of pleasure.

  He whispered, “Yes, My Queen,” as his back pressed into his bedroll once more.

  “Now beg me, warrior.” Her warm breath caressed his shaft and he shivered.

  “Own my body,” he half-whispered. “Make me yours. Please.”

  Satisfied with his desperate entreaty, her mouth slid down his throbbing length. Heat curled in his belly as her tongue carved her name along the sensitive underside. He heaved for much needed breath and then clutched fistfuls of her hair, guiding her head up and down, up and down. Slowly, he thrust into her mouth, his hips wanting to increase in speed. But she pulled away from his aching body before he could, and the fires of Hel danced in her eyes.

  “What is your plea?” she purred.

  “Gods, woman,” Galahad groaned. “You’re cruel.”

  “I can be crueler.” Fionna leaned back and tilted her head. Long, white strands of hair fell over her shoulders and draped across her pert breasts. She then cupped his balls and gently tugged as she massaged each one between her fingers. “Tell me, warrior. What do you desire?”

  “Destroy me,” he growled. “No mercy, My Queen.”

  Biting her lower lip, she crawled up his body until she reached the patch of hair just below his navel. Then she flicked out her tongue and licked the rippling muscles across his abs, up his ribbed torso, to his pectorals where the tip of her wicked tongue and the sharp edges of her teeth tortured his hardened nipples. His hips bucked with need. His hands clawing for her waist. Amused, she lowered her lips to his with a little laugh as her wet sex rubbed along his cock. Their mouths crashed together in a single sword strike. The spark of her metal against his ignited their bodies into motion.

  Forget being dominated. His entire being strained against the urge to fight back, to disregard the unspoken rules of this battle. Until he did. Flipping Fionna onto her stomach, Galahad lifted her hips and sank his cock into her—deep, hard. A low growl rumbled from his chest as his pelvis grinded into her arse, his fingers gripping her soft flesh. She moaned—loud. Then again, louder this time before crying out. Her body spasmed and tightened around his cock. Gods, the scent of her arousal, the way her breasts bounced. It was enough to drive a man to madness.

  Gently, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him, sliding his hand between her legs to massage her swollen nub. Her head fell back onto his shoulder and he claimed her parted lips as he rocked into their joined bodies. Blood hammered the anvils in his ears. Sweat dripped down his face. His muscles flexed and stiffened as pleasure flooded his veins.

  “Fionna . . .” he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips. “Oh gods.”

  She fell back onto her hands as his seed dripped down her thighs and onto the moss and leaf-littered forest floor, even though he remained buried deep. Brittle ferns brightened to vibrant greens and wildflowers bloomed all around their camp in a rainbow of colors as a rush of energy flooded his body, making the hairs on his arms rise.

  Bending over her arched spine, he caressed the silky skin of her sides and stomach as he kissed her back, whispering, “I love you, wife.” Then he collapsed onto his bedroll.

  She curled up against him and rested her head on his chest. “I love you, husband.” Kissing the salt from his skin, she then murmured, “I won this bout.”

  Galahad burst into laughter, unable to contain himself.

  ARTHUR SIGHED IN contentment as he swept a gaze across the fire circle. Galahad snored atop his bedroll, Fionna in his arms. Arthur chuckled to himself. He swore the large Norseman fell asleep within seconds of finishing.

  On the other side of the flickering flames, Lancelot had pinned Percival’s hands above his head and passionately kissed the younger knight as their bodies rubbed together in slow, erotic strokes. Their soft moans filled the night air and Arthur smiled. This wasn’t the first time he had seen male warriors make love. It was a common affair among Celtic soldiers. His heart soared for his foster brother. Percival would be good for Lancelot, in more ways than one.

  Arthur was about to curl up in his furs for
the night when he noticed Fionna stirring. She sat up and stretched her arms, first taking in Lancelot and Percival, then him. Their eyes connected, and she smiled. A heartbeat later, she lowered next to him and pulled his fur blankets up and over both of their bodies until only their faces were exposed to the night.

  “How do you fare, My Queen?” Arthur softly asked.

  “I have never known such happiness until this day,” she whispered back.

  “Nor I.” Arthur kissed her forehead. “Rest, Fionna.”

  “Not yet.” She leaned up on her elbow. “I have not joined with ye.”

  The corners of his mouth tipped up as he caressed the curve of her cheek with his knuckles. “I would not ask intimacies from you after you have given yourself to the others.”

  “But the curse—”

  “Can wait until morning or later tomorrow, even. Taking advantage of your body when you must be spent doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “And if I want ye?” She brushed a finger along his bottom lip in feather-light touches.

  He swallowed. “Fionna . . .”

  “Arthur Pendragon,” she whispered as her fingertips left his mouth to rest over his heart, “ye are the most beautiful man I have ever known.”

  Moved, he leaned in and kissed her lips, a sweet, chaste embrace. “Fionnabhair Allán. My wife. My Queen. My Gwenevere.” His hand wandered up her face and he traced along her ear to the point. “I am so very much in love with you.”

  “Allow me to show ye the depth of my love?” she asked.

  He studied the silver pool of her eyes before granting his consent in a single, breathy word. “Yes.” Then he added, “But only if you promise me this is truly what you want right now.”

  Fionna kissed his throat and then buried her face into his neck, whispering, “Ye are always what I want, Arthur.”

  A blush warmed his face at her confession.

  “And,” she whispered into his chest as she kissed his skin, “I adore your freckles.”

  “Ugh,” he said with a shy laugh. “Those infernal things.”

  “Beautiful, My King. Ye are beautiful, inside and out.”

  She positioned the furs over her back as her waterfall of hair curtained around their faces. Then she pressed her mouth to his, sliding onto his hardened cock. They remained in this place for several heartbeats—their lips dancing to a melody only their hearts knew while their bodies sighed with bliss at being one. Slowly, she began to move, and he shuddered with pleasure at the feel of her hips rocking back and forth across his.

  Arthur cradled her curving hips and deepened their kiss. Her skin was unbelievably soft for a warrior. He drank in the feel of her body coupling with his, her heather scent, and the love that passed between them swelling in his heart. For him, there was no woman who could compare. No love as bright and pure.

  He peered up at the star-flecked sky as her mouth roamed the expanse of his muscled chest. To think, their story could have ended far differently. Many outcomes and many possibilities. But, in the end, she chose him. She chose all of them—Lancelot, Percival, Galahad. His Gwenevere, created just for them and they for her.

  MY HEAD GREW faint at the enormity of Arthur’s love for me, shown in his gentle touches, the reverent brush of his lips across mine, and the way he sighed—not only in pleasure, but in contentment. I made this man happy, a king who had known only heartache and injustice.

  His body was perfection. Freckles spilled across his skin as though stars in the night sky. The sound of his breathy moans aroused me further. His warm lips captured mine in a languid kiss, as slow and sensual as the undulating rhythm of our hips.

  As I pulled away, he surprised me with a delicate flower he had plucked from beside where we lay, tucking the violet behind my ear. My heart fluttered wildly as I realized—it was Arthur who had placed the bouquet of wildflowers upon my bedroll during our trip to Chester. Flowers I had kept in my saddle bag and then later pressed into a book as a keepsake.

  Beneath the fur blankets, his hands traveled up the length of my back and sank into my hair, tugging my lips back to his. The building heat between my thighs trembled into a long, thundering spasm.

  “I love ye,” I whispered, kissing his jaw, his cheek, his flushed lips. “I love ye so much.”

  Gently, he rolled away from the fire and toward the moss, until my back pressed into the earth and the moon bathed me in silver, the fur blankets all forgotten. Wildflowers covered our bodies from sight and framed my king against a backdrop of midnight blues. His body slid in and out of mine, his breath warming my bare skin.

  “My fierce Fionna . . .” he whispered. “My love.” And then his face tensed as his muscles stiffened, a powerful moan escaping his parted lips.

  The ground beneath me quaked, as though the earth and stones and water cried out in reply. Trees swayed a lover’s dance as the black fingers of death disappeared to reveal strong, healthy bark. More wildflowers and ferns sprang up from the ground, and Arthur and I quickly returned to his bedroll in laughter. I squealed as he covered our heads with the fur blankets, our happy smiles turning into happy kisses, his body gathering mine close to his. Pulling the blankets off our faces, I laughed again, soaking in the sight of our land, whole and hale.

  Beside us, Galahad continued to snore, his arms and legs spread out languidly. Lancelot and Percival returned our grins as we took in our surroundings. The land was healed. Truly healed.

  Mere months ago, I was a warrior princess tasked with travelling across the Irish Sea to steal a faerie sword from a king. That king now claimed me as his queen, as did these knights who fought beside me proudly. Men who helped me unearth the secrets of my life—of me.

  I snuggled into the crook of Arthur’s arm and shoulder as he tucked his other hand behind his head. His heart raced beneath me, and I couldn’t help the grin that stretched wide across my face. I stared out into the forest, lost to reverie, as his breaths evened and as he fell into a deep, restful sleep. From the sounds of our camp, Lancelot and Percival slumbered too. A yawn escaped my mouth and I buried deeper into Arthur’s warmth. But, before my eyes fluttered closed, lulled by the bliss of making love to my knights, my king, I watched as a lily grew along the forest’s edge. A white lily that glowed in the shadows beneath the goddess moon.

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  Greetings, readers! This is your Knights of Caerleon lore keeper, Jesikah Sundin. This final book was an interesting tale to undertake as it was more about our twist on Celtic mythology and less about historical notations. But, as we’ve discussed in the previous Historical Notes, Arthurian Lore is a blend of Roman/Celtic history and Celtic mythology that is assimilated by and regurgitated into something new with each generation. Think of it like perpetually making new meals out of leftovers. That is the collection of Arthurian Cycle stories. Speaking of, if you’ve missed the Historical Notes for the first two books, you can read up on all the juicy details here:

  Who Was Arthur Pendragon?

  Who is the Real Gwenevere in Arthurian Lore?

  And now onto the fun and somewhat controversial origins of Lancelot, Galahad, Percival, Morgana, and Donal O’Lynn. I’m leaving Merlin out of this line-up as his history is just waaaaay too long and complicated and dates to when the Milesians came to Ireland (later known as the Túatha dé Danann).

  LANCELOT

  Arthur Pendragon had existed for centuries before “the greatest swordsmen in the world” arrived on the scene and stole the entire show. And, yes, this is what Lancelot was known as, because obviously only the best knights come from France *sticks French tongue out at the rest of the uncivilized world* We can thank the French poet Chrétien de Troyes for this hunky knight, who created Lancelot in Le Chevalier de la Charrette, a collection of poems between 1180 – 1240 A.D., which was finished by Godefroy de Lagny after Troyes died. The sole purpose of Lancelot was at the behest of the Countess Marie de Champagne, daughter of Louis VII of France and Eleanor of Aquitaine, to illustrate the pros and cons
of “courtly love.” Lancelot’s famous adulterous affair with Queen Guinevere being the ultimate offense and why kingdoms obviously fall *French evil eye to young noblewomen checking out all the hot knights* J’accuse! In the French courts, Lancelot took center stage and forced Arthur to become a side-character. As in our story, Lancelot is the natural born son of King Ban of Benoic (Benwick) but raised by Vivien, Lady of the Lake, hence his romantic name: Lancelot du Lac.

  GALAHAD

  The bastard-born son of Lancelot du Lac and Elaine of Corbenic (Caer Benic . . . yeah, Percival’s origins. There’s a reason for this. I’ll explain in a bit). As with many medieval stories (especially French ones), the woman tricks the man to sleep with them *side-eyes trickster Eve archetypes* and then arrives sometime later with the news, “Surprise! You have a son and he’s destined for great things.” *side-eyes Christ archetypes, to redeem the fall of man because of Eve archetypes* And poor Lancelot is no stranger to the trickery of fair maids, as many a young Frenchmen experienced back then. Apparently. And, thus, “Galahad the Chaste” was born. Yeah, “The Chaste.” His holy virgin status allowed him to finish the Grail Quest, where his father had failed because Lancelot shagged the queen. Plus, the stories of “Sir Percival”— who had no relation to their beloved Lancelot, whatsoever—was boring the French courts, and so they wanted a new Grail hero.

  Claire and I decided to make Galahad a Welsh-born Norseman from the Danish seaport village of Swansea, as you know. And definitely not chaste! But we did give a nod to his origins in book 2 when Lancelot says that if he ever has a son, he’ll name him Galahad in his sword-brother’s honor.

  PERCIVAL

  AKA “the original Galahad” that entertained the courtly-love thirsty French of the 12th and 13th centuries before Galahad was born. The earliest “Percival” mention is also by Chrétien de Troyes in his unfinished Percival, the Story of the Grail (around 1190 A.D.). Known as “Percival the Chaste,” son of Elaine of Corbenic (Caer Benic) and sometimes the oldest son of King Pellinore, he eventually finds the Holy Grail and becomes the Fisher King. Some stories have him dying a virgin after claiming the Grail, sadly. Poor, pigeon . . . Eventually, Percival was kicked to the curb for “Galahad the Chaste,” son of Lancelot du Lac. But scholars believe Troyes was inspired by Peredur of sub-Roman Celtic Mythology. Peredur is also found in Arthurian “histories” by 11th century Welsh author, Geoffrey of Monmouth and, later, in the old orated Welsh tales that were written down in the Mabinogion, including the famous “Peredur the Son of Efrawc,” which we leaned on heavily for Grail Quest adventures in The Third Curse.