“How much time have we lost?” she asked, avoiding his comment.
He paused, then must have decided to let it go for now. “We’re about an hour from the trail we need to be on,” he answered. “We’ll have to ride into the night.”
She nodded. “I’m ready,” she said.
“Eat first,” he said.
She shook her head no. Her stomach hurt with hunger, but she wasn’t sure she could get the bread past her throat.
“Gemma, you need to eat. Take a few bites, and we can go.”
Knowing he wouldn’t let her off the hook, she managed two bites of bread then handed the rest back to him. He took it and placed it in her saddlebag, then held out her bracer. Her eyes teared up again at the sight of it. She slipped her arm inside it, unable to say a word. He laced it up tightly while she watched him, her skin almost vibrating every time his touched hers.
“It’s not too tight?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He looked like he wanted to say something but changed his mind. She followed him to the horses to find a sack sitting on top of her saddle.
“What is that?” she asked.
“I filled it with hay. I don’t think you’ll have a comfortable ride.”
He wasn’t looking at her when he said it, but she still blushed furiously.
“Let me help you up,” he said.
She normally would have refused help and mounted on her own, but today, that wasn’t a possibility. She’d never felt like this before. She’d never felt so vulnerable. She needed time to process what could have happened to her as well as what he’d done to her. She needed to understand her own confused emotions about it all; but now was not the time.
“Thank you,” she said once she was situated on the sack he’d tied to Morning Glory’s saddle.
He only nodded, seeming uncomfortable himself. He then mounted, and they rode off in silence.
* * *
The quiet bothered him. She had almost let herself go, almost let herself weep and sob and get it all out. The trauma of being taken by those men had added stress she may not have been aware of, and his punishment had been harsh. He suspected her father didn’t whip her, or if he had, he hadn’t in a long time. That coupled with the humiliation of her position, the shame of his threat of anal punishment… well, he wondered if he hadn’t taken it further than she could handle. He felt guilty.
He glanced at her. She was shifting on her seat, and although she was looking straight ahead, he imagined she wasn’t seeing a thing. She looked so caught up in her own thoughts.
“You were right to recognize the emblem on my sword,” he said, startling her and surprising himself.
He needed to do this. He needed to build some trust. He could make her obey, force her to submit to him, but he wanted her to give her obedience, to surrender to him freely. He did not want to take it from her.
She looked at him, expectant, some of the spark suddenly back in her eyes.
“I served a great king once,” he said, turning his gaze to the path. “The greatest king.”
He could feel her eyes on his even though he refused to look at her. “You were right about the innkeeper. He knows me. He knows my real name. As, I believe, does your father.”
When he turned to look at her, he found her staring intently.
“I am the bastard son of Lancelot and Helaine of Corbenic. I am a Knight of the Round Table. My true name is Sir Galahad.”
Long moments of silence followed.
“Sir Galahad is dead,” she said, her words filling space even though he knew she didn’t believe them.
“For a long time, I wished for death,” he said. It was silent again for a while before he continued. “The bracer you wear,” he began, touching the leather on her forearm before letting his fingers brush against the back of her hand, hovering there. When she didn’t flinch or pull away, he gained courage. “It was once Excalibur’s scabbard.”
Her mouth fell open, and she glanced at the jeweled piece.
“It contains powerful magic, Gemma. Magic that protects the wearer during battle. Keep it on you at all times, and no enemy will be able to spill your blood.”
“But… how?” she asked. He could see her trying to make sense of this new knowledge. “Morgan threw it into a lake. It was lost.”
Galahad shook his head. “It was never lost,” he said. “Only hidden.” And this was as far as he was willing to go. Guilt edged its way into his heart and mind, the same question haunting him: if he had returned it to Arthur, would his king be alive today? Would he have defeated Mordred in that final, fatal battle?
“Why are you helping me then?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“It can’t be for the promise of land. You could easily take it from my father, from us. That is what the rest have done. I wear the mark of the Fey according to some. According to you. You must hate them. Hate me.”
He shook his head. “I don’t hate you; you cannot help your birth. And I do not do this for the promise of land.”
“Sir Galahad the Pure?” she asked.
“There is nothing pure about me, Gemma,” he said, his voice full of regret.
“Is that why you’ve been in ‘retreat’,” she asked. “It was said you achieved the Holy Grail.”
“Now that, my dear, I can tell you, is a myth.” He turned to her. “There is no Holy Grail. There is not enough good left in the world for it to even be possible. What I told you the other day, about men being evil. I believe it, and you would be wise to believe it as well.”
“But you’re not evil. And I’m not evil. My father is not. My sister. If you weren’t good and pure, you wouldn’t be here with me right now. I would probably be dead at the hands of those two men. My sister would not stand a chance. Sir Wi… Sir Galahad, you would not have given up your own safety and protection by making a bracer for me from your scabbard if you were evil.”
“You are young and naïve,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” she replied.
“The night is too dark to ride farther,” he said, wanting to change the subject. “We’ll stop here until daybreak.”
She nodded. Even with the cushion he had made for her, her bottom was bruised, and she was tired physically and emotionally.
Tethering the horses to a tree, Galahad cleared a space for them. He lay down his cloak and retrieved hers from her saddlebag.
Gemma knelt on the cloak and untied her corset. She took it off and set it aside. Slowly, she lay herself down on her belly. He watched, imagining the pain of her bottom, feeling guilty once again for punishing her so harshly. He lay down alongside her, and the two faced one another.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Sore,” she answered.
“I don’t ever want to punish you like that again,” he said.
“Then don’t,” she replied.
“Do not give me a reason.”
“I was angry when I ran off. Angry at our conversation. And I don’t want a husband. I will do as my father says, but know it won’t be my choice.”
His chest tightened. “Go to sleep,” he said.
She looked at him a little longer, her steady, open gaze almost unnerving. He could take her for his own; her father had promised it already. He could tell himself it was for her own protection. He could even claim cold-heartedly it was for the land. But in his heart he knew the truth. He wanted her in a way he’d never wanted a woman. She challenged him. She was bright and brave but submissive and sweet at the same time. Her eyes intrigued him. No, it wasn’t her eyes. It was the soul he glimpsed behind them. She was the pure one, not he. Perhaps it was because of his need to purify himself that he wanted to possess her.
And he did want to possess her.
Her eyelids closed slowly, and her breathing grew even, quiet. She lay asleep next to him, trusting him, and he realized that just as he wanted to possess her, he had not felt so possessed by a woman in his li
fetime. He reached his arm out and draped it over her waist, pulling her closer before closing his eyes.
* * *
Water dripped from every corner. The damp, dark cave smelled of earth and moisture, and the temperature was cool, but not quite cold. Gemma looked around her, but the space was so dark, she was blind. She held her hands out and followed the only sound she heard, the soft breath that came from somewhere deeper within the cavern.
Her feet were bare, and the shift she wore had long since thinned from wear. A mouse scurried across the floor, running over her foot, and she jumped at the unexpected touch, startled, the darkness too much. She stilled and closed her eyes, hugging her arms around her.
Be still, child. Find what you have lost.
The instruction came not as sound but thought. She inhaled a long, deep breath and slowly exhaled, remaining just as she was until her heart had calmed, until a long-lost yet familiar sensation, a vibration almost, filled the air around her. Her body warmed, the heat beginning at her center and spreading outward, the mark behind her ear becoming hotter than the rest of her. She reached up and touched the spot where the twin serpents had lain dormant for so long.
She opened her eyes and looked straight ahead. What she saw within the still-black cave was more vision than anything of substance; she knew that all along.
A tear slid down her cheek as the form of her sister took shape. Her hands were bound in front of her, and she lay sleeping on her side. Her eyes were swollen, puffy and red from crying, and her body shook every few moments as if it were trying to take in breath. Her knees were tucked upward, and she looked small, smaller than she was.
“Alys,” Gemma said out loud.
The child did not move. Gemma took a step forward, then another. She neared the form of her sleeping sister and reached out a hand to touch her, knowing all along it wasn’t real. Tears warmed her face as she bent forward, brushing the hair from her sister’s face.
“I’m coming for you, Alys. Do not be afraid,” she whispered.
The girl lay still, her body softening a little beneath Gemma’s touch. But all too soon, the image began to fade.
“No. Not yet,” Gemma cried, willing it to remain. But even as she said it, the cave grew pitch black again, the vibration faded, the only sound that of water dripping all around her.
Gemma’s eyes flew open. She lay on her side, the weight of Sir Galahad’s arm draped over her waist, holding her close to him, their bodies just touching. She looked at him while he slept. His breathing was deep and quiet, his face peaceful. She reached her hand to touch the thick shadow that covered his jaw and neck. It was darker than the hair on his head, with graying patches strewn throughout.
He made a sound, and she pulled her hand away. He mumbled words she couldn’t understand before settling once again into a peaceful sleep.
This man was to be her husband.
She inched her face closer to his, unsure why she was doing it. His skin was warm, his breath soft from his slightly parted lips. Without any idea why, she let her lips brush his. It was the lightest of touches, but his arm around her waist tightened its hold, pulling her closer even though she was certain he still slept. She closed her eyes as her body pressed against his, and she brought her hand to rest on his arm. She felt, for the first time in so many years, protected. For the first time since her mother’s death, she was not alone. It was as if a weight were lifted from her, a weight she had once willingly taken on herself.
* * *
Sir William pretended to sleep while Gemma tucked her body into his. He tightened his hold on her, aware of every inch of her young form, her tiny waist, her small breasts pressing against his chest, her thighs against his. It took all he had to remain still when she brushed her lips against his. All he had to not kiss her back as his cock stirred to life.
She must have felt it because she moved away, pushing his arm from her body. He opened his eyes as if he’d just awakened to find her staring at him, and as soon as he did, her face blushed a soft pink.
He looked at her for some moments, then reached out to brush a tear away.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, his hand returning to hold her possessively by her waist.
“A dream,” she said, then shook her head, her expression confused. “No, not a dream.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It was my sister. I saw her. Her hands were bound, and she had been crying. She was asleep at least.”
“Go on,” he said, knowing there was more.
“I saw her as she was. I mean, it wasn’t a dream. It was…” she turned away for a moment then turned back. “I used to have these when my mother was alive. It was the same feeling. I’d forgotten it, the sound of it, the feel of it when they came. And…” she paused.
“And what?” he asked.
“I heard my mother’s voice,” she said. “It started in a cave, and it was so dark I couldn’t even see my hand before my eyes.” Her eyes were filling with tears again. He imagined how she must miss her mother, especially given the circumstances after her death, her father’s retreat, her duty to raise her sister—a child raising a child.
“What if we do not find her in time?” she asked, looking at him in a way that broke his heart.
“We will,” he said, his voice certain, knowing she needed him to be. He raised himself up onto his elbow, but when she moved her head a certain way, he forgot what he was going to say. He sat fully upright and pushed her gently onto her back, his hand on her hip holding her in place.
“What are you doing?” she asked when he turned her head to the side.
“Stay,” he said, lifting the hair off her neck to uncover her birthmark.
“What is it?”
He touched the spot but what he saw was unreal. He believed in magic. He believed in the Fey. He had seen enough to know how real it was. But still, looking at her now, this tiny little thing, what he saw was impossible to believe.
“The mark,” he began, touching the twin serpents once more.
“What?” she asked, trying to sit up.
He allowed her to rise, and she immediately put her hand over it.
“It’s grown.”
Chapter Seven
Gemma’s hand covered the spot on her neck. She wanted to see it, but that would be impossible for now. It was no longer raised but flat against her skin. He had described the twin serpents perfectly, as if they had been drawn onto her flesh with a fine pencil. They intertwined with one another, and their length was now that of her smallest finger. Her braid would cover it still.
She tried to remember her mother’s birthmark. It had been small just like hers, but she had never seen any change in it. Last night’s vision—she knew that was what it was, a vision—had shown her that her sister was alive. She remembered her father’s words, to open her eyes and see what was true. She had the magic, he had said. He was right, she had the magic, back when her mother was alive. But since her death, she’d shut everything down. It was too much to do on her own, and with having to raise Alys, it was something there was no time for. She had lost it. She had lost her ability to see the truth, to feel her magic.
As she squirmed on the cushion of the saddle, she wished she had a more practical magic: that with which to relieve herself of the pain of her bruised, sore bottom.
She touched the bracer that wrapped around her arm and that feeling of safety was renewed. She had been a child when she had first heard the stories, and her fantasies of the young knight who had stolen the scabbard had filled her dreams both waking and night. She remembered the innkeeper’s mistake and glanced at Sir Galahad. He was handsome, rugged, noble. He carried himself with an air of elegance—the elegance of a knight. He carried a sword with the emblem of the Knights of the Round Table. And her father was right—his heart was pure.
But there was more to his story than he had shared. And he was wrong about one thing: she was not naïve.
They rode hard for the first half of the
day. Gemma listened to the sounds of the forest, and when she saw, then heard, the scurrying of a rabbit, she slowed her horse and retrieved her bow from its place on her saddle. She pulled an arrow from the quiver.
“Dinner,” she said to him as she prepared to hunt the animal.
She walked quietly toward the sound, preparing the arrow as she did, listening more than watching. She loved this part of the hunt and had become quite good at it over the years.
Sir Galahad remained mounted on his horse while holding Morning Glory’s reins. She could feel his eyes on her back as she strode through the forest. Once the rabbit was within sight, she raised the bow into place, all the while very aware of the new bracer that would protect her, even if it would require some getting used to. She only had one chance with the animal. She’d have to kill it on the first shot, or she’d scare it off.
Taking her time, whispering the same childhood poem she always did, she drew the arrow back and took aim. Then, with an elegance all her own, she released it, sending it flying through the air to its mark. The rabbit was pierced through. She exhaled and turned to Sir Galahad, feeling proud. And she could see from his expression that he was impressed.
“Well done,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied with a little bow. She then went to gather up her kill. They rested for a while, eating the last of the bread and apples before riding on.
* * *
It was the last of the afternoon, and a soft rain had begun to fall when they came upon the abandoned structure in the woods.
“Stay here,” Sir William told her quietly. “Dismount and keep the horses.”
She nodded and obeyed without a thought, watching him as he walked toward what must once have been an old cottage. The roof was still partially intact, but the walls were crumbling after so many years of neglect. He pulled the door open only to have it come away from the house altogether. He set it aside and walked inside. He was there a few moments before coming back out and circling the property.
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