Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “He’s as ornery as a stallion with a pebble in his shoe,” Arthur said. “It doesn’t help that Percival and Galahad refuse to give him a moment’s peace. Their jests have been merciless.”

  “They find a potential war with the sídhe fae to be humorous?” Merlin asked, leaning over the bowl.

  “They’re knights. And bored ones at that. So, the prospect of war may not be humorous, but they and their fellow soldiers find the prospect of battle exciting. And more so, they’re men. The fact that Lancelot’s betrothed caught him in bed with not one, but two kitchen maids . . .” Arthur sighed. He loved Lancelot like a brother, but he had half a mind to let Morgana and her sisters unleash their wrath upon him. How could the man have been so stupid?

  “I blame myself,” Merlin said. “I knew how dangerous it was to deal with the fae. But when Morgana came to me, wanting to be my apprentice as her older sisters had once been . . . Well, I let her flattery carry away my better judgment.”

  “We share the blame, my friend. Despite seeing Lancelot flirt his way into the beds of half the women in my court, I thought that his feelings for Morgana were different. He knows better than most not to trifle with the Túatha dé Danann. I should have trusted my instinct. Forbade their union.”

  “Morgana was desperately in love with that fool man and has been since before her magic manifested. And for a time, I believed Lancelot felt the same. If you had tried to keep them from each other, we’d be scrying for a cure to a different curse.”

  “Damned if we did. Damned if we didn’t.” Arthur ran his fingers through his short hair.

  “That is the way of love, Your Majesty,” Merlin said as the gold around his hazel eyes glowed unnaturally bright. “Ah, here we go. I found something. Give me a moment.”

  Arthur paced the length of the cave, eating up the distance across the plush carpet with his long strides. He wasn’t sure why his friend preferred to live in this cave, deep beneath the grounds of Arthur’s keep. But, at least, he had relented when Arthur offered to donate a few furnishings.

  Growing even more restless, Arthur found his fingers straying to Excalibur’s jeweled hilt. What kind of king couldn’t draw his own sword? What kind of king was poison to his own kingdom? He shook his head, sending up a prayer to the gods that Merlin could find a way out of this.

  “Yes, there is an answer!” Merlin shouted, his eyes wide. “I’ve seen something. More like, someone.”

  “Someone?” Arthur whirled around, hurrying back over to the bowl. The dish was empty, but for the still water and their own reflections. Once again, Merlin’s magic eluded him.

  “A knight. A fifth knight of Caerleon. He is the key to unlocking the curse.” Natural light returned to Merlin’s eyes as he pulled out of his trance and looked at Arthur. “The Alder rune now makes clearer sense to me. At first, I thought Fearn signified Lancelot, but no—”

  “Who is this man?” Arthur asked, relief welling in him. His kingdom needed more noble-titled warriors anyway, but his other duties had prevented him from ordering a proper search. Perhaps this cure could be a solution to two different problems.

  “I cannot see his face in my vision.”

  “How will we find him then? He could be anywhere in Briton.”

  “You must host a great tourney. Announce that you seek the strongest men in the land to fight for you. He will be there. And his blood will unlock the sword.”

  “A tourney. You’re sure?” Arthur asked.

  “The future is never certain. But I see this fate more clearly than most. If you hold the tourney, the warrior will come. Alder is not only the warrior shield but also unlocks the faerie realms.”

  “And this warrior’s blood will heal the land as well? The second curse?”

  Merlin frowned. “This is less clear to me. But I see that this fifth knight will help you find the Otherworld’s Grail. And the fae’s legendary bowl has the power to heal as well as break all enchantments.”

  Arthur groaned. “The fae’s Grail? It’s a legend. My father wasted years of his rule searching for it. If I must rely on finding the Blessed Grail, I fear all is lost.”

  “Excalibur was a legend as well, yet the Sword of Light blessedly hangs at your side,” Merlin pointed out.

  “Blessedly stuck in its scabbard,” Arthur grumbled. Disappointment welled in him. He needed a solution, not a quest over a myth shrouded in mist.

  “You will have something your father never had. This fifth knight is the key. Five is a sacred number, representing the elements of this world—air, water, fire, earth, and aether. Together, you will have a chance.”

  Arthur gnawed the inside of his lip, then gave a reluctant nod.

  “Or, you can give up now and hand your kingdom over to Morgana and her sisters.” Merlin’s hazel eyes flashed.

  Arthur bristled at Merlin’s slight, drawing himself up to his full height. “A tourney and a fifth knight, you say. Very well. We will have both. We will restore my sword and my kingdom and show the sídhe faerie court that Arthur Pendragon is not so easily bested.”

  I TOSSED A bag of gold at the man’s mud-splattered boots, wishing I could knock his teeth out with the coins instead. “Here’s yer blood money.”

  Donal O’Lynn looked up from the apple he was cutting with a curved hunting knife, his dark eyes hinting at mirth. “Why Princess Fionnabhair Allán, in the flesh. To what do I owe this rare pleasure?”

  Around the tent, Donal’s warriors chuckled at their clann leader’s slight. They all knew why I was here, and why I travelled alone. Though the men’s laughter was light, their hands hadn’t strayed from the hilts of their swords. They clearly viewed me as a threat, which was perfectly fine with me. I was one.

  My fingers curled into fists when Donal tossed a delicate slice of apple into his worm-rotted mouth.

  “Don’t waste my time O’Lynn.” I spat the name of the Uí Tuírtri Clann chieftain, the sworn enemy of my own family and clann. “I’m here for my father and sister. There’s enough gold in here to ransom them twice over, just to ensure ye cooperate.”

  Donal took a huge bite from the uncut area of his apple, chewing slowly, savoring his ill-gotten victory over Clann Allán.

  I didn’t shy away from his gaze, taking in his long braid, the notch out of his left earlobe, the curving golden torc circling his throat. The slight twist in his proud posture that betrayed a pain—a wound to his right side or hip perhaps. I tucked all the information away. Details were what made a man. Details were how you found his weaknesses. And skies help me, I would find this man’s weakness.

  “Why don’t ye sit and sup with me.” Donal motioned to a small table nestled into the corner of his war tent. The hide walls reeked of sweat and blood, though far too clean to have seen battle. Donal tilted his head, a gesture meant to appear polite. But I knew otherwise. “Ye must have journeyed far,” he said, “all the way from the glens of Antrim. Beautiful country. I’m partial to yer fertile land myself.”

  “I don’t sup with snakes,” I hissed. “Ye have yer money. I travelled alone. Now I want my family.”

  “So impatient.” The corner of his lip curled in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Fine. We will negotiate yer way. Take yer money and go. Brin and Aideen Allán are not for sale today. Not for gold anyway.”

  I ground my teeth to keep my anger in check. I had spent the past month galloping through the province of Ulster and into Túatha de Derry, promising the moon to half the Dál nAraidi clanns, anything to raise sufficient funds to ransom my father and sister. I was sore, I was tired, and I had promised my sister or myself as a bride to a dozen different chieftain’s sons. And now the fool man didn’t want gold?

  “Do not toy with me,” I said. “I am not in the mood.”

  “Neither am I,” Donal stood. “I’m afraid I enjoy having a king of Tara in my prison far too much. My men have not tired of yer sister’s company, either. Keeping the men of Clann Uí Tuírtri happy is a matter of pride.”

 
My sword was halfway out of its scabbard before I knew it. But O’Lynn’s men were just as fast, and I found myself frozen, with the points of six swords leveled at me. Fury writhed in my veins, my blood deafening in my ears. For him to suggest that my sister had been defiled by his soldiers . . .

  “Relax, Allán,” he sneered. “I jest. No need to die today.”

  “What makes ye think I would be the one dying?” I countered.

  “Ye’ve prowess in battle, I’ll give ye that, lass. I saw yer little warrior band on the field at Ballymena, right before I took yer father. Impressive. But even ye cannot defeat seven men in hand-to-hand combat.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” I flexed my fingers on the hilt of my sword. I suspected he was right, though I would never admit it. I had sparred with four before, during endless drills with the warriors in my fiann—one of three female and male mixed war bands in northern Ireland. But yes, seven was too many.

  “Stand down,” Donal snapped at his men, who quickly complied. “My men can’t be killing ye today, because I have need of ye yet, lass. I told ye I would not take yer gold, but there is something I would trade for yer family.”

  I sheathed my sword, furrowing my brow. “I’m listening.”

  “Will ye sit?” He motioned to the table again.

  My nerves gnawed at my gut, but I nodded stiffly. Perching on the edge of a wooden chair, I thunked my helm onto the crudely fashioned, hewn table. The bleached white antlers on my helm clawed toward Donal.

  He pushed my helm aside, feigning disgust. “Ye’re nothing like her, ye know.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Yer sister. She’s quite compelling.” Donal speared a hunk of cheese with his knife, sliding the piece into his mouth.

  I stifled a grimace. His praise of my sister was no surprise, nor his cutting comparison of us. Aideen’s physical beauty—auburn curls, honey-gold skin, and brown doe-like eyes—paled in comparison to her compassionate heart and her clever wit. She was beloved throughout the clann territories by young and old. And where Aideen was the warmth of autumn, I was the ice of winter—white-blonde hair, silver eyes, skin smooth and white as fresh cream. My father, Brin, praised us both, boasting how a chieftain needed the warmth of his hearth and the cold of his steel. Some days, I believed him.

  “Mistreat my sister and yer life will be forfeit,” I finally replied as my fingers played against a point on one of my helm’s antlers.

  Donal flashed a toothy smile.

  “Tell me of this deal ye speak of,” I continued. “The hour grows late.”

  “There is a king across the Irish Sea—”

  “In Briton?” I asked.

  “Indeed. A king in Caerleon, Wales, by the name of Arthur Pendragon. And he has something I want. A sword.”

  “I fail to see how yer problem interests me.” What was he on about? A sword in Briton? There were plenty of swords right here in Ireland. Was there no end to the greed of men?

  “I have received word that Arthur Pendragon is hosting a tourney. To choose a new knight.”

  “I wish ye the best in earning the position.” I knew I walked a dangerous line, but I couldn’t help the bitter reply. O’Lynn thought to make light of my family’s imprisonment, so I would make light of him.

  “But it’s ye, fair warrior, who will be winning the role. Ye will compete in the tourney. Ye will win. Ye will steal his sword and bring it to me. When I have the sword they call Excalibur in my hands, yer father and sister will go free.”

  I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Ye expect me to sail to Briton, win a tournament, become a knight, and steal a king’s sword? I believe ye have taken too many hilts to the head, O’Lynn.”

  Donal leaned over the table, his smell of sweat and ale washing over her. “What I have is the upper hand. While ye have two choices. Do this for me, bring me Excalibur, and yer family goes free. Or refuse, and yer family becomes permanent guests here in Lough Insholin.”

  “And risk facing a king of Tara’s warriors?”

  “Clann Allán will be too busy fighting amongst themselves for a dead king’s throne. Why do ye think my demand that ye attend me alone was an easy request?” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if we shared a knowing secret. “For how long did ye raise money? How many chieftains refused their sons in marriage to either princess of Allán?”

  Blood drained from my face as the truth of his words sank in. Last winter a neighboring clann nearly vanished from the goddess’s green earth in a battle over title and land. I was loathe to agree but, at this moment, Donal O’Lynn could set the terms. He could order me to steal the faerie queen’s slippers, and I would have to do so to restore my father’s rightful place in Aghanravel, home of Clann Allán. I supposed fighting in a tournament wasn’t the worst task he could have set before me.

  “And if I do this, ye will let my father and sister go free?”

  “Yes.”

  “And while ye wait for yer precious sword, not a hair on their heads will be harmed?”

  “Of course.”

  “They will be fed and clothed generously, protected as one of yer own clann?”

  Donal put a hand on his leather breastplate, over his heart. “I swear it as Chieftain of Clann Uí Tuírtri. Their captivity will be as gentle as springtime.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, my mind working the puzzle, turning each piece over to find a trick, an angle. “Why do ye want this sword?”

  “Does my answer change yers?” Donal asked, stabbing another chunk of cheese. When I didn’t answer, he continued, almost bored. “Suffice it to say, this sword, called Excalibur, has special value, both to me and a new acquaintance of mine.”

  I didn’t like his demand . . . but what was to like about this situation? I sighed. It seemed I wouldn’t be sleeping in my own bed for some time yet. Nor my family in theirs. “Ye will pay my expenses,” I said. “My passage to Wales, entry in the tourney.”

  Donal stood, bending over to retrieve the bag of gold I had deposited before his great chair. He tossed the coins onto the table in front of me, as I had to him just minutes earlier. Large, calloused hands gripped the back of my chair as he leaned over my shoulder. “I would say ye have gold a plenty, lass.”

  My skin crawled at his nearness, his breath on my neck. It was all I could do not to pull a knife and slide the blade into his ribs.

  “Now best get riding. The tournament starts in one week.”

  THE CROW SOARED above the war camp, a scatter of movement far below her. Cool spring air brushed against her dark feathers with every beat of her wings. Pregnant clouds gathered on the horizon, shadowing the moors of Ulster. She would need to find his tent before the storm rolled over the landscape. Her trained black eye peered past the numerous fires dotting the encampment, sliding over humans busy with their tasks. There it was. A large hide tent.

  She released a loud caw and crows in nearby trees burst into flight, their wings like black leaves swirled by a furious Samhain wind. They circled around her, swarming in looping lines and knots in the sky. Distracted by the ominous sight, the guards failed to notice when she flew past and slipped into their chieftain’s tent.

  Donal O’Lynn’s sharp gaze fell upon her as she landed with a flutter of wings before his crude blackthorn tree throne. A slow smile teased his cruel lips as he watched her magic summon the shadows of his makeshift court. Darkness and thousands of whispers—the desperate, greedy prayers of men at war—swirled around her, fueling her transformation from crow to a faerie queen and druid priestess.

  “Morgana,” Donal said, tipping his head in deference. His gaze crawled over her body as he lifted his eyes to finally meet hers.

  “You have pleased me, mortal.” She glided past him to a decanter of ale and poured herself a goblet. But rather than enjoy a sip, she turned and held the cup to his mouth. “Drink.”

  His hawk-eyes never left hers as he drank long and deep. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  Morgana spoke.
“The witch now sails the Irish Sea for Wales.”

  “Witch?” He laughed, as if she spoke lies. How fickle the mortal mind, quick to judge and quick to forget. She was fae. Lies never graced her tongue.

  “Shhh . . .” Morgana caressed his stubbled cheek with one long, sharp nail. “Since the beginning of time, men have slaughtered their brethren in wars for what she offers. I have bathed in their bloodshed and fed on their fear. I know the signs.”

  Donal licked his lips. “I far prefer what ye offer.”

  “Of course you do.” She leaned in and pressed her lips to his, satisfied when the hard lines of his muscles trembled beneath her touch. Men were weak. And Donal O’Lynn was weaker than most. “Mmm . . . you taste of power,” she murmured. My power, she thought.

  Donal’s eyes riveted onto her once more, expectant. “Then tell me, why do ye desire to wrest power from this King Arthur?”

  She pulled away—seductively—enjoying as the man before her fought his animal urges to claim her now before she flew away. A knowing smile curved her lips as she called once more to the shadows and whispered prayers, ignoring his question. Let him wonder. Let him yearn for the answer until he was driven mad with longing, as the weak often are. She had learned much in her time with Lancelot, most of all that when it came to human men, she would never again surrender her power.

  Or her heart.

  Darkness rushed around her. But, before she returned to her crow form, she said, “Do not fail me and you will be king.”

  “Of where?” Donal rasped. “Ulster or Briton?”

  But she said nothing, for her powers of human speech were gone. The crow regarded the human male with one beady eye. He smelled of ambition, lust, and blood. It would do.

  The magic welled up in her and she crowed, loud and triumphant. Then she took flight from the hide tent and joined the black-feathered murder darkening the sky.

  LANCELOT HAD BEEN taking his breakfast early this past month. Early meant enjoying his trout and stewed figs with a side of solitude. This morning, however, he would not be so lucky.