Merlin chose that moment to stroll into the Great Hall, hands buried in his charcoal gray robe, his hood shadowing his rugged face. When he caught sight of the woman, he stilled. The golden-ring around his ageless hazel eyes glowed and his pupils appeared almost reptilian. The druid’s incubus blood was reacting to something other—but only Lancelot knew the magic Merlin sensed, the magic the color windows sensed too. The unspoken confirmation was nearly Lancelot’s undoing. His muscles tightened with the need to rage, to destroy, to know her cold fire intimately.
“We’re drawing attention,” Galahad rumbled. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion at our seats?”
Lancelot looked about, trying to calm his rapid pulse. It was true. The nobles, villagers, and warriors already seated were craning their necks to inspect the knot of knights.
Arthur nodded curtly and turned on his heel, stalking up toward the head table.
The woman marched after him, after grabbing her helm from Lancelot’s grip.
He followed after her, head down to discreetly examine her armored form. She must be long and lean beneath the mass of buckles and leather but, with the benefit of his new knowledge, he could see a semblance of feminine curve there, waiting to be uncovered. How had he not seen her for what she was? Lancelot cursed under his breath as his cock began to stir beneath his breeches.
Arthur settled into the ornate chair in the center spot of honor, motioning for the woman to sit next to him. Lancelot took the spot to her right, forgiving Arthur for giving Lancelot’s usual seat away. No doubt Arthur wished to question her. And Lancelot wished to listen.
Galahad and Percival filled in the chairs on Arthur’s other side, Merlin settling in the empty seat next to Lancelot.
Arthur stood and hastily declared the feast begun, before dropping into his chair and turning to the woman with slitted eyes. “Who are you?”
“Fionnabhair Allán, oldest daughter of Brin Allán, chieftain of Aghanravel and a king of Tara,” she said proudly, without flinching away from Arthur’s fury. “Though call me Fionna.” She leaned back in her seat and tilted her head toward Arthur. “I kept the truth of my sex hidden, but the rest is true. I hail from Ulster. I’m here to be yer knight.”
“You will understand if it’s hard for me to believe what you offer as truth,” Arthur countered.
“Then believe the strength of my sword arm and the cut of my blade.” Her cheeks flushed with Arthur’s challenge, her eyes aglow.
Fionnabhair, Fionna. The name was honey sweet on Lancelot’s tongue. His soul blazed hotter with her confession, as if recognizing the presence of a worthy conquest. An equal. Lancelot thought he might be sick.
Fionna continued, pointing a finger at Arthur like she possessed the audacity to poke the High King of Briton in the chest. “Ye said ye wanted the best in the land to be your fifth knight. Well, I am the best in two lands. So, which is it, King Arthur? Do ye want the best, or do ye want a man?”
The muscles of Arthur’s jaw worked as he met Fionna’s furious words, tension chilling the air like ice.
It was Percival who cracked the hoarfrost growing between them, the blessed fool boy. “We actually want the best looking, Fionna,” he said, gesturing from his toes to his head with a crooked grin. “Obviously.”
Arthur let out a strained burst of laughter, shaking his head.
Galahad reached out and mock-cuffed Percival across the ear, which Percival tried to avoid, resulting in a short tussle that found Percival’s head locked under Galahad’s sizable bicep.
But the challenge had passed, along with much of the tension. And when a servant appeared with a tray heavy-laden with wine goblets, everyone grabbed one gratefully.
Lancelot looked sideways at Merlin, who was watching Fionna with barefaced interest.
“You couldn’t have foreseen this, druid?” Lancelot gave a false laugh, and reached for a golden-brown leg from a platter of chicken to appear natural.
“The Fates do seem to have a sense of humor,” Merlin remarked, shifting the weight of his all-seeing gaze onto Lancelot. “Though I fear a dark one at that.”
Lancelot tried not to shrink from the man, ignoring the feelings of unease that skittered like spiders across his skin. Merlin unnerved him when his cambion blood was at work. He saw too much. Sometimes Lancelot swore the druid saw the truth of his curse—knew the danger Lancelot now posed to Arthur and Caerleon—saw the damage he could yet do. Or perhaps he saw too little. Because he hadn’t seen this—hadn’t seen that their fifth knight would be a woman or the danger this revelation brought their brotherhood.
Doubt and fear warred inside Lancelot. He took a savage bite off the chicken leg, but the richly spiced meat tasted like sawdust in his mouth.
Should he tell Arthur the truth of Morgana’s curse? No. He closed his eyes against the thought. He couldn’t. Couldn’t admit to letting him down one more time. What if Arthur sent him away, to keep his kingdom safe? Lancelot couldn’t bear it. Arthur was his brother, this fortress his home. They grew up together when Uther agreed to foster him when he had reached the strange in-between age of boyhood and manhood. Perhaps he could try to convince Arthur to send her away, since a woman ranking within their knighthood was a terrible idea. But Arthur had already knighted her . . .
Another thought occurred to him. Perhaps he was overreacting. Certainly, he was attracted to Fionna. But I don’t love her, he scolded himself. Perhaps Fionna wasn’t the one Morgana had foretold. A Gwenevere was a creature of legend—a white fay, an enchantress from bardic tales and nothing more. Fionna was remarkable for her fighting prowess and beautiful, yes. But magic? He had seen no sign of magic beyond the glowing light streaming though the rainbow-hued windows. But that could have merely been a bright afternoon sun playing tricks on his mind. And he would recognize magic. After all, he was raised on the Isle of Man, among druid priestesses and sídhe fae.
Lancelot looked down to where Fionna sat, Arthur and Galahad and Percival all leaning into her like flowers tilting toward the morning sun.
“Are all women in Ulster such fierce warriors?” Galahad was asking.
“Many,” Fionna replied, pausing. “But I am one of the best.”
Perhaps she wasn’t the woman. And even if so, the curse would only fall over Caerleon if he joined with her as man and woman. He could restrain himself. He shifted in his seat to hide evidence to the contrary. Relief welled in Lancelot, and he tore off a chunk of chicken with gusto. Yes, he would simply resist her. How hard could that be?
PERCIVAL ALWAYS ENJOYED a good feast, but that night’s festivities were the best by far. Fionnabhair Allán was the most interesting thing to have happened to Caerleon for quite some time. She was akin to a maiden in a bardic faerie tale come to life, if that maiden could stick an axe through a man’s eyeball without a second’s thought. He hadn’t even known that women came in this fierce and formidable variety. Was there no end to the surprising delights they possessed?
As the night wound on, the ale settled into Arthur and Galahad’s blood. They appeared to have relaxed in Fionna’s presence, chatting with her almost amiably. As it turned out, she was a princess, a king of Tara’s daughter. No wonder she put Arthur to task so effortlessly.
Percival glanced to the head table’s opposite end, where Lancelot sat brooding. Lancelot had a stick shoved firmly up his arse ever since Morgana. Percival resisted the urge to throw a grape at him. Before the disastrous business with Merlin’s apprentice, Lancelot had been his favorite sword-brother, the most likely to join Percival in a prank or laugh. The most likely to flirt with him too. He never knew if those moments were in jest or earnest. Strangely, he found he hadn’t minded either way. But those memories of Lancelot were fading. Each day, it grew harder to remember that carefree version of his friend.
With a bored sigh, Percival slouched over the table, resting his chin in one hand while the other picked at a splinter in the wood. The Great Hall had emptied hours earlier—or at least, it felt like h
ours—and he shivered in the night air. The fires in both grand hearths had cooled to barely glowing embers.
Galahad loosed a jaw-cracking yawn.
Fionna released an answering one, though she covered her mouth with leather-clad arm. “Perhaps I should retire,” she said, before pausing. “Is there a particular room I should—”
“There’s a spare room next to mine,” Galahad leaned in, running a finger slowly around the rim of his empty goblet.
Percival narrowed his eyes. Galahad and Fionna were a ridiculously impractical match. Fionna was half his size. Galahad would probably crush the woman to death if he tried to bed her. Not to mention, Fionna seemed more inclined to crush a man’s skull than lie with him.
“There’s an available room in the North Wing,” Arthur said. “I’ll have the servants prepare the chamber for you.”
Percival suppressed a groan. He saw what Arthur was doing—keeping Fionna far away from the knights’ rooms in the East Wing. Where was the fun in that?
“I’ll show her the way, lads,” Percival offered, pushing his chair away from the scraps of food and empty goblets. Might as well find out exactly where her chamber was located.
Arthur hesitated.
“Ah, let him,” Galahad crooned. “It’s not like he’s any danger to her, what with his vow and all.” With a cheerful wink, he grinned at Percival and then raised his empty goblet in a mocking toast.
Fionna looked away from Percival’s spitting glare and focused on Arthur, who was now pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I don’t care one way or the other,” she said. “Rest assured, no one is going in my room but me.”
“Fine,” Arthur muttered. His shoulders slumped as he leaned the back of his head onto his ebony wood chair, his glassy stare somehow burning holes through the rafters. After a few strained seconds, silent save the echoing clop of Fionna’s boots, Arthur rolled his head toward Percival. “Stop by my study when you’re done?”
Percival nodded before bouncing out of his chair after Fionna. Despite her shorter legs, she moved quite quickly. He had wanted to escort her, but now he found his nerves raw and ragged at the prospect. Humor. Disarm her with humor, he thought.
“I don’t need a wet nurse to watch over me,” Fionna snapped when Percival caught up.
“Good,” Percival practically chirped in response. “Because ye would go awful hungry.” He squeezed his pectorals, raising an eyebrow at her.
She rolled her eyes.
“I suppose ye dinnae need me to tell ye then . . .” Percival trailed off.
Fionna pursed her wine-flushed lips. “Tell me what?”
“That the North Wing is that way, lass.” He cocked his thumb over his shoulder, toward a passageway they had breezed past just a few moments prior.
Fionna stopped in her tracks, whirling on him. Percival’s blood thundered through his veins. Merciful gods, she was as intimidating as she was beautiful. And he couldn’t stop looking at her mouth.
“Why are ye now telling me this?”
“Ye seemed so certain of yer course. I hated to correct you, is all.”
She let out an exasperated hiss, before muttering under her breath, “Well, isn’t that the story of my life.” She pasted on a fake smile and inclined her head. “Sir Percival, please, do me the honor of leading the way.”
Percival thrust out his elbow, offering her his arm. “Sir Fionnabhair, ’twould be my pleasure.”
She ignored his gesture, and so he let his proffered arm drop, falling into step beside her instead.
“Sir Fionnabhair,” she murmured. “Sounds odd.”
“I’m actually not sure if there’s a different name for a female knight. Madam Fionnabhair? Lady Fionnabhair?” he mused. “Maybe one of Arthur’s books has an answer. What do they call women warriors in Ulster?”
“Warriors.” Her face set like stone. Then the lines around her eyes softened slightly, like a bright afternoon fading to twilight. “What did Galahad mean? About yer vow?”
“Ye caught that, did ye?” Percival shoved his hands into his pockets. Well, he supposed his embarrassing secret would come out sooner or later. “I made a vow of chastity. Until I’m wed.”
A surprised cough escaped Fionna’s lips.
“Subtle,” he said, willing his galloping heart to slow down to normal speed. She was just a woman. He talked to women all the time. When guttered after imbibing too much ale? Well, then he just talked endlessly.
“It’s . . .” she searched for the words. “Not what most young men in Ulster would choose, anyway. Are things so different here?”
“Just for me.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him, and when her silver eyes met his, a jolt of energy coursed through him. Faint, but unmistakable. He struggled to keep the shock from his face.
“Have ye not heard of the Blessed Grail?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“The land is fertile so long as the Grail serves a sovereign-blessed king. In the North, the Grail Maiden sups with the gods of Albion while she waits for the rightful king to arrive, using the fae bowl to serve her guests.”
“Grail Maiden?”
“Yes, an earth goddess. Most men think the Grail is a myth, but it’s not. My father, the last Fisher King, was the keeper of the Blessed Grail. When he died, the vessel disappeared.” Percival slid her a half-smile.
“Do you know the location of this . . . sacred vessel?” she asked.
“No one knows for certain. Though it’s possible the Grail Maiden guards the sacred vessel in the in-between until the Fisher King’s heir can ask the Grail whom it serves. Ye see, my father died when I was young, when a neighboring clann lord lay siege to Caer Benic. But, because my father’s blood flows through my veins, I have a connection to the Grail. I can sense . . . clues. Pieces of the puzzle that will help my king find the hidden location someday, even if partway to the Otherworld.”
“Truly?” Fionna’s face softened with his long-winded story, as if she cherished each word he uttered in his barely sober state. “What does the connection feel like?”
Like you, he wanted to say. It feels like when you looked at me just now. But he swallowed the words, not wanting to frighten her. “Hard to describe, really. A tingle. A knowing.”
“Sure. But what does that have to do with you remaining . . . chaste?” She said the word as if it were a communicable disease.
“According to my father, the connection is lost if we dinnae remain pure of heart. And body. A holy virgin for a holy vessel. The bond of marriage purifies any coupling, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” she remarked tartly.
“Perhaps things are not so . . . proper in Ireland?” Percival grinned. He pointed left and they turned into a narrow hallway, heading toward a block of rooms in the North Wing.
“Perhaps,” Fionna replied, arching an eyebrow. “This whole world feels strange to me.”
“Wales was strange to me too, at first,” Percival admitted. “When my father died in battle, my mother took me far from the world of men and raised me deep in Galloway Forest.”
“You’re Scoti?”
“Aye.”
“I could tell you were Gael, though I considered ye a fellow Irishman until now.”
“My family is of Pict heritage, long before the Kingdom of Alba formed.” Percival flashed her a waggish smile. “Why else would I be so braw and fierce?” Fionna groaned and he laughed before continuing. “Arthur and Lancelot were the first men I ever remember seeing since I was a lad of six. I left at age fifteen against my mother’s wishes, but Caerleon called to me.”
“And yet now . . . this feels as true as home?”
“It’s all of our home. Caerleon. Each other. Most of the knights had strange childhoods. Except Galahad that is, his father is a blacksmith, and he one of many mouths fed under their roof. That’s pretty normal.”
“He doesn’t sound Norse.”
Percival shrugged. “He was squired at a young a
ge by a Welsh Lord in Gŵyr and raised in a manor.”
“I see.” Fionna tilted her head. “What do ye mean by strange upbringings?”
“Well, Lancelot was raised by a faerie.” Percival lifted his shoulder in a slight shrug. “Vivien, Lady of the Lake, druid priestess on the Isle of Man. Have ye heard of her?”
Fionna’s face remained blank.
“She provides protection over Briton. She’s also the one who gifted Arthur with Excalibur, making him the Pendragon, High King of Briton. Though, the scattered kingdoms have yet to unite under his rule.”
“Is Lancelot part fae, then?”
“No, Lancelot is the exiled Prince of Benoic, from the Kingdom of France. His father, King Ban, was murdered by his rival and his mother fled for her life. The Lady of the Lake fostered Lancelot when his mother left him as an offering to the goddess for safe keeping. He joined Uther’s court for military training around the age of thirteen. He and Arthur have been inseparable ever since.”
Fionna considered this, pausing. “Lancelot . . . a prince?” She turned to him, her brows knitted in a scowl. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
Percival pasted a shocked look on his face, his hand to his breast. “Whatever do ye mean, lass . . .”
A half smile curved Fionna’s lip, and Percival counted that a win. He thought of how to best explain the situation to Fionna. When the faerie sisters, Elaine and Morgause, had first cursed Arthur and Caerleon, Arthur had sworn the knights to secrecy, not wanting word of his weakness to reach his enemies. But Fionna was a knight. She was one of them now. Didn’t that bring her within their circle of confidence? Percival chewed on his lip. Curse his ale-addled brain and tongue that acted as though attached to a bard.
What to do?
He had found out the hard way that kings were funny about secrets and their pride. It had been a year since Percival had jokingly shared with several court ladies how Arthur didn’t always wear small clothes under his breeches, and Arthur still turned scarlet at the mention of it. Best to receive Arthur’s approval before airing all their dirty laundry to Fionna. But she was still waiting for an answer. Gods, he had been quiet too long! She must think him strange, especially after his rambling divulgences. He scrambled for an explanation.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 6