“Across the wall,” Galahad said, repeating the riddle. “Could be Hadrian’s Wall, no? So, the Grail is to the north, in the Scoti kingdom of Alba?”
Arthur nodded, gnawing the inside of his lip. “Atop a rock hill.”
“The city of Castellum Puellarum is built atop a rock hill,” Percival suggested. “That’s where I would start.”
“If Castellum Puellarum is good enough for the heir to the Fisher King,” Arthur replied, “Then it is good enough for me.”
They fell silent, none wanting to broach the next subject. None knowing how. Once again, Arthur was grateful when Percival barreled ahead with youthful tactlessness, giving little heed for the sensitivity of the situation.
“Fionna has to come with us. I dinnae care what she did. She’s one of us. She’s our fifth.”
Arthur risked a glance at Fionna. She was staring vacantly at the stone, lost in her own thoughts.
“You’re certain of this?” he asked carefully.
“We won’t find the Grail without her,” Percival said. “I know it in my bones. Just look at this.” He motioned to the stone and the circle around them. “We never would have found this if Fionna hadn’t fled. She led us right here.”
“You led us here,” Lancelot corrected.
“But we wouldn’t have been close enough to feel the magic’s pull without her, ye ken.”
“Excalibur did choose her,” Galahad pointed out.
“Yes, before she tried to steal it,” Lancelot countered again.
Arthur tried to set aside his feelings, to view the situation dispassionately. Merlin had foreseen that a fifth knight would join them, whose blood would be the key to breaking the faerie curse on Excalibur and over all Caerleon. Fionna had broken the curse on Excalibur. There was no denying that. And now the stone suggested they needed her as well. He would welcome the devil himself under his roof, it meant healing Caerleon. Would it be so bad to allow Fionna to stay with them?
“Lancelot, a word,” Arthur said, pulling his sword brother aside and away from the circle’s bright, cloying feel. Arthur took a steadying breath. “I do not trust my judgment when it comes to her. What would your counsel be?”
Lancelot let out a dark laugh. “You’re trusting my judgment when it comes to women?”
“As a fellow son of a king, as my second-in-command, as my friend, I’m trusting your judgment when it comes to my kingdom. I think we need her, if we have any hope of freeing Caerleon from this dark curse. But . . . I fear this idea is just my heart telling me so.”
Lancelot closed his eyes, as if warring with something, though what, Arthur couldn’t say. His eyelids snapped open and he leveled a gaze at Arthur. “Your judgment isn’t worth shit when it comes to her, but you’re right this time. Percival is right. Merlin is right. The bloody rock is right. We need her. The Fates have a funny way of bringing souls together, and for better or worse, Fionna is ours now.”
“And we are hers,” Arthur replied softly.
Lancelot nodded and clapped Arthur on the shoulder.
“But the punishment for betraying a king must be death. How could I deviate from that law? And what kind of precedent would I set, if I pardoned her?”
“As for the punishment, don’t forget you are king. You make the rules. You could make her shine your boots every day for the rest of your life, if you wished.”
Arthur frowned. “That wouldn’t be very fitting for a lady.”
Lancelot rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. As for precedent, no one knows about Fionna’s little misadventure but us five. Let’s keep it that way.”
“You’re right.” Lancelot spoke sense. For the first time in weeks, Lancelot seemed himself again—his eyes clear and bright, his shoulders pulled back proudly.
Arthur’s mouth twisted as he tried to hold in a smile. “You’re really loving not being the fuck up anymore, aren’t you?”
Lancelot grinned, letting out a delighted laugh. “You have no idea.”
Arthur laughed too, and they moved back toward the circle.
“But Arthur,” Lancelot slowed him, his voice lowering. “We watch her. All of us. We must stay on our guard.”
Arthur gave a curt nod. Wise counsel. Fionna would need to earn their trust, if she wanted their good opinion back. He didn’t know what would pass between them now, if anything could. She had lied about so much. But not everything, he thought. He believed that what he and Fionna had shared the night before was real. Their connection had felt real—more real than anything he had ever experienced. He stabbed fingers through his hair in disbelief. Had their time together only been last night? It now seemed a lifetime ago.
The tension was thick as Arthur and Lancelot rejoined the other knights around the standing stone. Arthur took the moment to drink in the sight of Fionna—regal and lovely and fierce. Her tears had left trails through the dust on her face, but she stood proud, once again composed, ready to face his decision. His heart and soul longed for her still, despite her betrayal, perhaps stronger than ever. He couldn’t let her pass from his life like nothing more than a surreal dream. He couldn’t be the one to rob this world of her. He wouldn’t. The worried expressions on Percival and Galahad’s faces showed they prayed that he wouldn’t either.
“Well,” Arthur began. “Seems the Fates have bound us together with bonds so tight that even treachery cannot tear them asunder. For what it’s worth, I believe your story, Fionna, about why you stole Excalibur. They do not justify theft, but I understand. I will pardon you for your crime, on one condition.” He paused a beat and met her silver eyes. “Help us find the Grail.”
ARTHUR’S WORDS RANG in my ears, foreign and strange. Hope surged in me like a tempest. Surely . . . surely, he couldn’t be saying what I thought he was.
“Fionna?” Arthur asked, the warm green of his eyes filled with concern. His merciful gaze stunned me. Battle I understood. Strength, and competition, and kill or be killed. But forgiveness?—it took my breath away. A gift as tender and delicate as a newborn lamb. And one freely given. I wondered again, for the hundredth time, about what a strange manner of man King Arthur Pendragon was. Strange and unexpected and wonderful.
They were waiting for me to speak. I struggled to find my voice. I was still shaky after having stared into the dark of the abyss. “Ye would forgive me?” I asked, still not daring to believe his pardon could be true. That everything could go back to how it was . . . surely, this was a cruel dream and I would awake with Aideen in my arms and my father snoring like an old, grizzled bear nearby. And my knights? They would remain pure and whole and I would be spotless in their eyes, as before. The possibility of such a gift, of forgiveness, carved a gaping hole in my chest and I peered up, afraid to see truth.
Arthur blinked shyly at me, in that boyish way of his, before standing tall as king once more. “I believe you were acting under duress from one of my enemies. You cannot be entirely faulted for your actions.” He swallowed and I watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “And . . . and we need you. You’ve seen the curse. How the dark magic is poisoning Caerleon. We need your help to find the Grail. Help us find this fae relic and you’re forgiven.”
“But—” I began, wanting to foolishly protest that I knew nothing that could help them find the mythical bowl.
“Just yer presence will aid us lass,” Percival said. “Trust me.”
“Will you stay?” Galahad asked, his words breathless with hope.
I looked between them, my heart squeezing painfully as I took in each of their wary faces. Arthur, the sweet verdant warmth of summer; Percival, the playful swirl of ochre leaves in autumn; Lancelot, hard and cold as ice, but with a promise of a thaw. And Galahad. The explosion of life in the spring, exuberant and sensual. How had they so quickly worked their way into the marrow of my bones, the aether of my soul? They were my sun and night and stars, my seasons turning. I could no sooner leave these men than I could leave my own body.
“I will help ye find the Grail. I�
�ll stay.” I nodded heartily, all pretenses of a stoic warrior gone. I found I no longer cared. They had seen the real me—raw and imperfect and flawed. And still they welcomed me with open arms. My knees gave out beneath me, but Galahad was there on one side, Percival on the other.
Lancelot stepped forward and pulled a knife from his sheath, slicing the bonds at my wrists. And Arthur. He stepped close and I reached for him, unsure, afraid he would shy from me. But he didn’t. He stepped into my arms and I clung to him—breathed in his scent of grass and summer that I feared I would never smell again.
There, in the deep of the forest, with my knights around me, I was overcome by a certainty stronger than anything I had ever felt. Whatever came next, we’d be able to face it.
Together.
PERCHED ATOP A mossy stone, the crow burned with anger as she watched the Little Dragon King kiss the witch’s forehead. The fool human male reeked of cloying pheromones and bruising shame. Did the man even realize he was enchanted still? Compelled by the lily dangling from her throat? Two other weak human men shared turns pulling the witch into an embrace, and the crow nearly cawed with disgust.
Almost, but . . .
A pulse thundered, singing to hers. The crow angled her head in search of the mortal heartbeat she knew intimately. There. The fourth man, who stood apart from the others to emotionally parry the witch’s and necklace’s charms. The one with glacial eyes and hair as black as her feathers. The one who had made a mockery of her love.
Clíodna be cursed!
Calling upon the forest’s dark shadows and the prayers of warmongering men, the crow vaporized into a woman’s form. A cool summer breeze swirled around Morgana in a fury of leaves and twigs. Her hair danced like obsidian snakes as her dark magic faded into the rotting forest floor and tree shadows.
“You are weakest of all,” she whispered for the breeze’s ears alone.
With a flutter of her hand she pushed the wind, warmed with guilt, toward Lancelot. The wildflowers and grass shuddered as her breath passed by. And when her words found their target, they caressed his face and toyed with the curls in his hair.
A muscle in his jaw worked as a flush colored his cheeks, his gaze chilled to ice. Lancelot turned stiffly from her half-brother and his idiots and strode over to his horse. He leaned his forehead against the beast’s sleek withers.
A smile twisted her lips as his pulse changed tunes and began thundering with fear instead of desire. The war drums in his chest would demand a fight soon enough. Or some other drastic reaction. She cared not. She was not cowed by him. He deserved to know this torture. She would have loved him for all eternity. Morgana would have traded her immortality to rule a kingdom of man, if Lancelot remained by her side. Or she would have carried him into the Otherworld when his mortal days ended. Now he could rot like the farmlands and the forest beneath her slippers.
The witch may be in Arthur’s good graces again, but he hadn’t won. Caerleon was her and her sisters’ birthright. The honor price for their father’s death and mother’s defiling. And for their mother’s disappearance when Uther Pendragon died at the hands of his enemies—the Saxons. The very tribes who had slain her own father.
She dug her sharp nails into a maple tree until it wept sap. Excalibur would be hers, even if the witch failed in her blind mission. What did the Romans once say? A kingdom divided is easily conquered?
Lancelot tightened the straps on his saddlebag and then looked out into the forest near where she stood. Morgana stepped into golden light, revealing herself to him. They locked eyes.
Her lips curled back in wicked promise and his lips sneered into a cold vow of his own. She laughed, and leaves rustled and fluttered. I am not done with you yet, little knight, she thought. Then, the breeze glittered into swollen darkness filled with the sounds of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
The crow flew from the moss-covered stone into the dank shadows of the forest. In a sharp swoop, she turned toward the Irish Sea to hunt for a vessel pushed by Lir’s currents to his misty green Isle and the shores of Ulster.
The Dark Fates had a new course.
HISTORICAL NOTES
Once upon a time, a starry-eyed college student majoring in geophysics, with high aspirations of becoming a technical writer for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), decided to take classes that fed her equal love of the humanities. And so, she enrolled in an Arthurian Legend class and instantly fell in love with Arthurian Cycle stories and fairy tales (even more than she already had).
Hey there. This is Jesikah, one half of the Wonder-Twin duo known as MoonTree Books (aka Claire Luana & Jesikah Sundin). With our powers combined, we became badass mistresses of fairy tale fiction. Okay, we already were . . . *winks* But, we each have strengths that beautifully meld together in our partnership. Claire is truly magical when it comes to zero drafting and micro-outlining. And my powers manifest best in macro-outlining and research. We both write in ways that border on the poetic and pay hawk-eye attention to characterization. But I digress. Back to the title of this post: Historical Notes.
I. Love. Research. And I love historical factoids.
I also have a love for origin stories. And the Arthurian Legend is a tale with origins as misty and mysterious as the gateway to the Otherworld. Most of the Arthurian narratives we know today stem from The History of British Kings by Geoffrey of Monmouth, a 12th century Welsh cleric who was obsessed with King Arthur and Merlin stories. Medieval tales aside, history buffs do know this: the Arthurian Legend is of Celtic origins and was hijacked by the French courts after the Norman invasion. The Normans, like the Romans (ha! They kinda rhyme), knew the key to assimilating people groups was to kill their gods. So, they killed their gods by re-writing and assimilating their fables and myths first. King Arthur began as a Bran the Blessed archetype (from the Welsh Mabinogion) and was transformed into a biblical King David archetype by the Christian Normans. The Normans even changed the grail from a cauldron-like serving dish, common in Celtic homes, to the cup of Christ.
As I dug deeper into myth origins, I grew frustrated with the druids and medieval monks. The druids were historians and lore keepers for the Celts, whether Gaels or Britons. But—a big BUT—the druids and Celts were orators. It was against their religion to write things down. There were a few heretics in the bunch and so we do have Ogham runes carved into standing stones and a few stone tablets. But not many and certainly not enough to piece together historical details we can confirm absolutely. In fact, historians are not even sure druids ever existed since references are limited to Roman accounts. And with no firm written down history, religious beliefs, and lore, it was easy for medieval monasteries to re-write Celtic history as a propaganda campaign for the Holy Roman Church. And, thus, paganism dissolved into the Otherworld’s mist and Christianity became the new state religion.
Despite these unfortunate drawbacks, I did learn a few interesting things about Celtic culture (from the continent and the Isles). The majority of their gods were water born (more on this in a bit). And they were branched out in Star Wars fashion. You either followed the Light side or the Dark side. The Light side were known as the Children of Danu (aka the Túatha dé Danann) and the Dark side were the Children of Domnu (aka the Formorians), as illustrated in The Ulster Cycle from Ireland.
The first mention of a “King Arthur” is in the Historia Brittonum dated 826 A.D., often attributed to Nennius, a 9th century Celtic monk and historian, who mentioned a “King Arthur” of Caerleon, Wales, also known as the Roman City of the Legion. Camelot is fantasy, which is why dozens of cities throughout Great Britain claim to be Camelot. Some historians even believe Arthur was Ambrosius Aurelianus, a Roman-British war leader from the 5th century who is famed for winning a major battle against the Anglo-Saxons. Me? I don’t think Arthur existed. Not as an actual person in history. Rather, he was the equivalent of a super hero to deliver hope and rally the masses. We have The Avengers and they had Arthur Pendragon. That age was fraught
with never-ending wars, invasions, territory expansion and border re-assignments, and old gods vs new gods. The people needed a hero to believe in, someone who would unite the masses and bring peace. Arthur was the post-Roman British mythological man for the job.
Another interesting factoid I learned about Celtic culture was their obsession with water sacrifices. When we modern people think of human sacrifices, we often think of a stone table and a bloody mess (which did happen). But, mostly, human sacrifices for the Celts were drownings. Their gods were born from and dwelled in water. As well as earth and sky but mostly water. And humans weren’t the only things sacrificed to the water. Archeologists have found hoards of swords, shields, helmets, spears, and daggers in lakes, ponds, river beds, and even in the oceans around Celtic regions. Lady of the Lake anyone? Why a goddess would lift a sword out of the water makes sense when put in the context of Celtic culture. And Excalibur’s inscription? Even more so. “Take me up, cast me away.”
Side Note:
For those who think bathing was uncommon the Middle Ages, LOL no. Classism in movies with dirty peasants and clean nobles doesn’t equal historical accuracy. Nor equating the Black Plague of the 14th century to cleanliness standards of any other medieval period. A famous nursary rhyme about bathing came from the medieval era. And people in the mid-late medieval era had far more medical knowledge than just herbal lore. We have extensive medical texts from the Middle Ages, some knowledge still used today. So, for those who think people didn’t sew up wounds and such, you’re also wrong. I wrote more on this, in detail, in the historical notes for book three, if interested.
Back to our regular programming:
But my favorite part of the research? Learning how the Celts were more progressive than modern society with regard to certain social issues. They believed that women were 100% equal to the men, legally and socially. Women in Celtic cultures didn’t need a man’s approval or permission for . . . anything. They didn’t bat an eye at homosexuality either. “Warrior Lovers” among men were extremely common. So much so, the Greeks wrote about it (more on that in book three historical notes). And, the women practiced polyandry (multiple husbands). So, for those who are trying to piece together how an Arthurian Legend story works with Reverse Harem? This is how. Polyandry was a fairly common practice from what historians are beginning to uncover.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 20