Arthur chuckled. “A king needn’t do everything himself. Perhaps you can serve the roll. Be my royal deceiver. Whenever I need a lie told, I’ll send you in—” He fell silent as Lancelot’s face grew blacker and blacker.
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Lancelot said stiffly, before kicking his horse into a trot and pulling ahead.
“Lance—” Arthur called out, cursing his unthoughtful jest. Lancelot must still be sensitive over the business with Morgana and the two serving-wenches. Would he never be rid of his half-sister’s foreboding presence?
ARTHUR WENT IN alone to retrieve the item the Bone Carver had created for them. Curiosity warred with wariness as he entered her house again while the others awaited him outside.
“Little Dragon King,” the woman said, a smile curving her face as he entered. “I have something quite magnificent for you.”
“I could hardly sleep last night from the suspense,” he admitted.
“You sure it wasn’t the pounding?” the Bone Carver said, the smile growing wider.
How could she possibly . . . “What?” he asked, his mouth going dry.
“Of the weather,” she clarified. “The storm was a loud one.”
“Yes, the storm. Perhaps thunder and rain contributed.”
She pulled a box off a shelf—the size of his two palms together—then she handed the plain, carved wood over to him. “Open the lid.”
Arthur swallowed as the hinges creaked. Inside lay a key. Milky white, carved of bone. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the key’s bow an intricate triskelion knot of intersecting lines. “A key,” he said. He fought disappointment. He didn’t know why, but he had expected a dagger, or a staff, or something that wasn’t . . . a key. “What does it open?”
“The door will reveal itself to you when the time is right,” the Bone Carver said.
Of course. Another faerie riddle. Anything to do with the Grail was full to the brim with intrigues. He nodded. “I thank you for your aid. The craftsmanship is superb.” He closed the lid and bowed. “Now, if I may beg your leave, we must be on our way. The journey is long, and time is of the essence.” He turned toward the door.
“Don’t you want to ask me your question?” she asked after him.
Arthur spun on his heel. “What question . . .” he trailed off. But he knew what question and straightened. “You said my knight Fionna had power. What power do you speak of?”
“I know not. The truth of her is shielded from my sight, for a reason I cannot discern. But this hidden magic is a mystery worth exploring.”
His shoulders drooped slightly. He didn’t know why he had thought this strange woman could tell him something about Fionna. And he didn’t know exactly why he thought there was something to tell. Only what he already knew: there was indeed something unique about his fifth knight. And as the woman said, a mystery worth solving.
“I will offer you this advice, Arthur Pendragon, free of charge. Keep her close to your side. For she is the other key you need on this quest.”
Arthur ducked his head in thanks. The Bone Carver’s words followed him out the door. Another key. But to unlock what?
NOTHING RUINED A ride through the countryside like coming upon a dead body. Percival’s mood that day had been buoyant, to say the least. Ecstatic might be a fairer description. He couldn’t stop thinking of Fionna—the look of her taut stomach in the candlelight, the feel of her bare breasts . . . his cock grew hard with each lingering thought. The way her eyes had fluttered shut in pleasure as Galahad took her. As soon as this quest was over, he would show her such pleasure. He was surprised at how little he had minded sharing the experience with Galahad, though part of him wanted a woman all to himself. Wanted a night with Fionna—all to himself.
As the latter thought ignited him once more, his horse danced to the side beneath him—the movement so sudden, he was nearly thrown.
“Och,” Percival groaned as he caught sight of what Kit had avoided. “Arthur!” he called back. “Ye need to see this.” They were deep in the territory of Gwynedd. Though, not technically Arthur’s kingdom, his role as the Pendragon together with his generally honorable nature meant the problems of other Welsh lands still weighed heavy upon his king’s conscience.
The knights gathered around the poor fellow, who had been horribly mauled from the looks of it. Must have been a gruesome way to die.
“This just happened,” Fionna said, a pale hand before her mouth. “Less than a few hours ago, I would say.”
“What manner of creature did this? A wolf? A boar?” Percival asked, looking about.
Lancelot muttered, “Not another bloody boar.”
“Look at these tracks,” Galahad said, kneeling in the crushed grass, just beyond the man. “They don’t look like wolf or boar.” He frowned, placing a hand down next to the prints. “There are almost—fingers. I mean, clawed fingers. Five on this print . . .” he rolled in his bottom lip while thinking. “Four on this one. I’ve never seen anything like these marks.” He stood.
“The tracks seem to lead in the direction of that lake,” Fionna pointed. “Could the creature live in the lake?”
“But why didn’t the creature take the man with it? Or eat him?” Lancelot asked. “Could this mysterious beast kill for sport?”
“There’s a village round the other side of the lake.” Arthur pointed just ahead of their trail. “The poor fellow likely belongs to someone there. Let’s take him back for burial, and then find out what they know about the beast behind this vicious attack.”
BETWS-Y-COED WAS a quaint town much like one would find in Gwent. Squat, lime-washed houses topped with thatched roofs and bounded by tidy vegetable gardens. As they rode slowly through the main thoroughfare into the cobblestone circle at the center of town, the faces of townsfolk followed them with curiosity, rather than hostility. Even when they dismounted.
A man strode out of the only large building in town, which professed itself to be the village inn. “We welcome you,” the man said. He was barrel-chested and tall, nearly bald, but with strong features and a confident way about him. “I’m Willum, the Manor Lord of this village. What brings you to us?”
“Arthur Pendragon, Overking of Gwent,” Arthur said, and Willum bowed hurriedly, his brown eyes going wide. Those eyes flicked over each of the knights in turn, settling on Fionna with startling intensity. Percival frowned.
“My humble apologies, Your Majesty. I did not see a king’s banner or I might have graced you with better manners befitting your crown.”
“At ease, Willum,” Arthur held out a kind hand. “We were traveling nearby and came across a man who had been slain. We feared he may be a man from Betws-y-Coed and thought only to deliver him back to his family.” Arthur motioned to Galahad, who gently pulled the man’s body off the back of his horse, lowering him to the ground. They had wrapped him in a spare cloak, but blood was seeping through the fabric.
Willum’s hand strayed to his bare head in an unconscious gesture. “Another one? Bloody hell.” He winced, seeming to realize his words. “Pardon, Your Majesty.”
“Another one?” Percival asked, stepping up. “He isn’t the first?”
Galahad knelt and pulled the cloak back, revealing the man’s identity.
Willum’s face fell. “Yes, he’s one of ours.” A semi-circle of townsfolk had grown around them, and Willum turned to a lad who was hanging back. “Jon, go fetch Roselyn, will you? Tell her to bring her sister. Be gentle about it.”
The boy nodded and dashed off down the road.
“I’m afraid he isn’t the first. A monster lives in our lake and stalks the good people of our town. And I fear within the month, a town won’t be left to find.”
“A monster?” Percival asked. “What nature of creature? Have you seen this beast?”
Arthur cast him an annoyed look, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. Wasn’t it every knight’s duty to slay the beasts preying on innocent Welshmen and women like this?
“Th
e beast is called the Afanc,” a lilting female voice answered.
They all turned to where the voice had come from and Percival’s eyes widened at the sight. On the fringe of the circle stood two women—unlike women he had ever seen. Their hair shone black as midnight, their skin tawny and bronzed. With tilting eyes framed by dark lashes and full, voluptuous lips, the two women were some of the most beautiful creatures he had ever laid eyes on. Excluding Fionna perhaps—though the beauty of these women was of a different type altogether. Sultry and foreign. Their attire was stranger still, colorful silken fabrics flowing around them, tied about their tiny waists. Curved swords rested at their hips and gold glinted in their ears and . . . even in a woman’s nose!
“And who are you?” Lancelot asked, lifting his piercing blue eyes her way. Percival suppressed a snort. Nothing drew Lancelot out of his black mood like a beautiful woman.
“I am Cyra,” said the one with the nose ring. She was shorter, fuller of hip and bosom. “And this is my sister, Lelah.”
The other sister had long silken hair that cascaded down to the small of her back; she wore a necklace with a ruby the size of a robin’s egg. The women must know how to use those swords, if they felt safe to ride about alone with such jewels on their person.
“We have traveled from our home of Constantinople, tracking the Afanc,” Cyra added. “The creature was born of dark magic in our land and, therefore, it is our duty to kill this monster.”
Cyra knelt by the man who had died, and placed a hand on his chest, closing her eyes. Then she looked up at Willum and shook her head. “I’m too late.”
Too late? Percival thought. It was plain to see the man was dead, but Willum seemed crushed. His face fell even more until deep lines crinkled his eyes and around his mouth.
Lelah spoke, her voice soft as a rose’s petals, “We are grieved how the creature made it so far, killing so many. The Afanc has taken to this land’s cold climate, and so we have bound it to this place, to keep the monster from moving on. If we have any chance of ending this beast, it will be here.”
“Your cause is noble,” Arthur said, nodding. “But it’s only a beast. Surely with all of you together, you could make quick work of it?”
“This is no ordinary beast,” Willum said. “It has magic and controls the river somehow, making the water overflow beyond the banks with devastating results. Our farms have been flooded time and again. We’ll have nothing for winter.”
“Even magical creatures can be slain,” Galahad said.
“Not this one.” Willum’s grief-stricken gaze met Galahad’s. “All the Afanc does is kill. Again, and again.”
“What do ye mean?” Fionna asked.
Lelah spoke, laying a gentle hand on Willum’s drooping shoulder. The man suddenly looked exhausted, as though he had never known a day of sleep in his life. “To keep the creature sated, each day Willum and his son and daughter go down to the pool where it lays in wait and sacrifice their lives to the monster.”
Percival recoiled, and the other knights exchanged shocked glances.
Arthur spoke first. “How do you still live? And what do you mean, each day?”
“The creature isn’t hungry,” Willum said. “It just wants to kill mortals. So, we give it something to kill. And then Cyra and Lelah bring us back to life.”
Lancelot’s brows furrowed over his darkening eyes. “What sorcery is this?”
“Our magic is similar to the type that crafted the Afanc,” Lelah said. “The connection between this place, the creature, and these people—it enables us to do what no man or woman should be able to do. Bring back the dead. It was a solution for a time, but we cannot continue indefinitely. We haven’t been able to end this cycle.”
Excitement was building in Percival. This was a perfect opportunity to prove his worth—to Arthur, to Fionna. He knew last night had been a step toward her seeing him not as a mere lad anymore, but as the man he was. But slaying this beast would cement this truth in all their minds. Plus, these poor townspeople needed relief. A hero.
Percival straightened, lifting his chin. “The monster must die. And I will help ye slay the Afanc.”
Lelah’s face softened. “We thank you for your offer, brave knight, but I am afraid it would be a death sentence. For the Afanc cannot be killed by any mortal weapon.”
Arthur stepped up beside Percival, casting an exasperated look his way. “If that is the case, then I believe we can help. For my blade is not forged by a man.”
I COULDN’T HELP but think of what a strange world I had tangled myself up into by joining Arthur and his knights. In Ulster, there were goddesses to honor before battle and whispers of faerie tales around the hearth fire. But here, in Wales, the extraordinary seemed an everyday occurrence.
I noticed the stiff set of Arthur’s shoulders as Percival boldly announced how he would valiantly slay the Afanc. Then how the frown on Arthur’s shadow-lined face deepened as he reluctantly agreed to Percival’s heroics. But I knew my king’s bleeding heart, and we would not have ridden from this hidden village without helping her suffering people first. It wasn’t in his nature to be calloused or indifferent.
“There are rooms enough in the inn for each of you,” Willum said, tugging me from my internal ramblings. “Don’t have a lot of visitors these days. Get settled, Your Majesty, and then we can talk further at dinner.”
I turned to lead my new horse to the stables—a dark earthen brown gelding named Acorn—when Galahad strode my way, intent upon me. My breath hitched in my chest as I beheld him, as the heat of memories billowed in my blazing pulse and curled throughout my body. The exquisite feel of him inside me, all around me. Skies above, he was a singular pleasure unlike any I had ever known. And with Percival there beside us, his hands and his lips upon me . . . I was more daring than I had ever been, but our shared intimacy still felt so very right. Even now, I reveled in the sensations of my body, the sweet soreness between my legs.
All these thoughts flashed in the space of a second. But Galahad pushed past me gently, laying a hand on my shoulder before he leaned down to lift Acorn’s hoof.
I craned my head around the bulk of his torso and pressed my lips into a thin line. The shoe was loose.
Galahad clucked his tongue in disapproval, straightening. He patted Acorn’s sleek shoulder. “He was favoring this foot during the latter part of the ride,” Galahad said. “Willum! You have a farrier?”
Willum nodded, pointing toward a wattle and daub structure at the end of the village. “Blacksmith can shoe a horse.”
Embarrassment prickled at my flushing face. “I should have noticed.” I prided myself on paying expert attention to my mounts. They were partners and friends. But apparently, I had been too wrapped up in my thoughts over my knights to notice. Once again, I found these men were changing me. Some of my new differences I liked, but other alterations I found quite unwelcome.
“Don’t worry.” Galahad shrugged and leaned in, his body heat and sandalwood scent threatening to destroy what was left of my good sense. “I only noticed,” he whispered in my ear, “because I was admiring how nice your arse looks in a saddle.”
I replied with a snort of outrage, but my heart wasn’t in it.
Galahad gave my chin a little tap with his knuckles before sauntering away to join Arthur and the others who conversed with the eastern mystics. The beautiful, seductive, compelling magical mystics with hair as black as onyx and skin as smooth as buttermilk.
I shoved down a tendril of jealousy as I led Acorn toward the forge. What was I afraid of? That Arthur or his knights would fall for one of the women? They were free men, I had no claim to them. But even as I said those words to myself, they rang hollow. I had laid claim to each of them, and them to me. Even the-ever-insulating Lancelot, who seemed inexplicably determined to resist the dark, passionate bond that was germinating between us. Already, the building steam began escaping his tamped-down control. My lip curled in disgust, and I kicked a pebble with the toe of m
y boot. I would not be one of those women who schemed to keep a man through tricks or jealousy. If I wasn’t compelling enough for the likes of them, then I was better off without their fair-weather hearts.
The blacksmith was a rugged man with arms as large as Galahad’s. He kept his black hair cropped close to his scalp, and his thick beard neatly trimmed. His eyes widened at my and Acorn’s approach, and he laid down his hammer to straighten his apron.
“My Lady,” he said, inclining his head. He had a pleasant voice, deep and honest. “How may I assist you?”
“My horse’s shoe is loose,” I said. “Left front. Do ye have time to re-shoe?”
“It would be my honor, Lady.” He took Acorn’s reins and then felt down his fetlock toward the shoe. “I am called Colwyn. What brings you to Betws-y-Coed?”
“I am Fionna,” I replied in kind. “We were passing through when we found . . . one of the Afanc’s victims. I believe my fellow knight is going to try to help.”
“Help?” Colwyn lay a hand on Acorn’s neck, stepping closer to me. His eyes darted to the necklace around my neck and then, slowly, his gaze traveled back to mine. “Are you the maiden?”
I wrinkled my brow. “I’m not sure what ye mean.”
He took another step closer and I stilled my hand’s twitch toward my sword. I didn’t think he was being threatening. If anything, the glint in his dark eyes as he regarded me was—reverent? He smelled of sweat and woodsmoke, iron and musk. Honest smells.
“You’ve met the mystics?”
I nodded.
“Well then surely they’ve shared that there is only one way to lure the Afanc out into the open. The creature is partial to fair maidens. And you, My Lady, may be the fairest of all.”
My mouth opened and then closed in surprise. Men had complimented me before, but few were so forward. “I thank ye,” I managed. “If a maiden is needed to lure the Afanc out to be killed, then I suppose I can volunteer. Now I’ll leave ye to your work and return when ye’re finished with Acorn’s shoe.”
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 28