Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  I unbuckled and pulled my saddlebags off Acorn’s rump quickly, grateful for their bulk before me.

  “Fair Fionna . . .” Colwyn’s voice caressed my name and a chill clawed its icy fingers up my spine. “I am a man of few means, and surely you could sup with gods and kings, but if you would have me—”

  “I thank ye for yer kindness, sir.”

  I backed up hastily out of the forge’s heat. Then I spun on my heel, my mind working furiously as I hurried toward the inn. The man offered me his hand in marriage! What manner of madness was this? This town was growing stranger by the minute.

  NIGHT FELL QUICKLY over the little village. Willum had served us a mouth-watering stew flavored by spiced rabbit and carrots and turnips, the remnants sopped up with warm, hearty rye bread. The farm ale was naturally chilled by the elements and light, just as I preferred my hard drinks. I was now feeling comfortable and drowsy as I leaned back in my chair, my mind drifting comfortably in the way only a good meal can inspire.

  Willum was blowing out the candles in the far corner of the common room while sweeping the floor.

  “We should retire,” I said. When had the hour bloomed so late?

  “Indeed,” Arthur said, pushing to his feet. “Lord Willum, thank you for the fine meal. Please give your daughter my esteemed regards for her culinary skills.”

  The innkeeper and Manor Lord paused from his tasks. “If you can rid us of the Afanc, you’ve free meals here for life, Your—”

  Galahad stood. “I accept your generous offer.”

  “Not you, good Sir.” Willum grinned, an odd look on his sorrow-lined face. “You look as though you could eat a wagonload each meal.”

  Galahad guffawed at the man’s audacity, and the rest of us laughed as well. I wanted to help these people. They had spirit, despite their current circumstances.

  Lelah, the woman with the long flowing tresses, appeared in the stairwell’s doorway. She had changed into a dress of cobalt silk that left little to the imagination. “My sister and I desire your company. To share more about the creature. Will you come?”

  Arthur nodded and followed Lelah up the stairs, followed quickly by the others. I pursed my lips before joining the invitation.

  And stars, the sisters’ chambers were unlike any I had ever seen.

  “Remarkable.” Percival goggled, his head swiveling back-and-forth to take in all the extravagance.

  The familiar-styled furniture I knew lined the side walls to make room for a dozen large, colorful pillows, each cushion carefully positioned over a vibrant-patterned rug. Tapestries stitched with gold thread hung on the walls, and brightly-hued lanterns in octagonal shapes cast strange symbols all around the warmly illuminated room.

  “Welcome,” Cyra said, kneeling on a pillow before a roaring fireplace.

  “You brought all of this with you?” Lancelot surveyed the room, wrinkles appearing on his forehead, his mouth tilted halfway between a sneer and a frown.

  “Home is so far away. The endless distance is difficult at times. So, we thought to bring a bit of home with us,” Lelah said, as if carrying all of one’s home furnishings across the known world was perfectly common.

  “Pity the mule who had to carry your treasures,” Lancelot muttered, and I stifled a laugh, grateful for Lancelot’s cynicism to break the spell of this bewitching place.

  “This is cozy.” Galahad plopped onto a pillow by the fire across from Cyra, toeing off his boots.

  “No, beautiful . . .” Percival whispered. But his eyes weren’t fixed on the room. They were fixed solely on Lelah.

  I started to sigh but stopped when I caught Lancelot watching me. A calculating look glittered in his icy-blue gaze—a shadow of a smile on his sensual lips. With just a single look, I felt naked before him—I knew he had undressed my thoughts—could see my petty jealousy. Arthur, Galahad, Percival, Lancelot—these incredible men were mine. But I hadn’t claimed them. Not truly. Not in a way that was binding.

  The smile broke across Lancelot’s face in earnest as he strode forward, dropping onto a cerulean-hued cushion beside Cyra. “We thank you for your hospitality, dear sisters,” Lancelot practically purred at her, each sultry-spoken word frothing my blood into action.

  I narrowed my eyes at him and his smile grew wider, his scintillating eyes locked with mine. Oh, so that’s how he wanted to play?

  My good sense fled me as I slinked onto a beaded cushion between Arthur and Galahad. Closer to Arthur than was strictly required. Let the games begin.

  “MAY WE OFFER you refreshments?” Lelah peered up through her lashes at the men—a look both demure and coy. In one hand, she held a blue glass bottle that I assumed contained some sort of alcohol and, in the other, a finely carved bowl.

  Lelah settled onto a cushion between Percival and Arthur as Cyra stretched back and retrieved a tray with glasses from a low bookshelf.

  Lancelot examined her arched form with unveiled interest, and I rolled my eyes.

  The sisters poured a clear liquid into the tiny glasses and passed them round. I studied mine, marveling in the glass’s beveling and the gold inlay. They were chalices a queen might drink from. I couldn’t fathom how these beautiful vessels traveled unimaginable leagues and remained intact.

  “My gods!” Galahad exclaimed, regarding his empty glass—he had already downed the contents. He blinked rapidly. “That tastes of . . . anise.”

  “Anise?” I asked, sniffing my drink. “What is anise?”

  Cyra laughed, a light, carefree sound. “Pace yourself, good Sir. Even a man such as yourself will feel the effects of Arak, if you drink so quickly. Arak is strong.” Cyra turned her gaze onto me. “Anise is a spice native to Constantinople, where we are from. Sultans and Pharaohs, even the Greeks and Romans, have enjoyed drinks and candies made from anise seeds and licorice root for ages.”

  “The Welsh Lord who squired me would travel to Rome every so often,” Galahad shared. “He returned with licorice and anise candies for his household each time.”

  Lelah was attending to the bowl now, lighting the end of a little wrapped herb bundle in the fire. “Breathing in the vapors of the dried cannabis plant is tradition in our land. Before battle. This medicinal herb will help you relax and sleep deeply. This is the least we can do to honor and prepare you for tomorrow.”

  “We thank you, My Ladies,” Arthur said, taking a sip from his glass. “But what would also help prepare us is more information about the Afanc. You said this creature comes from your land. What else can you share?”

  “The blacksmith shared how the Afanc is only lured out of its lair by a fair maiden. Then the creature begins to kill,” I added. “I offered to serve.”

  All the knights’ heads swiveled my way. I shrugged.

  “I am only being logical. I can defend myself.” Though a horrible thought struck me. Hopefully by maiden he meant young woman and not . . . an actual maiden, as in virgin. After what Galahad and Percival and I had done last night, I certainly didn’t qualify in the latter sense. Remembered pleasure shivered over my skin, and I took a gulp of the drink to down the memory. The liquid burned my throat, the powerful taste of anise filing my nostrils. I coughed. “Arak is . . . interesting,” I managed, hoarsely.

  Galahad laughed.

  “Arak isn’t for everyone,” Cyra said sweetly.

  Lelah was waving a graceful hand through the pungent smelling smoke now, wafting ribboned tendrils in lazy curlicues.

  “Lady Fionna speaks truth,” Lelah said, setting the bowl on the carpet between us. “The Afanc requires a fair woman to bring the creature out into the open. But there is something else you must know. The Afanc is invisible.”

  Lancelot froze mid-sip and coughed. “I’m sorry, is that a joke?”

  “We’re afraid not, Sir. But,” Cyra said hastily, “we have a talisman to help.”

  She reached across Lancelot’s lap, flashing him a flirtatious smile, and then retrieved a little box by the fireplace. The lid was carved in geo
metric designs and inlaid with mother of pearl. Here in Wales, a treasure such as this box would fetch a king’s ransom. Or in Ulster. The latter thought burrowed deep into my mind. And, with a painful pang, images of Father and Aideen tormented my grief. Surely Arthur’s messenger was drawing near the shores of Ulster by now. My stomach heaved at the memory of my own voyage across the Irish Sea. A sailor I was not.

  Cyra opened the intricately-carved box to reveal a small, green, rough-cut gemstone. “This is an adder stone.” She offered the talisman to Percival. “If you are the warrior who will face the beast tomorrow, then this stone is yours to carry.”

  Percival took the gem, turning the stone over and examining the colors in the light. “I would like to remain the warrior, lass. But . . . His Majesty’s sword possesses the power to slay the beast, ye ken? Perhaps . . .” He turned to Arthur, hope in his brown eyes. “Perhaps I could borrow your blade, My King?”

  Arthur frowned, his hand straying to Excalibur’s hilt. He seemed to consider, wearing the face of a king, rather than the boyish one I preferred. Finally, he nodded. “I will lend you Excalibur to complete this task. Just don’t run off with my sword.” I froze as Arthur slid a sideways look my way. Relief flooded me when a hint of a smile appeared at one corner of his fine mouth.

  I let out a shaky laugh. “Indeed. For what kind of knight runs off with their king’s sword?”

  “A treacherous one,” Lancelot muttered, robbing the moment of all its levity. I resisted making a lewd gesture at him as he scooted closer to Cyra.

  “May I have more of that liquor?” Galahad held his glass out as I took an experimental breath from the bundled herbs.

  “So, tell us of this Afanc’s creation, My Ladies,” Lancelot said, his voice smooth and sweet. “You mentioned how the creature’s magic mirrors your own? How can that possibly be true?”

  Lelah wound her thick hair into a braid as she began to regale us with stories of how their mentor, a great mystic in Constantinople, explored dark magics. Her voice was melodious and mesmerizing, the story hanging in the air before me as if a moving tapestry. I could feel the heat from the desert’s beating sun—though, I knew not of what a desert truly was or looked like. A land of endless, golden earth and sparse vegetation? It boggled the mind. I could smell her mentor’s bubbling cauldrons as Lelah spoke them into life in the room, and I could also see the glint of gold and scarlet of their master’s turban, which Lelah demonstrated by using a scarf. So many wonderous new words and images. I was riveted.

  Sweat trickled down my back and I pulled at my thick tunic. I was so hot—my limbs heavy and pleasantly numb. The sweet-smelling smoke seemed to fill my head, dulling my senses. I unbuckled my sword belt and pulled off my boots. Against the backdrop of the story, I was dimly aware of the movement in the room—Galahad pouring himself another glass; Percival’s fingers trailing up Lelah’s arm and around her swan’s neck; Lancelot pulling Cyra onto his lap, his strong hand tangling in her black tresses, his lips brushing along her collarbone as she arched her head back in delight.

  Jealousy coiled in my stomach, until I noticed Arthur next to me. He had removed his crown and his boots, though not Excalibur. He was gazing at me with such a look of plaintive longing that his ardor, his open desire lanced through the fog in my head and pierced straight to my heart. My king . . . my king still wanted me. Even after all I had done—the treachery, the betrayal. I knew what that sleepy, dreamy look meant in a man’s eye. And seeing Arthur’s face softened so? An answer to a prayer I dared not express even in the shadows of my heart.

  The room faded away as Lelah finished her story, and I grabbed a fistful of Arthur’s tunic and pulled him to me with more strength than I realized. He toppled forward and we both tumbled back onto the pillows with a surprised laugh and soft, pleasurable exhales of breath.

  The others peered our way in surprise at the sudden motion—Percival’s lips plump from kissing Lelah, Lancelot turning from the half-untied laces of Cyra’s gown. Galahad—well Galahad was snoring softly, passed out in a pile of cushions, his arms and limbs spread out.

  Arthur pushed himself back up and tugged me to my feet. “I thank you for your hospitality this evening, My Ladies. I fear I must retire.”

  “I am tired as well,” I managed, though I’m not sure who I was trying to fool.

  Lancelot’s eyes darkened before he turned back to Cyra, burying his face between the curves of her full breasts.

  I shoved aside my unease at the sight and grabbed my boots and sword belt. Then, I allowed Arthur to tow me by the hand to his chamber two doors down.

  Once inside, he pushed the door shut, walking me back with the bulk of his body until my spine pressed to the door. My breath hitched as his lips met mine, strong and sure and Arthur.

  “. . . My Lady . . .”

  “Arthur—”

  “—Do you—”

  I couldn’t give my consent fast enough. “Kiss me. Touch me. I give ye permission to do as ye please.”

  Arthur pulled away just enough to meet my eyes. “I do not wish for you to think I only long for you after imbibing in tonight’s exotic offerings. Nor as a guilt offering.” He cupped my face with a sweet, chaste kiss. “I have behaved the fool,” he whispered hoarsely. “I ache to bridge the distance I selfishly created between us.”

  I traced my fingertips over his lips and whispered back, “I wish for you to only know pleasure and happiness, Arthur Pendragon.”

  His eyes fluttered shut as an appreciative shudder wended down his body. “I need you, Fionnabhair Allán.”

  “I am yers, My King. My heart, my mind, my body, I give it all to ye this night. Whatever ye need of me.”

  His lips were upon mine, this time slow and reverent. The back of his fingers caressed the curve of my cheek and down my neck. Light touches that betrayed his trembling hands and his quivering breaths. As if he were holding back an enormity of emotion. As if he knew apologies and requests for forgiveness were trite compared to the words his heart wished to express instead. No man had ever touched me with such veneration and my knees grew weak at the beauty he made me feel with just the tips of his fingers and the soft stroke of his lips.

  Pulling back, Arthur took my hand in his and led me toward the bed. Candlelight flickered across the walls and glinted in a night-blackened latticed window. A blush colored his fair skin as he glanced at me shyly over his shoulder. The authority of a king had melted away to reveal a vulnerable young man, a boyishness I couldn’t resist. Longing pooled deep in his gaze as he cherished the very sight of me, and I found myself flushing as well, as though a bashful maiden instead of a fierce warrior. Our awareness of one another charged the air between us. An energy both bright and beautiful. A deep connection I could not explain yet felt all the same, as sure as I breathed.

  At his bed, Arthur leaned in and pressed his lips to mine once more. This time with building urgency. A firestorm burst between us and my hands roamed the broad expanse of his chest, shoulders, and back, needing to explore the searing flames licking our bodies. The heat was utterly delicious, the headiness more blissful than the finest wine. We fell to the covers and tangled into each other’s embrace, our clothing and armor tossed about the floor.

  His breath shuddered as I began kissing the freckles across his chest and down the ribbed muscles of his abdomen. Hard muscle formed a tantalizing V down his hips to his groin and my mouth needed to savor every dip and curve of his masculinity. The soft caress of his fingers on my face, the feel of his skin on my lips, the moans of pleasure escaping his mouth, the way every sculpted line of his body flexed when the tip of my tongue tasted the salt of his excitement—they were a far more intoxicating drug than the one we had enjoyed earlier this evening.

  I licked the length of him, my core burning for release as he breathed my name . . . as though a prayer, as though a plea. As though my name formed the very breath in his lungs. To draw out each sensation intensely, my mouth slid down the shaft of his cock achingly slow
while my tongue swirled across the sensitive skin. His hands left my face to grip the headboard and his hips rolled beneath my ministrations. And then they rocked again, slow at first, but quickly gaining rhythm as his breaths grew more ragged.

  “Fionna . . .” he called out as his body stiffened until the veins in his forearms stood in stark relief. I leaned back to watch him climax, a smile on my lips as he groaned, muscles tightening and then relaxing. He was the most beautiful man I had ever known, even more so when he peaked.

  I crawled up the bed to his mouth, wanting him to taste himself on my lips. His kiss was deep, erotic, and breathless. More sensual than I expected of Arthur. Then he rolled me onto my back and, with a grin, cherished me in return. And gods, the feel of him as the hard planes of his body brushed along the soft curves of mine, as his tongue played with my nipples before dipping to my thighs. The fire blazing hot and licking our bodies now pooled between my legs, and I burned with each sizzling flick of his tongue. I wanted to turn to ash in his fingers, to feel the earth quake beneath me. The pleasure built and billowed as he lapped at my arousal until I cried out, clutching his hair, then the covers, then the headboard behind me.

  Arthur moved up my body and buried his face into my neck. He trailed light kisses down to my collarbone, then to my shoulder. “We are fated for each other,” he whispered into my skin. “My body belongs to yours. I am your servant and gladly kneel before you.”

  He grazed his nose along my jaw, his hot breath branding my skin. With a sigh, my head fell back, and my eyes closed while the moon kissed my pulse and glittering stars danced in my veins.

  “I love ye, Arthur Pendragon.”

  “I love you, Fionnabhair Allán.”

  PERCIVAL FELT DIFFERENT with Excalibur on his hip. Stronger. Invincible. Was this how Arthur felt all the time? He didn’t think so. Perhaps the weight of Arthur’s crown balanced out whatever joy he might gain from this faerie blade. Lately, his king walked with a mantle of worry about him that seemed to grow heavier by the day.