Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  With a sigh, he squinted his eyes and peered down the trail.

  According to Lelah and Cyra, the Afanc slept in a slow-moving stretch of river just past the village, where the water rippled in lazy circles against an expanse of flat stones.

  The thought of Lelah set Percival’s blood racing. His head still felt filled with wool from last night’s spicy drink and strange ceremonial smoke. His memories were etched in hazy images that were as slippery as eels. He knew he hadn’t broken his vow last night. Indeed, he thought he had only put the skills he had gained with Fionna to good use. Glimpsed memories of Lelah’s caramel skin and the sound of her soft moans as he saw to her pleasure tantalized him. She was an exquisite woman. But . . . Percival glanced at their fifth knight out of the corner of his eye, walking beside him through the forest, her face peaceful. Lelah had been like a pleasant dream, but only a dream. Elusive as their herbal smoke. Fionna was real. What he had felt when he had touched her—when her lips had burned across his skin—the solid presence of her at his side and in his life. His night with the mystic had confirmed one detail in his mind. For him, there was only Fionna.

  “Ye have the stone?” Fionna asked, for the third time.

  “Aye, dove. I didn’t lose it between the village and here.” Percival pulled the stone from his belt pouch and tossed the talisman into the air, watching as the rough-hewn facets sparkled in the morning light.

  “I just want ye to be prepared. This beast has taken down many men. And the mystics can’t bring us back, like they do the villagers.”

  “Ye know, lass, if I didn’t know better, I would say ye were worried for me.” A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

  Fionna looked at him with a mixture of care and exasperation. She reached out and grabbed a fistful of his tunic, pulling him sideways against her. She then tucked herself under his arm in a way that Percival found extremely pleasant. “Of course, I’m worried for ye. I am fond of ye, Percy. Ye must promise ye’ll be careful. No heroics.”

  “Percy?” he asked, a grin forming.

  She arched a white brow. “What, ye think yer the only one who can hand out nicknames?”

  “Fair point, lass.”

  “So, ye just have to hold the stone?” Fionna asked. “And the invisible and secret will be revealed to ye?”

  “According to Cyra, it really is that simple.” He felt Fionna stiffen beneath him at the mention of the mystic.

  Percival softened. “Ye know . . . last night meant nothing, right? Just idle fun. For Lancelot too.”

  “It’s none of my business who ye bed with.” Fionna focused on the ground, a muscle in her jaw jumping.

  “If ye say so.” Was Fionna jealous? The thought filled him with a bolt of gleeful excitement. “Ye know there’s only one lass I want to be with . . .”

  Fionna remained silent.

  “It’s ye,” he added.

  She rolled her eyes, pushing him away from her. “Yes, I gathered that, ye goat.”

  Percival laughed, but as he did, his eyes caught something strange about Fionna. He blinked, then squinted in case the streaming sunlight was playing tricks with his eyes. But the strangeness was still there. A web of delicate silver filaments covered her from head to toe—as though Fionna had walked through the gossamer strands of a bejeweled spiderweb.

  “What?” Fionna asked. “Ye’re gaping at me like a fish.”

  “There’s . . .” he hesitated. Did Fionna know she was covered in a web of magic? Why had he never seen the signs before? A sudden thought occurred to him and Percival shoved the stone back into his belt pouch. As soon as his fingers broke contact, the shimmering lines disappeared. He pushed out a shaky breath.

  “Fion—” he began, but she shushed him.

  “There’s the pool.” She pointed. “Hide yerself. I will go from here alone.”

  Percival retrieved the stone again from his pouch, ignoring the strange lines resting over Fionna’s fair form. He would deal with that mysterious magic later. Now, the Afanc needed to be his sole focus. He slowly pulled Excalibur out of its sheath, reveling in the surge of energy flooding up his arm.

  “Be careful, dove,” he hissed in warning as she crept toward the riverbank. She held a dagger near her hip, but her sword wasn’t out. She didn’t want to frighten the Afanc.

  Percival crept closer, pushing through the trees to find a better vantage point.

  Fionna reached a large flat rock on the riverbed, its granite face dappled by the sun. She settled upon the top, her dagger gripped beneath her bent knee. And then she began to sing.

  Percival’s mouth fell open as the first notes of her melody reached his ears, borne gently on the spring breeze. Her voice was as clear and pure as the rushing waters beneath her, sweet as honey mead. A lullaby. Perhaps one that was sung to her when she was wee bairn . . .

  O sleep my wee babe, under the rowan,

  With the sun repairing

  With the moon in her silver chair in

  Watches with your mother

  Too-ra-la-la, Tra-la-lo…

  He closed his eyes, allowing the sound of Fionna’s voice to wash over him, to permeate his very soul. He hadn’t thought their knight could be any more magnificent a woman than she already was. But this new gentle facet of her only made him love her all the more.

  A tear dripped from the corner of his eye and crawled down his flushed cheek. He wiped away the moisture hastily as he opened his eyes, sniffing.

  And then he recoiled, only just keeping himself from crying out in alarm. For resting its monstrous head in Fionna’s lap was a creature more hideous than he had ever encountered before. Long and sinuous, covered in dark gray scales, the Afanc’s long flat snout brimmed with sharp white fangs. Its eyes, set on either side of its grotesque head, were closed.

  Fionna continued singing but was gesturing wildly, pointing to her lap, her eyes white with fright. Percival nodded, creeping out of the trees. What a sensation it must be for Fionna, feeling the weight in her lap but not being able to see the creature’s form. Or perhaps cradling an aggressive monster was easier this way.

  Her voice wavered but she cleared her throat quickly, taking a deep breath before launching into another verse. The creature stirred briefly but settled again as the notes rang out, flicking its meaty tail in contentment.

  Percival leaped onto the rock where Fionna sat, landing as gently as he could. He froze, watching the creature with predatory grace. The Afanc didn’t move, lulled to sleep by Fionna’s sweet tune.

  Fionna made a stabbing motion at the beast, followed by one that could only translate as: get on with it.

  Percival felt a pang of regret as he crept closer. Seemed a shame to end a creature that enjoyed Fionna’s song as much as he . . . but the Afanc had killed and would kill again.

  When he stood mere inches from the beast’s outstretched claws, he raised Excalibur’s shining form, aimed at the beast’s spine, and plunged the sword point down.

  The Afanc exploded in a fury of pain and gnashing teeth. Fionna rolled out of the way, launching herself off the rock and into the shallow river below.

  Percival pulled Excalibur free and swung it in a deadly arc, slicing through the creature’s neck to the spine. Black foul-smelling blood welled from the monster’s dismembered parts. The Afanc’s violent death throes—its scaly tail whipping across the rock—knocked Percival’s legs out from under him. He tumbled backwards, rolling awkwardly down the side of the rock and into the stream next to Fionna.

  With a spluttering shake of his head, he righted himself, pushing to his feet.

  The monster had fallen still—dead.

  Fionna grinned, splashing water at him. “Percy, Briton’s most graceful monster slayer.”

  “Och, ye’re going to pay for that, ye goose.” Percival shoved the stone back into his pocket and Excalibur in its sheath. And then he ran for her, tackling her back into the pool over her shriek of protest.

  “Percival!” Fionna sputtered, push
ing her braids out of her eyes. “I’m soaked!” She narrowed her eyes at him before splashing him full in the face.

  Percival laughed, opening his arms wide. “Go ahead, lass. Hit me with yer best shot!”

  Fionna cupped her hands in the river and doused him.

  “Nice to see you two are enjoying yourselves,” a dry voice came from the riverbank.

  Percival and Fionna froze, then slowly turned toward Arthur. The other knights were emerging from the trees, followed by the mystics and Lord Willum.

  “All in a day’s work,” Percival said cheerfully, quickly adding, “Yer Majesty.”

  “That blade better not get any rust on it,” Arthur called out.

  “Faerie blades can’t rust,” Percival said. “Right?”

  “You sure about that?” Arthur arched a brow, crossing his arms before him.

  “The Afanc is really dead.” Lord Willum stepped out onto the rock, regarding the bloodstained rock with an expression of shocked delight. “You did it! You killed the beast!”

  “Well done, brave knights,” Lelah said, her beautiful face beaming at them. “You have freed this village, as well as me and my sister, from this creature’s terrible hold. How can we thank you?”

  Percival stepped up onto the rock, pulling Fionna up after him. “As knights of King Arthur Pendragon, High King of Briton, it is our call to help those in need. No thanks necessary, My Lady.”

  “Please,” Cyra said. “We must give you something.”

  Percival unbuckled Excalibur and passed the sword back to Arthur, relieved as the weight left his side. He pulled the adder stone from his pouch and offered the talisman back to Cyra. “This relic was invaluable. Thank ye.”

  “Keep the adder stone.” Cyra pushed his hand back. “I have a feeling our talisman may aid you on your journey.”

  Percival looked at the glittering facets, thinking of the strange lines over Fionna’s features. “If ye’re sure.”

  “Where do you travel next, fair knights?” Lelah asked.

  “To Castellum Puellarum,” Arthur answered. “Traveling along the River Conwy will be the fastest route to the Irish Sea. There, we’ll sail to the Port of Ayr, journeying across Strathclyde and into Alba. We need to avoid Anglo-Saxon territory as much as possible, save Castellum Puellarum, of course.”

  Fionna blanched. “Wait . . . did you say sail?”

  “Would you rather face Anglo-Saxon armies by crossing through most of Mercia and Northumbria?” Arthur tilted his head, his eyes studying her face.

  She grimaced. “A battle I can fight. But my stomach doesn’t care much for boats.”

  LANCELOT TRAILED BEHIND the others as they rode toward the port town of Conwy. Arthur and the other knights were in high spirits since leaving Betws-y-Coed, after enjoying the hospitality of the mystics and slaying the Afanc. They had freed a village of a monster and Percival had secured for them an invaluable relic.

  He glanced over at the handsome young man, his heart faltering a beat at the impish smile pulling on Percival’s lips. The lips he sometimes found himself thinking about kissing. A smile he wanted to kiss. Maybe one day he would work up the nerve.

  Lancelot heaved a shaky sigh and returned his attention to the river trail. He should feel as celebratory as the rest. But a black cloud hung over his mood, one he failed to banish.

  The frosty look Fionna had been leveling at him all morning didn’t help, either. Well fine. If she was offended, then he could be upset at her too. He wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the comfort of another last night. Fionna hadn’t claimed him personally. He didn’t belong to her beyond mutual duty to their king and land.

  He had wanted to believe that a night with Cyra was exactly what he needed to rid Fionna from his mind. The mystic was beautiful, intriguing, and powerful—and talented in the art of lovemaking. But as he lost himself in the caramel skin of her neck, her dark obsidian eyes, the shimmer of gold from her nose ring—the colors had been all wrong. His traitorous mind kept sliding to thoughts of silver and white—the silver of beech bark on a still winter’s day, the soft gray of a dove’s feather. And as he laid beside Cyra after their lovemaking ended, Lancelot had stared at the ceiling, wondering what Arthur and Fionna were doing in that very moment.

  It was good, he told himself. Good for Arthur and Fionna to be together. If she was Arthur’s lover . . . she moved one step farther from Lancelot. Yet another reason why she was untouchable. Never mind that she had apparently ruined him for all other women. That was his burden to bear.

  “So, let me see this adder stone,” Galahad said, interrupting Lancelot’s internal rants. “This talisman will make the magical visible?”

  “That’s what the mystics said,” Percival said. “Certainly worked on the Afanc.”

  “That beast was hideous.” Galahad shuddered.

  Lancelot privately agreed. The beast had become visible to all upon its death. The creature was an unnatural horror.

  “Ye didn’t have that monster laying its bulbous, scaly head in yer lap!” Fionna said as Percival handed over the stone to Galahad. The copper-haired knight seemed hesitant to part with the stone.

  “I can’t blame the creature,” Galahad murmured, holding the adder stone up to the light. “You have such an appealing lap.”

  “That doesn’t mean my lap is open for any man or beast who would like to nap!”

  Arthur laughed. “The Afanc certainly had not heard that edict.”

  “I don’t know, Percival,” Galahad said. “I’m not seeing anything magical.”

  “Oh?” Percival asked. There was a hint of strain in his voice that Lancelot couldn’t account for. “Perhaps we are in a distinctly un-magical area.”

  “Ah, here’s a sign for Conwy,” Arthur said.

  They had reached a junction in the road, and a sturdy wooden post announced the directions and mileage to several nearby villages. “We’re just a league away.”

  “What language is that?” Galahad asked, squinting at the sign. “I’ve never seen the likes before.”

  The others looked at him.

  “Which sign?” Fionna asked.

  “The bottom one. With all the squiggles.”

  Lancelot exchanged a look with Arthur.

  “The bottom one announces the distance to Llandudno,” Arthur said.

  Percival shot Galahad an impish smirk. “Perhaps that licorice potion guttered yer mind.”

  “Or the cannabis smoke.” Fionna blew out a breath. “That stuff was especially strong.”

  “I’m not addled.” Galahad pointed. “Right there. Under the marker for Llandudno. There’s another sign.” He looked incredulously at the others as they shook their heads and shrugged.

  “Give me the stone,” Percival said.

  Galahad handed the relic over.

  Percival’s eyes widened. “I see it too! Nae, he wasn’t addled, he was addered!” He hoisted the stone for all to see with a cheeky grin.

  “Wow,” Lancelot muttered as Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was terrible.”

  “Clever,” Fionna offered weakly.

  Galahad playfully glared at Fionna. “Don’t encourage the man.”

  “Can you read the language, Percy?” Fionna asked.

  “Percy?” Galahad cackled so loud a flock of birds roosting in a nearby tree burst into flight.

  “Yes well,” Percival cooed, “just because ye don’t warrant a Fionna nickname isn’t a reason to be jealous, chipmunk.”

  Galahad opened his mouth to retort, but Arthur silenced him. “Can we get back to the magical sign, please?”

  “Right. I can’t read the language,” Percival said, handing the stone to Arthur.

  “Appears to be a form of faerie script,” Arthur said. “Lancelot?”

  Lancelot took the stone from Arthur. The talisman was warm and heavy in his hand. When he looked up at the sign-post, he saw what the others were referring to. Below the placard for Llandudno was another sign etched onto what looked
like hammered silver. Lancelot urged his horse closer and peered at the writing. “Faerie runes. The language of the Túatha dé Danann. The sign says . . . ‘Percival is an idiot.’ Huh, I guess this unfortunate truth is becoming common knowledge.” Lancelot raised an eyebrow at their mischievous knight.

  “Har har,” Percival said, throwing a lewd gesture at him.

  “Can you read faerie runes?” Arthur asked Lancelot.

  “It says, ‘Caer Benic, 95 leagues north and 31 leagues east.’ I think they’re coordinates.”

  Arthur’s eyes lit up. “Truly? Directions to Caer Benic? Here?”

  “Must be another message from the Grail Maiden!” Percival said, practically falling off his horse in his excitement. “Like the stone circle! She is leaving clues for us to follow.”

  “Appears so,” Lancelot said, handing the stone back to Percival. As their fingers touched, warmth traveled up Lancelot’s arm. Percival’s eyes snapped to his and he drew in a quiet breath. Aware of other eyes upon them, Lancelot retracted his hand and busied himself by chipping away at a piece of dried mud on his saddle. Then he remembered. The instant before he handed over the stone, he thought he had seen something shimmering around Fionna. But then the stone passed from his fingers, and Percival’s touch stirred him, and now he wasn’t sure if he had imagined the vision around Fionna.

  “But we’re going by sea,” Fionna said, tugging Lancelot’s focus back to the present. He slid Percival a furtive glance before resting his attention onto Fionna. “So, how will this distance help us?” she asked. “Perhaps we’ll have to go overland from Conwy?”

  “No such luck, My Lady,” Arthur said softly. “We travel north to the Kingdom of Strathclyde, across from Ulster, actually. The Anglo-Saxons would revel in my captivity, if we port farther south or travel by horse across the isle.”

  “If we can find a map and estimate the distance from Ayr to Castellum Puellarum,” Galahad reasoned, “we could then use those figures to determine how far Caer Benic is from our eastern Strathclyde location.”