Arthur’s face was tucked between my legs, making me writhe in pleasure, when the door to my chamber burst open.
A huge silhouetted form, holding a torch and a sword, appeared in the darkness. And instinct took over to protect my king, pleasure forgotten. I scrambled off the bed for my sword, seizing the hilt and pulling my blade from its scabbard.
But the beast didn’t come at me. It went for Arthur, who rolled off the other side of the bed just in time to avoid a deadly sword strike.
I ran at the monster and crashed into its hulking body as it tried to lunge for Arthur once more, knocking the beast sideways off its feet. I fell sideways, too, my own equilibrium unsteady and tilting.
“Fionna!” I heard a familiar voice say.
I sprang back to my feet, sword at the ready, blinking. Then, my eyes came into focus. I knew the huge beast who had invaded my room.
“Galahad?” I asked, stepping back with confusion.
“This isn’t Arthur,” Galahad shouted, surging toward Arthur, the sharp edge of his sword glinting in the torchlight.
Galahad had gone mad. He was going to kill his king!
“No!” I threw my arms around his huge waist, and my sword tumbled from my grip. With every ounce of strength in my body, I heaved sideways, trying to unbalance Galahad enough to slow him. It worked. We fell sideways into the wall in a thunderous crash. The torch slipped from Galahad’s fingers and rolled across the floor where the crackling flame stopped beside a pooled set of curtains. Oh goddess.
Flames burst into light with a whoosh and then quickly began licking up the woolen curtains.
But I had no time to douse the fire, for Galahad was already leaping to his feet with a cry.
Arthur had taken advantage of our temporary incapacity and was now dashing across the room for the door. But he didn’t get far. Another figure appeared in the doorway, blocking his exit.
A sharp breath seized my lungs. Goosebumps fleshed over my body in a violent shiver.
“Who are . . .” I couldn’t even finish. My mind rebelled at the sight before me.
Standing in the doorway was . . . Arthur. He held Excalibur in one hand and the other clutched a bundle of fabric to his abdomen.
The Arthur in the room hissed and recoiled, backing into the center of the room.
Galahad wasted no time and plunged his sword into our king’s back.
A scream ripped from my throat and my hands flew over my mouth. My knees went weak and I staggered against the bed. Arthur. My Arthur. Goddess, no. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the blood seeping from his back, from his strong muscled form now crumpled on the ornate carpet. In some corner of my mind, I registered that something foul was afoot, that there was another Arthur I needed to concern myself with—whether he the true or false Arthur. But I was riveted with terror at the sight of my king, my love, dead before me.
And then he changed. A garbled gasp escaped me as Arthur’s body shimmered and twisted, transforming into something else. A naked woman, her hair short and dark.
I shook my head as horror paralyzed me. My body grew numb and my sluggish mind fought a raging current of grief and confusion and terror. It was like my horrible dream within a dream—blurring my sense of reality.
“What the fuck is going on here?” I croaked, ripping a sheet from the bed and covering myself up.
But no one answered. We were wrapped in our own worlds: Arthur sagged against the door jamb, his face twisted in pain, while Galahad stared at the sword in his hand, as if he had never seen this particular blade before.
Lancelot and Percival appeared in the doorway, naked from head to toe. Their bare skin registered dimly in my mind. Galahad was the only one present who was clothed.
Lancelot threw up an arm, his blue eyes widening.
Oh aye. The fire.
Arthur turned toward his knights. “Percival?” he asked.
“Got to him in time,” Lancelot said. “Galahad?”
“Killed another. Not sure if this faerie is the last.”
Lancelot coughed, stumbling forward. The flames were licking from floor to ceiling now, the heat of the blaze warming my cheeks. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
No one moved. I couldn’t seem to summon my limbs. Or banish from my mind the image of Galahad’s sword piercing through Arthur. But that hadn’t been Arthur. This was Arthur. And he was injured.
“Now!” barked Lancelot, and then he clapped his hands. The loud noise startled me back to myself and I scrambled around the bed to retrieve my clothes and armor. Then I collected the spear, in case it was poisoned and a remedy was needed.
Galahad sheathed his sword and crossed to Arthur’s side, throwing Arthur’s arm around him.
Arthur cried out, but let Galahad help him into the hallway.
We retrieved clothes and armor and boots and saddlebags and then carried them all downstairs in messy bundles, the oily black smoke from the fire stinging our eyes and filling our nostrils.
In the hallway, we took a moment to dress. As Galahad helped Arthur into his tunic, I caught sight of Arthur’s wound. Blood leaked freely from a puncture wound in his lower abdomen. Fear gripped me with iron fingers, ripping at my already ragged nerves. If the weapon had pierced an internal organ—the injury could be fatal.
“Ye need to stitch the wound,” I said. “He’s losing too much blood.”
Sweat beaded Arthur’s pale face.
“I can’t do it here or he’ll die in the blaze before he has time to bleed out,” Galahad countered.
“The blacksmith’s,” I said, an idea seizing me. “The forge was just a few streets down. We passed it on the way here. A smithy will have water and fire to sterilize your needle.”
Galahad nodded and tried to help Arthur back to his feet.
But Arthur’s knees buckled beneath him.
Galahad swooped our king up in his huge arms as though cradling a child.
Arthur grunted in protest, but then his eyelids fluttered shut as blessed unconsciousness took him.
“Get the horses and meet me there,” Galahad said.
My thoughts roiled like a tempest as we hurried across the dark courtyard toward the stable where we had left our mounts. The sky was still pitch black above us, without even a sliver of moon. Strange. A moon was present earlier. I looked back at the forbidding castle. An orange glow shone from the upper windows. The fire was spreading, though the flames would likely just eat up the contents of the castle and scorch the thick stones. We should be safe in the village.
“Does anyone know what in the hell happened back there?” Percival finally asked.
I let out a desperate laugh of relief as tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. My ragged nerves felt like wool pulled thin for spinning. One stiff tug and the threads would part forever.
“Faeries attacked us,” Lancelot said, striding into the dim stable. His face was thunderous, his dark brows scrunched. “I can only assume that Morgana had something to do with this night.”
“Or perhaps someone else doesn’t want us to get the Grail?” Percival asked.
“Possible. In the end, I’m not sure it matters. They disguised themselves with glamour. Only the adder stone could see through the magic. That’s how Galahad knew . . . that a faerie was atop me.”
“Who did the faerie impersonate?” I asked. It had been Arthur for me, but who did the other knights think was lying with them?
Percival and Lancelot both quickly looked away from me, their cheeks noticeably reddening in the dark.
“Oh.” A blush rose on my own face as well.
Percival kicked Kit’s stall, causing his horse to toss his head. “Idiot! I almost ruined everything! I should have been stronger, should have pushed her away. But she was so . . . convincing.” Percival closed his eyes briefly. “Lancelot, if ye hadn’t come in . . . I was ready to break my vow.”
“Hurry,” Lancelot said gruffly to Percival, before pushing into his own horse’s stall. “Don’t blame yourself
, Percival. Stronger men than you have been fooled by the sídhe.” A dark look flashed across his eyes. “Even ones who know better.”
We tacked our horses quickly and then Lancelot saw to Llamrei while I saddled Galahad’s huge charger. The familiar motions soothed me, providing something else to focus on besides the memories flashing before me. I had fought in battles that stayed with me for a time, my mind replaying images of a memorable face—perhaps a kill, sometimes a fiann mate—as the light faded from the warrior’s eyes. But this night would haunt me for all my days.
We found Galahad at the empty blacksmith’s shop, an unconscious Arthur laid out on a table.
Lancelot handed Galahad his medical kit, and then we stepped back to let him work. I grabbed Percival’s hand, who grabbed Lancelot’s. Despite the oppressive heat Galahad had stoked from the forge, no one seemed willing to leave the presence of the others, to venture out into the darkness of the night. I didn’t think I would ever let my knights out of my sight.
When Galahad was done, he covered Arthur with a spare tunic and then plunged his hands into a bucket of water before collapsing onto a stool.
He shoved his blond locks out of his face. At some point, numerous strands had fallen from the leather tie he normally wore them in. “I told you all not to eat the food,” he said quietly.
“The food wasn’t enchanted,” Lancelot snipped. “The lot of us were just drunk. Still, we can all agree this night falls firmly into the Galahad-told-us-so category.”
“Will he . . . live?” I let go of Percival’s hand and crossed the room to take in Arthur’s sleeping form. I couldn’t help myself and reached out to push the hair off his sweaty brow.
“I don’t think the spear hit any organs,” Galahad said. “He needs time to rest. But knowing Arthur, he’ll want to move as soon as he’s awake.”
“The spear continues to weep blood,” I said. I held the spear up and we watched as a drip fell from the head’s tip down the rowan wood shaft. “Is it poisoned?”
“Just bloody faerie magic,” Lancelot muttered. “Literally.”
“Can he travel?” Percival asked, looking at Arthur once more. “I’m not eager to linger here any longer.”
“If we take it slow,” Galahad said. “He’ll need food, and we don’t have any here.”
“Then,” Lancelot said. “When Arthur wakes, we ride for Caer Benic.”
I trailed my fingers along Arthur’s temple, his jaw. I didn’t want to stop touching him—assuring myself that he was real and alive. That is, alive for now. I sent up a prayer to the Mother Goddess and tried to infuse my strength with Arthur’s. Heal, My King, I thought over and over and over again.
“At least there’s one small silver lining,” Galahad said.
“Aye? What’s that?” Percival asked.
Galahad pulled his sword from its scabbard and held the blade up for us to see. The metal seemed to catch the light in a way that caused the sword to glow, and I squinted. Then blinked. This new sword was gorgeous. The slick sheen of the metal blade and cross-guard was covered in intricate knots and swirls, like the tattoos gracing Lancelot’s shoulders and arms. And, set in the pommel was a violet stone the size of a quail’s egg.
Percival’s eyes went wide, and he crept toward the sword in awe. “Where did ye find this?”
Galahad shrugged. “When I killed the last faerie, the one in Fionna’s room, my sword just . . . transformed.”
A delighted laugh escaped from Percival. “We were due for a little good news, and this is good news indeed. For this isn’t any ordinary sword, ye ken? This is the Grail Sword.”
LANCELOT STARED AT the smithy’s ceiling from his bedroll. The third curse loomed heavy in his thoughts, a relentless weight pressing him down. He had one bloody job on this bloody quest—to not sleep with Fionna. And he had bloody gone and done it. True, by some twisted miracle of dark magic, the Fionna he had slept with hadn’t been Fionna. And no, he hadn’t been in his right mind, addled with enchanted food and wine instead. But none of that mattered. What mattered is that he had thought the woman was Fionna. And he had bedded her anyway. He didn’t care about Arthur or Caerleon or anything that moment, only the overpowering urge within him to claim her for his own. All his weaknesses, all his fears had come home to roost. And now he knew one thing, as sure as the sun rose and set each day.
He couldn’t be trusted.
The reality of what he had to do slammed into him, robbing the breath from his lungs. Arthur was wounded, they were about to complete the final leg of their journey . . . and Lancelot needed to leave. He had turned the problem over a dozen ways in his mind, and each time the calculations spit out the same result. He needed to go far away from Fionna. For if he remained here, sooner or later he would give in to his weakness—again—and doom them all.
The other knights had fallen into an uneasy sleep, their bedrolls splayed about the blacksmith’s forge. The fire had burned down, but still pleasantly warmed the space. Now was his chance. If he were truly going to do this, he needed to do it now.
Quiet as a mouse, Lancelot gathered his belongings, hoisting his saddlebags onto his shoulder. The door creaked in the unnatural silence and he cringed. He glanced over his shoulder, relaxing a notch when he saw that the other knights hadn’t stirred, not even a little.
The cold air kissed his face, a chill wind tousling the locks of his hair. His steps dragged, as if his boots were mired in mud. Gods, he didn’t want to do this. Arthur would think Lancelot had betrayed him. And so soon after Fionna’s own betrayal . . . and while weakened from injury and from Morgana and her sisters’ machinations. Lancelot cursed himself, cursed his weakness, cursed the third curse. He hung his saddlebags over the stall door and grabbed his horse’s bridle. Cheval flicked his ears towards him.
“If only I were stronger,” Lancelot murmured. None of this would have happened, Lancelot finished internally. His weakness had set all of this into motion. But no more. He refused to let his weakness drive the final nail into Caerleon’s coffin. Or Arthur’s.
Where would he go? Lancelot chewed on his bottom lip, indecision washing over him and churning in his gut. Caerleon—and Arthur—was the only home he had ever known. Perhaps he could come back some day, if he found a way to break the curse. An idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. His foster mother. Her home on the Isle of Man was a different form of misery, her care of him best described as detached aloofness. But she was wise and ancient and skilled in the ways of magic. Perhaps she knew a way to break this wretched curse. Then he could return to Caerleon and beg his king’s forgiveness.
His relief was like a sudden sunburst. This didn’t have to be exile. A quest of his own. To protect Arthur and his kingdom. Lancelot buckled his horse’s girth and secured his saddlebags.
He led Cheval out of the stall, closing the gate behind him.
“Where do ye think ye’re skulking off to?” A quiet female voice asked from the stable door.
Lancelot whirled to find Fionna, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
“I need to take care of something,” Lancelot said gruffly, trying to walk past her.
She took a step to the side and blocked his path. “Yer king lies injured, we’re a day from the Grail, and you need to take care of something?” Her voice grew shrill. “What, ye forgot ye left the washing hanging out in the yard?”
“It’s personal,” Lancelot said, glaring at her. Didn’t she understand this was hard enough without her trying to convince him to stay? Even as she stood before him, furious and fierce, he felt his resolve growing soft while his cock grew hard. He clenched his jaw and toed the stable floor with his boot. This was exactly why he needed to leave—he couldn’t be trusted around her.
“Arthur will try to find ye.” Fionna grasped his elbow with an iron grip. Gods, she was beautiful when she was angry. “It’ll derail the quest. Caerleon will suffer days more. Is this what ye want?”
“Of course not,” Lancelot said. “That’s why I need to
go.”
“What of Percival?” She asked, arching an eyebrow.
“What of him?” He snapped back.
“Do not pretend yer feelings for him are false too.”
Lancelot looked out into the night, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. “They’re not.”
“Please . . .” Her voice softened. “I don’t want ye to go.”
Lancelot’s fingers fisted around the reins to keep them from straying to her face, her hair, to pull her lush form hard against his. His voice was hoarse when he responded. “And that is even more of a reason to go.”
She stiffened, hurt flaring in her eyes.
He held his tongue against the apology struggling to break free. It was better if he hurt her than be with her. For then he would hurt them all.
“I thought . . .” she cleared her throat, looking at her boots. “I thought ye desired my love. That we had moved past whatever distaste ye had for me. But now . . . have I done something to offend ye? To earn yer ire?”
Her words twisted his heart. Didn’t she see how she was perfect for him—for them? That everything she did, who she was . . . It was as if she were custom-crafted to become the final piece of their puzzle. Fitting perfectly between them, linking them all together in bonds stronger than oaths or duty.
Bonds of love.
“You did nothing wrong,” Lancelot whispered. “The fault is mine, a burden I must bear.”
“Then tell me. Let me share this burden.” She reached up and cupped his face. And he felt his head tilting in an unconscious motion, longing to melt against the comfort of her fingers. They were as soft as velvet yet calloused from years of fighting—just a small glimpse of the dichotomy that was their Fionna.
The need to share the truth of Morgana’s curse roared within him. The secret was an animal that desperately wanted to be free of its barbed cage. He ached for Fionna to understand why he pushed her away, to see that he never meant to hurt her—not then, not now.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 35