Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “How?” I asked. “Tell me how and I will do it.”

  “Your love, and your joining. You must love Arthur, and you must marry him. And when you lay with him, perhaps there will be power enough to break even my spell.”

  THE CROW HOPPED into the herb-incensed cave. Above, crystals glittered in the flickering firelight as though twinkling stars in a midnight, moonless sky. Magic swelled in this place, filling even the crevices in the stone walls and the insect burrows in the ground. A magic the crow knew well. The familiar smoke- and flame-scrying fireplace and soothing, hypnotic tones of the ancient druid within called to the crow’s own druidic and fae magic.

  Not wanting to be noticed, the crow surrounded herself with the shifting shadows and whispered druid incantations. Her feathers ruffled in the swirling wind and then her lashes snapped open as she tucked black strands behind her ear and away from her face.

  Morgana chanced a look around a natural wall in the cave before the narrow passage opened into Merlin’s den. The druid sat beside the witch, his eyes glowing bright gold and his pupils narrowed to reptilian slits. The hearth leapt with flames that danced in the shape of fae creatures. The court of the Túatha dé Danann, perhaps? In this trance, he would unlikely sense her presence, and Morgana relaxed a notch.

  Perspiration dripped down the witch’s face. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair until her knuckles turned white and fingertips purple. Silver-dusted lashes rested on her flushed cheeks as she sifted through magic and subconscious thoughts to the deepest part of herself. Morgana knew the ogham runes Merlin spoke over the witch’s ensorcelled form.

  An invitation to Danu, the mother goddess, to find her daughter.

  A plea to break a géis.

  A request to open and flood the witch with her fae-born powers.

  Morgana’s lip curled in disgust. She had suspected Fionnabhair Allán as fae-born for years—even suspected she might be a Gwenevere—ever since she encountered the warrior in training after her first bloods. As the crow, Morgana sat above a branch and watched, curious. The witch had always contained a strange smell that was other. One that perfumed sweetly of earthen white magic—but not one she had encountered before. A subtle scent like heather and hawthorn and the faint fragrance of an apple blossom.

  The air grew thick and Morgana narrowed her eyes just as the witch regained consciousness.

  “Steady,” Merlin said, placing a hand on her arm as she coughed and wiped at her eyes. “Did you find Danu?”

  “Aye,” the witch said, a bit breathless. “My mother couldn’t unlock the géis. But she did have an idea of how I might be able to do so.”

  “Excellent. Tell me as we walk back to the keep and find Arthur.”

  The witch stood and then met Merlin’s gaze. “There’s more. The Fomorians have taken over Danu’s court.”

  “Ah,” the druid said. “As we suspected. Come, let us tell the king.”

  Morgana quickly backed out of the cave and into the night in a flight of feather-light footsteps. She needed to share this news with her sisters quickly. Before the witch regained her powers. If she was the daughter of Danu, Morgana and her sisters would need to devise a more powerful plan than the one currently in place. A far stronger magic was now needed. A far stronger Fomorian ally too.

  The whispers of the desperate and dying circled Morgana in a rush of leaves and shadows and wind. Blinking her black eyes, the crow hopped onto a mossy rock and watched as the witch and druid left the cave and wandered up the path toward the keep.

  Elathia had promised them aid in defeating her half-brother and securing his kingdom. But so far, the regent had done little. It was time to call in a favor. When Caerleon came for them again, they would be ready. With a weapon strong enough to defeat even a Gwenevere.

  O’LYNN’S ARMY had arrived at the keep. The maelstrom of warriors outside was deafening. Horns, shouts and war cries, horses whinnying.

  Arthur took the stairs two by two, vaulting up to the top of the keep’s wall where Percival, Galahad, and Lancelot grimly surveyed the scene below.

  “How many?” Arthur asked, blowing out a breath.

  “All of them,” Lancelot replied. “Plus three dark faeries. We need Merlin up here. Now.”

  “He’s with Fionna, trying to break the géis. We must not disturb them unless it is absolutely necessary,” Arthur replied.

  “It’s beginning to feel absolutely necessary, ye ken.” Percival’s normally cheerful face was grave.

  “They’re not showing signs of a full-on assault.” Galahad scratched at the dirt-caked sweat in his beard. “It seems they plan to intimidate.”

  “They don’t need to assault us,” Lancelot said. “They can just sit there scratching their balls and starve us out.”

  Arthur smiled. For once he had a counter to Lancelot’s dark assessment. “They don’t know we have the Cauldron of Plenty. They’ll starve before we do.”

  “But will the curse continue to worsen?” Lancelot asked.

  “One problem at a time, Lance,” Arthur said. “Our focus now must be on defending the keep and watching for any tricks they might be trying to play. And we must buy Fionna and Merlin time to discover what has been hidden.”

  The soldiers below were falling silent, a pregnant hush falling over the landscape. The horde of warriors parted as O’Lynn walked forward with Morgana at his side.

  Fionna’s father Brin was slowly ascending the stairs, and then halted next to Arthur. “It’s a fine fortress you have here,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on the mass below.

  “But?” Arthur asked, his eyes not leaving his enemies’ form.

  “But I know a thing or two about the calm before the storm, lad. And a great storm is about to break upon yer shores, Arthur Pendragon. I’m sorry for my part in it.”

  “My father set this into action long ago with his greed and treachery. No apologies necessary.” Hot tears burned the back of Arthur’s eyes as he grit out, “This war is now mine to finish as Uther’s bastard prince.”

  As much as Arthur had wanted to be different, to avoid his father’s bloody legacy, the battle had still found him. Here he was, unwittingly pitted against the Túatha dé Danann. The name Pendragon carried the might of a dynasty, but also all the blood that had been spilled. Yet . . . perhaps there could be another way. If Uther Pendragon stood upon this wall, he would vow to crush the army below him like an insect beneath his boot. If war was Uther’s way, could not diplomacy be Arthur’s? Surely there was some way to solve this through negotiations. And, if not, talking could buy Fionna and Merlin the time they needed to break the géis.

  “O’Lynn,” Arthur shouted, his voice carrying on the wind. “Before we suffer even more of a grievous loss of life, I would treat with you. To see if we can reach a peace between us!”

  Lancelot and the other knights looked at him sharply but said nothing. In this, Arthur was king, and they obeyed.

  “Peace?” O’Lynn hollered back. The scoffing tone of his voice was clear even at this distance.

  But then Morgana leaned in, whispering in his ear.

  What Arthur would give to be a fly buzzing about that conversation. To know what schemes she concocted, even now.

  “We agree to a meeting,” O’Lynn shouted. “Tomorrow at daybreak. Before yer gates.”

  “We each bring a delegation of four,” Arthur shouted. “No more.”

  “Agreed,” O’Lynn replied.

  Arthur heaved a sigh, and then turned to Lancelot.

  “You do not think there can be peace with Morgana, do you?” Lancelot was incredulous.

  “Likely not. But I just bought Lady Fionna another night.”

  “If I may,” Brin said. “Do not let yer guard down. It would be like the Uí Tuírtri to mount a sneak offensive while yer not looking.”

  “A wise caution, Your Majesty,” Arthur said. “Lancelot, I want soldiers patrolling every crack of these walls.”

  Lancelot nodded. “Who will you bring?�
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  “Merlin and Lady Fionna.” Arthur considered. He wanted Lancelot and Galahad here, commanding his troops. The soldiers were most familiar with them, and they would keep cool heads if anything went wrong. “Sir Percival, bring that adder stone of yours. You will be the fourth. We will have advanced warning, if Morgana tries anything.”

  “Aye,” Percival said eagerly.

  Arthur turned. “I’m going to see how things are going for Merlin and Fionna. Hopefully they’ve made some progress.” He turned and hurried down the stairs, his mind racing. What could he offer Morgana and her sisters that would appease them? Presently, they wanted nothing short of his kingdom, perhaps his very life. He would not yield to their vengeful whims willingly.

  “Arthur!”

  Arthur recoiled as he almost smashed into Fionna. Merlin was following close behind. He let out a rueful grin. “Apologies,” Arthur said. “I was not paying attention to where I was going.”

  “Ye have much on your mind,” Fionna said. Her silver eyes were shining, and her color was high. Did they have a breakthrough? “We could hear the shouts and war cries from Merlin’s cave.”

  “The enemies are at our gates,” Arthur said. “Please tell me you have made some progress.”

  Fionna glanced sideways at Merlin, who stepped up beside her. “We have and we have not. Fionna did make contact with Danu. The goddess was not able to lift the géis. But, she gave us an idea for how to help Fionna break free.”

  “Excellent!” Arthur said. “Let’s do what is necessary. What are we waiting for?”

  “It is not so simple a thing,” Fionna said, ducking her chin and shifting her focus to her boots.

  “Perhaps I will leave you two to talk,” Merlin said, and then he swooped off towards the wall.

  Fionna studied the dirt beneath her, where she was toeing the ground with her boot. Her lips thinned into a straight line as an uncharacteristic spark of doubt glittered in her distracted silvered gaze. Then, in typical Fionna fashion, she lifted her head and straightened her shoulders, her eyes peering ahead as if a sentry on guard.

  Arthur’s heart stuttered in his chest. To see Fionna so uncertain was a strange vision indeed. He took her chin gently in his hand, tilting her face so she met his eyes. “Whatever this challenge is, we will meet it together.”

  She licked her lips, her eyes flicking from his. “That’s the thing, My King. Danu shared how the only way for us to break the géis is”––She sucked in a ragged breath and then the words tumbled out––“for ye and I to wed. And join together.”

  Arthur felt rooted to the earth as her words sank in. He and Fionna, wed? The very thought made him lightheaded with joy. He wished for nothing else in his heart of hearts––but . . . she seemed so uncertain.

  “You do not seem pleased at this turn of events,” Arthur said carefully. “Do you not wish to wed?”

  She tore her chin from his fingers, looking away. Tears glittered in her eyes. “I wish it more than anything in this world,” she admitted softly. “But I don’t know if this is what ye want. I would not have you take me as a wife out of obligation, nor crown me queen consort of Caerleon if ye wish for a different political alliance.”

  I wish it more than anything in this world.

  Her words melted into his very essence, setting his soul aflame with light and fire and desire. Fionna wanted to marry him. To have Fionna at his side, in his bed, all the days of his life––such an outcome could only be a delirious dream. “Princess Fionnabhair,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “I too wish to marry you more than anything in this world.”

  “Truly?” She looked at him with breathless hope. “A king is to seek his future queen’s hand, is he not? And ye had not asked—”

  “We’ve been a little busy,” Arthur said, his eyebrows shooting up. “And since when did Fionna Allán see fit to be bound by the constraints of Welsh societal tradition?”

  A smile grew on her face, and it was as if the sun broke from behind the clouds, bathing him in its warm glow. “So . . . we’re to be married?”

  Arthur nodded, feeling his own grin stretch across his face until his cheeks wanted to cry out from the might of it. “We shall marry.” He swooped her up into his arms and spun her around and around until he was drunk on dizziness. “We’re getting married!” he shouted to the heavens and all who were listening. For in the history of mankind, he thought a man had never been happier than he in this very moment.

  THE WORLD SPUN beneath me as Arthur twirled me around and around, until I was dizzy with the headiness of our moment.

  Arthur placed me down gently and then his lips were on mine as I staggered into his chest, anchoring myself in his strong stance, his firm foundation. His kiss set my head spinning all the more—insistent and full of promise. My toes curled at the thought of a night with Arthur—the only one of my knights I had not lain with. As though, deep down, I knew to save this special moment for last.

  At the thought of my other knights, my elation dimmed.

  Someone nearby cleared their throat, and I seized upon the distraction, breaking off the kiss. It was Merlin.

  “Congratulations,” the druid said, nodding at us. His unlined face was impassive as ever, but something about him seemed . . . pleased. “There are arrangements to be made. Shall we convene in three candle-marks time in the Great Hall?”

  “Perfect,” Arthur said, his arm about my shoulders. “We’ll rally what we can for a ceremony. You will preside?”

  Merlin inclined his head. “It would be my honor, Your Majesty.”

  My father, Percival, and Galahad were crossing the courtyard to join us.

  “Is it true?” Brin asked. “I heard ye hollering. Is my darling daughter to be wed?”

  I nodded, and my father crossed the distance between us, pulling me into his arms. “Congratulations, lass,” he whispered in my ear. “May yer years be filled with happiness.”

  I fought the lump in my throat as I pulled back, as my father shook Arthur’s hand, offering him kind words. But my eyes were locked onto Percival and Galahad, the sad smiles on their faces. Percival stepped up first, pulling me into an embrace. I breathed in the citrus scent of him, the warm aura of sunshine that washed over me. “I suppose I always knew he’d take the prize, dove,” Percival said, attempting a shaky smile. “But it was fun to play. And . . . and I will still love ye until my dying breath.”

  Tears shimmered in my eyes, as a blizzard of emotions buffeted me. This wasn’t right. To feel happy and so full of sorrow at the same time. Did marrying Arthur truly mean giving up these other extraordinary men? Resigning them to sadness and want? Galahad embraced me next, and a sob wracked my body, despite my every effort to hold in my emotions. My big knight enveloped me, as warm as a hearth fire and as strong as an oak tree. To never again see the golden stretch of Galahad’s skin, tawny beneath my pale fingers . . .

  “Be strong,” Galahad whispered in my ear. “It is a knight’s duty to sacrifice for their king. And no one deserves yer love more than Arthur.”

  His words emboldened me. He was right. I did love Arthur deeply, and I had never known a king or a man worthier of devotion. So why did my heart cry out for more?

  “Lancelot?” I asked.

  “He’s watching the wall,” Percival said. I looked up and spotted his dark curls against the fading dusk. He looked away as our eyes met, turning back to the army below. It would be too much to exchange these regrets with him.

  I hastily wiped a threatening tear and turned with a bright smile toward Arthur. My king. My soon-to-be husband. Arthur caught the look on my face and his gaze flicked to Percival and Galahad, his own smile dimming.

  “I need a dress!” I said, and hurried toward my chamber, away from the prying eyes of these men who saw and understood too much.

  CAERLEON’S SERVANTS DID an admirable job of readying the keep for a wedding, given the hostile army camping at our gate and the limited time to prepare for the festivities.
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  Several serving girls rallied to my aid, drawing a bath for me in record time. After scrubbing the blood and grime of war from my body, they helped me wash and then braid my hair in an intricate crown atop my head with half of my waist-length hair cascading down my back. Another found a gown, a resplendent thing in dark red trimmed in gold––the colors of my king’s banner–the swooping neckline and cuffs beaded with tiny pearls. I hardly felt ready when the time came for me to walk to the Great Hall. My stomach flipped with nerves.

  My father waited outside my room, clad in a fresh tunic. “I thought ye might like an escort.” He offered me his arm.

  “I’m so glad ye’re here Da,” I said, hitching my elbow through his. “If only Aideen could be here too.”

  “We’ll get her back.” Brin patted my hand.

  “Aye, we will.”

  “Perhaps ye have one thing to thank that bastard O’Lynn for,” my father continued. “I would be captured a hundred times if it meant you would end up here, where ye were meant to be. Happy.”

  “It would be nice for me to be happy without ye having to be captured and tortured . . .” I smiled.

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” he said.

  We rounded the corner, and Arthur stood, waiting nervously by the door. He had bathed and changed too, and now looked devastatingly handsome in a tunic of dark red—a similar shade to my gown—the hems trimmed with gold. His polished oak-leaf crown sat atop his brows, one now arching as he gaze roved over my face.

  “Might I have a minute with Fionna, Your Majesty?” Arthur asked, his eyes never leaving mine. “Before we go in.”

  “Ye’re the king,” Brin said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek, before slipping through the double doors.

  Arthur took my hands, looking me up and down reverently. “You look as beautiful as the sunrise.”

  I smiled. “You’ll do too.”

  Arthur took in a deep breath, ignoring my attempts at humor. “I have been thinking. It does not seem right for our happiness to come at the expense of my brothers’. Lancelot, Galahad, Percival . . . they love you as much as I. And I know you love them too. We are family, all of us together.”