Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  They broke off their embrace and turned, Percival still with his arm slung around Fionna’s shoulder. “To answer your question, crabapple, I am indeed ready. Adder stone in hand. Well, in pocket,” he finished.

  “How do ye feel?” Galahad asked Fionna. His words were careful—formal—with none of the sultry banter they’d carried in the past. Their big knight was holding himself back from their new queen as well. “Different? Powerful?” Fionna and Merlin had explained how Danu thought marrying Arthur and laying with him might be the only way to break the géis that blocked her from embodying her full Gwenevere powers.

  Fionna shrugged, brushing a strand of hair back from her forehead. “The same, honestly. Like me. I’m not sure what I was expecting . . . but I don’t feel anything new.” Her lips tilted in a frown and she shifted on her feet, clearing her throat.

  “Maybe there’s a delayed reaction,” Percival suggested.

  “Or perhaps your magic requires a threat to activate,” Galahad offered. “Your powers will appear when the time is right. Like the Grail Sword.”

  “Perhaps,” Fionna said. “I just wish Danu could have helped me. Helped us. She got me into this, seems like she should be the one to get me out.”

  “Goddesses,” Percival quipped. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.”

  “I just hope we’re all living at the end of this,” Galahad remarked.

  Arthur and Merlin crossed the courtyard to join them. Arthur’s color was high, his eyes sparkled with vigor as he met Fionna’s. Lancelot supposed wedding and bedding the woman of your dreams, who also happened to be a demi-goddess in disguise, would do that to a man.

  “It’s time,” Arthur said, pulling his gaze away from Fionna and taking them all in. “We’ll see if we can find a way through this mess. Perhaps diplomacy isn’t dead.”

  “Be careful,” Lancelot found himself saying. “Keep your eyes on her.”

  Arthur slid him wary look and nodded. There was no confusing who he meant.

  Galahad and Lancelot stood ram-rod straight as the other four strode toward the wide oaken gates.

  “Open the gates,” Arthur called out, and soldiers manning the gates hopped into action, retracting the big oaken bars.

  “I can’t shake the feeling that this is a terrible idea,” Galahad said quietly, his eyes locked onto the four figures filing through the narrowly opened doors. “Even death’s ash clings to the air.”

  Lancelot frowned, his brows furrowing deeply. “My observation as well.”

  LANCELOT PACED STIFFLY through the keep. Last night he had checked on the soldiers in the barracks, secured the positions of the men along the wall. Weapons were oiled and sharpened, and bundles of arrows were stacked neatly next to jugs of oil. The Great Hall had been returned to its role as makeshift medical ward and hospital, with supplies piled and ready for any coming battle. Merlin had spent the evening making food in the Cauldron of Plenty, which, though some remarkable turn of druidic magic, had transformed to a cauldron large enough for a man to sit inside. Sacks of grain, piles of potatoes, squash, and figs, even jugs of ale all came out of this remarkable cauldron, filling their larders and stores. They were as ready as they could be for a siege or a battle.

  But, still, Lancelot felt jumpy and uneasy. He had passed the unsettled feeling off as lingering effects from Fionna’s wedding. But, if he were being honest with himself, that wasn’t the reason. Something niggled at him, as if he had left a candle burning unsupervised in his chamber or forgotten something necessary.

  His feet carried him into the hallways, through the back of the keep and toward the rear gate that led to the path down to Merlin’s cave. Though they normally kept the gate open, the secret door in the keep’s wall was invisible from the outside when the doors were closed, vanishing into just another stretch of formidable stone and timber. It was the only other way into the keep beside the front gate. And, unless a person knew it was there, they would never find the opening.

  A lightning bolt of realization struck him. “Idiot!” he shouted at himself, so loud he startled a passing serving woman. In all his concern over rescuing Fionna and Percival from their own fool rescue plan, followed by Fionna’s Gwenevere powers, and the wedding, he had completely forgotten that Morgana apprenticed to Merlin. She knew about this secret door. She knew exactly where to find it too.

  Lancelot broke into a run, his boots flying on the stone floors. They needed to reinforce the door. They needed to station men at the entrance in case O’Lynn attempted an assault. O’Lynn and Morgana would, without question, take advantage of a distraction created by peace negotiations to break in the back door.

  He burst out of the main keep, barreling across the narrow courtyard to the back wall. He took the stairs two at a time, shouldering past surprised servants. Morning fog still clung to the ground outside the keep, not an uncommon sight in this marine climate. He hung over the edge of the wall, squinting into the mist. Then at the figures he saw moving there. A silent host, bristling with weapons. Readying to invade the keep.

  PERCIVAL GRIPPED THE adder stone tightly in his pocket, its jagged edge cutting into his palm. He didn't know what they would find when they stepped outside the gates, but he suspected it would only be trouble.

  No one waited for them on the stone path outside the main gates as Percival, Arthur, Fionna, and Merlin walked slowly to the agreed upon spot to meet O’Lynn. In the distance, three horses approached.

  Percival tried to keep his gaze fixed ahead on the horses trotting toward them, but he found his eyes gravitating toward Fionna. Her shoulders were tight; the muscles in her fine jaw were working furiously. She seemed like a notched bowstring waiting to be released.

  It hadn't been fair to Fionna—the wedding night she had enjoyed. A ceremony hurried through with enemies at the door. She deserved joy and she deserved a celebration unlike Caerleon had ever seen. She deserved a languished morning naked in the sheets. He swallowed at the memory of her lean body beneath his, the silk of her skin. She deserved the very world.

  He wasn't sure why Fionna’s marriage to Arthur hadn’t hit him like it had his sword brothers. Perhaps because he had known it was inevitable. This was the finale they had been dancing toward this entire time, was it not? Her marriage didn’t have to change things. The wedding hadn’t changed Fionna’s heart, he was certain of that. Nor his. In his and Fionna’s Gaelic worlds, lovers outside of marriage were a normal affair and permitted before their laws. And intimacy between warriors was also common, even between noble-titled warriors such as princes and queens. Especially as, unlike Wales and Briton, women were equal among the men and permitted as fellow warriors. So, Percival would keep pushing his luck until his king told him to back off.

  The horses were growing nearer, and Percival could make out the riders. Two he recognized, two he did not.

  “O’Lynn,” Fionna spat.

  “Morgana,” Merlin said, the gold rings in his eyes flashing with magic.

  A dark warrior with a shaved head and a long, black beard rode the last horse. Behind him was a beautiful young woman near his own age, with curls the color of chestnut.

  Fionna hissed in a breath next to him, her eyes fixed onto the young woman. “Aideen,” she breathed.

  Percival and Arthur both looked at her sharply before looking back with a more appraising eye. So, this was Fionna’s sister—O’Lynn’s new, unwilling bride.

  The group reined in their horses about fifty yards from where Percival, Arthur, Fionna, and Merlin stood.

  Morgana slid gracefully from her black mare. Her dress was of the deepest blue and showed far more of her pale bosom then Percival imagined was proper. Atop her dark locks sat a sort of crown fashioned of antlers. It reminded Percival of Fionna’s stag helm from the day she had earned her place as their fifth knight.

  This crown made him uneasy, though. The black-painted bones whispered of dark magic and even darker nights.

  The bald warrior before Aideen he
lped her from the horse and onto the dirt road. It was then that Percival noticed a thin collar around her neck, threaded with a chain the warrior held firmly in his meaty fist.

  Fionna must have seen it too, because her swords rang in the crisp morning air as she pulled them from their scabbards. “I’ll run the bastard through,” she grit between clenched teeth.

  Arthur held Excalibur before her, blocking her from O’Lynn’s party. “Easy Fionna,” Arthur said. It was the voice of a king speaking to his knight, not a husband to his new bride. “He brought Aideen to provoke you. Do not play into his hands.”

  Fionna mumbled a curse but gave a sharp nod.

  Arthur dropped Excalibur, but Percival noticed Fionna did not re-sheathe her swords.

  The last to dismount and swagger up to them was Donal O’Lynn himself. The tall broad man was burly, with dark hair and a thick beard. He wore a gold torque about his neck. His boiled leather armor resembled Fionna’s, the only thing that set him apart was the emerald green cape that was draped about his shoulders . . . that and the cocky-arse smile on his face.

  Percival had never even met the man and he already wanted to slice him through. He couldn’t imagine what restraint Fionna must be exercising.

  “Arthur Pendragon,” the man drawled in his Irish brogue.

  “Donal O’Lynn,” Arthur replied.

  “Aren’t ye going to welcome us to Caerleon, one king to another?”

  “You have no need of a welcome. I’ve already seen how you’ve made yourself quite at home.”

  A smile spread across O’Lynn’s face before he released a low laugh. “Such a fine land,” he said. “Shame it's cursed.”

  Arthur pursed his lips. “Yes well, you need not concern yourself with that small detail. We have a remedy well in hand.”

  “Does not appear you do, brother,” Morgana said. Her voice slithered like cold fingers up Percival’s spine.

  “We are here to discuss the terms of a possible peace between our people,” Arthur said, his tone as hard as granite. “You have brought a hostile army to my shores. You have burned and ravaged my villages. But . . . the inevitable clash between our warriors would result in a great loss of life. I am willing to grant you this one chance to reach an accord between us. What is it that you want?”

  “Straight to the point,” O’Lynn said. “There are a few things I want, lad. That fancy sword of yers . . .”

  Arthur's lips tightened into a straight line.

  “All yer lands, the keys to this fine keep of yers . . . and that witch at yer side.” He nodded toward Fionna.

  “This is a peace negotiation,” Fionna spat. “And yer request for me is an insult.” Her face was furious, her silver eyes flashing between O’Lynn and where Aideen stood demurely with that horrible collar around her neck.

  O’Lynn’s thumbs were hooked in his belt loops, as if he were having the time of his life.

  Arthur held up a hand and Fionna fell silent. “I’m afraid the possession of my wife is not part of our negotiations.”

  Morgana’s eyes widened, and Percival thought he saw something there—something like fear. But the emotion was gone as quickly as it appeared.

  O’Lynn’s smile slipped but he recovered quickly. “Seems we’ve both tasted the nectar of the Allán women. Though, I admit, I found the vintage a bit sour.”

  “Captivity can do that to a woman,” Fionna gritted out. “Perhaps if ye could find one ye didn’t have to chain—”

  But Arthur looked at her, and she fell silent, her fuming rage palpable. “Let me tell you what my terms will be,” Arthur said. His composure hadn’t slipped a hair’s breadth the entire time. Percival had to admit, he was impressed. Arthur continued. “You turn over Aideen to us, and then you leave these shores, never to return. You take no more aggressive action toward Clann Allán and you never conspire with my half-sister or her two sisters again. Those are my terms. What say you?”

  O’Lynn smiled deepened as his eyes glittered wickedly. “Appears we will be unable to reach an accord, Pendragon.”

  The gate creaked open behind them and Percival dared a glance over his shoulder.

  Lancelot slipped through the doors, hurrying toward them.

  “What is this?” O’Lynn said.

  “Peace,” Arthur said, holding up a hand. “There must be a matter of some importance. He means you no harm.”

  “I'll be the judge that. The agreement was four, Pendragon, and here I see five.”

  Lancelot whispered in Arthur's ear even as O’Lynn bellowed at him.

  Percival watched as Arthur's face darkened, turning stormy. He whipped his head back to the party before them. “My second tells me that there are Uí Tuírtri warriors surrounding our keep even now. You have broken the terms of this engagement.” Arthur pulled Excalibur from its sheath. And the sound vibrated through Percival’s very chest.

  Following suit, Percival pulled out his blade, not sure what would happen next. Would Arthur engage? Or retreat to the keep?

  But something very unexpected happened, something that robbed all thoughts of battle from his mind. Darkness fell over their party as thick as pitch. Cries of alarm arose from both Arthur and Lancelot.

  But with the adder stone in Percival’s hand, he peered through a strange bubble of daylight. Morgana’s hands were up, the darkness oozing from her like squid ink.

  O’Lynn hurried to his horse. He was fleeing.

  Relief washed over Percival. They would not come to blows. Not yet anyway.

  Then, in the bubble of light, he caught sight of something that chilled the blood raging through his veins.

  Fionna—blind as a bat, bathed in unnatural darkness—sprinted across the distance between them and O’Lynn. Toward her sister.

  “Fionna!” Percival couldn’t help the cry that escaped from his mouth. For the warrior who held Aideen’s chain had pulled a knife from his belt, a blade as long as his forearm, and swung the knife wildly before him. And Fionna was running straight toward the warrior.

  Fionna connected with her sister. Their hands grasped at each other, the women crashing together with the force of a lifetime of sisterhood ripped apart.

  Percival sprinted toward Fionna even as the warrior who held Aideen’s chain stabbed blindly. But it was too late.

  The warrior brought his wicked dagger down—into Fiona’s back.

  She stiffened in surprise, her mouth opening in a silent scream, her body going rigid in Aideen’s arms.

  Percival was crossing the distance, but his legs were too slow.

  The warrior pulled the knife out and stabbed again. And again.

  Aideen screamed her sister’s name. Tears coursed down her face.

  Percival rammed the man through to the hilt with his sword in the strange darkness, a roar of fury bellowing from him.

  “Percival?” Fionna said as she staggered backward into his arms.

  “Fionna!” Aideen cried out, but O’Lynn moved his horse between them, and it was all Percival could do to get a grip under Fionna’s back and knees and haul her up into his arms.

  He turned and lunged toward the keep, Fionna’s blood slick on his fingers. Her eyelids fluttered.

  It all happened in a few split heartbeats of time—the few measures it took Merlin to counteract Morgana’s strange darkness.

  Daylight flared once again and Percival blinked at the brightness, almost running into Arthur. His king’s eyes went wide at the sight of Fionna in Percival's arms. Fionna bleeding. And dying.

  GALAHAD JOGGED BACK from the barracks, breathless from rallying the soldiers to defend the keep. Longbow archers were arrayed along the wall above the secret western gate while men boarded up the doors, barricading the narrow corridor with furniture, stray stones, anything they could find. Brin Allán remained with the men near the western gate as a makeshift general while the other military leaders were assigned other tasks.

  Galahad had an uneasy feeling in his chest—a tightness. As if in a moment, everythin
g could change. He was eager to return to the courtyard and make sure their king was all right. And their queen. He shoved aside all the emotions that word bubbled to the surface. Fionna was their queen. Arthur’s wife. And that was that. A man didn’t lie with another man’s wife. Certainly not his king’s. This was strict code within the Norse village where he’d been raised, and one he took seriously.

  The gates were creaking open now and the figures retreating through sent a lance of fear straight to his heart. In Percival’s arms was Fionna. Bleeding and unconscious.

  “Fetch the chirurgeon, and her father!” Galahad bellowed at a servant, who startled like a skittish deer before running back toward the keep.

  “What happened?” Galahad asked as he met them.

  Arthur’s face was haggard, as if his king had aged a lifetime, while Lancelot’s face was more furious than he had ever seen. Even Merlin wore an expression of shock and doubt, more emotion than Galahad had ever witnessed from the stoic druid. Percival appeared as though the only one determined, his arms firmly fixed beneath the body of their fifth knight and queen.

  “She went for Aideen,” Percival said, his voice breaking. “And was stabbed.”

  “Her sister was there?” Galahad asked, mouth falling open. What kind of man would flaunt a prisoner at a peace meeting?

  “Later,” Arthur snarled. “Let’s get her inside.”

  “The Great Hall,” Galahad said. “It’s been set up as a medical ward.” He received his first real look at Fionna as he hurried beside them, and his mouth went dry. Her face was as pale as death, except for the crimson flecks that dotted her lips. Her wound must be grievous indeed. Was she even still breathing?

  “Merlin?” Arthur asked as they raced through the halls, as fast as they could go without Percival jostling Fionna too much. “Can you sustain her with your magic?”