Knights of the Round Table: Geraint Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  The Heat of the Moment . . .

  At a full sprint, Enid picked up the sword and put herself between the young squire and the bigger, older bully. She met his sword with her own in a parry so powerful that his weapon broke in two. Crying out, he dropped the hilt, clutching his wrist and staggering back to gape at her.

  She froze, the sword at her side, hearing the stunned silence all around her. Every gaze was focused on her, and she saw herself as from a distance, a woman too tall, too strong, clothed in a gown, but carrying a sword. Sir Blakemore watched her with cold, calculating eyes.

  The skill was hers, Enid thought, but the abnormal strength was not. And she’d used it in front of all of her husband’s fellow knights. She’d made a grave error.

  Geraint would hear of this. So would the others. How would she explain herself? She moved away from the crowd, hearing the low buzz of conversation swelling behind her.

  She heard Geraint’s name mentioned, and Enid stiffened, worry and dread knotting her stomach.

  “But he is one of the high king’s favorites,” a stranger said. “Maybe Arthur does not wish Sir Geraint to do battle. He is obviously being groomed as the king’s counselor.”

  “He will not be a favorite if his wife is discovered to be a sorceress,” Blakemore said coldly.

  Their voices faded, and soon Enid was alone.

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  Lancelot

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  Gawain

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE: GERAINT

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / March 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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  Prologue

  THE Ceremony of Revelation had been scheduled for the night of a full moon. Enid had spent two months training, studying, and anticipating this moment. Not everyone who requested the tutelage of the Lady of the Lake had her wish granted. But Enid had been chosen to represent the Donella tribe, and their looming fate must have persuaded the Lady.

  Alone, Enid stood beside the lake, which reflected the moon like a second white eye in the night. She saw the Lady in the distance, walking slowly toward her, wearing the same white tunic as Enid, though the Lady’s shone with an unearthly light. Her face was fair, but unlined, betraying no age. Mist rose on the lake in her wake, creeping to shore, wrapping about her ankles, moving ever onward toward Enid.

  Enid’s heart was pounding so loudly that she was surprised she couldn’t hear an answering echo. Her mouth was too dry to swallow. What if she had been deemed unworthy? What if all her effort here was for naught? How could she return to her tribe, to her father, the chieftain, and tell him that her plan to strengthen the defense of their tribe had not worked? He had heard rumors of one of the lesser kings of Britain growing impatient with his own boundaries. The Donella tribe feared to be gobbled up by a stronger, larger foe. And although the high king, Arthur, was not in question, there were many kings beneath him who would try to widen their boundaries at the expense of a small tribe.

  Enid could not let that happen. She, a warrior woman by training, had been chosen to learn the secret fighting techniques of the mounted knights and bring the knowledge home. She would make her tribe strong, so that no one dared to attack them. But to do that, she needed protection in the unfamiliar world of men and armor. The Lady of the Lake had deigned to consider helping.

  The Ceremony of Revelation would be her answer.

  As the Lady approached, the mist crept outward to meet Enid. It was cool and moist against her feet, but prickled with a power that was not of nature. The Lady’s grace made her seem to float there in front of Enid, and the effect was awe-inspiring.

  “Enid of the Donella,” the Lady said.

  Though she spoke softly, her voice boomed with a new echo, and Enid flinched.

  “Aye, my lady,” Enid responded.

  “I have spent these many months in the knowing of you, in understanding your place as a warrior woman, and your innate ability to give a young man courage by just your touch. I have watched you work; I have listened to your desperation to help your tribe. I have deliberated on how I might aid you and have decided on these gifts of magic.”

  Enid could not control her gasp of relief and excitement. She had been deemed worthy!

  “You will be am
ong strangers, out in the world. My first gift is the enhancement of beauty, so that all find you pleasing and unthreatening.”

  Enid tried not to frown. She hadn’t thought herself unpleasing.

  “My second gift is the strength of ten men to aid you in battle. In the coming months I will teach you the use—and not the abuse—of it. Third, you will be able to sense the presence of magic, aiding you in the defense against it. Use this wisely, for it will not grant you powers to fight magic, an important distinction.”

  Enid nodded as if she understood, although she wasn’t all that certain. But that was what the next few months were for: learning how to use her magical gifts.

  “Last, I will teach you the ability to disappear within the shadows, to cloak yourself from your enemy. This is not a tool to be used in battle, but when stealth is required. Remember now that the use of this magic is not endless. You are granted these gifts for a short period only, and they must be replenished beneath the moon every third night. I will teach you the ritual over time, but tonight I will perform it with you. Give me your hand.”

  Enid obeyed, and to her shock, the Lady produced a curved dagger. Giving Enid no time to react, she made a small slice across Enid’s thumb, and blood began to drip.

  “Hold it above the water,” the Lady commanded.

  Enid turned to the moonlit lake, but was hard-pressed to see where the edge of the lake lay, with the mist that hovered at her feet. She took several steps forward until her toes brushed moisture, then held her bleeding hand in front of her. As the blood disappeared within the mist, the Lady began to chant words that Enid could not quite hear. A wind seemed to come from nowhere, swirling around her, making her sway.

  “Step into the water.”

  Again, she obeyed, then gasped at the power that rose upward within her, crackling through her suddenly upraised arms, arcing in a bolt of lightning that reached between her and the shining moon. The light faded, but it still seemed to exist inside her, its secret power humming through her body, changing her. Her skin felt alive with it, her senses heightened, her muscles more alert than she’d ever felt them. She thought she could swim the entire lake or climb high mountains.

  The last of the wind faded away, the mist receded, and the glow of the Lady’s garments dulled. Then it was simply Enid and her teacher.

  The Lady rubbed her hands together. “You have much to learn before I can allow you into the world with these great gifts. Shall we begin?”

  Chapter 1

  THE woman’s sword arced high in the air, flashing sunlight as it swooped to parry away her opponent’s weapon. Sir Geraint, prince of Cornwall, watched the fight from the back of his horse, concealed by trees, unwilling to distract the combatants. The woman stood taller than any he’d ever seen, long limbs firm with sleek muscles. She wore a sleeveless leather jerkin that only covered her down to mid-thigh. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face, leaving naked the intent focus of her eyes. Geraint could not take his gaze from her, so absorbed was he by the grace of her movements, the power of her stroke, the skill evident in every turn of her body.

  The man she fought was obviously a ruffian, panicking, flailing his sword, as she drove him across the sun-lit clearing toward the edge of the woods. When she could have killed him, she merely raised welts with the flat of her sword and drove him away into the forest.

  She stood still, her breathing normal even though she’d exerted herself. Blood ran down her upper arm, a remnant of the ruffian’s desperation. She looked at it impassively and then shrugged.

  But to Geraint, that was her life’s blood, and he feared for her. Before he could move to aid her, he heard the crash of underbrush, saw another horse leap a fallen log and land in the clearing, barely an arm’s span from the woman. A villain raised his sword to her, this time from above her in the saddle, as if fighting a woman wasn’t already dishonorable.

  Tapping his heels into his horse’s flank, Geraint sprang from the cover of the trees and saw the woman back up, as if to take them both on. Her expression was fierce, challenging—she believed she could win. She made him believe it, too, and his admiration only surged higher.

  But he wheeled his horse about and charged at her enemy. The man wore no armor, no padded brigandine like Geraint had to protect his chest. But he fought bravely, meeting Geraint’s sword again and again. With just the pressure of his knees and heels, Geraint guided his horse in a dance about his opponent, leaving his hands free to absorb blows with his shield and wield his powerful sword.

  His opponent toppled off the back of his horse to avoid a particularly well-aimed thrust. Without stopping, he somersaulted back to his feet and took off running into the forest. The horse, after rearing and screaming, galloped off in a different direction.

  Geraint twisted in the saddle, but to his relief the woman was still there. She wore an approving grin that made his heart sing. By God, he was turning into a poet at just the sight of her.

  He dismounted, sheathed his sword, and came to stand before her. Most women barely reached his shoulders, but this blond goddess came up to his eyes. He thrilled at the size of her, imagined covering that long body with his—

  And then regretted his unchivalrous thoughts. She was a lady in need of protection, although it was obvious she’d been forced to learn to protect herself. Was she alone in the world? What had happened to her that she’d had to learn a man’s art of war?

  When she smiled at him, with white, healthy teeth between full pink lips, it was as if the sun burned brighter.

  “A good afternoon, kind sir,” she said. “You have my thanks for your aid.”

  He reached for her hand, and although she stiffened with obvious suspicion, she let him lift it to his lips. “Sweet lady, helping you is the highlight of my life.”

  “Then you must have had a deprived life,” she said gently, her melodious voice full of good humor. “I will admit, I thought you a third enemy.”

  “And were ready to slay the two of us, though we be mounted and you on the ground.”

  “I am still ready, should you prove false.” She pointed her sword tip into the ground and leaned upon the hilt.

  He put a hand to his heart. “Ah, to battle you with swords between us would grieve me deeply. There are other ways for a man and woman to battle.”

  She arched a blond brow. “Must it be a battle between us, then? Can we not declare a truce?”

  “A truce, aye,” he murmured, gently taking the wrist of her injured arm and turning the wound into the dappled sunlight. “You have injuries I should tend.”

  Her smile faded, and she tugged back, though he didn’t release her. “You need not—”

  “The blood continues to flow, my lady. How could I, in good conscience, leave you to take ill?”

  The smile once again appeared on her lips, and he experienced a profound relief. He did not want to be parted from her, not yet. He had never before felt this drawn to, this enthralled by, the mere presence of a woman, a stranger unlike any he’d ever met before. A lifetime was not enough to uncover the secrets of such a woman. And now he could not stare into the depths of her blue eyes long enough, with their pale color as unusual as she was. He was surprised that he could even form a coherent thought.

  Enid felt her breathing catch at just the interest in the stranger’s eyes. Men had never looked at her in such a way before. She was a warrior woman, meant to train young men. She’d always been one of them, talking of battle strategy and how to keep one’s sword polished and sharp. With women, except her sisters and mother, she was usually awkward with speech. But this man, this warrior knight, made her speechless in a different way. The concern in his eyes was almost embarrassing. When he studied her minor wound, she wanted to blush. Even her skin felt hot, though the day was cool. And his smile . . . She could not keep her gaze from him, from his handsome face with the slightly crooked nose, down the lean cheekbones to his broad, blunt jaw. There was the shadow of a dimple in his chin.

 
; But it was his skill with the blade that could have made her swoon, were she the type. His horsemanship amazed and captured her. His ability to fight while riding was just what she wanted to bring back to her people. Had fate led her to the perfect answer to her problems? If only seeing into the hearts of men was one of the Lady’s gifts.

  Still holding her wrist, he led her to a rock in the shade. She laughed when he brushed it off before allowing her to sit.

  “Is there a stream nearby?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It is just behind that copse of trees.”

  He looked where she pointed. “I’ll return in a moment.”

  “But I can walk there.”

  “You might grow faint from lack of blood.”

  “I have had far worse, Sir—Sir—?” She tilted her head as she watched him.

  “Sir Geraint,” he answered, still frowning at her wound.

  “I am Enid.”

  He grinned, and the effect so close to her was blinding.

  He repeated her name in a low, smooth voice. “My lady Enid, excuse me for but a moment.”

  He went back to his horse, which grazed contently in the meadow grass. He took something from a bag attached to his saddle, followed her directions to the stream, and then returned with a damp cloth and something that resembled wet mud in his other hand. When she tried to take the cloth from him, he gave her a disapproving look.

  “It is on the far side of your arm—you won’t be able to see it.”

  She didn’t protest again. She let herself enjoy the rarity of a man taking care of her, gently cleansing the blood from her arm, and then applying the wet, cool mud.

  “Should I ask what is in that concoction?”

  “An old Cornish remedy for insuring a healthy recovery.”

  “You are of Cornwall?” she asked with interest.

  The land shared a border with her tribe, but their people were very different, and hers kept themselves secluded.