Mists of Camelot: An Arthurian Boxed Set


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Love tested by time…

Prelude to Camelot
Arthur looked around the huge, crowded stone church at Caer Leon. He was surprised Morgana had made the trip. She looked like a well-fed cat who knew where the heavy cream was kept and he felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck. Behind Morgana, King Leodegrance was seated, his young daughter beside him. Gwenhwyfar wiggled on the bench, twisting and turning to see everyone who came in. Her braid looked like she might have tried to do it herself, locks of her red-gold hair sticking out everywhere.
He shook his head slightly. Gwenhwyfar? Someday, that one would present a real challenge for some unsuspecting man.

Fate of Camelot
Lancelot clamped a hand over Gwenhwyfar’s mouth and pulled her back through the trees, holding her against him. “Don’t scream. It’s Lancelot. We’re going home.”
Wildly, she twisted to look at him. Her eyes were blank and he saw no recognition there. She began to struggle.
He gave her a little shake. “Gwen. Come to your senses. It’s Lance. Arthur is waiting. We’re leaving the land of Faerie.”
Her eyes widened a little, but there was still fear.
“We’ve got to go. You have to come with me. You’ll be safe.”
She moved her head negatively and tried to pull away.
He spun her around quickly and kissed her before she had time to scream. She did not respond; nearly desperate, he cradled her head and prodded her mouth open with his thumbs, thrusting his tongue inside, letting her taste him. His arms moved around her and his hands kneaded her back. Mother, Goddess, don’t let me be too late. Not after all of this. Then suddenly she was kissing him back, clinging to him, sobbing in the back of her throat. He leaned back a little, watching her.
“Lancelot!” She was crying now, her arms wound tightly around his neck. “It is you? I’m not living another illusion?”
“No, my love. But we must hurry.” Already the sounds of fury behind them had begun to diminish. Lancelot took her hand and they began to run.

Camelot’s Enchantment
The Grail Maiden speaks… Ah, Camelot. What is to become of you?
I am Astrala, guardian of the holy chalice, which is secured in its secret niche in the marble tomb on Avalon. Looking around the raised slabs on which lie the effigies of so many of the knights of the Round Table, I realize much preparation has already been done. Yet, there is much to do before Arthur’s knights will ride again.
Arthur’s nephews—courteous Gwalchmai, steadfast Gaheris, trusting Gareth—lie together in silence. The king has not yet joined them. After Cam’s Landing, Gwenhwyfar and Nimue brought him to Avalon to heal. Myrddin returned him to the world several years later, where he still remains. He chose not to reclaim the throne of Camelot, but instead took the assumed name of Armel and became counsel to young Judwel of Léon, the last of the Sangréal bloodline. Nimue, having borne Arthur a daughter through the pagan Great Rite, joined him there.
Gwenhwyfar was trapped while trying to pass through Faerie. Once again, Lancelot rescued her, this time by fighting the horned god, Cernunnos. No easy task, but Gwenhwyfar would expect no less from her half-fey champion, nor would Lancelot ever give up his love.
There lies Peredur. Truly, he has been the most naïve of fools and yet, he managed to marry Blanchfleur, the love of his heart. Lohengrin was born of that union and it was he who mated with Arthur and Nimue’s daughter, Argante, to continue the bloodline of the Ladies of the Lake as well.

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