“Yes…while we were training,” she gasped, swallowing a large gulp of the calming chamomile tea. She inhaled deeply, the sweet, herbal fragrance soothing her ragged nerves. “Dozens of armed horsemen stormed the forest and attacked my guards. Six descended upon us, swords drawn, and Bastien defended me. He saved my life, Papa. Not only did he slay four of the attackers, but the skills he taught me in self-defense enabled me to fight off my abductors and escape.” Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks as she faced the anxious, overwrought king. “I killed them both, Papa. I… I… killed two men.” She buried her face and sobbed into her hands, overwhelmed as the stark realization of what she had done finally hit her.
His gnarled hand softly stroked her disheveled hair. “Shh…” he whispered as he gently pulled a few stray strands from the side of her face, tucking them back into her unkempt braid. “You did what had to be done. Like a true Viking warrior queen, you fought with fury and slew your enemies.”
Gabrielle raised her tear-streaked face to meet his proud, loving gaze.
“I am profoundly grateful to Sir Bastien de Landuc. Not only did he teach you weaponry and self-defense, but he valiantly defended you as your personal guard. I am forever indebted to him for saving your life.” He kissed her trembling hand, his shining eyes brimming with gratitude. “I shall reward him handsomely—as befits this unparalleled act of valor.”
Gabrielle’s breath hitched and her stomach lurched.
“I shall grant Sir Bastien de Landuc a fiefdom—un fief de dignité. And a title of nobility—la noblesse chevaleresque—in honor of his chivalrous deed.” Her father beamed as he affectionately pushed wayward wisps away from her face. “I shall ennoble him asle Marquis de Cornouaille, bestowing upon him not only the noble title, but the fiefdom ofla Cornouaille—comprising the entire southern half of my kingdom of Finistère—with its magnificent castle,le Château de Concarneau.”
The king smiled knowingly, leaning forward to wipe away her tears and tenderly caress her damp cheek. “With a title of nobility, Bastien will be eligible to compete in the joust. Goddess willing, he’ll prevail—and win your hand. Thereby granting my Yuletide wish to see you properly wed before I die.” He raised her shaking hand to his parched lips and bestowed a gentle kiss.
“Nothing would bring me greater joy, Papa.” She lifted her eyes to meet his. “For I love Bastien de Landuc. I always have, ever since I first saw him.” Gabrielle smiled softly at her generous father whose haggard face shone with paternal love. “Bastien taught me to ride, to care for Marivée…” She reverently traced her father’s bony fingers with a loving thumb. “I am now expertly skilled with the sword, the dagger, the bow and arrow…all because of him.” She lowered her lips to kiss her father’s knotted knuckles. “Your Yuletide wish is to see me safely wed. And mine…is to be the winter solstice bride of Bastien de Landuc,le Marquis de Cornouaille.” She cast the benevolent king a hopeful smile as she lovingly squeezed his brittle hand. “May both our Yuletide wishes come true.”
The royal physician Isnard slithered into the room with a pewter goblet and bowed before the king. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty, but it is time for your medicine.”
Gabrielle observed the peculiar healer whose sparse, thin hair barely covered his balding pate. His hunched posture and lowered head gave the outward appearance of humility and subservience, yet his predatory gaze sent a shiver of dread up Gabrielle’s spine as the enigmatic Isnard placed the chalice before the king.
“I’ll drink it later. Set it down here for now.” The king indicated an area on the table before him.
“It is essential that you take it at the same time each day, Sire. As your royal physician, I must insist.” Isnard bowed his head in reverentobéisance, but his dark eyes glinting with malice made the hairs on the back of Gabrielle’s neck rise in warning.
“It always makes me groggy, and I wish to remain alert until my knights return with their report. Set the goblet here. You are dismissed, Isnard.” King Guillemin’s adamant tone brooked no refusal.
“As you wish, Sire. I shall return later to ensure that you have taken the proper dose. I’ll also assess your condition and determine if any further treatment—such as a purging or bloodletting—is warranted. Until then, I bid you and the Princess Gabrielle good day.” Isnard bowed reverently and exited the royal solar, suspicion and mistrust etched upon his sullen, sunken face.
Once the healer had left the room, Gabrielle whispered, “Papa… I am leery of your royal physician. He emits a malevolent aura.” She sipped her chamomile tea, keenly observing her father over the rim of the cup. The king’s complexion was pallid and gaunt; dark circles rimmed his eyes dulled with pain. “You have suffered from gout for several years but have just recently been plagued with stomach ailments. Isn’t that right, Papa?”
The king summoned Ezhvin, waiting patiently against the wall beside a serving table. “Bring me a goblet of wine. And send for more chamomile tea for the princess.”
“Oui, Votre Majesté.” The royal chamberlain bowed humbly and discreetly disappeared to obey.
Gabrielle’s father nodded in response to her question. “Yes, I’ve had horrible bouts of stomach pain, nausea, and vomiting. My disorders are getting worse, and my health is rapidly declining. That is why I called you home from Paris.”
Ezhvin returned with a decanter of wine and a silver goblet. He filled the chalice, placed it before the king, and gestured for a female attendant to a serve a fresh cup oftisaneto Gabrielle.
King Guillemin waited until his royal chamberlain and the kitchen servant departed before placing his hand over hers with a gentle squeeze. His voice quavered with emotion and his kind eyes glimmered in the afternoon light. “I do not expect to live much longer,ma fille.That is why it is essential that I see you wed as soon as possible.” A sudden grimace of pain distorted his face as his hand sought his stomach. He hissed between clenched teeth.
Gabrielle glanced at the pewter goblet of medicine sitting on the table. “Papa, when did your stomach problems begin? This past summer?”
The king stretched sideways, as if to relieve his discomfort, picking up the silver chalice of wine Ezhvin had just poured. He swallowed a hearty gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and reflected for a few moments before responding. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Around midsummer.”
Gabrielle reached across the table for the goblet of herbal medicine and sniffed the questionable brew. A tangy, citrusy aroma that tingled her nostrils mingled with a repulsive musky, peppery odor that made her choke. She hastily set it down on the opposite side of the table, far away from her father. A ripple of unease crept up her spine.
“Papa…when did the healer Isnard become your royal physician? Wasn’t it just a few months ago?” Her limbs began to shake.
“Indeed, it was. He arrived here, with highest recommendations, to treat my recurring gout.” King Gullemin looked down at his badly swollen ankle propped upon a low footstool at his side. A large red blister filled with an ominous yellow liquid had made wearing a boot painfully impossible. He winced as he repositioned the grotesquely distended foot. “Unfortunately, despite numerous treatments with leeches and maggots, foul-smelling ointments, and putrid elixirs—there has been no improvement.”
Gabrielle reflected how Isnard had come to the castle this past summer. The same time her father’s sudden stomach illness had begun. “And your digestive problems arose just as your royal healer began treating your gout.” She leaned forward in her chair and clutched her father’s hand as his uncomprehending gaze met hers. “Perhaps it is a coincidence, Papa…but I believe that Isnard is giving you herbs that harm rather than heal.” She nodded to the suspicious goblet. “That medicine has a noxious, repugnant odor. I suspect it contains toxic herbs.” She pulled the king’s hand protectively to her chest. “Papa…promise me that you will not take any medicine that Isnard serves you. And that you will refuse any and all treatments that he recommends.”
Gabrielle searched her father’s baffled, bewildered face. “Bastien’s mother, the Lady Laudine, is a Priestess of Dana. A respected healer who is very familiar with medicinal herbs. And Sir Lancelot’s mother, the Lady Viviane, is the High Priestess of Avalon—a prestigious center renowned for healing. They will be arriving very soon for the Yuletide Joust.” She nodded toward the pewter goblet with the loathsome brew. “I will place that elixir in a container and keep it for them to examine. Perhaps Laudine or Viviane can identify the contents and determine if it is indeed harmful, as I suspect.” She scrutinized her father’s weary face. “I will have them examine you as well, Papa.” She brushed a strand of graying, greasy hair from his haggard face. “They might offer an alternative treatment and recommend a different healer. One who can restore your health.”
The king smiled weakly and patted her hand, his face contorting in pain. In his stark, bleak gaze, Gabrielle saw futility, surrender, and despair. Her father had no hope of ever being cured. He had already accepted—perhaps even welcomed—his imminent death.
Smothering grief weighed upon Gabrielle’s heavy heart.
She inhaled deeply and rose to her feet, smoothing her rumpled gown and tucking the wayward strands of hair back into her bedraggled braid. Reaching for the goblet, she announced to her father, “I’ll store this potion in a stoppered vial and save it until Laudine and Viviane arrive in a few days.”
