I am nothing but chattel. A prize, like a warhorse.My only value lies in the land I bring as my dowry. Not in the fiery spirit that burns in my heart, nor my exceptional skill with the sword.
“Gabrielle, I am pressured by Robert Cauchon,le Marquis de Nantes,to wed you to his son Ugolin.But I agree with the dignitaries at this royal conference table that such a marriage would be politically disastrous, for Cauchon is closely allied with the notorious pirate Balthazar. The Marquis is most anxious for his son Ugolin to acquire my kingdom, with its countless inlets, coves, and sea caves where pirates could seize and raid incoming ships. And hide valuable contraband—such as food, wine, slaves, and gold.”
The king struggled to reposition his frail body in the uncomfortable red velvet tufted throne, his voice tense and strained. “If Ugolin Cauchon were to wed you and thus become King of Finistère, thenle Traîté Maritime—the Maritime Treaty which ensures safe passage along the Breton coast—would undoubtedly be revoked. Ugolin would thus control the Atlantic coast of France from his father’sChâteau de Pornicin Nantes, at the mouth of the Loire River, all the way north to the southern shores of Britain.”
Her father judiciously eyed Prince Kaherdin. “And, with his kingdom encompassing the entire northern coastline of France extending east to the shores of Armorique, Ugolin would control all shipping in the Narrow Sea. Hence, all trade with Paris.”
Making King Ugolin of Finistère even more powerful than King Philippe of France,Gabrielle realized grimly.
The rich baritone of Prince Kaherdin’s deep voice was a jarring counterpoint to her father’s weak whisper. “We cannot allow Robert Cauchon or his son Ugolin to have sovereignty over the Breton seas. We must prevent the royal marriage whichle Marquis de Nantesis pressuring your father to arrange.” The shrewd, dark eyes of the Prince of Armorique boldly held her glum gaze.
“Although he does not threaten me overtly, for such a hostile move would alienate a potential alliance,” her father explained as he drained his chalice, “Ugolin’s affiliation with marauding pirates is a thinly veiled attempt to blackmail me into accepting his proposal of marriage.”
His goblet raised for a servant to refill, King Guillemin quickly downed its contents before continuing. “Rather than reject his offer outright, which would anger and insult him, potentially provoking a pirate attack… I have instead decided to host a Yuletide Joust, so that another champion may win your coveted hand. Sir Lancelot and Lord Esclados—owners of the most magnificent stables in all of Bretagne—will organize the tournament on my behalf. The Yuletide Joust will take place here atle Château de Beaufort,beginningon the fourteenth of December, with the royal wedding and ball to be held on the sixteenth. It is my Christmas wish to see you, my precious daughter, wed to the champion. I pray that it is not Ugolin Cauchon,le Vicomte de Nantes.” King Guillemin raised his mug again, gulping the wine as if to drown his pain.
And sorrow.
Sir Lancelot addressed the assembled group. “On the morrow, I’ll ride back to my castle—la Joyeuse Garde—and prepare the horses and grooms for the upcoming joust. I’ll return in a few weeks with a regiment of my finest knights, to bolster your defenses, King Guillemin. With his unscrupulous reputation, Ugolin Cauchon might very well plan a pirate attack to coincide with the tournament—to prevent anyone else from winning the princess’ hand in marriage. You’ll be well prepared, Your Majesty, should he try any such subterfuge.” Sir Lancelot raised his goblet in tribute to her father, who nodded solemnly in grateful acknowledgement as he gulped from his own silver chalice.
Sir Lancelot is the finest knight in the Celtic realm. He will aid Sir Pontivy and Sir Bastien in my father’s feeble defense. For I, as a woman, cannot.If not for la loi salique, I would be crowned queen without question. Why must the throne—which is my heritage and birthright—be given to a man?
“And I shall return tole Château de Landuc, in the Forest of Brocéliande, to procure additional horses for the Yuletide Joust,” Lord Esclados informed her father. “I’ll come back here in early December with horses, knights, and grooms.Le Château de Beaufortwill be well guarded, Your Royal Highness, for the entire Yuletide season—during preparations for the joust, while the tournament is taking place, throughout the wedding, ball, and period of celebration. We’ll ensure the safety of Princess Gabrielle and the entire castle. It will be a most joyous holiday season, Your Majesty. May your Yuletide wish to see your daughter safely wed come true.”
King Guillemin smiled weakly, his arms shaking as he clutched his tufted throne. “Thank you, Lord Esclados. I am grateful for the unwavering support of all of you—my loyal, trusted allies. As we part ways, I bid you a fond farewell. Until we meet again—in three months’ time.”
With graceful bows and lowered heads, the distinguished guests departed from her father’s royal solar, leaving Gabrielle and her personal guard Sir Bastien alone with the king. As his chamberlain Ezhvin approached to escort the ailing monarch to his royal chambers, Gabrielle’s father attempted a grin and chortled, “Now you can resume the horseback riding lessons that you loved so much as a young girl. What better instructor than the Master of Horse himself? And Sir Bastien will not only enhance your impressive equestrian skills, but also protect you as well with his inimitable sword.” King Guillemin gestured for her to approach so that he could kiss each of her cheeks withla biseof farewell. “Enjoy your ride, my daughter. It is a glorious, blustery day. Perfect for galloping across the windswept Breton moor.”
With a generous paternal smile tempered by debilitating pain, Gabrielle’s father clutched Ezhvin’s massive arm to rise unsteadily on weakened, wobbly legs.
Gabrielle blinked back tears as she watched her once robust, burly father—descended from the renowned Viking chieftain Rollon—slowly hobble away.
“Would you care to ride, my princess?” The rich timbre of Sir Bastien’s deep voice stirred her suffering soul, his expectant gaze promising an afternoon of invigorating challenge amidst the uplifting, natural beauty of the savage Breton coast.
Jubilant, ephemeral, fragile freedom.
“I would love that, Sir Bastien. Please, let’s go!”
Chapter 2
L’ Amour Impossible
Sir Bastien de Landuc had come tole Château de Beaufortas a seven-year-old page, sent by his father Lord Esclados le Ros to join his older brother Gaultier in training to become a knight, their younger sibling Cardin arriving the following autumn. For the past seventeen years, Bastien had loyally served King Guillemin in the oceanfront castle perched high on a craggy, peninsular cliff overlooking the tumultuous Atlantic Ocean. The kingdom of Finistère, in westernmost Bretagne. The region known asLand’s End.
He’d begun as squire for Sir Alphonse de Pontivy, the First Knight of Beaufort who had been the liege lord responsible for Bastien’s knighthood, his promising horsemanship, and exceptional talent with the sword.
But Bastien de Landuc owed his unparalleled equestrian skills and inimitable swordsmanship to Sir Lancelot of the Lake, the legendary First Knight of King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot.
His hero. His mentor. His friend.
Each summer, Lancelot sailed from Britain to his private French castle—la Joyeuse Garde—on the Élorn River in southern Bretagne, where he maintained magnificent stables, bred the finest horses, and trained the most intrepid knights in the Celtic realm. Thanks to his father’s close association with Lancelot, Bastien de Landuc had spent every summer for the past ten years with the peerless knight who had instilled in him a profound love of horses, incomparable expertise in the saddle, and extraordinary prowess with the sword.
Because of his adroitness as a horseman, Bastien had been groomed to become the Master of Horse atle Château de Beaufort.For years, as he trained and cared for the magnificent horses in King Guillemin’s royal stables, he’d watched the young princess Gabrielle develop her own impressive equestrian skills, her evident love of horses equaling his own.
Nearly every day, Bastien had ridden with the royal guards to escort Gabrielle as she galloped across the wild moors strewn with pink and purple heather, her long red tresses whipped by the wind, her beautiful face exuberant with joy. With her impetuous spirit, flaming locks, feral eyes, and fierce love of horses, she’d captured his adolescent heart.
Because of his exceptional talent in the saddle and extraordinary skill with the sword—in addition to his proximity in age to the princess—King Guillemin had selected Bastien as Gabrielle’s equestrian tutor. And, since the generous king always indulged his precious, only child—he’d given in to her insistent pleas to learn the dagger, the bow, and the sword.
So, Bastien had also become her weapons instructor, honing her innate skills as he nurtured her imaginative childhood dreams.
