The king sheathed his sword and raised Tristan to his feet. As he searched his uncle’s bearded face, crinkled in a rugged smile, Tristan saw pride shining in the king’s deep blue eyes, filling him with joy. He grinned from ear to ear as his uncle wrapped him in a hearty embrace.
Celebratory music began anew as the lively chords of fiddles rippled through the Great Hall. Jubilant spectators rushed forward to greet and congratulate the ten newly dubbed knights, who followed their squires to the area designated for donning the new armor, gift of the generous King of Cornwall.
Tristan saw Gorvenal approach, carrying a white surcoat displaying King Marke’s royal coat of arms. Clad in fine chain mail armor of his own, his mentor’s brutal, scarred face was stretched tightly in a broad, fraternal smile. He unfurled the magnificent surcoat before Tristan’s admiring eyes.
Upon its white background, the side profile of the head of a Cornishchough—a black sea raven—was centered amidst an ocean of blue waves, outlined in a perimeter of the fifteen goldbezantsof his uncle’s royal heraldry. Like the cherished ring, whose brilliant blue topaz eye glinted in the morning sunlight upon the largest finger of his left hand.
“The Blue Knight of Cornwall,” Gorvenal chortled. “The king’s champion…and heir.” He slapped Tristan on the shoulder, his teeth gleaming white. “Congratulations, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse!”
Tristan laughed from his belly as Gorvenal helped him don the new chain mail armor and the magnificent surcoat bearing his uncle’s royal heraldry.
King Marke stood in regal splendor upon the dais before his velvet throne. With a grand sweep of his mighty arm, he gestured towards the banquet hall and bellowed to theexuberant crowd. “And now, in honor of the ten newly dubbed knights of Cornwall, let us feast. Come one, come all. ENJOY!”
The inviting aroma of roasted meats and spices wafted through the air as servants scurried to serve the elegant, seated nobles chattering at the tables in the bright banquet hall. Silver goblets glistened in the candlelight of the four chandeliers, suspended over the rows of rectangular tables. Colorful gowns and rich brocade tunics of the royal guests embellished the gaily decorated room, where garlands of ivy woven with fragrant yarrow adorned the wooden walls. At the royal table where King Marke awaited, ten places had been reserved for the newly dubbed knights, with Gorvenal placed at the end opposite the king.
Now seated to the right of his uncle at the royal table, Tristan caught the eye of his companions, his fellow knights who would train with him under the legendary Sir Lancelot of the Lake. Tomorrow, they would begin the two-week trek across southeastern Britain to the wondrous Castle of Camelot. Their faces beamed with pride, a hearty grin spread from ear to ear, as they feasted on stuffed pheasant, roast venison, and imbibed in King Marke’s delicious ale.
His voice exuberant, his heart filled to the brim, Tristan raised his goblet to toast their success. With the same cheer that Vaughan had shouted at the celebration feast after the tournament of champions, Tristan roared with joy.
“To Camelot!”
Chapter 7
Églantine
Issylte peered through the thick oak branches which concealed the ivy-covered cottage. A glow of fire or candlelight illuminated the two windows on either side of the carved wooden entrance door. Smoke trailed from the chimney of the thatched roof, the enticing aroma of food making her mouth water. Her scratched face stung as the temperature of the spring evening plummeted with nightfall. Crisp woodsmoke promised the welcome of warmth as the trail of wild roses beckoned her to the door.
She sheathed the dagger Lord Cian had given her to the strap at her ankle and removed the gold ring from the bodice of her gown. The pulse of the forest pushed her forward. Issylte knocked hesitantly upon the front door.
A white-haired woman with skin like crinkled parchment paper appeared, a wary regard in her seasoned eye. “Yes, my lady? Have you lost your way in these woods?”
Issylte stood trembling on the witch’s doorstep—filthy, exhausted, injured and alone. Radiant firelight emanated from the warm cottage behind the open door. A delicious scent wafted from the simmering pot over the blazing hearth.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” Issylte stammered, glancing down at her feet. “I was told to come here. That you might help me. To offer you this ring as payment for shelter.” Issylte outstretched her palm, where the jewel glinted in the goldenlight. “Please help me. I have nowhere else to go,” she implored the wizened witch.
****
On the other side of the entrance door, Maiwenn’s keen eye took in the fine quality of the girl’s gown, the elegance of her embroidered cape, the courtly manner of her speech. The fairy witch searched the forest behind the intruder but saw no one. She opened the door wider, allowing the girl to enter.
She closed and bolted the door and helped the visitor remove her cloak, which she hung on a hook in the corner of the tiny entrance foyer. Taking the basket from the girl’s hand, Maiwenn glimpsed a glittering gold coronet, adorned with emeralds; a half-eaten apple; somegroseilleberries;and a garland wreath of wild pink roses.
She set the parcel down on the table in the small kitchen and led the frightened girl toward the welcoming hearth. She wrapped a warm woolen blanket around her visitor’s shoulders and seated her in a well-worn chair before the crackling fire. The poor girl was trembling.
“Sit down, my dear. You are tired and cold. Warm yourself before the fire. My name is Maiwenn, and you are welcome here in my humble cottage.”
The fairy witch went into her tidy kitchen and lowered two ceramic mugs from her wooden cupboard. She measured some herbs from a small jar on the shelf, placing the mixture into the two cups. Wrapping a thick towel around her gnarled hand, Maiwenn lifted a kettle from the fireplace and poured steaming water over the herbs.
She retrieved the basked by the front door and placed it on the table in front of her guest seated before the hearth. Maiwenn then returned to the kitchen and fetched the two mugs. Offering one to the girl, and keeping one for herself, she sat down beside her guest in front of the welcoming fire.
“Drink this, my child. It’s chamomile tea. In my nativeBretagne, a cup of herbal tea like this is called atisane.Its warmth will soothe you, and the herbs will calm your nerves, as you explain to me why the Emerald Princess has appeared this evening at my doorstep.”
The girl looked at her in astonishment. “You know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are, my dear. You are the Princess Issylte, the only child of King Donnchadh. Everyone knows and loves the Emerald Princess. And, it would seem, you are beloved by the Little Folk as well.”
“The Little Folk?” inquired Issylte, sipping hertisane.
The girl seemed toluxuriate in the warmth of the blanket and the fire. Maiwenn smiled inwardly and nodded.
