Issylte kissed her nurse, who extinguished the candle on the bedside table and gave her one last reassuring smile as she closed the bedroom door behind her.
Issylte closed her eyes, anticipating the joy of riding her dappled gray mare in the morning. There was nothing she loved more. She smiled with delight, pulling the blankets under her chin, burrowing her head deep into the soft pillow.
Without warning, her fingers remembered the queen’s icy cold touch. Her hand once again felt drained, with the same disturbing sensation of her energy being leeched. A frissonof dread shivered through her, despite the warmth of the blankets. Issylte rubbed her arm vigorously, as if to remove the unpleasant, numbing chill.
When she finally did fall asleep in the luxurious canopied bed, Issylte dozed fitfully, haunted by vivid nightmares of cold, black eyes watching in the darkness, a malevolence lurking in shadows, biding its time.
Chapter 2
The Blue Knight of Cornwall
Tristan clenched his sword and positioned his feet, preparing for another attack. Despite the mild winter sun, he was drenched from the brutal training session. Sweat poured from his matted hair, stinging his eyes. His opponent was circling, sizing him up, searching for a weakness.
His rival feinted left, lunged right with a swift downward strike. Tristan deftly blocked the powerful blow and parried, redirecting the offensive force into a counterattack that caused his adversary to step back. He had him now. With a savage flurry of strikes, Tristan disarmed his opponent and pointed the tip of his victorious sword just under the vanquished knight’s chin.
“Yield!” Connor bellowed, gritting his teeth in a furious grin. “You bastard. I’ll never hear the end of this now. Vaughan will never let me forget it.”
Tristan lowered his sword and swiped his arm across his sweaty brow. He grinned from ear to ear. Connor was twenty, two years older than Tristan. And he’d beaten him. Again. Three times in a row now. God’s blood, it felt good.
“Until tomorrow, Tristan of Lyonesse,” Connor muttered, shaking his hand and slapping him on the shoulder in congratulations. The knight sauntered off the training field with Vaughan, who launched a series of jibes at the unfortunate victim.
At least Connor had a decent sense of humor. Tristan could hear him laughing as his two friends trudged towards theknights’ lodge, every bit as exhausted as Tristan himself after today’s strenuous battles. Their mentor, Gorvenal—the First Knight of Tintagel—showed no mercy.
Gorvenal now approached Tristan in the center of the training field. A giant of a man, the Master of Arms was one of the very few taller than Tristan, carrying more bulk and brute strength as well. With his dark brown hair, enormous height, and muscular build, Gorvenal could pass for Tristan’s older brother. And the ferocity of his character made the similarities all the more striking.
“Well done, Tristan! You fought well against Connor. I’ve been observing your horsemanship. Your skill with the bow and arrow. And especially the way you handle the sword. All are exceptional. I’m most impressed.”
Tristan grinned despite himself. Never one to enjoy praise, he nevertheless was pleased with Gorvenal’s approval.
“Your uncle the king has asked for you. I’ve spoken to him of your potential in becoming his champion. He would speak to you, so get cleaned up, and I’ll come to your room in half an hour. We’ll go together to see the king.”
As he walked back to the castle, Tristan glanced across the courtyard where Gorvenal and the other men at arms supervised the training of approximately one hundred knights such as Tristan himself. Riders were charging with lances at suspended dummies—the quintains—while trying to avoid being struck by the outstretched, wooden arms. Other knights were engaged in mock combat with wooden swords and shields. Several groups were scaling walls, maneuvering siege ladders and battering rams. Archers fired at targets and trained with both crossbows and longbows. It was thrilling, exhausting, and merciless. Tristan loved it. It was the only way to assuage the guilt that choked him.
He’d come to Tintagel ten years ago, after witnessing the brutal slaughter of his family in an attack by Viking invaders when he was eight years old. Tristan had seen the burning and pillaging of his village while the invading warriors raped the local women, butchered the men, and took as slaves the people whom he had grown to love.
Orphaned, consumed with guilt and rage, Tristan had been sent to live with his uncle, King Marke of Cornwall, in this fortress built high upon the craggy Atlantic coast of southwestern Britain. First as a squire, now as a knight, Tristan fueled his anger into the training with Gorvenal. The weapons master understood his need, demanding that Tristan forge his fury and brute strength into the might of his sword. A sword that had become quite mighty indeed.
For nearly a decade now, King Marke of Cornwall had provided for Tristan, whose mother Blanchefleur had been the beloved younger sister of his good-hearted uncle. Since Marke had never married, and had no heirs of his own, Tristan was destined to inherit not only his parents’ kingdom of Lyonesse—including the myriad Isles of Scilly, stretching as far south as France —but also the kingdom of Cornwall, from his uncle.
Tristan now returned to his room in the castle, where a page helped him remove his armor and soiled tunic. Tristan washed, donned a clean tunic, and belted his sword at the hip for the meeting with King Marke.
A knock summoned the page to open the door.
Gorvenal entered. “All set?”
Tristan nodded, and the two men set off for Marke’s royal chambers.
The castle guards escorted Gorvenal and Tristan into the royal antechamber. King Marke was seated in a chair which served as an informal throne in this reception area where he welcomed invited guests and dignitaries. This afternoon, thesetting sun shone through the western windows, and Tristan glimpsed the turbulent sea in the inlet far below the cliff upon which Tintagel had been built.
He regarded Marke, whom he loved and respected not only as king, but as a man more like a father than uncle. Tristan gazed into the familiar twinkling blue eyes, taking in the still powerful build that had defended Cornwall in many a battle.
Tristan knelt with Gorvenal before his uncle in tribute, then stood at the king’s gesture to rise.
“Tristan, my nephew, how good it is to see you!” Marke heartily exclaimed, embracing him warmly. “Gorvenal has informed me of your exceptional skill with the sword and the lance. Come, both of you, seat yourselves here beside me. Servants, bring food and wine for my guests!”
Platters bearing goblets of wine, assorted cheeses, and fresh fruit quickly appeared. The delicious aroma of roasted meats made Tristan’s mouth water. The three men dug in, their lips smacking with the savory goodness. Marke grinned at his nephew, nodding to his First Knight as he wiped his mouth on a linen napkin.
“Gorvenal, inform Tristan of your proposed plan. I find it a splendid idea and give it my wholehearted approval. Please, enlighten him.”
