Intrigued, Tristan searched the familiar scarred face of the knight whom he served. The warrior responsible for all the tests of physical endurance, the strength training, the mock battles. The mentor who had helped him hone his rage into exceptional skill with the sword. The man whom Tristan loved like a brother.
“Tristan, the High King of Britain, Arthur Pendragon, is seeking new candidates to train as Knights of the Round Table in his castle of Camelot. To determine which ten knights of Cornwall will earn this prestigious honor, I have proposed to King Marke that we host here at Tintagel aTournament ofChampions. A three-day competition among the young warriors of the entire kingdom of Cornwall.”
Gorvenal gulped a hearty swallow of wine from his goblet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He turned to face Tristan, his eyes full of challenge. “The tournament will include archery, jousting, and a battle of swords. The top ten winners will earn the privilege of training with King Arthur’s champion, the First Knight of Camelot—the legendary Lancelot of the Lake.”
Gorvenal grinned, his eyes ablaze with the same fire that Tristan had only seen in the heat of battle. His mentor’s enthusiasm was contagious. Tristan leaned forward to the edge of his seat, his foot bouncing rapidly against the marble floor. Adrenaline thrummed in his veins.
King Marke leaned back upon his informal throne, locking eyes with him. Tristan’s heart was in his throat. His mouth was parched. He considered reaching for his goblet to quench his thirst, but he dared not turn away from his uncle’s direct gaze. He swallowed forcefully, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
“As my sister’s son, blood of my blood, you are the presumptive heir to my kingdom of Cornwall.”
The king took a long pull of wine from his silver chalice, eyeing his nephew over the rim. Tristan could barely stand the tension. He was an arrow, nocked in a tightly drawn bow string, ready to take flight.
“Gorvenal informs me that you are the top warrior here at Tintagel. That you stand a very good chance of qualifying in—perhaps even winning—the competition.”
Marke motioned to a servant, who approached, carrying a tray which held a small, jeweled box. The king picked up the box and offered it to Tristan. “Open it,” Marke commanded. Tristan complied.
Inside the jeweled box was a shield-shaped golden ring, bearing the profile of the royal bird of Cornwall—thechough,or sea raven. The eye of the black bird was a large blue topaz gemstone, glinting in the afternoon sunlight. The outer perimeter of the ring was encased by fifteen small golden coins, which Tristan recognized asbézants.
“Cornwall is your heritage as it is mine, Tristan,” Marke explained. “Your mother’s birthright was the kingdom of Lyonesse, on the southwestern tip of Cornwall. The region calledLand’s End,withthe hundreds of Isles of Scilly that extend all the way to Brittany.”
Marke gestured to the ring in Tristan’s hand.
“This ring symbolizes your destiny. The shield represents the kingdom you defend for me. Thechough,or sea raven—the royal bird of Cornwall—signifies your heritage as my heir, and the kingdom of Lyonesse, your birthright. The blue topaz stone I have chosen to represent you, Tristan. Should you qualify as one of the ten winners of theTournament of Champions, I will dub you theBlue Knight of Cornwall. My blood, my champion—and my heir.”
Tristan placed the ring on his finger. His throat constricted with emotion, Tristan knelt in gratitude and humility before his uncle.
King Marke stood and placed his hand on Tristan’s bowed head. “May this ring grant you good fortune not only in the upcomingTournament of Champions, but throughout your entire life. Wear it with the pride and honor my sister would have felt had she lived to see the man you have become. Go now, knowing that you bear the symbol of love and blessing of your king.” Helping Tristan to his feet, Marke gripped his shoulder and chuckled, “I am certain that Gorvenal has even more intensive training in mind for you and the warriors of Cornwall. The tournament begins in two months’ time. Prepare well, and make me proud, Tristan.”
Tristan thanked his uncle profusely, assuring him that he would settle for nothing less than qualifying for the opportunity to train in Camelot.
He retreated shakily from the royal reception area with a still-smiling Gorvenal, who slapped him on the back with a hearty grin. “The bloody Blue Knight of Cornwall.God’s bones, Tristan! Now wetrain!”
Chapter 3
The New Queen
Morag scrutinized her reflection in the oval mirror of her royal chambers. Her lustrous black hair—scented with rosewater—was unbound, cascading down her back, the way he liked it. The corset of her deep crimson gown was tightly laced, emphasizing the fullness of her breasts, all the more enticing with the snugly gathered velvet bodice, so soft to the touch. A sumptuous bouquet of red roses stood on the bedside table under the sunny window, the ruby color subtly enhancing her scarlet gown. And the bed was scented with lavender, to arouse passion. She tugged her neckline a bit lower at the sound of the expected knock upon her door.
A stern nod sent her royal attendants scurrying from the room, leaving her alone with King Donnchadh. As her husband entered the fragrant chamber, his ardent eyes locked with hers, fixing on the sumptuous swell of her bustline. Morag smiled coyly at him, content with his obvious lust. She’d learned long ago that, in a world ruled by men, her striking beauty and seductive wiles gave her tremendous power over them. And she needed to wield every bit of it today.
“My husband, please, come sit with me. Let us share this fine wine.” She poured two goblets of rich burgundy. The same color as her gown. She glanced at him from lowered, intoxicating lashes.
With an impatient grin, the king unstrapped his sword and placed it on the floor. His eyes lingered on the plush bed beforehe seated himself at the small table at her side. She handed him the goblet and watched as he took a large swallow, his eyes never leaving herdécolletage. She leaned forward to give him a better view as she feigned adjusting the tablecloth.
When he placed his goblet down, she lowered herself slowly onto his lap, brushing her breasts against him as she nestled her soft bottom against his loins. She smiled inwardly at the immediate response. She needed to act quickly, while he was entranced.
She brushed a lock of auburn hair from his eager face, placing her full mouth close to his. “My love, I wish to discuss something with you that has been troubling me lately.”
Donnchadh kissed her swanlike neck, his hands clutching at her waist, pulling her more firmly against his lap.
“I would like to develop a closer relationship with Issylte. As her new stepmother, I’d like to supervise her lessons myself. Teach her more proper, courtly behavior. The eloquence and etiquette more becoming to a princess.”
The king wasn’t really listening. Just as Morag had planned.
“It is time for her to be married. I propose that we wed her to King Marke of Tintagel. A royal wedding would create a profitable alliance between Ireland and Cornwall, much like our marriage has strengthened the ties between our two kingdoms. Don’t you agree, my love?”
She kissed the shell of his ear, offering him the full view of her creamy white breasts.
