Tristan, remembering the luscious night with Nolwenn, returned Lancelot’s wicked grin. He raised his chalice, spilling wine on his tunic as he swayed slightly in his chair. “To the warm welcome of the Tribe of Dana!” The two knights clinked goblets, emitted a guttural laugh, and drained the rest of their wine.
The revelry was winding down as the musicians stopped playing. Guests were heading off to their respective chambers; the servants were tidying up. Stretching his arms in a luxurious yawn, Lancelot bid goodnight to Tristan as they parted ways until morning, when they would sail for England with the tide.
Tristan lay in bed on this last night inla Joyeuse Garde, the cool chill of autumn air blowing through the open windows. Heobserved the full moon in the night sky, the salty breeze from the brackish river reminding him of the impending sea voyage home, reflecting on the events of the summer which was ending.
He’d traveled toBretagne—the craggy coast of northwestern France, where he’d honed his skills as a swordsman, training with Lancelot’s knights, learning the techniques of the Avalonian Elves—the fiercest warriors in the Celtic realm. He’d defended the sacredFontaine de Barentonand rescued the Lady Laudine. He’d become a member of the Tribe of Dana and beenwelcomedby the goddess Nolwenn. All were chivalrous pursuits worthy of the most gallant knight.
As he finally drifted off to sleep, Tristan enjoyed a sense of pride of accomplishment—and, for the first time in many years, a true sense of belonging.
* * * *
The return sea voyage was uneventful, and soon Tristan and Lancelot—with the guards that had accompanied them toLa Joyeuse Garde—reached the coast of Britain, where the horses had been stabled for the summer. As they rode northwest to Camelot, the red and gold-colored leaves of the trees, the bite of the chilly winds nipping their faces, and the crisp woodland smells of fall reflected the subtle changes of the season. It would soon be the autumnal equinox—the final nine months of training. When Tristan would at last become one of King Arthur’s prestigious Knights of the Round Table.
Everyone who had gone home for the summer was now returning to Camelot to complete the final months of training with Lancelot of the Lake. Tristan spotted Vaughan unloading his saddlebags, alongside Indulf and Connor. He strode over to greet his friends with a hearty welcome.
“How was the summer in Kennall Vale? Hunting good?” Tristan asked, clasping Vaughan on the shoulder as he grinned from ear to ear.
“Not bad, not bad,” Vaughan replied as he unloaded supplies. “Connor shot an eight-point buck, and I got a twelve pointer.” One side of his mouth extending in a half smile, he joked, “Two more sets of antlers to adorn the study in Lord Treave’s stately manor.”
Connor grinned and shook Tristan’s extended hand. Tristan searched around to greet Indulf, but the blond knight had already left.Didn’t even say hello. The bastard.
Lancelot strolled over to greet to the new arrivals, whose squires were handing the horses over to grooms and hauling bags to take to their lords’ quarters. “Welcome back, everyone. Tonight, there is a reception in the banquet hall. King Arthur wishes to extend his greetings. Today, we rest after our long voyage. Tonight, we feast. And tomorrow, we train. Good day, men. Until this evening!”
As the First Knight strolled away, Vaughan smirked, “Enjoy yourséjourin Bretagne, Tristan? Fuck any French girls?” His eyes, deep brown like bitter coffee, held Tristan’s gaze with undisguised contempt. “Elowenn sends her regards.” Then, with a grunt of disgust, he spat, “Not that you care.” Vaughan hoisted his bag over his shoulder and sauntered away, the ghosts of summers past haunting the deepening void between the estranged friends.
The feast was splendid, as the receptions in Camelot always were, and soon, autumn unfolded. The knights adapted to the rhythm of training—engaging in mock battles, siege attacks, defense tactics and military strategy. Occasionally, Lancelot would plan an outing, such as today’s hunting competition, to break the monotony and entertain the men.
Some of the more experienced knights, such as Bedivere, were joining them this afternoon. Four teams of six were hunting wild boar and deer in different sections of the forests surrounding Camelot, with two teams pitted against each otherin both divisions. Every member of the two winning teams would receive a highly prized hunting falcon as a reward.
Lancelot’s team, which included Tristan, was competing against Bedivere’s group, which counted Indulf, Vaughan, and Connor. In another section of the forest, King Arthur led a group, as did the veteran knight Lamorak. The weather was crisp and cold, the afternoon sky overcast and gray. A dense carpet of red and gold leaves blanketed the forest floor. Anticipation and the thrill of the hunt was in the air.
The men in his group were readying their horses and donning their bows and arrows. Tristan heard a sudden loud rustling in the trees. He examined the copse of woods, darkened by shadows and haze in the dense forest. As he searched the source of the disturbance, he spotted the enormous head of a large gray wolf emerge through the dense foliage. Intense amber eyes fixed his own, as if to convey an urgent warning. With the Druidic magic of the golden herb flowing in his veins, Tristan understood the lupine message wordlessly.
You are in grave danger.The man with hair the color of wheat does not hunt the wild boar—he hunts you. His companion, the small evil creature with wrinkled skin, lurks behind the trees near the stream. Four others await with him. All have weapons. To kill you. Stay clear, Warrior of Dana. We—the Wolves of Morois—will defend you.
Shaken, Tristan quietly told Lancelot of the encounter with the wolf. Lancelot led the team in the opposite direction—away from the stream —to begin the hunt. A few minutes later, horrific screams pierced the silent woods. Vicious snarling and growling, savage snapping of jaws and bloodcurdling shrieks shattered the stillness of the forest. Tristan’s team quickly drew their bows and nocked their arrows. Lancelot led the way as they rode cautiously forward, towards the stream.
The mutilated, bloody corpse of a knight lay at the scene. His throat had been ripped open, his body covered in vicious bite marks. Blood was splattered everywhere—over broken branches of trees, across scattered leaves—puddling in deep, dark pools near the multiple gashes on the victim’s ravaged body.
Bedivere was on foot, bent over the victim, examining the evidence. He held up the knight’s shield to those who had just arrived at the scene. “This boar’s head is the coat of arms of the dwarf Frocin.” He pointed to the blood, patches of gray fur, and broken branches surrounding the body. “He was obviously killed by wolves. But why,” he frowned, gesturing to the riderless animal who stood faithfully beside the fallen knight, “would a pack of wolves kill a human, yet leave his horse untouched? If hungry enough to attack a man, would they notconsume the body? It makes no sense. If the wolves were famished enough to attack a man, they certainly would have eaten the horse as well.”
Bedivere rubbed his beard, eyebrows lowered in puzzlement. He scanned the forest, hand on his sword. “It speaks of enchantment. Those wolves werebewitched!”
At that moment, a group of hunters emerged from the forest, with Indulf, Vaughan, and Connor among them. All were pale and haggard—as if in shock—as they rode up to the mutilated body.
Lancelot stepped forward to address them. “This knight was one of the dwarf Frocin’s men. His coat of arms is on the shield. Did any of you see anything?”
Vaughan replied, a tremor in his voice. “We saw four men on horseback, fleeing a pack of huge gray wolves. The wolves were growling, snapping at the horses’ legs, their teeth bared—in hot pursuit. I fired an arrow but missed as a wolf leapt over a fallen log. The pack veered off together into the forest, as one. Moving in unison. An enormous wave of wolves.” He raked his fingersthrough his hair, looked down at his boots, and shivered. “It was chilling, uncanny…unearthly.”
Bedivere motioned for two squires to lift the corpse onto the riderless horse just as Arthur and the remaining knights joined the shaken men. Barking orders, the king commanded that the body be brought to Camelot to be burned, indicating that the fallen knight’s weapons and shield be retained for proof of Frocin’s treachery. “I do not know what his purpose was here today, but he has no right to hunt in my forest, nor may he trespass onto my territory. Bring the weapons so that they may be safeguarded. I will decide what action to take upon our return.”
Two days later, the dwarf Frocin appeared in the throne room of Camelot, where the wizened creature now knelt before the High King upon the dais. Surrounded by the Knights of the Round Table, the lords and ladies of the royal court, the king bellowed to the humbled dwarf before him.
“Frocin, the body of one of your knights was found near my castle of Camelot. Witnesses saw you and several of your armed men riding through my forest. You are forbidden from hunting in these woods. You now stand accused of trespassing upon my royal territory. What say you?”
Frocin, his voice trembling, stammered, “I do most humbly beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty. We were in pursuit of a wild boar, which had been injured in our hunt. My men and I and did not realize that we had traveled so far east as to encroach upon your royal domain. I do apologize most sincerely, Your Highness, and respectfully request your clemency.”
Arthur, in his red velvet cloak lined with ermine, his gilded crown heavy upon his golden head, glowered at the quivering dwarf. The king’s deep voice thundered through the throne room.
