“You shall be fined one hundred silver coins. I shall send men in ten days to collect the debt.” The king bellowed, his craggy face crinkled in rage. “Be forewarned, Frocin—if you or any of your men trespass again upon my lands, your lives will be forfeit. Now go. Return to your domain in the Forest of Morois. You shall pay the hefty fine in ten days’ time.”
Tristan watched Frocin and his guards slither from the castle, dismissed by the High King of Britain. The barmaid’s warning came to mind as the dwarf cast him a grim, baleful glare.Some say he’s an assassin. Others say he delves in the dark arts. Stay clear of him,my lord. He’s a dangerous man.
The Blue Knight of Cornwall vowed to heed the woman’s advice and avoid the malicious dwarf, grateful for the Druidic magic ofl’ herbe d’or—and the Wolves of Morois—which had spared his life in the thick forest of Camelot.
****
Autumn passed into winter, the knights’ regimen of training continuing unabated, until finally, the Yuletide season arrived. Evergreen garlands and holly with bright red berries bedecked the glorious castle with the fragrant splendor of pine. Boughs of mistletoe, sacred plant of the Celtic people, hung above doorways, bestowing the inhabitants of Camelot with the blessing of the Goddess for a prosperous new year.
For today’s holiday feast, the enormous banquet room was resplendent with candlelight glistening in crystal chandeliers, fragrant pine branches on the mantelpiece of the enormous fireplace, and garlands of dark green holly and sweet-smelling hellebore blossoms draped across the gleaming wooden walls. The savory aromas of stuffed pheasant, roast venison, and rich meat sauces wafted through the air, and the sparkling array of silver and glass on the tabletops twinkled like stars in the dark night sky.
Guests arrived, bedecked in furs, jewels, and embroidered brocades, ushered to tables by attentive servants who served goblets of exquisite French wine, followed by courses of aromatic soup, fresh seafood, roasted meats, vegetables, cheeses, and pastries. When the last course was finished and the platters cleared away, musicians began playing, luring jubilant guests onto the magnificent dance floor with lively, lyrical melodies.
Elegant ladies in silken gowns and glittering jewels enticed the knights at Tristan and Lancelot’s table with dazzling display. Soon, all were dancing, and Tristan found himself once again brooding over his wine with the First Knight of Camelot at his side. At a nearby table, a lovely lady in a sapphire blue gown was desperately trying to get Lancelot’s attention, to no avail. The White Knight of Avalon only had eyes for the beautiful blond queen seated upon the elevated dais next to King Arthur, where the red dragon of her husband’s royal heraldry blazed upon golden banners in the light of the Yuletide fire.
A servant refilled their wine goblets. With a nod of his head, Tristan smirked, “That pretty brunette would love to dance with you,” indicating the young woman in the deep blue gown.
With a sad smile, Lancelot replied, “I, like you, am a bloody brute whose only interest is fighting.” He downed a large gulp of wine and leaned back in his chair to observe the brightly attired nobles swirling on the dance floor, dazzling in colorful brilliance.
Tristan saw his friend’s forlorn gaze return to the blond queen at the royal table. Her luminous face reflected every bit of longing as that of the lonesome knight at Tristan’s side who could but love her with his eyes.
Before he could stop them, the words tumbled out of Tristan’s mouth. “Your love for her. Is itl’amour fou?”
Lancelot’s astonishment soon turned to shame. He stared gloomily into his goblet. “Oui, c’est l’amour fou.”A desperateyearning blazed in Lancelot’s gaze as he beheld the pale, fragile queen.
The eyes are the window to the soul, Tristan thought, witnessing his friend’s suffering for an impossible love and the loneliness which smothered him. Lancelot, unburdening his grief, confided at last to Tristan.
“My mother Viviane brought me to Avalon when I was eighteen, to train with the Elves,” he began, smiling sadly as he drank deeply of the rich red wine. “The Elves of Avalon are unparalleled warriors. Incredibly strong, tall, agile. With weapons of inimitable quality and exceptional performance. Forged with otherworldlyskill. Imbued with magic.” Tristan gulped more wine, his pulse quickening as he listened.
“My mother, the Blue Fairy, was Merlin’s best pupil. She enchanted my armor and my sword, imbuing me with superior strength, speed, and agility. To equal that of the Avalonian Elves who would train me.”
Lancelot gazed unseeingly at the dazzling dance floor, lost in the past. Tristan took another long pull of wine from his silver chalice, grateful and proud that the White Knight considered him a close enough friend to share his grief.
“The training was intense, as I expected, but there was one most unanticipated delight.” Lancelot shot Tristan an impish grin. “The priestesses.”
The White Knight leaned forward, his white teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “They take lovers whenever they wish. And many took me.” He took another big gulp of wine, wiped his chin with his sleeve and grinned ear to ear. “My preparation for the battlefield was matched only by my education in the arms…and between the legs…of the priestesses of Avalon.”
Lancelot chuckled huskily, drank more wine, and continued his tale. “Seven years ago, when I was twenty, a new acolyte arrived. Sent by her father, King Leodegrance, to become ahealer on the island of Avalon. Exquisitely beautiful. Light blond hair, icy blue eyes. Lithe, elegant. Irresistible.” He gazed at the regal beauty across the room. Caressed her with his desperate, loving eyes.
“She had a kind, gentle manner. A magic touch. I was attracted to her in ways I’d never experienced. Ever. I found her not just physically beautiful. I was magnetically drawn to her. Like never before.” He downed the rest of his wine and motioned for more. A servant hurried to comply.
Tristan glanced at the ethereal queen seated beside King Arthur. Regal, proper, elegant—all the attributes expected of a monarch—yet emanating the same sadness that choked the chivalrous knight who loved her madly.
“Guinevere and I became friends, then lovers.” Lancelot gazed into his goblet of wine, his hair hanging forward on either side of his distraught face. “In her body, I found ecstasy. In my heart, … sublime joy. Our souls touched. Our spirits merged. Our bodies joined together…we truly becameone.”
He desperately searched Tristan’s eyes, seeking recognition and comprehension. Lancelot gazed back at the royal dais where his heart sat beside the king. He exhaled sorrowfully, his longing and suffering whispering her name.
“I envisioned her becoming my wife. Having children together…raising a family. The Elves would accept us as their own. We’d live peacefully on Avalon for the rest of our lives.” He drank deeply from his goblet, drowning his grief in the rich French wine. The brilliance of his eyes dimmed in bitter defeat.
“But the Goddess had a different fate for Guinevere and me.” The White Knight leaned back in his chair and turned to face Tristan. Lancelot clenched his jaw.
“My mother had her lover, the Avalonian Elf Gofannon—the blacksmith of the gods—craft a sword for Arthur. With the help of his son Ronan, one of the fierce Elven warriors who trainedme, Gofannon forged Excalibur. When the sword was finished, my mother sent for Merlin, who brought Arthur to Avalon.”
Tristan remembered that Viviane had the Avalonian Elves forge Excalibur. But there was much more to Lancelot’s story. He took another gulp of wine, his jittery foot bouncing under the table. Tristan wiped his damp palms on his lap.
“My mother gave Arthur the sword in return for his promise to grant her one request. That he would accept me, the White Knight of Avalon, to the Round Table. This you already know, Tristan. But what I didn’t tell you on the deck of the ship was that Arthur, upon meeting Guinevere—my love,my muse, my heart—decided that he wanted her for hisqueen.” Lancelot impatiently motioned for more wine, waiting until the servant filled his goblet before continuing.
“I was off in Bretagne, on the quest to free the king’s imprisoned son. While I was gone, Arthur sent word to King Leodegrance, requesting Guinevere’s hand in marriage. Of course, her father accepted. Arthur was the High King of Britain. How could he possibly refuse?” Lancelot’s bark of bitter laughter was a wretched sob.
