“Why would he even want to? Guinevere would become the High Queen of Britain. The greatest honor he could ever hope for his lovely daughter.” His face distorted with pain, Lancelot shook his head and gazed into his goblet, as if it held the answers he sought.
“And now, my friend, you understand my suffering.” Lancelot’s eyes glistened with bleak, bitter acceptance. “The love I have for the queen is indeedun amour fou—a love so intense it drives me mad. I love her with every depth and breadth of my soul, yet she is the wife of the king to whom I have sworn the chivalrous oath of fealty. A king whom I also love and wouldneverbetray. Yet…whose wife I love to the point of madness.”
His noble face crumpled with grief, Lancelot downed the rest of his wine and motioned for more. At a loss for words, Tristan swallowed his rich satisfying wine with the empty bitterness of Lancelot’s sorrow.
****
Spring returned, and with it, the much-anticipated dubbing ceremony. As King Marke had done in the castle of Tintagel, Arthur—the High King of Britain, his magnificent sword Excalibur gleaming in the sunlight of the Great Hall of Camelot—officially dubbed the ten winners of the Tournament of Champions. Sir Tristan of Lyonesse, the Blue Knight of Cornwall, was at long last a valiant Knight of the Round Table of King Arthur Pendragon.
A celebratory feast and tournament followed the dubbing ceremony, allowing the new Knights of the Round Table to display their chivalrous skills in two events—jousting and sword fighting—before dozens of lords and ladies assembled on either side of the castle grounds. The ten winners of the Tournament of Champions proudly donned the surcoats bearing their coat of arms gifted by King Marke of Cornwall. Excitement filled the air as the new knights competed to garner prestige, recognition, and, for the winners—generous prizes. New and experienced knights alike hoped to gain the favors of the ladies whose colors they wore in the joust.
Tristan and his fellow knights sat atop theirdestriers—the war horses that King Marke had gifted them for winning the Tournament of Champions in Cornwall. The magnificent animals were adorned withcaparisons,the ornamental drapery which featured the rider’s heraldry, as the ten new Knights of the Round Table competed against the more experienced knights who had trained them. Each rider charged with a wooden lance, hoping to unhorse his opponent, as frenzied cheers from the crowd of brightly attired nobles rippled through the crispspring air. Lancelot, bearing the flowing white scarf of Queen Guinevere, emerged as the victor of the celebratory joust. The jubilant crowd went wild.
Panting, grinning, his face streaked with grime and sweat, Tristan stood triumphant as the champion of the individual sword fighting event, having earned the distinct honor of being the first to ever defeat the infallible First Knight of Camelot. His teeth clenched in a wicked grin, Tristan muttered under his breath, “You let me win. So that I would share in your joy of triumph today.”
Lancelot, his dark brown locks plastered to the sides of his handsome face, grinned savagely in return. “No, Tristan. Truly, I did not. You are the first—andonly—knight to ever disarm me. The Goddess help any warrior who challenges you in battle. You, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse, are a champion of kings.” He wrapped an arm around Tristan’s shoulder, leading him off the tournament field to claim their prizes, revel in victory, and enjoy another sumptuous feast.
Two weeks after the official dubbing ceremony and unforgettable celebratory tournament, the Knights of the Round Table were assembled in the throne room of Camelot as King Arthur explained the purpose of his royal summons.
“Knights of the Round Table. I have received an urgent request from my ally, King Marke of Cornwall.” Tristan, his heart pounding at the mention of his uncle’s name, flashed an anxious glance at Vaughan, whose desperate eyes reflected the same panic that was now racing through his icy veins.
“The Morholt—the Black Knight of Ireland—has been pummeling the coast of Cornwall. Taking slaves. Burning villages and crops. Weakening King Marke’s defenses.” Heated voices rippled among the knights. Arthur’s deep voice bellowed across the room.
“The Morholt has demanded the Cornish crown. If Marke refuses to surrender, the Black Knight will invade with his ruthless Viking army. And dozens ofdrakkarwarships.” Shouts broke out among the knights from Cornwall. Pressure throbbed in Tristan’s temples.My uncle needs me. I’m his champion. His sword. His heir.
“Marke has refused to surrender. He has called for the aid of Camelot to defend against the Irish attack.” Lancelot had come to stand beside Tristan, whose entire body was shaking with adrenaline. And rage.
Another bloody Viking threatens to destroy the only family I have left.He glanced down at the glistening blue eye of the sea raven on his trembling hand.I will defend my uncle. Or die in battle!
Once again, the massive arm of the bearded Viking raised the lethal sword. Tristan’s stomach dropped like the weapon which fell like an axe to slice off his father’s humiliated head. Liquid rage flowed like fire through Tristan’s veins as the Viking brute impaled his struggling, defenseless mother with the odious, bloody blade. His sister’s horrific shrieks scraped across his soul.
I am no longer the simpering boy too weak to fight. Too young to defend his family. I am the Blue Knight of Cornwall. The heir to the throne. And I will defend my family—and my kingdom—to the death.
Arthur’s deep baritone tore Tristan from the past.
“I will send twenty of my Knights of the Round Table, each with a command of a hundred men, to defend the kingdom of Cornwall. Bedivere, as my Marshal, will select who among you will depart for Tintagel, and who will remain here to defend my lands. If you are among the twenty selected for battle, prepare to ride on the morrow.”
As expected, the ten knights from Cornwall were returning to defend their homeland, along with ten more experiencedKnights of the Round Table. Lancelot, as Arthur’s First Knight, and Bedivere, as the king’s Marshal, were leading the army, departing at first light.
Tristan sharpened his swordTahlfiras he prepared to return to Cornwall for the first time in two years. Immeasurably grateful for the exhaustive training here in Camelot. InBretagne, where Lancelot had taught him the inimitable maneuvers of the fearsome Avalonian Elves. In the sacred Forest ofBrocéliande, where he’d mastered extraordinary skills among his brethren, the fierce Celtic warriors of the legendary Tribe of Dana.
He stared at his chain mail armor, gleaming in the setting sun streaming in through his open window. The sharp cry of a falcon tore through the air. Tristan gazed at the distant forest he would cross in the morning, riding hard with an army of two thousand men to defend Tintagel.
To defend his uncle, the only remaining member of his brutally slaughtered family. To defend the kingdom he had sworn to protect.
He, the king’s champion, the Blue Knight of Cornwall, would face the same Vikings he’d been too young to battle as a squire in Lyonesse.
But this time, by the Goddess, he was ready.
Chapter 24
Ronan
The autumn air of Avalon was crisp and cool, the apple trees bursting with ripe, red fruit. Issylte was returning to Le Centre, a basket on her arm, when she saw the silvery blond head of the enormous warrior at the top of the hill.
Her heart skipped a beat, the frantic wings of a white dove fluttering in her chest. She dropped her collection of herbs, raced up the hill and shouted, “Ronan!” as he dismounted from his black horse. With a squeal of glee, she threw herself into his arms, clasping him behind his thick, muscular neck. Tears sprang into her eyes, relieved at his return.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispered into his pointed ear, burying her face into his broad chest, inhaling the familiar scents of pine, leather, and horses. With a deep chuckle, he wrapped his corded arms around her, lifted her off the ground and swirled her around in a circle of joy. He gently placed her back down on the thick grass and planted a kiss upon her lips that conveyed how much he had missed her, too.
