Gwennol gazed out the window of the large eating area to the spacious grassy plain where little ones frolicked in front of the adjacent Children’s Center. “Unlike these poor children, who have lost everyone.” Her eyes glimmering, she whispered to Issylte, “I am sure that in your experience, Lilée, you know that the best way to heal oneself is to care for others.”
She hugged Issylte warmly, then turned to greet a small boy who had wrapped his arms around her knees before dashing off to play again. “Caring for these children—and each other—is helping all of us to heal.”
With another affectionate hug and a warm goodbye, Issylte returned to Tristan, her heart filled with hope.
Over the next few days, Issylte helped him stand and, with the aid of a walking stick, stroll down the hall ofLe Centreto the conservatory. When he spotted the harp, Tristan glanced at her and raised his eyebrows, asking permission to play. With a bright smile and a nod, she watched as he eased himself carefully onto the bench and began to strum the golden harp. To her delight, he was quite skilled, and soon Viviane, Nyda, Cléo and a small crowd of patients gathered to enjoy the lilting, lyrical notes pouring from his gifted hands. As she listened to the ethereal music, her spirit soared as visions floated to her on the evocative melody.
She danced with him in a ballroom of a gleaming white castle, crystal chandeliers glowing in the candlelight, windoweddoors opening onto a courtyard filled with fragrant blooms upon an ivy-covered trellis. A pair of white swans swam upon a dark lake, rippling waves glinting in the moonlight under a starry night sky. Viviane’s words returned to her.“As it is with swans, the beautiful white birds on le Lac de Diane, mates are bound for life.”
Issyltetook in the smiling face of the Lady of the Lake, remembering how the High Priestess had once said that she hoped someone would one day graceLe Centrewith the beautiful music of the untouched harp. She met Viviane’s gaze, recognizing the gratitude she found in her mentor’s glistening eyes.
****
Tristan was anxious to resume his physical training, but Issylte insisted he wait another three weeks until his injury was more fully healed. As she cleansed his wound to change the dressing, she was very aware of how he was responding to her touch. She murmured, “It is a good sign that your body is returning to normal. You are nearly healed.”
He responded in a husky voice, “It is your touch, Issylte.” His hungry eyes locked with hers. “I long formore.”
Inexplicably drawn to him, she inhaled his earthy scent, uneasy at her body’s awakening. Thoughts of Ronan flooded her with guilt. Unsure how to respond, she replied, “Come, let me show you where you can bathe. The natural spring which feeds the fountain flows into a waterfall that forms a wide pool. It’s perfect for bathing.”
He was now more adept at standing and walking, no longer needing the cane. They sauntered past the fountain to the bathing area for patients, enclosed by a stone wall covered in fragrant jasmine blooms. Placing the soap, towel, and clean clothing that she had brought for him on a nearby stone, Issylte prepared to leave, to offer him privacy. But he said instead, “Willyou join me? I might need some…assistance.” His beckoning smile made her heart flutter.
Her legs went weak as she envisioned joining him in the pool, but she recovered enough to respond. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for a healer to bathe with her patient. I’ll wait for you on the other side of the wall. Just call for me when you’ve finished.”
A while later, when she heard him call her name, she came around the wall to see him emerge from the pool and stand in front of her, his magnificent body naked and proud as her eyes absorbed every inch of him. As she stood awestruck by the sight of him, he grinned as his body, responding to her attention, flustered her even more. Swallowing with difficulty, she helped him dry off and don his clean clothing so they could return to his room.
Once he was settled at the table, his midday meal in front of him, Issylte left to care for her other patients, promising to take him for a walk in the nearby woods when she returned. Later that afternoon, they strolled into the forest near the lake, enjoying the warm summer breeze and the heady fragrance of the jasmine flowers andaubépinesin bloom. The thick canopy of trees sheltered them from the hot summer sun as their footsteps fell softly onto the pine needles strewn across the forested earth.
Tristan told her of his childhood atleChâteau d’Orin Lyonesse, where he and his sister Talwyn—as royal children preparing for their future as monarchs—had studied astronomy, geography, music, literature, and French. They’d learned to play the harp, dance with finesse, recite poetry, manage servants and household accounts, become proficient in equestrian skills. He shared with Issylte how he’d been a squire in his father’s castle the fateful day he and the knight Goron had returned from their hunt to findle Château d’ Orunder attack.
How an enormous Viking—much like the Morholt he’d killed in the battle of Tintagel—had executed his father and slaughtered both his mother and sister, as Tristan was forced to endure their screams. He shared his guilt and impotent rage at being too young to defend his family, the shame of being the sole survivor, sent to the castle of his uncle Marke, the king of Cornwall, to complete his training as a knight. He told her of the Tournament of Champions, where the sea raven ring gifted by his uncle had led to his triumph. How he’d been dubbed the Blue Knight of Cornwall, training with Lancelot to become a Knight of the Round Table of King Arthur’s Camelot.
He showed her the ring upon his left hand, the blue topaz eye of the sea raven sparkling in the dappled light. Issylte took his hand and touched the brilliant gem. “I saw this ring. In a vision I had of you.”
Reliving the bond on the battlefield, she murmured, stroking the jewel with her thumb, “I saw you. Wearing the surcoat with this same black bird.” She lifted her head and looked up at him.
“I saw your intense blue eyes.” His breath brushed her face. Issylte’s stomach quivered. “I saw the Morholt charge you. You clove his skull in two. And Tristan…” she said, locking his gaze, “Ifeltthe slice of his swordacross myown abdomenas he wounded you.” Her voice wavering, she whispered, “I was unconsciousfor three days.Just as you were. When you were brought here to Avalon.”
Tristan’s voice was husky and deep. “When I awoke, I saw golden light, illuminating your face.” He stroked her cheek softly. “In your eyes, I saw a forest…plants and vines… small pink flowers.” He lifted her hand to his lips and whispered, “The Goddess herself…” as he kissed it softly.
Issylte withdrew her hand gently. “We should return now. You need to rest.” He grinned as she led him back toLe Centre, glancing at her sideways as she walked beside him through thefragrant pines. She escorted him back to his room, applied a healing herbal salve to his stitches, and covered the wound with a fresh bandage. With a smile, she left him in bed, promising to return in the morning for his continued care.
Tristan began to train his body once again, slowly easing into a less strenuous version of the routine he’d done as one of Lancelot’s knights. One day, when Issylte came into his room and found it empty, she glimpsed him through the open window, exercising on the grassy area of the courtyard outsideLe Centre. As she paused to watch, he caught her staring, and flashed her a brilliant smile which took her breath away. Quickly returning to care for her patients, she thrilled at the memory of his bare chest, glistening with sweat, rippled with strength. Tristan of Cornwall was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. An enormous wave of guilt washed over her as she thought of her beautiful blond stallion. Well, Tristan would be leaving soon with Lancelot. The sooner the better. She swallowed forcibly and resumed her work.
Thoughts of Ronan flooded her. She was guilty and ashamed of her undeniable interest in Tristan. It was foolish to feel attracted to a man who would be leaving Avalon soon, sailing back to Camelot once Lancelot returned. Ronan would be home soon. Returning to her. But Issylte wasn’t just attracted to Tristan. Her spirit stirred in his presence. Her magic sang when he was near. The kaleidoscope of images she’d seen in his eyes floated back to her. She’d soared as a white dove with his sea raven over an open ocean. Glimpsed a well in an enchanted forest, a white castle with swans swimming on a lake beneath flowered vines. She’d been with him on the battlefield, her limbs going numb from the wolfsbane poison in the Viking blade that had wounded him. Intuitively, she knew her fate was entwined with his. But how?
Ronan’s return filled her with unease, so very different from the excited anticipation she’d experienced when he’d last gone to Bretagne. She missed him terribly yet feared his return. Conflicted and confused, Issylte remembered Viviane’s prophecy.
“This blue-eyed warrior is not only your destiny—he isyour mate.” How could Tristan be her mate when she was romantically involved with Ronan? And how could he be her destiny if he were returning to Britain with Lancelot? None of it made any sense. Issylte decided that in the meantime, she would concentrate on her work.
Fortunately, the number of patients coming intoLe Centrehad diminished, since the death of the Morholt had halted his slaving expeditions and the subsequent victims of Viking attacks. Most of the injured soldiers treated by the priestesses of Avalon had either returned to their domains or relocated to the villages among the islands. All the orphans had been adopted by families in the villages of Rochefort and Briac or by women victims, forming new families united by shared grief. The newcomers were learning valuable skills—fishing, farming, building, weaving, and spinning wool. Children were eager to learn to care for the many animals, such as sheep, hens, and horses, delighted to run and play in the forest and on the seashore of the island of healing. For the first time in many months, hope bloomed among the beautiful white flowers of Avalon.
Tristan insisted on returning to horseback riding; he and Issylte rode frequently through the lush forest as he regained his strength. One day, he stopped his horse and dismounted to pick several wild roses, which he grouped into a small bouquet. “These are the pink flowers I saw in your eyes,” he said, caressing the petals. His eyes aglow, he offered Issylte his floral gift.
She dismounted from her horse to accept the wild roses, inhaling the sweet fragrance so dear to her heart. “In Ireland,” she whispered, her breath caught in her throat, “the forest fairies left a trail of these to lead me toTatie’scottage.” Issylte gazed up into Tristan’s handsome face, his deep blue eyes fixed on hers. “She namedme Églantine, as these wild roses are called inBretagne, her native land. They will always be a part of me. And they will always remind me of her.” Tears welled asTatie’ssoft crinkled cheeks and enormous brown eyes twinkled in the trees. Her forest fairy grandmother’s protective embrace. Issylte’s verdant heart was full.
Tristan said softly, “That’s why I saw them in your eyes. They’re a part of your soul. Your spirit. Your essence.” He kissed her hand, his eyes the brilliant blue of the sea raven ring. “They will always remind me of you,Églantine.”
They walked through the dense oaks back to the horses. Issylte heard a woodland bird’s beautiful song, and to her delight, Tristan imitated the call. As she watched in amazement, a nightingale came to rest on his finger. Tristan seemed to communicate with the bird, who flew off, returning with anéglantinein its beak. The Blue Knight grinned, took the flower from the bird, and handed it to Issylte, whose mouth was agape in amazement. Therossignolperched on Tristan’s finger, eyeing her with interest.
