“My queen, allow me to present Sir Indulf of Hame, knight of Cornwall and champion of King Marke of Tintagel, whom you have appointed Earl of Dubh Linn.” Voldurk’s golden eyes gleamed in the gilded light. “Sir Indulf has recently arrived in Ireland, establishing residence at the castle. He now reports to you as his sovereign queen.”
Indulf bowed before her, his blond head bare, armored helmet in his scarred hand tucked under a superbly chiseled arm. His finely crafted chain mail glinted in the sunlight. A knight in shining armor like the enchanting legends of old.
“Good day, Lord Indulf. Welcome to Castle Connaught. It is a pleasure to meet you at last,” Morag crooned, extending her slender white hand for the knight to kiss as he locked his eagle eyes with hers. A thrill rippled up her arm at his rough touch and bold, daring stare. “I am most grateful to you for arranging my betrothal to King Marke of Cornwall. In return, I am pleased to award you the prestigious position as the Earl of Dubh Linn.” Indulf rose to his full height, standing at military attention before her scrutinizing gaze, his dark eyes dancing with desire.
“I trust that, given time and additional funds, you will resume the lucrative slave raids of the inimitable Morholt,Scourge of the Celtic Sea.” She flashed him her most seductive smile.
To her delight, the knight grinned ferally, a dangerous spark in his predatory eye. “My queen, I am pleased to report that I have already ordered my Viking commanders to construct hundreds ofdrakkarwarships to refurbish our ravaged fleet. I am anxious to resume the profitable pillaging that the Black Knight established in the seaport that I now proudly call home.”He bowed his golden head, meeting her eyes once again. A shiver of wicked pleasure slithered up her spine.
“My queen, since your betrothed is the King of Cornwall, our new slave expeditions will target the coast of France rather than Britain. Our stealthy ships will sail right up the Seine into Paris and sackla Sainte-Chapelle, where gold icons and precious jewels are ripe for the taking. Our Viking vessels will float up the Loire and siegele Duc d’ Anjouin hischâteau-fort. Pillage the port of La Rochelle. Assault the fertile shores of Aquitaine. And make you the wealthiest queen in all of Europe.” His dark brown eyes gleamed like ripe, rich chestnuts. Morag positively salivated at the tantalizing taste of power.
Voldurk’s deep voice interrupted her sumptuous reverie. “Your Majesty, may I present Frocin, leader of an innumerable legion of dwarves who inhabit the dense forests of the entire Celtic realm. A powerful sorcerer whose dark magic has traced your elusive stepdaughter, the Princess Issylte. An invaluable ally whose mercenary knights will eliminate her and any possible threat she may pose to your claim to the Irish crown.”
The dwarf spoke, his gravelly voice the creak of toad. “The Princess Issylte has used her gift ofsight, leaving a trail of verdant magic which I have easily traced. Your stepdaughter hides on the island of Avalon, off the northern coast of Bretagne. Where Sir Tristan of Lyonesse, the Blue Knight of Cornwall, was taken, mortally injured by the poisoned sword of the Morholt.”
Frocin’s wicked grin revealed the pointed yellow fangs of vile vermin amid blackened stumps of rotted teeth. The dwarf’s putrid beath fouled the lavender scented air.
“My knights will entrap them both, my queen. Eliminate the sole threat to your throne. And avenge the valiant Morholt, slain by the ignoble Blue Knight of Cornwall.” He grinned wickedly, his black eyes glowing with malice.
“But alas, my queen,” he faltered, lowering his sinister gaze. “We cannot touch them on Avalon. The Lady of the Lake has enchanted all seven of the islands of the Avalonian Elves with powerful wards of protection that neither my dwarves nor mercenary knights can penetrate.” His beady black eyes rose to meet hers. A slug slithered up Morag’s spine.
“But when either the Emerald Princess or the disgraced Knight of Tintagel leaves Avalon, we shall be ready, my queen.” Blackened stumps and pointed yellow fangs grinned sickeningly as a wave of nausea washed over the revolted queen. “I, Frocin, never fail.” The dwarf’s cryptic laugh was the sharp hiss of a snake.
Lord Voldurk gallantly interrupted the foreboding atmosphere. “My queen, Frocin has graciously offered us lodging within his spacious tower in the Forest of Morois in western Cornwall. I propose we spend this year—a respectable period of mourning for your late husband, King Donnchadh—to refurbish our Viking fleet. Elevate taxes to fortify our army. Prepare the Royal Triumvirate—our Seneschal, Marshal, and Steward—to govern Castle Connaught when we sail to Cornwall next summer. For you to be officially presented to your betrothed, King Marke of Cornwall.” The golden dragon’s gaze blazed in the setting sun, his white teeth lustrous as pearls.
Morag’s eyes returned to the blond knight whose stare devoured her like a man starved. She leaned forward to adjust her satin slipper, feasting him on her deliciousdécolletage, then turned to address her Royal Advisor.
“Thank you, Lord Voldurk. I am eternally grateful for your unswerving loyalty and infallible guidance. We shall indeed elevate taxes, fortify our army, and refurbish our fleet of Viking warships. To support the most promising new Earl of Dubh Linn.” She blinded the blond knight with her most dazzling smile. “And prepare the Royal Triumvirate to govern when wedepart for Cornwall next summer.” She addressed the vile but inordinately valuable dwarf. “I thank you most sincerely, Lord Frocin, for the generous offer of hospitality, which we gratefully accept. And for the promise to rid me of both painful thorns in my royal side.”
The dwarf grinned wickedly and bowed his slimy head.
With smug satisfaction, Morag announced, “You both have my leave. But Lord Indulf,” she drawled, her voluptuous voice smooth as velvet, “I should like to speak more about your plans to restore the Viking stronghold of Dubh Linn.” The queen motioned to her servants, who placed a silver platter replete with wine and fresh fruit upon the lace covered table at her side. As Voldurk and Frocin bowed and slipped humbly from the royal antechamber, Morag smiled enticingly at the bold blond knight. “Come, let us share some fine French wine and discuss this matter further.”
A goblet of heady, fruity wine in her slender white hand, Morag slid from her gilded chair and approached the golden hawk with ravenous eyes. He accepted the proffered chalice and drank deeply, his dark eagle eyes never leaving hers. She stood before him, luxuriating in the barely bridled lust that choked him. Throttled him. Weakened him. Seductive power sizzled in her veins.
She led him by the hand into her adjacent royal chambers, where a bouquet of deep purple lilacs scented the sweet air. Pink and lavender rays of the setting sun gilded her mauve velvet draperies as she took the armored helmet from his trembling hand and laid it gently upon the table under the violet-streaked sky. Shaking with desire, yet immobile and above reproach as a dutiful, reverent knight, Indulf stood transfixed before her sultry, shimmering silk. A tensely coiled spring aching for release.
Morag raked her long fingers through his thick blond waves, the sharp tang of his desire empowering her. Enflaming her. Engulfing her. She pulled his eager lips to her own as the torrent of his passion burst like the unstoppable current of a swift flowing river.
Amidst the seductive perfume of lilacs, Morag moaned as the rapacious beak of her ravenous golden hawk ravished her elegant swanlike neck. And swept her up in powerful wings like prized prey, swooping swiftly and surely to nest in the lavender scented bed.
Chapter 31
Return from Armorique
The seagulls were squawking, diving for the entrails tossed by the fishermen filleting the fresh catch just harvested from the sea as Ronan’s ship approached the mist-shrouded coast of Avalon. White clouds sailed across the late summer sky as the salty tang of ocean breeze welcomed the Elf home.
The trip had been most profitable, for King Hoël and his son Kaherdin, who had ordered supplies for two hundred knights, were delighted with the quality of the weaponry and armor that Ronan had forged in his blacksmith shop in Avalon and delivered to them in Armorique.
In fact, they had been so impressed with the Avalonian craftsmanship that the king had requested twice the amount as he placed a new order, with half to be delivered in the spring, and the remainder the following winter solstice. To keep up with the increased demand for his wares, Ronan planned to open a second forge when he arrived in Avalon, hiring additional strikers, journeymen, and apprentices, to fulfill the new order. Yes, the voyage had been lucrative indeed. He couldn’t wait to share his success with Issylte.
King Hoël had insisted that Ronan remain as guest of honor for a full two weeks in his castle,LeChâteau Rose, where he’d hosted a feast and ball in the Elf’s honor—a celebration that had also enabled the king and his son to don the magnificent royal armor just delivered from Avalon. Ronan had accepted the invitation, of course, and had been very much the pamperedguest for the duration of his stay. As his vessel now approached the enchanted shores of Avalon, Ronan reminisced about his prosperous trip.
Le Château Rosehad been named for the pink granite—abundant in Armorique—from which the imposing fortress was constructed. Perched high upon a cliff, overlooking the sea and tidal bay, the castle was accessible only from the south, where it connected to the mainland by a narrow stone bridge. The cliff face of the curved peninsula upon which the fortress was built was steep enough to provide an impenetrable defense from the north, east, and west. The stone bridge, to the south, was the only entrance to thechâteau, spanning a deep saltwater moat, fed by the tumultuous waves of the sea, encased by treacherous rocks and jagged peaks.
Despite its rugged, fortified exterior, the interior of the castle had been most elegant, richly appointed, warm and inviting. A wide, expansive corridor, with luminous chandeliers, marble floors, and gleaming hardwood tables adorned with bouquets of fragrant summer blooms, opened onto an enormous ballroom and banquet hall, which boasted a magnificent view of the granite cliffs and turbulent ocean. The enormous kitchen abutted the banquet hall, sheltered behind the spiral staircase leading to the bedrooms and guest quarters on the second floor, where Ronan had stayed, and up to the royal chambers on the uppermost level, overlooking the magnificent pink granite coast of Armorique.
As the royal guest of honor, Ronan had been expected to chat amicably with the noble lords and ladies of King Hoël’s court as they dined in the spacious banquet room on sumptuous seafood and imbibed in fine French wine. During the ball, while the royal musicians entertained the court with lively fiddles and melodious harps, Ronan had politely danced with the king’s daughter, Blanchine—called the Maid of the White Hands, forher long, delicate fingers and skill as a healer. Tall, thin, with black hair and icy blue eyes, Blanchine was regal, yet Ronan had found her detached and cold. Although she danced with him as the guest of honor, fulfilling her duty as the king’s daughter, she spoke little, her eyes flitting across the ballroom, nervous and suspicious, as she watched the distant revelry which surrounded them with haughty disdain.
