Kaherdin, on the contrary, was amicable and jovial. Tall and dark-haired, like his sister, but broad in the shoulders, he exuded the rugged strength of a well-honed soldier. Ronan had liked him immediately, finding he much preferred the company of the warm prince to his chilly sister. Kaherdin’s guest, the Lady Gargeolaine, was a vibrant beauty with golden auburn hair, a voluptuous figure, and expressive amber eyes. Judging by the love light which shone in his eyes, it was apparent that Prince Kaherdin was truly besotted.
King Hoël, although past his prime in his mid-fifties, had still displayed the regal bearing of a warrior king. His children had inherited his tall stature and dark hair, now heavily streaked with gray, like his neatly trimmed beard. Ronan had enjoyed the king’s youthful mirth and keen sense of humor, making him feel a most welcome guest.
During the ball, while seated at the monarch’s table, King Hoël had addressed his guest of honor amid the gaiety of music and dancing. “Sir Ronan,” he’d beamed, “I am most pleased with the exceptional quality of the royal armor you crafted for my son and me.” The king had nodded to his daughter Blanchine, who’d placed a small but ornate jewelry box on the table before her father.
The carved wooden box had been painted white and adorned with delicate pink roses. Opening the small treasure chest, Hoël had displayed the dazzling contents to Ronan. “Perhaps yourlady might fancy one of my late queen’s baubles,” he’d offered with a generous smile.
As Ronan had surveyed the sparkling gems, an exquisite emerald ring had caught his eye. He’d picked it up to admire the deep green oval gem, brilliant in clarity and surrounded by a halo of flawless diamonds.Perfect for my Emerald Princess,he’d mused, gratefully accepting King Hoël’s generous bonus.
Tapping the pocket of his tunic, where he now held the exquisite jewel for Issylte, Ronan cast aside the memories of his voyage and focused on the sandy beach and forested cliff as his cog ship docked at the shore of Avalon. After three months at sea, he was eager to return. And he couldn’t wait to surprise Issylte with his gift.
The fishermen, recognizing his ship, waved in greeting as the nearby stable hands joined in docking Ronan’s vessel alongside the wharf. His crew, as eager to return home as the Elf himself, leapt onto the wooden dock, strapped their belongings upon the backs of the horses provided by the grooms, and rode off to rejoin their families.
After greeting several of the workers and stable hands, Ronan decided he would go home first to bathe before venturing toLe Centre,for he did not want to crush Issylte into his arms, reeking like a fishmonger.
The men in his forge welcomed him back, as did his own grooms, who had been caring for the horses and animals during his absence. Noz, his beautiful black stallion, was anxious to greet him—and grateful for the crunchy carrot—as was Maëva, Marron, and the pretty little foal, Noisette. Sheis now old enough for Issylte to ride. I can’t wait for us to be together, back in the saddle again!
Ronan rushed to the pool—a small lake—in the woods near his cottage, where he bathed, washing the brine from his hair with some of the soap he ‘d once purchased in the village withIssylte. The fragrant smell of yarrow reminded him of her soft body, and the longing he felt for her stirred painfully in his loins.
He rinsed the soap from his hair, emerged from the pool and dried off, donning a new tunic, fresh pair of breeches, and clean boots. He refastened the amulet that Issylte had made for him around his neck, knowing that she’d be pleased to see him wearing it. He carefully placed the exquisite emerald ring in his pocket. Pray the Goddess she says yes!
Saddling Noz and Maëva—for he planned to bring his princess back to the cottage—he envisioned the warm welcome she would give him. She’d tantalize him with her scent, devour his lips, welcome him into her body, then—drunk with love, sated in his arms, filled with his seed—he would give her the ring.Easy now, or you won’t be able to ride,he laughed to himself.Quickly packing the supplieshe’d procured for Viviane, the Elf mounted his horse, grasped Maëva’s reins, and rode off to find Issylte.
When he arrived atLe Centre, he handed the horses’ reins to the groom who approached, retrieved the supplies from his pack, and headed towards Viviane’s quarters. Since she was not in her room, he placed the parcel on her table and walked down the hall toward the exit door leading onto the courtyard and fountain. As he approached, he spotted Viviane entering a patient’s room. Ronan poked his head through the open door, and was surprised to see Issylte, Lancelot, and another knight with dark hair in the room with Viviane.He must be a patient, and Issylte was his healer.But why is Lancelothere?Unease crept up his spine.
Glancing up to see who had come in, Lancelot shouted heartily, “Ronan! It’s good to see you again, my friend!” The knight clasped the Elf’s shoulders, warmly greeting the warrior who had trained him so well.
“I heard that you had gone to Armorique,” Lancelot chortled, delighted to see his former mentor. “How was your voyage?”
Taking in the sight of Issylte assembling supplies, the dark-haired knight packing a bag, Viviane gathering herbal medicines and soaps, Ronan assumed that Lancelot and his companion were preparing for their departure.Good,he thought, feeling inexplicably suspicious and threatened by the unknown knight.
“It was a most prosperous voyage, Lancelot,” Ronan replied, eyeing Tristan warily. “King Hoël and Kaherdin were so impressed with the quality of the goods, they doubled the order.” Looking at Issylte, he added, “I’ll be forging weapons and armor for four hundred knights—to be delivered next spring and the following winter solstice.” Turning his attention back to Lancelot, he said grimly, “Hoël wants to be prepared. There are rumors that the Vikings plan to attack Armorique.” When Ronan glanced at Tristan, Lancelot took the opportunity to introduce his friend.
With his famous boyish grin, the White Knight beamed, “Ronan, I’d like you to meet Tristan of Lyonesse, the Blue Knight of Cornwall. He is the nephew…” Lancelot glanced awkwardly at Tristan, then recovered quickly, “…and heir to King Mark of Tintagel.”
As Ronan and Tristan shook hands, Lancelot added, “Tristan was one of the ten winners of the Tournament of Champions who trained with me at Camelot. He was dubbed a Knight of the Round Table this past summer.”
“Congratulations,” Ronan muttered, trying to shake the feeling that this knight somehow posed a threat.
Tristan, his face aglow with admiration for the famed Avalonian Elf who had trained Sir Lancelot of the Lake, shook Ronan’s hand vigorously as he effused, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Ronan. Lancelot has told me all about your extraordinary skill as a warrior.”
As he continued to size Tristan up, Ronan noted that the knight was exceptionally tall for a human—only an inch or so shorter than himself—and every bit as wide and broad as he. Something about this young warrior irked Ronan; he was challenged, ready to fight, despite the lack of provocation.
Lancelot continued bragging about the prowess of his friend, the Blue Knight of Cornwall. “Tristan is the warrior who slew the Morholt!” he exclaimed, grinning proudly at his companion. Looking back at Ronan, he added with a hearty chuckle, “And theonly knightto have everdefeated me.”
Ronan raised an eyebrow, impressed.
Issylte said softly, “Tristan was seriously wounded in the battle against the Morholt.” Her luminous green eyes gazed at the knight, and Ronan seethed beneath the surface. What was going on here? Something was definitely wrong. His pulse quickened as his temper flared.
“The Black Knight’s sword was poisoned,” she continued, “and Lancelot brought him here to be healed.” She smiled warmly at the White Knight, while Ronan wondered how the three of them had become so close in his absence.She healed the wounded one,andLancelot is the knight’s friend. They are leaving soon, to return to the Round Table. Relax—there is no reason for concern about this friendship.Still, unease and doubt nagged at him.
“We are preparing to depart for Bretagne on the morrow,” Lancelot explained. Grinning at the princess, he added, “Issylte will be joining Tristan and me as we sail forla Joyeuse Garde.”
Ronan’s eyes flashed to Issylte, who was avoiding his gaze. He turned to Viviane—who knew of their romantic involvement—for an explanation. “What?” he cried incredulously. His eyes darting back to Issylte, he sputtered, his voice increasing in volume as his anger increased in intensity, “You cannot beserious. You areleaving Avalon? To sail toBretagne? With two men youbarely know?”
The Lady of the Lake attempted to calm him. “The princess must flee Avalon, Ronan. It is no longer safe for her here.” Ronan glared at Issylte, his eyes filled with fury.
Viviane continued, “Issylte has hadtwo sightingsin which the dwarf Frocin locked eyes with her. Aware that she could see him.”
