Page 28

The Fountain of Barenton

After nearly two weeks at sea, Tristan, Lancelot, and the accompanying knights finally reached the craggy coast of Bretagne , where they docked and procured horses for the three-day trek to Lancelot’s domain .

Leaving the rocky coves and rugged cliffs behind, they rode southwest through dense forest, stopping to rest the horses and grab a quick meal, sleeping on bedrolls at night, until at last the salty tang of the estuary and the roar of the river announced their arrival at la Joyeuse Garde.

Built upon a hill, the chateau faced south, over the élorn river which flowed into the Atlantic Sea.

To the north and west, fertile plains and dense woodlands led to the ocean, but to the east lay the sacred forest of Brocéliande where Lancelot had been raised.

As the riders approached, the white limestone castle gleamed as the setting sun sparkled in the rippling waters of the wide river.

Lancelot had sent messengers ahead to inform the servants of their impending arrival.

The travelers were greeted warmly by the stable hands who accepted their horses as they rode through the opened gate .

The chatelain , or lord of the castle, as Lancelot was known here, invited the traveling knights inside, where smiling servants were waiting, ready to usher the guests to their chambers.

“I am hosting a welcoming reception and feast this evening, gentlemen. There are pages available to assist you in preparing a bath. I, myself, cannot wait to wash the brine of the sea from my hair,” he said, extending a matted and gnarled sample of his normally shining brown locks, “and don a finely embroidered tunic and soft breeches. My clothing is stiff from the salt air of our voyage.” He laughed, touching the inflexible fabric of his tunic with a frown.

With his dazzling boyish grin, he added enthusiastically, “There will be delicious seafood—oysters, mussels, fresh fish from the river. With stuffed duck, roast venison, fresh fruits and vegetables. And, of course—exquisite French wine!” At this, the knights roared their approval, and Lancelot concluded with the pièce de résistance .

“And, since you have suffered the company of such filthy brutes as myself and Tristan here—” he joked, gesturing to his companion, who was grinning as broadly as his host—”for nearly a fortnight, ” he drawled, a mischievous smirk on his face, “I have invited some of the loveliest ladies in all of Bretagne to regale you with their beauty…and delight you with their charms .” Then, with a dramatic bow, Lancelot departed, withdrawing to his own private chambers and a much longed for bath.

The remaining knights laughed heartily as they, too, headed for their chambers, commenting about what a magnanimous host Lancelot was, how they could not wait to sample the fine food, the exquisite wine, and the delicious women.

A page approached. “Sir Tristan, please follow me. I will lead you to your rooms and draw your bath, my lord.” Tristan followed him from the entry foyer, down a long hall, up a set of stairs to the second level, to a large chamber at the end of another hall.

The bedchamber was expansive, with large, windowed doors extending from floor to ceiling and taking up nearly the entire wall opposite the entrance.

The glass doors were opened wide, letting in the salty summer breeze and the mellow sunlight flickering through the dense trees behind the chateau .

Gossamer white curtains fluttered in the gentle wind, the crisp air of the brackish river embalming the room with the scent of the sea.

A large bed with fine linens faced the windows from the opposite wall.

Beside the bed was a table with a pitcher, basin, cup and candle. A chair was neatly tucked underneath, with a chamber pot on the stone floor in the corner of the room. Perpendicular to the windows was a fireplace, where a squire was heating water for Tristan’s bath over the flaming hearth.

A magnificently carved fruitwood armoire with double doors, gleaming with the fresh scent of pine oil, towered between the two enormous windows.

Peering inside, Tristan glimpsed an array of richly colored tunics, breeches, hats, cloaks, gloves, and boots.

Our host thinks of everything, Tristan mused with a smile.

The squire filled the porcelain tub in the adjacent bathing room, then entered Tristan’s bedroom. “I’ve prepared your bath, Sir Tristan. It is good and hot, my lord. Shall I help you, or do you prefer privacy, Sir Tristan?”

Replying that he preferred to bathe unassisted, Tristan disrobed and eased into the hot water, sighing with relief as his tense muscles relaxed.

After two weeks at sea and three days in the saddle, his back was tight from sleeping on the hard ground and his thighs protested their abuse.

Lancelot is right , he thought, lathering up with the chamomile soap provided by his host, it does feel good to wash the brine from my hair.

He slipped under the water with a moan of delight.

Once he finished bathing, Tristan dressed in a tunic of dark green with gold embroidery, breeches of the finest brown wool, and dark brown boots of the softest leather he’d ever worn.

As he exited his room, a page came in and quietly removed his dirty clothing to be laundered.

The squire who had prepared his bath said, “This way, my lord. Sir Lancelot’s guests are arriving, and the feast will be in the banquet hall. Follow me, Sir Tristan.”

The banquet hall was sumptuously decorated, with tables set with white linens, silver chalices and utensils, adorned with large bouquets of fragrant white lily flowers.

Along the side walls, attendants were carving roasted meats whose tantalizing aroma wafted through the air while servants delivered goblets of wine to the elegantly dressed lords and ladies being seated all around.

An enormous ballroom extended from the banquet hall, where glittering chandeliers of crystals sparkling with candlelight hung from the high vaulted ceilings. Enormous, windowed doors graced the entire length of both rooms, opening onto a large courtyard enclosed by a high stone wall.

Flowering vines and trees in bloom beckoned, embalming the air with the fragrance of jasmine.

A pair of swans floated upon a large pond; water lilies dotted its surface with fragrant white flowers.

Under a canopy of oaks enlaced with ivy and wisteria, stone benches welcomed guests to watch the moonlight dance on the shimmering waters of the lake.

La joie de vivre, reflected Tristan, remembering Lancelot’s description of this chateau, which offered all the elegance of King Arthur’s palace, yet with more intimacy than the much larger and more formal Camelot.

As he was ushered to Lancelot’s table, which seated twelve, Tristan noticed that his host was chatting amicably with a dark haired, enormous knight on his left.

At Tristan’s approach, the chatelain rose to his feet, welcomed him with a hearty grin and a friendly slap on the shoulder as he introduced the Blue Knight of Cornwall to his fellow guests.

“Tristan, allow me to present Sir Esclados, the Red Knight, and his beautiful wife, the Lady Laudine,” Lancelot exclaimed as the dark knight stood and extended his rugged hand.

With a firm shake and a respectful nod of his head, Tristan accepted the greeting, turning to place a chivalrous kiss upon the lady’s delicate fingers.

“Sir Esclados and his gracious wife are the lord and lady of the castle of Landuc, in the forest of Brocéliande, not far my mother’s castle of Comper.” Lancelot grinned broadly at the tall, dark knight, who took his seat beside his auburn-haired wife.

“Lord Esclados and Lady Laudine are the Knight and Lady of the Spring—the holy Fountain of Barenton—in the heart of the sacred forest.” Lancelot sat down with the Red Knight on his left, gesturing for Tristan to take the reserved, empty chair on his right.

Tristan seated himself beside his host with a respectful nod to Lord Esclados and Lady Laudine. He first met the dark, intelligent eyes of the Red Knight, then the expressive amber ones of the exquisite redhead. Tristan sensed an aura of power emanating from the defenders of the sacred spring.

“Tristan is the nephew of King Marke of Cornwall,” Lancelot continued, “one of the ten winners of the Tournament of Champions held last summer at the castle of Tintagel. He is training to become one of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table in Camelot.

” At this, Sir Esclados nodded his approval, while Lady Laudine smiled, her elegant white hand gracefully tossing back a long tendril of her luxurious red hair.

Lancelot gestured to the knight seated on the far side of Lady of the Spring.

“This is Sir Agrane, First Knight to Lord Esclados and Lady Laudine, at their castle of Landuc.” Upon his introduction, a tall knight with long blond hair and a deep scar across his right cheek rose to shake hands with Tristan.

“Sir Agrane leads a regiment of sixty knights who reside at the castle. All have sworn an oath to protect the sacred fountain—and the sacred Forest of Brocéliande.” The intense blue eyes of Sir Agrane held his gaze as Tristan nodded in homage before finally returning to his seat beside the First Knight of Camelot.

The conversation among Lancelot and his fellow knights resumed, and Tristan observed the remaining guests seated at the host’s table.

There were four other ladies, adorned in brightly colored silk gowns, bedecked with sparkling jewels at their throats and ears.

They chatted gaily with the knights seated beside them, who were all as bulky and enormous as Tristan himself.

Curiously, they all displayed the same tattoo on their inner right wrist that he had noticed on the inside of Lancelot’s sword arm.