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Lancelot’s team, which included Tristan, was competing against Bedivere’s group, which counted Indulf, Vaughan, and Connor.

In another section of the forest, King Arthur led a group, as did the veteran knight Lamorak.

The weather was crisp and cold, the afternoon sky overcast and gray.

A dense carpet of red and gold leaves blanketed the forest floor.

Anticipation and the thrill of the hunt was in the air.

The men in his group were readying their horses and donning their bows and arrows.

Tristan heard a sudden loud rustling in the trees.

He examined the copse of woods, darkened by shadows and haze in the dense forest. As he searched the source of the disturbance, he spotted the enormous head of a large gray wolf emerge through the dense foliage.

Intense amber eyes fixed his own, as if to convey an urgent warning.

With the Druidic magic of the golden herb flowing in his veins, Tristan understood the lupine message wordlessly.

You are in grave danger . The man with hair the color of wheat does not hunt the wild boar—he hunts you.

His companion, the small evil creature with wrinkled skin, lurks behind the trees near the stream.

Four others await with him. All have weapons.

To kill you. Stay clear, Warrior of Dana.

We—the Wolves of Morois—will defend you.

Shaken, Tristan quietly told Lancelot of the encounter with the wolf.

Lancelot led the team in the opposite direction—away from the stream —to begin the hunt.

A few minutes later, horrific screams pierced the silent woods.

Vicious snarling and growling, savage snapping of jaws and bloodcurdling shrieks shattered the stillness of the forest. Tristan’s team quickly drew their bows and nocked their arrows.

Lancelot led the way as they rode cautiously forward, towards the stream.

The mutilated, bloody corpse of a knight lay at the scene.

His throat had been ripped open, his body covered in vicious bite marks.

Blood was splattered everywhere—over broken branches of trees, across scattered leaves—puddling in deep, dark pools near the multiple gashes on the victim’s ravaged body.

Bedivere was on foot, bent over the victim, examining the evidence.

He held up the knight’s shield to those who had just arrived at the scene.

“This boar’s head is the coat of arms of the dwarf Frocin.

” He pointed to the blood, patches of gray fur, and broken branches surrounding the body.

“He was obviously killed by wolves. But why,” he frowned, gesturing to the riderless animal who stood faithfully beside the fallen knight, “would a pack of wolves kill a human, yet leave his horse untouched? If hungry enough to attack a man, would they not consume the body ? It makes no sense. If the wolves were famished enough to attack a man, they certainly would have eaten the horse as well.”

Bedivere rubbed his beard, eyebrows lowered in puzzlement. He scanned the forest, hand on his sword. “It speaks of enchantment. Those wolves were bewitched!”

At that moment, a group of hunters emerged from the forest, with Indulf, Vaughan, and Connor among them. All were pale and haggard—as if in shock—as they rode up to the mutilated body.

Lancelot stepped forward to address them. “This knight was one of the dwarf Frocin’s men. His coat of arms is on the shield. Did any of you see anything?”

Vaughan replied, a tremor in his voice. “We saw four men on horseback, fleeing a pack of huge gray wolves. The wolves were growling, snapping at the horses’ legs, their teeth bared—in hot pursuit.

I fired an arrow but missed as a wolf leapt over a fallen log.

The pack veered off together into the forest, as one.

Moving in unison. An enormous wave of wolves.

” He raked his fingers through his hair, looked down at his boots, and shivered. “It was chilling, uncanny… unearthly .”

Bedivere motioned for two squires to lift the corpse onto the riderless horse just as Arthur and the remaining knights joined the shaken men.

Barking orders, the king commanded that the body be brought to Camelot to be burned, indicating that the fallen knight’s weapons and shield be retained for proof of Frocin’s treachery.

“I do not know what his purpose was here today, but he has no right to hunt in my forest, nor may he trespass onto my territory. Bring the weapons so that they may be safeguarded. I will decide what action to take upon our return.”

Two days later, the dwarf Frocin appeared in the throne room of Camelot, where the wizened creature now knelt before the High King upon the dais. Surrounded by the Knights of the Round Table, the lords and ladies of the royal court, the king bellowed to the humbled dwarf before him.

“Frocin, the body of one of your knights was found near my castle of Camelot. Witnesses saw you and several of your armed men riding through my forest. You are forbidden from hunting in these woods. You now stand accused of trespassing upon my royal territory. What say you?”

Frocin, his voice trembling, stammered, “I do most humbly beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty. We were in pursuit of a wild boar, which had been injured in our hunt. My men and I and did not realize that we had traveled so far east as to encroach upon your royal domain. I do apologize most sincerely, Your Highness, and respectfully request your clemency.”

Arthur, in his red velvet cloak lined with ermine, his gilded crown heavy upon his golden head, glowered at the quivering dwarf. The king’s deep voice thundered through the throne room.

“You shall be fined one hundred silver coins. I shall send men in ten days to collect the debt.” The king bellowed, his craggy face crinkled in rage.

“Be forewarned, Frocin—if you or any of your men trespass again upon my lands, your lives will be forfeit. Now go. Return to your domain in the Forest of Morois. You shall pay the hefty fine in ten days’ time. ”

Tristan watched Frocin and his guards slither from the castle, dismissed by the High King of Britain. The barmaid’s warning came to mind as the dwarf cast him a grim, baleful glare. Some say he’s an assassin. Others say he delves in the dark arts. Stay clear of him , my lord. He’s a dangerous man .

The Blue Knight of Cornwall vowed to heed the woman’s advice and avoid the malicious dwarf, grateful for the Druidic magic of l’ herbe d’or —and the Wolves of Morois—which had spared his life in the thick forest of Camelot.

****

Autumn passed into winter, the knights’ regimen of training continuing unabated, until finally, the Yuletide season arrived.

Evergreen garlands and holly with bright red berries bedecked the glorious castle with the fragrant splendor of pine.

Boughs of mistletoe, sacred plant of the Celtic people, hung above doorways, bestowing the inhabitants of Camelot with the blessing of the Goddess for a prosperous new year.

For today’s holiday feast, the enormous banquet room was resplendent with candlelight glistening in crystal chandeliers, fragrant pine branches on the mantelpiece of the enormous fireplace, and garlands of dark green holly and sweet-smelling hellebore blossoms draped across the gleaming wooden walls.

The savory aromas of stuffed pheasant, roast venison, and rich meat sauces wafted through the air, and the sparkling array of silver and glass on the tabletops twinkled like stars in the dark night sky.

Guests arrived, bedecked in furs, jewels, and embroidered brocades, ushered to tables by attentive servants who served goblets of exquisite French wine, followed by courses of aromatic soup, fresh seafood, roasted meats, vegetables, cheeses, and pastries.

When the last course was finished and the platters cleared away, musicians began playing, luring jubilant guests onto the magnificent dance floor with lively, lyrical melodies.

Elegant ladies in silken gowns and glittering jewels enticed the knights at Tristan and Lancelot’s table with dazzling display.

Soon, all were dancing, and Tristan found himself once again brooding over his wine with the First Knight of Camelot at his side.

At a nearby table, a lovely lady in a sapphire blue gown was desperately trying to get Lancelot’s attention, to no avail.

The White Knight of Avalon only had eyes for the beautiful blond queen seated upon the elevated dais next to King Arthur, where the red dragon of her husband’s royal heraldry blazed upon golden banners in the light of the Yuletide fire.

A servant refilled their wine goblets. With a nod of his head, Tristan smirked, “That pretty brunette would love to dance with you,” indicating the young woman in the deep blue gown.

With a sad smile, Lancelot replied, “I, like you, am a bloody brute whose only interest is fighting.” He downed a large gulp of wine and leaned back in his chair to observe the brightly attired nobles swirling on the dance floor, dazzling in colorful brilliance.

Tristan saw his friend’s forlorn gaze return to the blond queen at the royal table. Her luminous face reflected every bit of longing as that of the lonesome knight at Tristan’s side who could but love her with his eyes.

Before he could stop them, the words tumbled out of Tristan’s mouth. “Your love for her. Is it l’amour fou ?”

Lancelot’s astonishment soon turned to shame. He stared gloomily into his goblet. “ Oui, c’est l’amour fou.” A desperate yearning blazed in Lancelot’s gaze as he beheld the pale, fragile queen.

The eyes are the window to the soul , Tristan thought, witnessing his friend’s suffering for an impossible love and the loneliness which smothered him. Lancelot, unburdening his grief, confided at last to Tristan.