Page 48

“My mother Viviane brought me to Avalon when I was eighteen, to train with the Elves,” he began, smiling sadly as he drank deeply of the rich red wine.

“The Elves of Avalon are unparalleled warriors. Incredibly strong, tall, agile. With weapons of inimitable quality and exceptional performance. Forged with otherworldly skill. Imbued with magic.” Tristan gulped more wine, his pulse quickening as he listened.

“My mother, the Blue Fairy, was Merlin’s best pupil. She enchanted my armor and my sword, imbuing me with superior strength, speed, and agility. To equal that of the Avalonian Elves who would train me.”

Lancelot gazed unseeingly at the dazzling dance floor, lost in the past. Tristan took another long pull of wine from his silver chalice, grateful and proud that the White Knight considered him a close enough friend to share his grief.

“The training was intense, as I expected, but there was one most unanticipated delight.” Lancelot shot Tristan an impish grin. “The priestesses.”

The White Knight leaned forward, his white teeth gleaming in the candlelight.

“They take lovers whenever they wish. And many took me.” He took another big gulp of wine, wiped his chin with his sleeve and grinned ear to ear.

“My preparation for the battlefield was matched only by my education in the arms…and between the legs…of the priestesses of Avalon.”

Lancelot chuckled huskily, drank more wine, and continued his tale.

“Seven years ago, when I was twenty, a new acolyte arrived. Sent by her father, King Leodegrance, to become a healer on the island of Avalon. Exquisitely beautiful. Light blond hair, icy blue eyes. Lithe, elegant. Irresistible.” He gazed at the regal beauty across the room.

Caressed her with his desperate, loving eyes.

“She had a kind, gentle manner. A magic touch. I was attracted to her in ways I’d never experienced. Ever. I found her not just physically beautiful. I was magnetically drawn to her. Like never before.” He downed the rest of his wine and motioned for more. A servant hurried to comply.

Tristan glanced at the ethereal queen seated beside King Arthur. Regal, proper, elegant—all the attributes expected of a monarch—yet emanating the same sadness that choked the chivalrous knight who loved her madly.

“Guinevere and I became friends, then lovers.” Lancelot gazed into his goblet of wine, his hair hanging forward on either side of his distraught face. “In her body, I found ecstasy. In my heart, … sublime joy. Our souls touched. Our spirits merged. Our bodies joined together…we truly became one .”

He desperately searched Tristan’s eyes, seeking recognition and comprehension. Lancelot gazed back at the royal dais where his heart sat beside the king. He exhaled sorrowfully, his longing and suffering whispering her name.

“I envisioned her becoming my wife. Having children together…raising a family. The Elves would accept us as their own. We’d live peacefully on Avalon for the rest of our lives.

” He drank deeply from his goblet, drowning his grief in the rich French wine.

The brilliance of his eyes dimmed in bitter defeat.

“But the Goddess had a different fate for Guinevere and me.” The White Knight leaned back in his chair and turned to face Tristan. Lancelot clenched his jaw.

“My mother had her lover, the Avalonian Elf Gofannon— the blacksmith of the gods— craft a sword for Arthur. With the help of his son Ronan, one of the fierce Elven warriors who trained me, Gofannon forged Excalibur. When the sword was finished, my mother sent for Merlin, who brought Arthur to Avalon.”

Tristan remembered that Viviane had the Avalonian Elves forge Excalibur. But there was much more to Lancelot’s story. He took another gulp of wine, his jittery foot bouncing under the table. Tristan wiped his damp palms on his lap.

“My mother gave Arthur the sword in return for his promise to grant her one request. That he would accept me, the White Knight of Avalon, to the Round Table. This you already know, Tristan. But what I didn’t tell you on the deck of the ship was that Arthur, upon meeting Guinevere—my love , my muse, my heart—decided that he wanted her for his queen .

” Lancelot impatiently motioned for more wine, waiting until the servant filled his goblet before continuing.

“I was off in Bretagne, on the quest to free the king’s imprisoned son.

While I was gone, Arthur sent word to King Leodegrance, requesting Guinevere’s hand in marriage.

Of course, her father accepted. Arthur was the High King of Britain.

How could he possibly refuse?” Lancelot’s bark of bitter laughter was a wretched sob.

“Why would he even want to? Guinevere would become the High Queen of Britain. The greatest honor he could ever hope for his lovely daughter.” His face distorted with pain, Lancelot shook his head and gazed into his goblet, as if it held the answers he sought.

“And now, my friend, you understand my suffering.” Lancelot’s eyes glistened with bleak, bitter acceptance.

“The love I have for the queen is indeed un amour fou— a love so intense it drives me mad. I love her with every depth and breadth of my soul, yet she is the wife of the king to whom I have sworn the chivalrous oath of fealty. A king whom I also love and would never betray. Yet…whose wife I love to the point of madness.”

His noble face crumpled with grief, Lancelot downed the rest of his wine and motioned for more. At a loss for words, Tristan swallowed his rich satisfying wine with the empty bitterness of Lancelot’s sorrow.

****

Spring returned, and with it, the much-anticipated dubbing ceremony.

As King Marke had done in the castle of Tintagel, Arthur—the High King of Britain, his magnificent sword Excalibur gleaming in the sunlight of the Great Hall of Camelot—officially dubbed the ten winners of the Tournament of Champions.

Sir Tristan of Lyonesse, the Blue Knight of Cornwall, was at long last a valiant Knight of the Round Table of King Arthur Pendragon.

A celebratory feast and tournament followed the dubbing ceremony, allowing the new Knights of the Round Table to display their chivalrous skills in two events—jousting and sword fighting—before dozens of lords and ladies assembled on either side of the castle grounds.

The ten winners of the Tournament of Champions proudly donned the surcoats bearing their coat of arms gifted by King Marke of Cornwall.

Excitement filled the air as the new knights competed to garner prestige, recognition, and, for the winners—generous prizes.

New and experienced knights alike hoped to gain the favors of the ladies whose colors they wore in the joust.

Tristan and his fellow knights sat atop their destriers— the war horses that King Marke had gifted them for winning the Tournament of Champions in Cornwall.

The magnificent animals were adorned with caparisons, the ornamental drapery which featured the rider’s heraldry, as the ten new Knights of the Round Table competed against the more experienced knights who had trained them.

Each rider charged with a wooden lance, hoping to unhorse his opponent, as frenzied cheers from the crowd of brightly attired nobles rippled through the crisp spring air.

Lancelot, bearing the flowing white scarf of Queen Guinevere, emerged as the victor of the celebratory joust. The jubilant crowd went wild.

Panting, grinning, his face streaked with grime and sweat, Tristan stood triumphant as the champion of the individual sword fighting event, having earned the distinct honor of being the first to ever defeat the infallible First Knight of Camelot.

His teeth clenched in a wicked grin, Tristan muttered under his breath, “You let me win. So that I would share in your joy of triumph today.”

Lancelot, his dark brown locks plastered to the sides of his handsome face, grinned savagely in return.

“No, Tristan. Truly, I did not. You are the first—and only —knight to ever disarm me. The Goddess help any warrior who challenges you in battle. You, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse, are a champion of kings.” He wrapped an arm around Tristan’s shoulder, leading him off the tournament field to claim their prizes, revel in victory, and enjoy another sumptuous feast.

Two weeks after the official dubbing ceremony and unforgettable celebratory tournament, the Knights of the Round Table were assembled in the throne room of Camelot as King Arthur explained the purpose of his royal summons.

“Knights of the Round Table. I have received an urgent request from my ally, King Marke of Cornwall.” Tristan, his heart pounding at the mention of his uncle’s name, flashed an anxious glance at Vaughan, whose desperate eyes reflected the same panic that was now racing through his icy veins.

“The Morholt—the Black Knight of Ireland—has been pummeling the coast of Cornwall. Taking slaves. Burning villages and crops. Weakening King Marke’s defenses.” Heated voices rippled among the knights. Arthur’s deep voice bellowed across the room.

“The Morholt has demanded the Cornish crown. If Marke refuses to surrender, the Black Knight will invade with his ruthless Viking army. And dozens of drakkar warships.” Shouts broke out among the knights from Cornwall.

Pressure throbbed in Tristan’s temples. My uncle needs me. I’m his champion. His sword. His heir.

“Marke has refused to surrender. He has called for the aid of Camelot to defend against the Irish attack.” Lancelot had come to stand beside Tristan, whose entire body was shaking with adrenaline. And rage.

Another bloody Viking threatens to destroy the only family I have left. He glanced down at the glistening blue eye of the sea raven on his trembling hand. I will defend my uncle. Or die in battle !

Once again, the massive arm of the bearded Viking raised the lethal sword.

Tristan’s stomach dropped like the weapon which fell like an axe to slice off his father’s humiliated head.

Liquid rage flowed like fire through Tristan’s veins as the Viking brute impaled his struggling, defenseless mother with the odious, bloody blade.

His sister’s horrific shrieks scraped across his soul.

I am no longer the simpering boy too weak to fight. Too young to defend his family. I am the Blue Knight of Cornwall. The heir to the throne. And I will defend my family—and my kingdom—to the death.

Arthur’s deep baritone tore Tristan from the past.

“I will send twenty of my Knights of the Round Table, each with a command of a hundred men, to defend the kingdom of Cornwall. Bedivere, as my Marshal, will select who among you will depart for Tintagel, and who will remain here to defend my lands. If you are among the twenty selected for battle, prepare to ride on the morrow.”

As expected, the ten knights from Cornwall were returning to defend their homeland, along with ten more experienced Knights of the Round Table. Lancelot, as Arthur’s First Knight, and Bedivere, as the king’s Marshal, were leading the army, departing at first light.

Tristan sharpened his sword Tahlfir as he prepared to return to Cornwall for the first time in two years.

Immeasurably grateful for the exhaustive training here in Camelot.

In Bretagne , where Lancelot had taught him the inimitable maneuvers of the fearsome Avalonian Elves.

In the sacred Forest of Brocéliande , where he’d mastered extraordinary skills among his brethren, the fierce Celtic warriors of the legendary Tribe of Dana.

He stared at his chain mail armor, gleaming in the setting sun streaming in through his open window. The sharp cry of a falcon tore through the air. Tristan gazed at the distant forest he would cross in the morning, riding hard with an army of two thousand men to defend Tintagel.

To defend his uncle, the only remaining member of his brutally slaughtered family. To defend the kingdom he had sworn to protect.

He, the king’s champion, the Blue Knight of Cornwall, would face the same Vikings he’d been too young to battle as a squire in Lyonesse.

But this time, by the Goddess, he was ready.