Page 52

Spring returned, and with it, a profusion of white flowers as the apple trees, aubépines, and water lilies bloomed on the island of healing.

Although the priestesses often treated injured soldiers at Le Centre, Issylte had noticed that in the past few weeks, there seemed to be a steadier stream of wounded warriors seeking care.

As they now applied a poultice to a serious wound, Issylte inquired of Viviane, “Why has there been such an increase in the number of injured soldiers lately? We are treating many more than ever before.”

Viviane administered the healing ointment to the wounded man, wiping her hands on a clean cloth as she led Issylte outside to sit near the fountain.

“We are indeed treating more injured warriors than ever before. Our priestesses and the Elves have been traveling throughout the realm to fetch the seriously wounded, bringing them here to Avalon.”

Issylte searched the sorrowful eyes of the Lady of the Lake. “There have been dozens more arriving each week. Waves of them. But why?”

Viviane smoothed her white robe, staring at the folds of fabric as if the words she needed might be found there. “The Black Knight of Ireland—the one they call the Morholt—has been attacking the coast of Cornwall in southern Britain.”

Issylte stared into the waters of the fountain as if across the Celtic Sea.

“The Black Knight has established a Viking stronghold in the seaport of Dubh Linn, where he launches slave expeditions which have vastly weakened the Cornish king. The Morholt’s warships bring invaders who pillage, burn, and destroy… and capture hundreds of slaves to take back to Ireland.”

Issylte shuddered at the memory of the enormous Viking whose fiery beard was braided like the fangs of a massive beast. Whose black armor blazed with the flames of a golden dragon. Whose plumed helmet sizzled with slithering snakes. She shivered from head to toe.

“The injured we are treating…are the survivors of those attacks.” Viviane turned to Issylte, her eyes glimmering. “Sadly, there will be many more. For the gold—and especially the slaves—have vastly enriched the Irish queen.”

Issylte swallowed a lump of terror. The Irish queen! A tingling numbness crept up her arms, her stepmother’s icy grip draining her strength. She rubbed her arms rigorously to dispel the memory.

Issylte rose to her feet and began pacing in front of the fountain.

“These poor victims we are treating…the brutal attacks, the burns, the lost limbs, the orphaned children. Viviane, I must help my father. He would never allow this. The queen and her healer have weakened him. So that the Morholt can capture slaves.”

Issylte dropped onto the bench beside the Lady of the Lake and buried her face in her hands. When she lifted her tear-stained face, her eyes desperately implored Viviane. “If I could get to my father, I could cure him. He could reclaim his kingdom—- and stop the evil queen!”

Viviane grasped Issylte’s shaking hands and studied them before responding. Her voice was calm, stern, solemn. Her deep blue eyes washed Issylte with the tranquil waves of the lily strewn lake.

“Lilée, even if you could infiltrate your father’s castle and steal into his royal chambers without being apprehended by the queen—who would certainly have you killed instantly—there is no way of knowing how long you would need to heal him. Or, for that matter, if his recovery is even possible.”

Patient, maternal eyes gazed into hers. “Even if you brought with you all the herbs, crystals, and sacred waters needed for his treatment, it might take weeks. Even months. How would you stay hidden from the queen?” Viviane placed her hand on top of Issylte’s, squeezing it lovingly.

Her gaze became soft. Gentle. Apologetic.

“Have you ever considered that if, despite all odds, you were successful in healing your father…that he might still be so smitten with his queen that he would defend her…and not you?”

Issylte remembered her father’s lovestruck face as he beheld his exquisite bride. His giddy manner, his flushed cheeks, the way he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. He would choose her. Of course he would. Issylte’s heart plummeted with her dashed hopes.

Viviane added, as gently as possible, “Lilée, while your father lives, you have no claim to the Irish throne. Even if you were to amass a powerful army, sail to Ireland and challenge the queen, the kingdom is still his. And the queen rules while he is ill.”

Viviane fixed her resolute stare on Issylte. “You cannot go to the castle, for she would kill you. As difficult as it is to accept, there is nothing you can do to intervene.” Issylte dropped her tearful gaze to her feet, gulping air into her constricted throat.

Then, as if to soften the impact of her words, the Lady of the Lake whispered, “You must be patient, Lilée, knowing that the Goddess has a fate for you which has yet to be revealed.”

****

As the weather warmed, Issylte and Ronan visited the seashore frequently, stopping to enjoy the seafood delicacies in the inn at Rochefort, procuring supplies in the village shops, and returning to his cottage to make love before the fire.

Since Ronan had worn the amulet she had given him as they shared an especially passionate, memorable afternoon, each time she now saw the amber gem around his neck, it reminded her of the bliss they shared together beside the glowing flames.

One afternoon, Issylte made a tarte aux mirabelles for Ronan in his cottage while he tended to the horses.

He loved it as much as she had loved her Tatie’s pies.

When Marron delivered a healthy foal at the beginning of April, Ronan brought Issylte to see the newborn filly, who was the same rich chestnut brown as her mother.

Standing behind her as she admired Marron and the newborn foal, Ronan wrapped his arms around Issylte and kissed the back of her neck.

His voice tender with emotion, he whispered into her good ear, “I’ve named the foal Noisette—Hazelnut—the fruit of the trees in your beloved Hazelwood Forest.”

She whirled around to face him. He grasped her hands in his and brought them to his lips. “She is yours.”

Her heart bursting with joy, Issylte blustered, “She’s mine?”

With a huge grin, he nodded and drew her into his powerful arms. Holding her against his chest, he murmured, “I know how much you loved your horse, Luna.” Kissing her hair, he said gently, “Now you’ll have a horse of your own again. Happy Birthday, my princess.”

The front of his shirt was damp as she wept in gratitude. Turning to her little foal, she cooed, “I love you, Noisette. I will take such good care of you!” With a fresh carrot in her trembling hand, she crooned to the mare, “And you, Marron. You’re such a good mother!”

They watched the newborn foal and her loving mother for a long time, the warm spring sun gentle on their backs as they leaned against the fence.

Then, Ronan and Issylte went inside the stone cottage to make love, as they often did, taking advantage of every afternoon they had left together before his departure for Bretagne.

****

The water was cold and sweet, fed from the same underground spring as la Fontaine de Jouvence in the courtyard of Le Centre.

Today, as Ronan sat on a blanket under a canopy of oak leaves in the forest near the beach, Issylte was quenching her thirst at the base of a small waterfall.

As she watched the ripples cascade down over the smooth rocks and collect in the pool, she remembered bathing in the stream near Maiwenn’s cottage.

A fist clenched around her heart. She turned to face Ronan.

His steadfast gaze eased the painful grip in her chest.

She stared at the pool, feeling her senses slip into the water. Magic hummed in her veins as darkness enfolded her. An eerie stillness engulfed her as visions appeared on the rippling surface.

She saw her father, bedridden as before—but now with a trio in black beside him.

A small man with dark, wrinkled skin was speaking to the tall wizard and the queen standing beside him.

As the vision unfolded, Issylte saw the wizard place a small vial into the hand of the queen, who poured the contents into a silver chalice.

As the dwarf and the wizard watched, the queen lifted her husband’s head and made him drink the contents of the goblet.

The king convulsed, his face contorted with agony, then stilled as the three figures waited beside the royal bed.

At that moment, as if he sensed her watching, the dark wizard’s yellow reptilian eyes met Issylte’s, sending a wave of terror and nausea through her body.

She became aware of Ronan calling her name, as if from afar. As she slowly came back to her senses, his arms were around her, cradling and rocking her, as he called her name. “Issylte… Issylte… Wake up, Issylte!”

Gasping, she clutched Ronan tightly and laid her face against his pounding chest. Shaking, her stomach roiling, she shivered in his arms until she was finally able to speak. Her tongue thick and dry, her heart pounding furiously, she told him of the horror she’d witnessed in the vision.

“The queen is poisoning my father,” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. Frantic, Issylte stood up and began pacing by the pool. Ronan stood and extended his arms to hold her, but she pushed them away, too overwrought to be contained.

“I saw the tall man in black—the same one I saw in the vision on the lake. The one with yellow eyes slit like a snake.” She tore at her hair. Impotent rage burned in her ravaged soul.

“My father was bedridden. The dark wizard was beside the bed. With my stepmother, the queen. And a small, wrinkled man with brown, withered skin.” Issylte searched Ronan’s eyes.

“They were conferring… then the dark wizard handed a vial to the queen. I saw her pour it into a cup. She made my father drink it.” Her whole body shook.