Page 56

The Black Widow Queen

Morag stood near a gilded chair in her royal antechamber where embroidered floral tapestries adorned the stone walls of Castle Connaught.

She gazed through the aqua silk draperies of the enormous windows to the dense forest below, the fragrant scent of pine wafting in upon the early summer breeze.

Two harried messengers stood at attention behind her, waiting for permission to speak.

With a heavy heart, she ducked her chin, swallowed, and turned reluctantly to face them.

“This is the sword, my queen. Of Sir Tristan of Lyonesse. The Blue Knight of Cornwall. The knave who slew the valiant Morholt.” The royal messenger, his eyes humbly lowered, held a broken, bloodied sword in his shaking hands.

His companion, equally distressed at bearing the bad news to the icy queen, kept his eyes fixed firmly on the carved legs of her gilded chair.

Morag glowered at the abhorrent blade. Stained with his blood.

Crusted with his dark red hair. A large section near the tip of the sword broken off.

Embedded in his skull. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Over there.” She nodded to a table against the far wall.

The messengers complied and returned to face her, their heads lowered deferentially before their aggrieved queen.

“Leave me,” she hissed, her eyes glued to the bloody blade.

The two men scurried off, grateful to escape with their lives.

She crept hesitantly to the table. With trembling fingers, she gingerly touched her beloved Black Knight’s hair, removing a strand to hold against her heart.

Tears of rage stung her eyes as she glimpsed his blood upon the broken blade.

The blade which had split his plumed helmet.

And cloven his skull. She shuddered from head to toe.

I will avenge you, my Beloved Black Knight.

This odious Blue Knight of Cornwall will die a most gruesome death.

Morag’s attendants followed her into the royal chambers where they dressed the grieving queen in black to properly mourn the Morholt. Servants poured a goblet of fine French wine and left the bottle on the table, quietly slipping from the room as ordered.

A thick haze clouded her thoughts. She sat at the table and drained the goblet.

Poured another. Her eyes roamed over the bed where her virile Viking had driven her wild with his amorous assaults.

His massive chest covered with dark red hair.

His powerful thighs that thrust his mighty sword deep inside her with infinite skill.

His clever lips and wicked tongue. Hot tears streamed down her frozen, pallid face.

Morag downed the rest of her wine. Lay down upon her lavender scented bed. And sobbed mournfully into her downy soft, elaborately embroidered pillow.

She ate little over the next few weeks. Word of the failed invasion spread like wildfire throughout the ravaged kingdom.

The remainder of the vanquished Viking fleet returned dishonorably to the seaport of Dubh Linn, where the Morholt had left behind a few capable commanders.

The staggering loss of hundreds of soldiers and dozens of prized warships was an irreparable blow to the naval forces of Ireland. An insurmountable, humiliating defeat.

When Voldurk returned from Cornwall, Morag received him in her private chambers.

Royal servants left a bottle of wine and a platter of food, which the queen barely touched.

The loss of her Black Knight had wounded her most unexpectedly.

She had believed him indomitable. Invincible.

Infallible. And now he was gone. Her heart and body ached for him.

“My deepest condolences on the loss of your personal guard, my queen. I know that you were very fond of the Black Knight. A tremendous loss for Ireland.” Voldurk poured her a goblet of wine, which she gratefully accepted and quickly drained. She raised black obsidian eyes to search his.

“My trip to Cornwall, however, was most profitable.” He refilled her chalice and flashed her a cunning smile. She lifted an eyebrow, intrigued.

“The dwarf Frocin has agreed to our request. Now that he is aware of the Princess Issylte, he will be watching to see when she uses her gift .” Voldurk took a large swallow of wine and observed her over the rim of his goblet.

“When a fairy uses the power of sight , it leaves a trail of magic that Frocin can trace. With his unique gift of clairvoyance.” He grinned wickedly at her, his golden eyes smoldering with molten flames.

“The dwarf will track her for us. And his merciless mercenary knights will eliminate her.” Voldurk traced a finger seductively across Morag’s white shoulder, his scorching touch enflaming her frosty skin.

“Meeting Frocin was most fortuitous, my queen. Not only will he rid us of your damnably elusive stepdaughter. But he also introduced me to another most powerful ally.” Voldurk’s forked tongue flicked against her quavering neck.

“The sworn enemy of the accursed Blue Knight of Cornwall.” Morag widened her eyes in delightful surprise as her breath hitched. “Sir Indulf of Hame.”

She wiped damp palms along the sides of her black gown. Voldurk kissed the back of her neck, his breath hot in her ear.

“Sir Indulf is a knight of Tintagel anxious to denounce—and replace—Sir Tristan of Lyonesse as King Marke’s champion. A knight with powerful allies throughout the kingdom of Cornwall. A knight who will help us avenge the Morholt. And capture the Cornish crown.”

Her pulse quickened as Voldurk’s lips caressed her shoulder, nuzzling the crook of her neck where his finger had sizzled her skin.

He circled in front of her and retrieved a small flask from his pocket. She searched his gleaming, golden eyes. The eyes of a dragon that smoldered with passion. Liquid fire flowed through her loins.

He handed her the small black stoppered vial. It pulsed with power in her hand.

“What is this?” she gasped with a quick intake of breath. Her pulse pounded in her throat.

“Your future, my Black Widow Queen .” He leaned forward to take the vial, placing it on the table at her side. “The key to the throne of Cornwall.”

Morag locked eyes with her golden dragon. Her mouth went dry.

Voldurk raised her to her feet, a sly grin spreading across his darkly handsome face. His seductive voice slithered into the shell of her ear.

“ Wolfsbane.”

Her heart fluttered wildly as he planted a lush kiss upon her eager lips. Morag melted into his arms as her legs gave out. Power was a potent aphrodisiac.

He carried her across the room. Stripped off her black garments of mourning. His wicked lips scorching her icy bare skin, the golden dragon laid his queen’s nude, quivering body upon the lavender scented bed. And engulfed her lovely, lonely loins in the blazing flames of dragonfire.