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Return from Armorique

The seagulls were squawking, diving for the entrails tossed by the fishermen filleting the fresh catch just harvested from the sea as Ronan’s ship approached the mist-shrouded coast of Avalon. White clouds sailed across the late summer sky as the salty tang of ocean breeze welcomed the Elf home.

The trip had been most profitable, for King Hoel and his son Kaherdin, who had ordered supplies for two hundred knights, were delighted with the quality of the weaponry and armor that Ronan had forged in his blacksmith shop in Avalon and delivered to them in Armorique.

In fact, they had been so impressed with the Avalonian craftsmanship that the king had requested twice the amount as he placed a new order, with half to be delivered in the spring, and the remainder the following winter solstice.

To keep up with the increased demand for his wares, Ronan planned to open a second forge when he arrived in Avalon, hiring additional strikers, journeymen, and apprentices, to fulfill the new order.

Yes, the voyage had been lucrative indeed.

He couldn’t wait to share his success with Issylte.

King Hoel had insisted that Ronan remain as guest of honor for a full two weeks in his castle, Le Chateau Rose , where he’d hosted a feast and ball in the Elf’s honor—a celebration that had also enabled the king and his son to don the magnificent royal armor just delivered from Avalon.

Ronan had accepted the invitation, of course, and had been very much the pampered guest for the duration of his stay.

As his vessel now approached the enchanted shores of Avalon, Ronan reminisced about his prosperous trip.

Le Chateau Rose had been named for the pink granite—abundant in Armorique—from which the imposing fortress was constructed.

Perched high upon a cliff, overlooking the sea and tidal bay, the castle was accessible only from the south, where it connected to the mainland by a narrow stone bridge.

The cliff face of the curved peninsula upon which the fortress was built was steep enough to provide an impenetrable defense from the north, east, and west. The stone bridge, to the south, was the only entrance to the chateau , spanning a deep saltwater moat, fed by the tumultuous waves of the sea, encased by treacherous rocks and jagged peaks.

Despite its rugged, fortified exterior, the interior of the castle had been most elegant, richly appointed, warm and inviting.

A wide, expansive corridor, with luminous chandeliers, marble floors, and gleaming hardwood tables adorned with bouquets of fragrant summer blooms, opened onto an enormous ballroom and banquet hall, which boasted a magnificent view of the granite cliffs and turbulent ocean.

The enormous kitchen abutted the banquet hall, sheltered behind the spiral staircase leading to the bedrooms and guest quarters on the second floor, where Ronan had stayed, and up to the royal chambers on the uppermost level, overlooking the magnificent pink granite coast of Armorique.

As the royal guest of honor, Ronan had been expected to chat amicably with the noble lords and ladies of King Hoel’s court as they dined in the spacious banquet room on sumptuous seafood and imbibed in fine French wine.

During the ball, while the royal musicians entertained the court with lively fiddles and melodious harps, Ronan had politely danced with the king’s daughter, Blanchine—called the Maid of the White Hands, for her long, delicate fingers and skill as a healer.

Tall, thin, with black hair and icy blue eyes, Blanchine was regal, yet Ronan had found her detached and cold.

Although she danced with him as the guest of honor, fulfilling her duty as the king’s daughter, she spoke little, her eyes flitting across the ballroom, nervous and suspicious, as she watched the distant revelry which surrounded them with haughty disdain.

Kaherdin, on the contrary, was amicable and jovial.

Tall and dark-haired, like his sister, but broad in the shoulders, he exuded the rugged strength of a well-honed soldier.

Ronan had liked him immediately, finding he much preferred the company of the warm prince to his chilly sister.

Kaherdin’s guest, the Lady Gargeolaine, was a vibrant beauty with golden auburn hair, a voluptuous figure, and expressive amber eyes.

Judging by the love light which shone in his eyes, it was apparent that Prince Kaherdin was truly besotted.

King Hoel, although past his prime in his mid-fifties, had still displayed the regal bearing of a warrior king.

His children had inherited his tall stature and dark hair, now heavily streaked with gray, like his neatly trimmed beard.

Ronan had enjoyed the king’s youthful mirth and keen sense of humor, making him feel a most welcome guest.

During the ball, while seated at the monarch’s table, King Hoel had addressed his guest of honor amid the gaiety of music and dancing.

“Sir Ronan,” he’d beamed, “I am most pleased with the exceptional quality of the royal armor you crafted for my son and me.” The king had nodded to his daughter Blanchine, who’d placed a small but ornate jewelry box on the table before her father.

The carved wooden box had been painted white and adorned with delicate pink roses. Opening the small treasure chest, Hoel had displayed the dazzling contents to Ronan. “Perhaps your lady might fancy one of my late queen’s baubles,” he’d offered with a generous smile.

As Ronan had surveyed the sparkling gems, an exquisite emerald ring had caught his eye.

He’d picked it up to admire the deep green oval gem, brilliant in clarity and surrounded by a halo of flawless diamonds.

Perfect for my Emerald Princess, he’d mused, gratefully accepting King Hoel’s generous bonus.

Tapping the pocket of his tunic, where he now held the exquisite jewel for Issylte, Ronan cast aside the memories of his voyage and focused on the sandy beach and forested cliff as his cog ship docked at the shore of Avalon.

After three months at sea, he was eager to return.

And he couldn’t wait to surprise Issylte with his gift.

The fishermen, recognizing his ship, waved in greeting as the nearby stable hands joined in docking Ronan’s vessel alongside the wharf.

His crew, as eager to return home as the Elf himself, leapt onto the wooden dock, strapped their belongings upon the backs of the horses provided by the grooms, and rode off to rejoin their families.

After greeting several of the workers and stable hands, Ronan decided he would go home first to bathe before venturing to Le Centre, for he did not want to crush Issylte into his arms, reeking like a fishmonger.

The men in his forge welcomed him back, as did his own grooms, who had been caring for the horses and animals during his absence.

Noz, his beautiful black stallion, was anxious to greet him—and grateful for the crunchy carrot—as was Maeva, Marron, and the pretty little foal, Noisette .

She is now old enough for Issylte to ride.

I can’t wait for us to be together, back in the saddle again!

Ronan rushed to the pool—a small lake—in the woods near his cottage, where he bathed, washing the brine from his hair with some of the soap he ‘d once purchased in the village with Issylte.

The fragrant smell of yarrow reminded him of her soft body, and the longing he felt for her stirred painfully in his loins.

He rinsed the soap from his hair, emerged from the pool and dried off, donning a new tunic, fresh pair of breeches, and clean boots.

He refastened the amulet that Issylte had made for him around his neck, knowing that she’d be pleased to see him wearing it.

He carefully placed the exquisite emerald ring in his pocket . Pray the Goddess she says yes!

Saddling Noz and Maeva—for he planned to bring his princess back to the cottage—he envisioned the warm welcome she would give him.

She’d tantalize him with her scent, devour his lips, welcome him into her body, then—drunk with love, sated in his arms, filled with his seed—he would give her the ring.

Easy now, or you won’t be able to ride, he laughed to himself.

Quickly packing the supplies he’d procured for Viviane, the Elf mounted his horse, grasped Maeva’s reins, and rode off to find Issylte.

When he arrived at Le Centre , he handed the horses’ reins to the groom who approached, retrieved the supplies from his pack, and headed towards Viviane’s quarters.

Since she was not in her room, he placed the parcel on her table and walked down the hall toward the exit door leading onto the courtyard and fountain.

As he approached, he spotted Viviane entering a patient’s room.

Ronan poked his head through the open door, and was surprised to see Issylte, Lancelot, and another knight with dark hair in the room with Viviane.

He must be a patient, and Issylte was his healer .

But why is Lancelot here? Unease crept up his spine.

Glancing up to see who had come in, Lancelot shouted heartily, “Ronan! It’s good to see you again, my friend!” The knight clasped the Elf’s shoulders, warmly greeting the warrior who had trained him so well.

“I heard that you had gone to Armorique,” Lancelot chortled, delighted to see his former mentor. “How was your voyage?”

Taking in the sight of Issylte assembling supplies, the dark-haired knight packing a bag, Viviane gathering herbal medicines and soaps, Ronan assumed that Lancelot and his companion were preparing for their departure.

Good, he thought, feeling inexplicably suspicious and threatened by the unknown knight.