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“It was a most prosperous voyage, Lancelot,” Ronan replied, eyeing Tristan warily.

“King Hoel and Kaherdin were so impressed with the quality of the goods, they doubled the order.” Looking at Issylte, he added, “I’ll be forging weapons and armor for four hundred knights—to be delivered next spring and the following winter solstice.

” Turning his attention back to Lancelot, he said grimly, “Hoel wants to be prepared. There are rumors that the Vikings plan to attack Armorique.” When Ronan glanced at Tristan, Lancelot took the opportunity to introduce his friend.

With his famous boyish grin, the White Knight beamed, “Ronan, I’d like you to meet Tristan of Lyonesse, the Blue Knight of Cornwall. He is the nephew…” Lancelot glanced awkwardly at Tristan, then recovered quickly, “…and heir to King Mark of Tintagel.”

As Ronan and Tristan shook hands, Lancelot added, “Tristan was one of the ten winners of the Tournament of Champions who trained with me at Camelot. He was dubbed a Knight of the Round Table this past summer.”

“Congratulations,” Ronan muttered, trying to shake the feeling that this knight somehow posed a threat.

Tristan, his face aglow with admiration for the famed Avalonian Elf who had trained Sir Lancelot of the Lake, shook Ronan’s hand vigorously as he effused, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Ronan. Lancelot has told me all about your extraordinary skill as a warrior.”

As he continued to size Tristan up, Ronan noted that the knight was exceptionally tall for a human—only an inch or so shorter than himself—and every bit as wide and broad as he. Something about this young warrior irked Ronan; he was challenged, ready to fight, despite the lack of provocation.

Lancelot continued bragging about the prowess of his friend, the Blue Knight of Cornwall. “Tristan is the warrior who slew the Morholt!” he exclaimed, grinning proudly at his companion. Looking back at Ronan, he added with a hearty chuckle, “And the only knight to have ever defeated me .”

Ronan raised an eyebrow, impressed.

Issylte said softly, “Tristan was seriously wounded in the battle against the Morholt.” Her luminous green eyes gazed at the knight, and Ronan seethed beneath the surface. What was going on here? Something was definitely wrong. His pulse quickened as his temper flared.

“The Black Knight’s sword was poisoned,” she continued, “and Lancelot brought him here to be healed.” She smiled warmly at the White Knight, while Ronan wondered how the three of them had become so close in his absence.

She healed the wounded one, and Lancelot is the knight’s friend.

They are leaving soon, to return to the Round Table.

Relax—there is no reason for concern about this friendship. Still, unease and doubt nagged at him.

“We are preparing to depart for Bretagne on the morrow,” Lancelot explained. Grinning at the princess, he added, “Issylte will be joining Tristan and me as we sail for la Joyeuse Garde.”

Ronan’s eyes flashed to Issylte, who was avoiding his gaze.

He turned to Viviane—who knew of their romantic involvement—for an explanation.

“ What ?” he cried incredulously. His eyes darting back to Issylte, he sputtered, his voice increasing in volume as his anger increased in intensity, “You cannot be serious. You are leaving Avalon ? To sail to Bretagne ? With two men you barely know ?”

The Lady of the Lake attempted to calm him. “The princess must flee Avalon, Ronan. It is no longer safe for her here.” Ronan glared at Issylte, his eyes filled with fury.

Viviane continued, “Issylte has had two sightings in which the dwarf Frocin locked eyes with her. Aware that she could see him .”

Ronan could not comprehend what was happening. Issylte was leaving ? With this knight? NO!

“Frocin is clairvoyant, Ronan. He has the gift to track the use of sight and has undoubtedly traced her here.” Viviane fixed her deep blue gaze upon him. “With Frocin’s dark magic, an evil wizard, and the wicked, powerful queen—Issylte must leave. Immediately.”

Quickly, he rebutted. “But Viviane—you have enchanted Avalon . We are well protected here. The Elves will defend her. I will defend her !”

Ronan was shouting, shaking with anger, imploring Issylte with desperate eyes. “Issylte, may I please speak with you… privately ?”

She replied quietly, “Of course.” Addressing the two knights and the High Priestess, Issylte said, “Please excuse me. I shall return soon.”

Shall return soon? What? This was not at all the welcome he envisioned. He needed to dissuade her—quickly—for he simply could not allow her to leave.

Outside, twilight was settling; the stars were just beginning to wink in the darkening sky. Two patients hurried by, as if not wanting to intrude upon an obviously private conversation.

Pulling her into the darkness of a recessed corner, among the jasmine resplendent vines, Ronan crushed her in his arms and kissed her. “Issylte, I missed you so much!” Breathless, he devoured her mouth, neck, shoulders. The delicate swell of her breasts.

Issylte seemed to panic in his strong embrace, her breath coming in short gasps. “Ronan, please…” she stammered, resisting his advances and squirming in his arms.

Grasping her hips, he pulled her to him so that she could feel his urgent need for her.

“Come with me to the cottage, Issylte. I have brought Maeva for you to ride…” His hands roamed over her, his mouth searching, his body hard and insistent.

“Or we could go to your room. It’s closer…

” he rasped hoarsely, his breath ragged.

Pinning her against the wall, he sucked on her neck as he began lifting her dress, his other hand holding her hips firmly in place as he pressed his hardness against her.

“Ronan, please stop. Ronan, I must talk to you. Please listen! Ronan, stop !” Issylte wailed, desperately struggling against him.

“I believe the lady has asked you to stop .” At the sound of Tristan’s voice, Ronan backed away from Issylte, who quickly lowered her dress and straightened her bodice.

Ronan snarled, “It is no concern of yours, Knight of Cornwall. Go back inside .”

Tristan replied firmly, “I swore an oath of chivalry to defend a lady.” His deep voice exuded calm and power. “And I will defend that lady,” he proclaimed, glancing at Issylte, then back at him, “ with my life .”

Ronan barked out a bitter laugh and growled, “ You would challenge me ? You ? An injured knight, not yet fully recovered from your wound? Do you even know who I am ?”

Tristan, his eyes never leaving Ronan’s, responded quietly, “I do.” He squared his shoulders, raising himself to his full height, and declared, “And I will not allow you to assault the princess.”

“ Assault the princess ?” Ronan scoffed—-the realization dawning upon him, hitting him like a blow to the gut. He is defending her… against me ! What is happening? How can this be? This is not at all the way I planned!

Rebuked and contrite, Ronan lowered his eyes to the ground. Then, his arms bent at the elbow, he raised his hands, palms extending outward in a gesture of peace. He stared Tristan in the eye and promised, “I will not harm her, Knight from Cornwall. You have my word .”

Tristan seemed to assess Ronan’s more controlled demeanor. Ducking his chin, he glanced at Issylte, who nodded to him in return.

She whispered, “It is all right, Tristan. Thank you.”

He bowed his head and said simply, “I am just inside, should you need me.” Glaring at Ronan, his eyes aflame with challenge, Tristan backed away and returned to his room.

Ronan rushed forward to take her hands as he sputtered, “I am sorry, Issylte. I let my passion for you… consume me.” Kissing her palms, he whispered, “This is not at all how I envisioned my welcome home .” His desperate eyes begged for forgiveness.

“Please come with me to the cottage. Let me show you how much I have missed you .” He approached her slowly, gently placing his hands on her slender waist, drawing her to him tenderly. Cautiously. Reverently.

Issylte touched the stubble on his face. Her eyes focused on the amber talisman around his neck—the Yuletide gift she’d offered him. He was glad he’d worn it tonight.

Her determined voice jolted his fond reverie. “I am leaving in the morning, Ronan. Sailing to la Joyeuse Garde with Lancelot and Tristan.”

His temper flared again. “You cannot be serious, Issylte.” He stormed away from her, then turned abruptly to face her, livid with fury.

“You would throw away everything we have shared—the life we have built together—to sail off with two men you barely know ?” He shook his glorious golden mane and stomped his foot.

“ I forbid it ! You will stay here with me. Where I can keep you safe .”

Issylte retorted, “You forbid it? You forbid it? Ronan, you do not own me !” Her emerald eyes blazed at him in the starlight.

Ronan realized he had to try a different approach.

“Issylte, I want you to stay with me. Every day, in Armorique, I thought of you. Longed for you.” He approached her again, took her hands in his and showered them with kisses.

He drew her gently towards him, lifted her chin and kissed her sweet lips softly.

He wanted to devour her. To worship her body as he’d done so many times in his cottage.

He wanted to claim her—to make her his once again.

He could not let her leave. Losing her would kill him.

He took the emerald ring from his pocket and held it out it to her, the diamonds sparkling in the starlight, the emerald glimmering in the moonlight.

Gazing into her deep green eyes, he whispered, “I love you, Issylte. I want you to be my wife .” He placed the ring on her delicate finger— King Hoel’s wife must have had long, slender fingers, too, he mused idly, for the fit was perfect. “We have everything we need here in Avalon, my princess.”