Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2)

by Sullivan, Phoenix

  “Of course not! But—”

  “What?” I prompted.

  “I heard a… rumor… last night. Gossip only, I’m sure. But… Well, the harper has already deceived us about his trade, so perhaps it’s not so farfetched to think he might be deceiving us about his name.”

  “Drustan?”

  She nodded. “The rumor goes that he is Tristan of Lyonesse.”

  “The same who slew my uncle?” I shook my head, hard, in denial. “Impossible. Just being here would be certain death. My father would not tolerate it.”

  “Wouldn’t the king first have to know it was him?”

  “You’re building a straw man. What proof have you?”

  “None, of course, my Lady.” She stressed the formality of my title, her way to calm me down. “It is a rumor, nothing more. I should not have repeated it.”

  But she had, and I knew why. To punish me for my earlier behavior. Rumor or not, she had planted a seed of doubt within me. “No. I deserved it.”

  Her smug look fluted by. The knot quietly twisting my stomach, however, persisted.

  Drustan and Des were no less magnificent today than the two days past. I knew their strength, for their bodies were forged steel. Their endurance grew from that strength, but it was surprising still to see them meet challenger after challenger with the same inexhaustible spirit. Working together they could help spell one another as the day dragged on, merciless and without respite. Though all were flagging by mid-afternoon, it was clear Drustan and Des stood as the champions to best. Breaking them would be the only way another could win. In that, all other knights were allies, keeping the pace of battle relentless, no single challenger enough to wear them down as no single trickle of water can erode a hillside while a steady flood can bring it crashing to the sea.

  Undaunted, they fought on, until one by one all others conceded victory before them. Until they two were the only ones left for the sun’s slanting rays to bathe in fire. Shields hanging low, panting with the effort of a thousand strokes, they slowly faced one another.

  A hush… and all eyes riveted on the two gods mid-field. We held our collective breath. Somewhere a chant began, low like distant thunder, picked up voice by voice till it was a crescendo rumbling across the field. “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

  How could a simple game of arms affect me so?

  My chest squeezed the breath from my lungs. My lips went dry. The anxious racing of my heart drove away all the hurt between Brangien and me, and we clutched to each other’s hands. Was it hers that trembled or mine or both as the chanting grew ever more insistent, driving friends to battle.

  Bloodied, muddied, wearied, they raised their swords. I couldn’t bear to watch. Yet neither could I bear to turn away.

  They saluted one another—no rote gesture performed out of habit or demanded courtesy but a gesture of genuine respect, an acknowledgement of equals. There was no tenderness on the melee field. There it was all hard steel and masculine power. But I was not on the melee field and my heart recognized the moment for what it was under all the posturing.

  I never loved more than at that moment.

  Yet they were not done.

  How could my heart encompass what they did next, no word spoken between them, nothing but a tiny, weary nod that even I, my world focused solely upon them, almost missed.

  As one, they fell to their knee, each surrendering to the other.

  What I took first as my own heart erupting was the wild enthusiasm of the crowd, stomping boots, banging cups and shields, and cheering their appreciation. If not the fight they’d demanded, this selfless tribute was a most satisfying substitute.

  Amid the tumult, Drustan and Des walked off the field together, no victory lap to incite the knights they’d already made enemies of or to satisfy the ladies craning necks and squinting eyes to better see them unhelmed.

  “My Lady.”

  I watched Drustan and Des until they disappeared into the throng off-field before acknowledging Cormac. He waited patiently for my, “Yes?” then said, “The king commands your presence at the feast tonight.”

  I froze. Of course he would. That’s when the tourney prizes would be handed out, and I was one of them. Or at least the honor of keeping me safe between here and Tintagel was. That would go to one of father’s trusted men.

  Des, Drustan and the Orkney brothers would clearly take the top prizes. Who then would be stuck with me?

  “Ennis, perhaps. Or Guenelon,” Brangien guessed. “They both fought well and your father seems to love them best.”

  I nodded. Ennis’ braided red hair made him easy to spot in the lists, and I had seen Guenelon in his blue tabard with its spitting white snake late into each round.

  “Not that it matters who does honor of escort…” I trailed off, my heart heavy, self-pity snatching at me. In less than two days I—we, for I remembered Brangien was caught in this too—would be on our way to Cornwall. I had yet to adjust to that. Not just being wed to a man I didn’t know, but living in a new home, a new land where I knew no one, without even the comfort of a familiar room or garden. Selfishly, I was glad it was Brangien’s duty to accompany me, just as it was my duty to go. She was my stanchion, my compass, my rock. Without her, I would be lost. With her, I would always be my strong Irish self no matter upon what shoal Fate might strand me.

  Gathering what courage and resolve I could muster, I prepared myself for one last feast in my father’s House.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TRISTAN

  Had there not been great need for me to be there, I would have avoided the tourney feast altogether. Though I’d kept myself as much apart from any close contact as possible to escape recognition, the irony was to win in combat meant being as visible as possible. That someone must recognize me or my fighting style seemed inevitable. Fate had ensured those who knew me best—Arthur, Lancelot, Bors, and the other great knights of the kingdoms—were not in attendance. But the Orkney brothers I had met on fields past, as well as a few of the lesser knights. So when the rumor reached my ears that I was indeed Tristan of Lyonesse, I could only pray King Anguish would not be approached with it.

  As a tourney winner, I had a seat in the Great Hall for the feast, claiming my place and one for Des who seemed always late to these evening activities. Festivities, however, weren’t confined to the Hall, spilling out across the camps that littered the grounds. Serfs for days had roasted meats enough to feed the masses. There would be enough drinking and dancing and debauchery tonight that even the bishop knew enough to delay Mass till the early afternoon Office of Sext when folk might be sobered enough to ask forgiveness for conduct the night before.

  I was already halfway through my first trencher when Des finally arrived looking tired and disheveled. When he sat on the bench beside me where I’d motioned him with a wave of a half-eaten partridge leg, I found he also stank of recent sweat.

  “Been off swiving?” I asked, arching a brow in mock indignation.

  “Yes, with Yseult,” he replied smoothly, reaching for the partridge’s other leg off my trencher.

  I scowled, fairly caught, though I still couldn’t resist sliding a glance to where Yseult sat at the high table beside the queen. “Where do you go off then?”

  “To run with the Gabriel Hound.” He sniffed the spiced leg, then tore the meat off just as one of the servants hurriedly placed a loaded trencher in front of him.

  I helped myself to some of the lamb his plate held that mine had not. “Why is it so great a secret what you do?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps Sir Tristan can tell you that.”

  So he, too, had heard the rumor. “I’ll ask him when he returns from running with the faery hound.”

  Des grinned wide, apparently in appreciation of my wit, but he’d hit upon an uncomfortable truth. Beneath the banter we both knew there were important secrets left unshared. We had proven on the field we had little need to prove ourselves one over the other in show of strength and arms. We had proven
ourselves comfortable with Yseult as well, where neither of us could win her regardless. Why then should we need keep secrets any longer? With Yseult gone from Whitehaven, so would I be gone too. Whatever else Monday brought, I resolved to come soul-clean with Des before I left.

  The clang of a bell from the high table turned my attention there. King Anguish stood, looking well-pleased with the feast, the tourney, the coming truce with Cornwall, and life in general despite the shadows that haunted his wife and daughter’s faces.

  “I think,” he said when the noise in the Hall died down, “all of you are as curious as I about the identities of the two knights who bested all this week. We’ve all heard how many of the great knights take up blank shields and arms and compete disguised as novices or uncountried Saracens. What is clear is that Sir Drustan and Sir Palomides are seasoned combatants, possibly even knights of renown or else they soon will be, and are due all honor for their conduct on the field.”

  The drumming on the tables agreed with his assessment.

  “So as to the awarding of prizes... I declare winner of the jousts to be Sir Palomides and this wreath his for the cunning of his lance.” The king held up a wide circlet of gold inlaid with a large red gem—garnet or ruby, I couldn’t tell—in its band.

  “Of swords, the winner is Sir Drustan, and this wreath, brother to the first, his prize.” The circlet was the same, only in this one lay a blue sapphire. Though it could have been a wreath of flowers for all I cared right then, for it wasn’t the prize I truly sought.

  “For today’s melee, judgment was… shall I say, difficult.” The bang of cups and loud guffaws agreed. “But as host of this fine tournament, I must judge a winner. And as king, I can make the rules. I found in my stores a brace of daggers gifted to my father in tribute from King Mark’s sire. They seemed a fitting prize this day in lieu of the emerald circlet my smithy had made. So a dagger each to Sir Drustan and Sir Palomides!”

  “Huzzah!” The cry resounded through the Hall, then carried through the open doors, finding voice outside as the king’s decision made itself known from camp to camp.

  Not everyone, however, shared the same satisfaction. Grumbles from the Orkney table and peppered beyond threatened to sour the affair but were in the end outshouted. Nor were the detractors inclined to feel insulted enough to leave in protest.

  As the cheering died, Anguish held up a hand. “Indulge me, please, in one more award. My daughter, Yseult, leaves on Monday to wed King Mark of Cornwall, and I would name her escort and the champion of Whitehaven from among our knights who fought this week.”

  From the corner of my eye I caught the determined look on Des’ face and very nearly laughed like a madman. It seemed he, too, harbored the same foolish plan as I.

  Together we rose.

  “If it please Your Grace,” I said, “we two would be considered as knights of Whitehaven in this.”

  “Your hospitality has been generous,” Des added. “We would repay you with Yseult’s safety should you choose one of us her champion.”

  King Anguish glanced about the Hall looking for open dissent. There was none. In truth, I believe most of the knights were remembering what happened to The Morholt, the last Whitehaven champion to sail to Cornwall.

  “We will indulge you,” Anguish agreed with an expansive wave that included his queen and daughter as well. The queen looked startled, Yseult like she’d prefer to be anywhere but where she sat now. Still, there was an anticipation in her eyes that indicated she was far from indifferent to the outcome. “And, as Sir Palomides rightfully pointed out, since the champion is to be hers, I would let her choose him.”

  A moment of panic turned to apprehension then to careful consideration and finally settled on resolve as I watched the emotions play across Yseult’s delicate face. For a breathspace, her gaze caught ours in brilliant understanding.

  As she rose from her chair in splendid recognition of the queen she soon would be, Des and I sank back down to our bench in silent expectation.

  “You do me great honor, Your Grace.”

  The king fairly beamed in his pride and admiration of his daughter’s behavior. Her mother, though… In a flash, Queen Isolde’s eyes were on mine. I knew her for a strong woman, not given to insecurity or petty doubts. But her gray eyes reflected some great terror in her heart. As her gaze swung from me to Des, I felt only great relief to be free of it.

  “If even a king may still learn wisdom from Solomon,” Yseult continued, “then how much more wisdom have I to learn from my father? I would not try to judge where he could not. I would have Sir Drustan and Sir Palomides both as my champions.”

  Again the Hall erupted in approval.

  The king blinked in a surprise that only mead could have fostered.

  Des’ slow smile was as sensuous as a lover’s.

  New-sprung hope emanated from Yseult like a rain-freshened field.

  But it was the sadness that gripped the queen’s face in the ultimate testament of betrayal and premonition that stayed most with me.

  And, much later in the wee dark morning hours, it was her face that woke me, not once, not twice, but three times in nightmare.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  BRANGIEN

  After late Mass on Sunday there was little time left to farewell all at Whitehaven who I counted friends. Between packing and farewelling it was night when, curled on my pallet in the antechamber outside Yseult’s door, I could think about the morrow.

  Thoughts of Cornwall and enemies and a strange castle to call home frightened me. Only it seemed an odd sort of fear, not truly connected to me. Like I feared only because I was supposed to be afraid, not because I actually was.

  How much of that had to do with Des and the fortuitous turn that would put him on the boat with us, I couldn’t be sure. I only knew my heart had leapt to the stars at the news and had yet to return to earth. It was as though God had intervened. That He didn’t want us parted. That He was giving us another chance to come together, to see ourselves as more. Twice Des had worn my favor, simple handmaid though I was. Once would have been enough for courtesy. A second time must mean something more. But what could I do to make him see as clearly as me what God so obviously willed? What—?

  Of course.

  I smiled.

  In His infinite wisdom, God had already placed the answer in my hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  TRISTAN

  The boat to take us to Tintagel had been well-prepared. It was obviously a merchant vessel with its large cargo hold and shared crews quarters. But it had two private quarters as well, cramped and hastily cleared out for the passengers it would carry. With such a short trip ahead—a day there and one back barring unforeseen weather—only three men had been chosen to crew it. They raised sails in the early afternoon to take advantage of the tides.

  King Anguish and Queen Isolde came to the shore with a retinue of knights and nobles and serfs to see us off. Teary-eyed but not allowing her tears to fall, Yseult hugged first her father then her mother in farewell. As Yseult crossed the deck to where I already stood, I saw the queen confer a moment with the maid, Brangien, before she came aboard.

  When we pulled away from the rocky shore, all of Whitehaven was reflected in Yseult’s stormy eyes.

  I hoped my uncle knew just what a queen he was getting in Yseult. Likewise, I longed to help put some of Yseult’s fears to rest. Mark had raised me up as he would a son. He was no less just and loving than Yseult’s own father. Though like Anguish, Mark could be just as hard and cruel as necessary to hold his lands against invasion and tyranny. His was a calculated cruelty, not the state of this heart. And he had as much capacity for love as for war. At least he spoke so of his conquests, both in the bedchamber and out. That he was her father’s age and early widowed would give him a deeper appreciation for the woman he wed, for Yseult, I was sure, was fairer than any he’d brought to his bed.

  I shivered, attributing it to the cool sea breeze and not to t
he image of my aging uncle taking Yseult into his bed with the purpose of getting an heir. A legitimate heir who would usurp any claim I now had to my uncle’s throne. Though in reality the throne meant little enough to me. It was the image of him ravishing Yseult’s fair body that made me groan.

  For a fleeting moment I considered overpowering the boatswains and commandeering the vessel to… England, perhaps. Camelot. Arthur would grant us sanctuary as long as we desired. Yseult and I could grow old happily there together. She and I—

  —could never be. With an effort that rivaled Sisyphus, I dismissed my pretty fantasies and turned my face to Cornwall.

  ~ ~ ~

  We spent the afternoon as we had in Yseult’s courtyard, speaking of nothing, least of all the wedding ahead, and making each other laugh. I played my harp and we all sang the popular lays. Des’ precise tenor was a joy to hear, a perfect complement to my own rich baritone. Yseult’s sweet soprano was true and earnest, though she blushed at the idea that I would call hers a sweet and pleasant voice. Only Brangien’s singing was discordant. Not tone deaf, simply unable to hit the proper notes more often than not. Still, we tolerated her voice without complaint because we each wanted the day to be one of happiness not sorrow, and singing with us—with Des—made Brangien very, very happy.

  When the sun dipped into the water and the flame-shot sky began to deepen, Des excused himself. “My apologies, friends. A headache, nothing more. Let me lie down for a bit.”

  Brangien’s brow wrinkled with more worry than a simple headache seemed to warrant. “Shall we hold supper for you?” She waited on his answer as though nothing in the world were more important. Was there anything more amusing than such earnest calf love?

  “An hour is all, I’m sure, and it will pass. I’ll be back in time to watch the stars come out.”

  He disappeared into the hold below and Brangien went off to see to the meal. Leftovers from the tourney feast had been laden on, so I was sure we’d eat well.