Behind the queen’s back, Fiona scowled at me before retiring to the queen’s chamber and shutting the door.
“Yseult will need a friend in Cornwall,” the queen told me. “I expect you to be that to her and more.”
It felt as though the breath had been kicked from my body. I had suspected as much, of course. That Yseult’s fate would be mine too, but no one had voiced it so clearly yet. Family, friends, and now any chance I might have had to seduce Palomides even for a night, would be gone. And who would mourn my going? Certainly not the queen who, rightfully, thought only of her daughter.
I sniffed back the tears that filled my future. “Yes, Your Grace.”
This night was filled with the unexpected. Queen Isolde placed a comforting hand to my cheek and looked straight into my eyes. “I know much is already being asked of you, Brangien. Almost as much as that being asked of Yseult. For that, I can only give you my thanks. But I must ask one more thing of you. Something that can never be told, not to anyone, least of all to Yseult, though it is for her I ask. I need you to understand how secret this must be for now and always.”
The queen was taking me into her confidence! “If it is a help to Yseult, it is a help to me, Your Grace.”
Patting my cheek, she smiled. “Her very happiness—and yours—hangs on one simple act that only you can accomplish. Follow me.”
How little was I ever privy to secrets or conspiracy. From the miracle of the hound to the miracle of Palomides accepting my favor to the queen herself asking my help in an intrigue—as close as I’d ever stood to royalty, I’d not appreciated just how different their affairs were compared to those of us who served them.
And that the queen would trust me so. Heady with all that had already transpired this night, I allowed myself to speculate even more miracles. That Palomides would fulfill his vows and name himself a landed noble’s son. That he would find me in the dark halls of a Cornish castle and take me to be the lady of his house and lands.
It was a night when nothing was impossible.
Perhaps even now the queen led to a secret chamber where an emissary from Cornwall would tell us King Mark had reconsidered and peace could now be had without Yseult’s hand.
Instead, she led me down the stairs to the chamber beneath the kitchens where the root vegetables were stored alongside the chirurgeon’s shelved medicants and herbs drying from the rafters. I blinked, taking the steps carefully in the candlelit dark.
Perhaps yet there would be a secret door.
There was, though not quite as I envisioned it. Along one wall, above sacks of onions, the queen moved a latch behind a shelf topped with vessels filled with dried spices. At her touch, the shelf swung out on a hidden hinge. The compartment behind was nothing more than a disappointing hole in the earth, and the flagon the queen pulled from it just a simple jar of clay.
“Brangien,” the queen said earnestly, holding out the flagon. “hope and happiness are here for Yseult. Her heart yearns for love, for the intoxication of youth and beauty, for the arms of champions like Palomides and Drustan. Not for the lusts of an aging king. We cannot change Fate, but we can make Her will more palatable. We can force Yseult’s heart to love her new husband and make her blind to all others. We can take away her grief and turmoil and plant happiness and contentment in their place. We can give her a life of warmth and joy where she thought to find only cold and sorrow. We can do this with your help.”
“We can?” I echoed, trying to wrap my thoughts around the promises the queen seemed to think so possible.
“In that flagon I’ve place a potion. A powerful aphrodisiac—”
“A love spell?”
“On sight of each other the two who drink from it will be enamored for life. Cleaved as one with thought for no other.”
“She would never know?”
“She must not if we’re to turn sacrifice to joy.”
“You would deceive your own child?” Immediately I cringed, regretting the words, fearing the punishment that must come from such an unthinking accusation.
The queen merely smiled, a cold and grim expression of determination. “To ensure her happiness, I would deceive the world. Would your mother not have done the same for you?”
That was the difference between royalty and serf. What a queen wished, a queen could make happen.
“What am I to do?”
“On their wedding night, pour them each a glass. Tell them it is a rare and sweet ambrosia, a gift from a mother who wishes them true happiness.”
I nodded. “There’s no lie in that, is there?”
“I think you’ll find truth is often the best deception.”
I cradled the love potion in my arms.
The queen slipped off a bracelet and handed it to me. “For keeping it safe till then.” Another bracelet, crusted with more jewels than I’d ever held at once, followed. “For your service.”
I stared at the wondrous flagon. “For Yseult.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
YSEULT
I woke on Thursday torn between the shame that had kept me from prying eyes these many days past and the need for the distraction the tourney heralded. Duty to attend resolved me, as did the promise of seeing Sir Palomides compete. Whitehaven was the House of fifty competent knights, each known to me. Yet while I trusted our peace to them, there was not one among the lot who would take a prize today, tomorrow or the next.
I felt no betrayal toward the knights of Whitehaven in hoping Des would acquit himself well. Or in being pleased he would wear Brangien’s favor.
The general excitement of the list fields when I made my way to them mid-morning with Brangien at my side won me over even before we had seated ourselves at the edge of the jousting field. The gaily colored pavilions soon filled with spectators from across the islands. I spent a few minutes identifying each House that had come before Mother and Father arrived together to signal the start of the competition.
A good thirty of our House sat beneath our pavilion, but of one lusty harper there was no sign. “Have you seen Drustan?” I asked Brangien, though why I bothered… Her eyes were too busy waiting on the jousting to start and Des to arrive. I craned my head about, but still no Drustan, though Father tried to catch my eye. To gauge if I had made amends, I was sure. I acknowledged him with a nod but I was not yet prepared to offer him a smile. His own smile faltered as he turned quickly away, pretending other business at hand. Mother’s weak smile, though, I did return before again taking up my quest to find my harper.
“Look!” Brangien tugged at my arm, pointing excitedly to where the combatants were entering the lists.
Close to a hundred knights I guessed lined themselves fifty to a side with squires to arm them and stablehands to keep the nervous stallions calm.
In the center of the jousting field, a herald appeared to read the names of the first pairs of challengers and their order. As each pair was called, those knights acknowledged the crowd, shaking fist or sword or spear as their Houses cheered them on.
Disappointingly, many of the great names were missing from the roster: King Arthur, Lancelot, Bors and others simply had business elsewhere. Some of the missing, like The Morholt, reminded us how short many a knight’s life would be. Others, like Tristan of Cornwall, recalled the bitter wars these island clans still fought. The Orkney brothers were here, though, and the cheers at their names came from more than just King Lot’s pavilion. The four brothers, each as impressive as the next, were great favorites in the absence of their better rivals.
“Sir Hector de Maris,” the herald announced midway through his list, “against Sir Palomides, errant, but claiming Whitehaven for his House.”
Des stepped forward, resplendent in his plain white surcoat and shining blank shield. When he lifted his lance in salute, Brangien’s favor fluttered from the vamplate. None cheered him so loudly as she, though I did my best despite the stern frowns it earned me from my parents.
After that, I waited politely through
the rest of the names, till the pair third from the last was announced. “Sir Griflet of Gorre, against Sir Drustan of Lyonesse, fighting for Whitehaven.”
I blinked, certain the name was only coincidence. But when the challengers stepped forward, I recognized that breadth of shoulder immediately. Like Des, he wore a plain surcoat, though his was black over borrowed armor, and he carried the same blank shield.
Brangien tugged again at my arm, this time in astonishment. “Do you see?” She pointed needlessly. “It’s your harper! Is he really a knight?”
Belatedly I found my voice to cheer him.
Father beckoned to me from his seat. This time I couldn’t pretend not seeing and, though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I hurried to his side.
“What do you know of this? Who is he in truth?”
I shook my head. “I thought he was a harper.”
Mother added her silent frown of disbelief.
“Arrogant at times, maybe. A bit above his rank, taking liberties beyond his station. Harmless ones,” I added hurriedly. “I put it down to differences of customs between the Houses.”
“He never told you where he came from or what his true station was?”
Again I shook my head. Suspicion that he was more than he’d said he was had always gnawed at me, but nothing he’d ever confided to me had confirmed it.
Father’s hard gaze softened, apparently satisfied I told him nothing but the truth. I prayed he would dismiss me then, but instead, he said, “Yseult, about Mark—”
I cut him off. “I am prepared to go to him on Monday. Is there something more, Your Grace?”
For a moment, he looked genuinely upset, then the next he was king again. “No. Nothing. Go. Enjoy the tournament.”
I curtsied, more out of habit than need, and fled back to Brangien.
It was an hour and a half before Des was called to the field. There were two lists to speed up the games, one pair of knights challenging each other on one while the pair on the other picked themselves, their armor and their weapons up from the dirt and led their horses back to the sidelines.
Des and Hector wound up on the nearer list. When Des rode out, white surcoat against white horse, blazing together like a small sun on the open field, and dipped his lance in courtesy toward Brangien, she nearly swooned against me. His gaze, though, never fell on her. It was all and solely for me.
Two passes only and his bout was done. The first pass a pas d’armes to test one another and show off their skills—and by the collective feminine gasp when he lifted his helm in courtesy after, it was clear his most obvious skills had not gone unnoticed. The second pass was all business. Calannog thundered down the field, barely breaking stride as he took the impact of Des’ lance striking Sir Hector full on and tipping him from the saddle. Just that quickly and it was done. Along with Brangien and myself, Des’ newest supporters cheered him from the pavilions.
We waited another hour for Drustan’s bout, and as he was readying himself with only the help of our horse master, I realized what vital piece was missing from the borrowed armor that fit him so ill. Unlike Brangien, I had not spent hours embroidering a gay ribbon to adorn a lance, but I did wear a necklace with a precious opal.
“Unclasp it. Quickly,” I bade Brangien, lifting my hair away. And as Drustan trotted on the field, I stepped outside the pavilion and beckoned to him. He could not have missed me. Like Des, he’d sought me out before even acknowledging his challenger.
When he dipped his lance to me, his eyes bright with anticipation, I slipped the necklace around its tip. As the lance lifted skyward, the chain fell smoothly down the long shaft until it caught on the vamplate. Drustan had to pull a glove from his hand to fasten the chain tight behind the guard where it wouldn’t be lost or damaged. Once done, he bowed his head in thanks before trotting back to the lists
Black surcoat on black horse, Drustan seemed to swallow the sun. In the first pas d’armes as the big courser responded effortlessly to Drustan’ subtle commands, it was clear he and the horse had spent long hours working together. Secreted off somewhere, I suspected. I wasn’t sure whether I felt thrilled or betrayed by that… by him.
When he easily unseated his challenger in the next run, I decided to feel thrilled.
From the field of one hundred knights, forty were passed on to the next round, narrowed then to sixteen, then, by late afternoon, to a final eight. As expected, the four Orkney brothers were among them. Of surprise to all, Des and Drustan stood among them too.
The far list was closed for these final bouts, the pairings decided by lot, though the brothers would not tilt against each other so long as there were challengers left to face them.
For the next hour, Brangien and I clung to one another as the final four pairs collided one after the other, Des defeating Gareth of Orkney and Drustan unhorsing Bors the Younger.
Only two Orkney brothers stood against them then. Gawain and Uwain, whose songs were known through the isles. Knights who’d fought at King Arthur’s side when the spirit stirred them. Seasoned knights who walked among the legends. To fall to knights such as they would be honor not shame.
I needn’t have worried so nor made apologies for Drustan and Des. Some days God favors even fools.
It took five passes and both men were reeling in their saddles from the battering blows to their shields, before Gawain went down beneath Des’ powerful thrusts.
It took four runs for Drustan to claim victory over Uwain.
Rumors that the Orkneys didn’t lose well seemed confirmed when Uwain led his mount from the list, protesting loudly to his brothers, “Did you not see my horse stumble there at the end, throwing my aim?”
“Poor horse,” Brangien whispered with a nudge and a giggle.
Now, though, as the shadows lengthened and the spectators closed around for the final bout, I saw what many of them would not. “Watch Drustan,” I told Brangien. “See how he’s carrying his lance? His shoulder’s not healed completely yet, and he’s not getting time to rest it now.”
Apparently I wasn’t the only one to notice. At the end of the list Drustan lifted his head in response to—
—a gesture from Des at the list’s opposite end.
They rode at an easy trot to the center of the field, contrasting one another like the knights on a chessboard. Des had established himself the White Knight of the game the day he first came to Whitehaven. I had to believe Drustan made a deliberate choice of black, two sides of the same coin. That his borrowed horse was black too, as rare a beast as Des’ white one, was likely lucky happenstance. Or perhaps Fate had lent a hand in its choosing.
What they argued on the field was for their ears alone. From where I sat, they both looked tired and exasperated. What they didn’t look was like two combatants eager to strike one another down.
That they had been training together was clear to me now. That they had become friends, even clearer.
After a few moments they touched lances—in respect or agreement, or both perhaps. Then they turned to Brangien and me. We were in shadow, they in the slanting sun. They couldn’t see us nor pick our small voices out from among the throng cheering for the start of the final round. They simply trusted we were there for them.
Sunlight caught the pendant that dangled bravely still from Drustan’ lance just as Brangien’s ribbon fluttered yet from Des’. Good omens both, but not enough to assuage the fear that had been collecting in me.
“I wish he didn’t have to win like this,” Brangien said.
Gripping her hand, I waited for the joust to begin.
They galloped full tilt at one another, their wise horses’ gaits straight and true. Lances couched, shields at the ready to absorb the bone-jarring blows. This was no pas d’armes to test their opponents. They already knew each other well.
As they closed, Brangien gasped, my own involuntary strangle echoing hers, waiting for the crash of giants sure to come.
At full tilt they galloped past each other.
/> By each other… lances never connecting.
Drustan hauled his horse to a halt. Startled, confused, the beast nearly sat on its haunches. Deliberately, Drustan slid from the saddle.
Smoothly circling Calannog, Des, in one fluid motion, hung his shield to his saddle, leaned over and caught the reins of Drustan’s steed before it could panic.
Then Drustan dipped his lance to Des, conceding the victory to him.
I almost feared Brangien would rent my hand off in her excitement. In our pavilion, where many of the knights had seen Drustan’s wound when he’d first come to us, there were nods and agreement that, “It’s a contest, not a battle.”
Such sentiment, however, wasn’t shared by all, especially the Orkney camp who bit their thumbs at Tris and Des in contempt.
For my part, the good sense and easy friendship that act demonstrated only amplified the adoration I’d developed for these two knight who continued to deliver surprise upon surprise. I could almost wish they had been fools instead of the men they were.
Fools, at least, would never break my heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY
YSEULT
Save for the brief showers that plagued the day, Friday’s contest at swords proved in almost every way equal to Thursday’s jousts. This tourney belonged, to no one’s great surprise, to the Orkney brothers and, to the surprise of all, to Drustan and Des.
Brangien brought another embroidered ribbon and I another jeweled pendant.
I glanced at her ribbon in sympathy. Not because it wasn’t a worthy favor—its fashioning was as exquisite as the last and no token would be gifted in any more heartfelt manner.
“Brangien—”
“I know. You want Des to carry your favor today. Perhaps Drustan will carry mine if no other lady has the courage to ask. Unless, of course, he’s already asked another himself.”
“Aside from the queen, I’ve not seen Drustan express an interest in anyone else in the court. Or Des either.”
Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) Page 8