Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) (15 page)

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.

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.

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 the 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.

Yseult trembled in the sea chill. When I laid the harp aside and sat beside her hip-to-hip she didn’t protest. “Share my cloak,” I offered, draping half of it across her shoulders.

Beneath the cover of the cloak she half-leaned against me, decorum and duty staying her from more. She continued to tremble, but this time I knew it wasn’t from the sea breeze.

“Another day, another lifetime,” I murmured.

“Twenty years I’ve gone without someone I could think of a future of long starry nights with. Now within twenty days there are three someones who vie for my heart. And the one I would have least is the one who I must choose.”

She sounded so very sad. And for all the skills I had, offering her chaste comfort was not among them. Yet I would trade all I owned to give her one moment more of happiness.

On the deck ladder I saw Brangien’s wide and pretty eyes appear, peeping at us in the closing darkness. There for only a moment, then gone again, ducking away in tacit approval.

Later, as we sat there still under the shelter of a single cloak, Des came up the same ladder from below. His eyes dazzled in the flamelight of the lantern he carried, its same soft light picking out the deepening frown that angered his face on seeing us.

With effort, he schooled away the anger as he approached, looking merely disappointed. But he could not banish that pain so easily and it seethed just out of sight like a dangerous volcano.

I could feel his displeasure, tense and palpable, yet I ceded not a fingerwidth of space between Yseult and I.

“Feeling better?” Yseult asked as he slumped onto the bench beneath the rail across from us.

“I was,” Des grumped.

I would have smiled and taken his answer for a quip but for the ominous undertone to it.

“Des, I—” Whatever else Yseult would have said was lost to the arrival of Brangien—who must have been watching for Des—and two boatswains carrying up our supper.

The swains laid out baskets of warmed meats and a pot of mashed vegetables heavily seasoned to counter the otherwise dubious taste. Decidedly less comfortable with strangers—especially nobles—than cargo, the swains bowed hastily after setting the meal out and fled back below deck.

Brangien handed us each a cup, then, after a moment’s hesitation when she looked to Des and seemed to draw strength from his sullen displeasure as he continued to glower at me, she uncorked the flagon she’d brought up.

“Queen Isolde sends her thanks for escorting her daughter to Tintagel. She prepared this drink herself from flowers from my Lady’s courtyard, wild grasses from the Irish hills and bluebells from the glen where the Gabriel Hound came to us. There is, she told me, no equal to it in the world. She prayed me serve it this evening in celebration.”

Yseult smiled warmly. “Mother’s talent with herbs and flowers far exceeds mine. I can think of no better farewell from her.”

With great care, Brangien poured our cups, taking one for herself as well as she sat beside Des. “First cup in toast,” she said, and none gainsaid her for she’d had her instructions direct from the queen.

“To Queen Isolde!” Yseult said, and we drank to the fine and gentle queen who’d made such an exquisite gift.

“Des!” I heard the urgent tone in Brangien’s voice right after as she sought for his attention. My own eyes were filled with Yseult as I tipped back my cup. And over the brim of hers, Yseult’s eyes sought mine.

“To Lady Yseult—and a happy life!” I toasted next.

“To Fate’s whims being always in alignment with our hopes!” We drank to Des’ words.

“To us.” Brangien’s broken whisper was more plea than toast but of course we drank anyway, the honey liquor tasting of all that was good and sweet in life, intoxicating us with its hints of memories and… love.

At once, Brangien refilled our cups. “Another round,” she pled. And though she should have been filling our trenchers first, we didn’t complain when she sat again by Des.

“To us!” Yseult cried, and we drank.

“To us!” I toasted, and we drank.

“To…”—had not Des’ eyes sparkled so by candlelight, I would not have noticed how they narrowed as he hesitated—“… the Gabriel Hound,” he said at last, and we drank.

“To us!” Brangien repeated, more forcefully this time, as if it were a command. We drank.

And Brangien refilled our cups a third time.

Only this time there were no spoken toasts. I found myself drunk in Yseult’s eyes. Beyond the sweet potion that craved to be quaffed, my world narrowed to a single point on which time and life itself revolved: Yseult. In haste, I downed Isolde’s wine to its last dregs and threw the cup aside. My Yseult was not near so fast as I. Panting, I stroked her pale, golden hair with one hand and helped tip her cup with my impatient other.

Her eyes, riveted to mine, burned with passion, branding my soul. When she dropped her cup at last, her lips, moist, stayed parted in invitation. I crushed mine to hers, sucking every last taste of Isolde’s wine from them. When she responded in kind, I took further license, plunging my tongue in to the sweet hollow of her, pulling her into me, my body responding to her as would any man’s.

I expected rebuke. Instead, she wrapped her arms about my neck and pressed me closer still. I heard her soft, quiet panting in my ear, smelled the heady mix of wine and lilacs that wafted off her. “Below deck,” she breathed.

I didn’t hesitate but swept her into my arms, her laugh of delight goading me to the ladder. Vaguely I knew that Des roared up from his bench and that Brangien threw herself before him. Des might have meant murder at that moment, but I didn’t—couldn’t—care. The only thing that mattered was Yseult.

The ladder, little more than knotted rope, meant we had to descend separately. I went first, turning when I reached the lower deck to grip Yseult’s hips, holding to them as I guided her down the ladder then to the tiny hold she and Brangien were sharing. Most of the cabin was taken up by a rope bed slung waist high from the rafters, a thin, straw-stuffed mattress the only concession to Yseult’s sex and station. A boatswain, or maybe Brangien earlier, had already lit a lantern.