Chapter 51
Fifty-One
On the first night of November, on the coast of Cornwall, a woman feigned a headache and went to bed early. Alone in her chambers, she donned a wool cloak and a long dark wimple. She kissed her emerald ring and whispered a prayer to her mother. Then she slipped to the stables, entirely unnoticed.
She saddled a horse and rode through the moorlands. A low moon illuminated the long road to Camelot. Her name, Isolde, meant “one who was gazed at,” but it also connoted iron and battle and ice.
She had never been to Camelot, but she knew she’d find the way. Her lover Tristan’s life depended on it.
She would find King Arthur. She would warn him. He needed to activate his forces immediately.
For the sake of Tristan, for the sake of the old ways, for the sake of her mother, Lotta, and the sisterhood, she prayed that Arthur would listen.
Mother, help me, she whispered, clutching her emerald ring. Help me before it’s too late.