Chapter One
Was he the only one aboard who had heard the Siren’s song before the galley struck the Land’s End shoals? Something nudged him hard, buoying him toward shore, and Garlon Trivelyan, Knight of the Realm, hauled himself up out of the creaming surf and collapsed in the strand, coughing up what seemed like troughs of seawater. Drifting mist caressed him, like hundreds of probing fingers, groping, stroking—covering him like a blanket.
Oddly warmed, he finally struggled to his feet and staggered like a blind man into the wraith-like whiteness that all but hid the full Yuletide moon from view.
Glancing down, he noticed his arm was bleeding. The wound was deep. His blood trickled from a wound, black in the moonlight, running in rivulets over the hammered metal vambrace that covered from wrist to halfway up his lower arm. The liquid coiled like a snake around it before dripping onto the freshly fallen snow. Tearing a piece of homespun from the hem of his tunic, he cinched it tightly about the wound with the aid of his teeth, before staggering on.
The mist had become thick, impenetrable. He was having trouble remembering what had happened. There was a storm, and blowing snow. Then lightning flashing across the inky skies. Lightning and snow? He recalled the captain crossing himself and whispering a prayer, saying evil stalked the seas this night. He remembered a huge cracking sound, like the mast breaking, and suddenly, he was in the water. Water so cold it robbed his breath. He recalled sinking because of the weight of his armor, knowing his life was ebbing away. Blackness, numbing blackness had filled his mind.
He hadn’t even uttered a prayer, begging forgiveness for the sins of his life.
Now, the storm had run the ship aground. It seemed to have vanished. It was warm here, not bitter cold as it had been when the cruel December sea had spat him out upon these shores. Could he have crossed over into the Celts’ Otherworld? He had heard tales of seafarers lured to a shipwreck in Cornish waters.
Why hadn’t he died? Or, mayhap, he was dead and this was what they called Hell. He was no saint, so he would find no welcome in God’s realm.
So dense was the warm mist that he failed to see the well until he’d run right into it, a low round affair. A gurgling spring edged with stacked stones, rising from a whitethorn grove, the leafless branches of the trees fluttered with bits of colored cloth. Behind it was a deep spring.
A Clootie Well? Celts spake these wells were the domain of a goddess, who commanded the waters, imbuing them with magical properties. According to myth, if one was in need of a dream fulfilled, you dipped a bit of cloth into the healing waters and then tied it to one of the trees that lined the edge of the pool. Legend said with proper tribute and incantation, the dream, or wish, or petition requested, would be granted.
Garlon had never believed in such nonsense. He was a knight, a soldier born to fight and kill. He never before had such need of children’s nonsense. But he did need to cleanse his arm, make sure the wound was pure. Infection would set in quickly if debris infesting the open skin was not purged. The blood continued to seep through the torn shirt, the arm growing so numb that he only had used of his one hand to try and treat the gash. He released the material tied tight to slow the bleeding. As soon as it was off, the blood began to flow faster. Light-headed, his movements were slowing. Each drop of blood that hit the ground put him one step closer to death. He bent down on one knee and dipped the torn material into the black water, and used it to carry the liquid to the arm.
The bleeding did not stop. But then, he truly hadn’t expected a miracle from some goddess in the well. Life was never that simple for him. Laughing, he tied the cloth to the low hanging branch. He collapsed to the bank, thinking himself mad. He looked at his left arm, knowing his life’s blood was pouring from him. So strange to survive the shipwreck only to die here.
“I feel my life is not over. Please allow me to live,” he spoke to the mirrored water. His blood, drop by drop, fell into the pool.
He thought back, trying to recall what day it was. Surely, it must be near Yule. A time of the shortest night. A time for miracles? He would need one if he were to see the light of the new day.
“Oh, I forgot.” He reached for the gold ring on the first finger of his left hand. Pulling off the sigil, he tossed it into the pool. “There, Lady of the Well. My Yuletide tribute.”
• ♥ •
He must have slept, dreamt…that, or he had died. But it only seemed a blink since he had tossed his ring into the pool. A noise, a gurgling, caused him to open his eyes. The sounds came from the water. It had begun to roil and bubble up, spitting over the edge. Garlon started to jump to his feet, but the pain from his arm lanced through his whole body, crippling his strength.
All he could do was watch as the water seemed to roll to each side, and in the midst of the foam, a naked woman broke the surface. Slowly rising from the water, she walked forward, his gold ring resting on the center of her palm.
She was without blemish, her skin like alabaster perfection. Her hair, a cascade of silken waves the color of copper burnished by the sun, fell past her hips. His wound forgotten, Garlon could not take his eyes from her as she stepped from the pool.
“What sorcery is this?” he asked in awe.
Kneeling beside him, she placed a hand over his heart. “I come to grant your wish, Sir Knight.”
“I spake no incantation.”
She offered him a faint smile. “None was needed. You asked for your life to be spared, that you are not ready to die. Your wish is granted, Sir Knight,” she murmured, running her hand lightly over his arm. “Your wound is healed.”
“I...I...” Garlon could scarcely form words. “Who are you?”
“You may call me Analee. You called upon the goddess Annis, and I answered. I am the handmaiden of this well.”
Suddenly, the pain in his arm ceased. Mayhap he was dreaming?
“If the full moon waxes at Yuletide, I am permitted to rise from the pool and take a lover—if he pays the proper tribute. You gifted me with a sigil ring of gold. I accept this.”
Surely, this was naught but a night visitation. Or he had died in the wreck, and this was his torment. She leaned to him and brushed her cool lips across his. Strangely, it didn’t feel like a dream. He could taste the moisture from her mouth. He hungered for more, desire suddenly roaring through his blood with fire.
“Have I died, then?” he finally asked.
“Nay, I have healed your arm. You shall live Garlon Trivelyan,” she said
“How do you know my name?”
“I know much, Knight of the Realm,” she returned. “I have healed you, saved your life. I have chosen you. Only, you must come to me of your free will. I will not compel you to be my lover.”
Overhead, the Yuletide moon peeked out from behind the clouds, the silvery beams almost clinging to her womanly perfection.
As dreams went, this one was surely born of his deepest desires. Never had he seen a woman so beautiful.
“Arise, Sir Knight,” she said, holding out her hand to him.