The Witch Queen's Secret

“Elliott brings the Arthurian world
to rich life, creating a Britain both familiar and distinctly alien
to fans of medieval romances.”

—
Publishers
Weekly

“Passion, conflict, danger and magic
combine for an irresistible love story that will keep you turning
the pages!”

—
Michelle Moran, author of
Nefertiti
&
Cleopatra’s
Daughter

“… unique and delightful … filled
with passion, courage, and timeless magic.”

—
Library
Journal

“… reinvigorates the celebrated
romance between Trystan and Isolde … Fans of the many Arthurian
cycles will relish this appropriately fantastical offshoot of the
Arthurian legend.”

—
Booklist

“Strongly recommended.” (Editors’
Choice Review)

—
Historical Novels
Review

“… a worthy addition to the
Arthurian and Trystan and Isolde cycles, weaving their stories
together with Isolde’s personal one. This Isolde steps out from
myth to become a living, breathing woman and one whose journey is
heroic.”

—
Margaret George, author of
Helen of Troy

“Our heroine has the spunk of a
woman of our era, and this Isolde is one we can all admire and
aspire to.”

—
Anne Easter Smith, author of
The King’s Grace
and
Daughter of York

* * * * *

A story of TRYSTAN AND ISOLDE

from the TWILIGHT OF AVALON universe

by

Anna Elliott

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

The Witch Queen’s Secret

Copyright © 2010 by Anna Elliott

All rights reserved.

If you enjoy this book, please return to
Smashwords.com to discover other works by Anna Elliott, or look for
her paperbacks and e-books available from Simon & Schuster’s
Touchstone imprint. Thank you for your support!

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Please report errors to Anna Elliott at
[email protected] so that they can be corrected in future
versions. Anna would also love to hear your comments.

* * * * *

AS AN AUTHOR, I fall in love with my
secondary characters, and often feel a bit guilty that their story
has to take a backseat to narrating my main characters’ journey.
Dera, the salty-tongued army harlot, was my favorite secondary
character in
Twilight of Avalon
, and she tugged on my
conscience all the time I was writing the next two books of the
trilogy. I couldn’t find a way to fit her into the story arc of
either
Dark Moon of Avalon
or
Sunrise of Avalon
—and
yet I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about her, wondering what
happened to her and her little boy Jory after we left them at the
end of Book 1. The story I imagined for her grew more and more real
in my head, until I just had to write it down.

So here is Dera’s story. Chronologically, it
takes place between
Twilight of Avalon
and
Dark Moon of
Avalon
. But it is self-contained; you don’t have to have read
any of the Trystan and Isolde books to understand
The Witch
Queen’s Secret
. Whether you know Dera already from
Twilight
of Avalon
or are completely new to the trilogy, I hope you’ll
come to care about her as much as I do, and I hope you’ll enjoy
watching Dera win the ending I always knew she deserved.

To learn more, visit me on the web at
www.annaelliottbooks.com
.
Happy reading!

* * * * *

* * * * *

K
NOWING THAT
YOU’D GOTTEN your own self into a mess wasn’t all that much
consolation when you were about to die.

Stop that.
Dera
made herself take a breath to quiet the drumming of her own heart
in her ears. It was pitch-dark here in the forest. So dark it felt
like dirt pressing against her face, and it didn’t matter whether
her eyes were open or closed, Dera couldn’t see a thing either way.
The spring thaw had come—but just now, you couldn’t prove it by
her. Her fingers felt cold enough that she’d not have been
surprised to hear them tinkle together like icicles when she moved.
And the night air felt like knives stabbing her in the
chest.

But she made herself draw another breath,
then another after that. She wasn’t going to die. Jory needed his
mam. And she needed to see her boy grow up.

The pounding of her heart kept on getting
mixed up with her thoughts, turning them into a tangled, soggy mess
like wet knitting yarn. But all right, she wasn’t going to die. It
might seem about as likely as having a chat with one of the dragons
that were supposed to live under the ground here—but she was going
to keep Britain’s army from falling to Lord Marche and his traitor
warriors tonight. Then she was going to get back to Jory and find a
way to have a real, proper home for him. Somewhere with real
beds—or at least pallets out of the rain—where she wouldn’t have to
sell herself to soldiers so they could eat. Someplace where she
could plant seeds for a garden, and Jory could have a dog. A boy
should have a dog of his own.

Maybe she’d even learn how to cook. Miracles
happened—wasn’t that what the Christ-God’s followers were always
saying?

Somewhere in the trees above her head, an owl
called.

Lady Isolde would look after Jory if Dera
didn’t make it back to Dinas Emrys alive. Lady Isolde would love
him, keep him safe—let him play with that big dog of hers as much
as he liked. Assuming Dinas Emrys wasn’t burned to the ground, and
Lady Isolde and Jory both lived through the—

Stop it.
Dark or
no, Dera squeezed her eyes tight shut and dug her nails hard into
the palms for good measure. The only sounds were the rustles and
creak of the winter-chilled branches in the night
breeze.

Think of a joke. That was what her own mam
had always said, when they’d been thrown out of another tavern or
there wasn’t enough food to eat. You can’t laugh and worry at the
same time.

The only
joke she could remember now, though, was Cade grinning up at her
from his pallet on Lady Isolde’s infirmary floor and saying, when
she asked him how his head felt, “Pretty well. There’s supposed to
be two of you, sort of shimmering round the edges,
isn’t that right?”

Which made her smile, but it also hurt her
chest even more than breathing in breath after breath of freezing
air.

She’d hours since this made herself stop
picturing Jory—imagining him asleep now in Lady Isolde’s workroom,
flopped over on his belly like usual, with his eyes screwed up
tight shut. Picturing how, if she were there with him—the way she’d
been every night since he’d been born—she could bury her face
against the soft crease at the back of his neck and feel his body
rise and fall as he breathed.

But now, however hard she tried, she couldn’t
make herself stop seeing Cade: his dark hair and eyes, his firm
chin and square brow, and the mouth that always wanted to quirk up
into a smile even when he was in pain.

Not that she’d any idea whether he would—or
could—bring her any closer to giving Jory a proper home. Likely
not; he was a fighting man, following High King Madoc’s army all
the year round.

All the same, if she did somehow come through
tonight alive, she had a feeling she might see something about Cade
that would make this all worthwhile.

Worthwhile even apart from saving Britain’s
armies, that was.

Dera
opened her eyes, breathing the chill air, trying not to let leaves
rustle under her feet. She couldn’t stop thinking, though. Not
about Cade—or at least, not just about him—but about how it was
she’d gotten herself here. From bedding soldiers for pay to spying
on behalf of the High King
, in less than a month’s time.

Dera shifted position—slowly, slowly, so she
wouldn’t make any noise—to lean against a prickly-barked fir tree
trunk and let herself remember. Until Lord Marche and the rest of
his traitor warriors arrived, it wasn’t like she’d anything better
to do.

Three weeks earlier …

“
UP,
MAMA! Want up up up now!” Jory’s lip was quivering in the way that
meant the words would soon be turning into tears. Which would turn
into screams before you could turn around three times.

Dera gritted her teeth against the aching
stab that shot through her ribs and bent to pick him up. “I’m
sorry, my lady. He’s just—”

But
the
Lady Isolde of
Camelerd, widow to the High King Constantine, was there before her,
scooping Jory up into her arms and tickling him.

Dera watched Jory’s sulky face break into
laughter and thought there had to be something wrong with her.
She’d die for her boy, no question—she didn’t even have to think
about that. But why was it dying for him sounded a lot easier some
days than listening to him whine for one single moment more?

Now, though, listening to the way his breath
wheezed even when he laughed, and looking at the purplish gray
shadows under his eyes, Dera’s heart felt squeezed tight in her
chest.

She’d
never been much of a one for praying, but watching Jory laugh she
thought,
Just
let him get better. Please, I’ll—

What? Let
Jory get better and she’d what? Drop some coins or a piece of
jewelry in one of the tithe boxes at a church? Fat chance on her
ever having more than she and Jory needed just to buy bread for the
day. Stop bedding the soldiers in the King’s army
—like the nuns at the last holy house
they’d begged shelter at had told her she ought? Take that advice
and she’d not even have enough for her and Jory’s bread.

It wasn’t all that many men who were willing
to take the chance on lying with a woman who’d a great purple
birthmark all across one side of her face—the kind that marked
someone out for an unlucky life. Especially not these days.

The
Lady Isolde
was talking to Jory. She had a pretty voice—clear and sweet
sounding—and Jory was listening to her with eyes as big as soup
bowls while she talked. Did he like dogs? She’d a dog who was
terribly lonely for some company. She was busy with wounded
soldiers all day long. Would Jory play with Cabal for a
while?

They were in the infirmary, crowded rows of
sick and injured men lying on beds of straw and the smell of blood
and piss and smoke from the fire thick in the air. But there was a
clear space in one corner of the room, and the Lady Isolde got Jory
set up there with the big brown and white war dog who’d been asleep
by the hearth, and a ball made of tied up rags. Jory was tossing
the ball to the dog and clapping his hands before Dera had even got
her wits together to say, “That’s very kind of you, my lady. He’s a
good lad. It’s just we’ve been on the road walking since dawn and
he’s tired and—”

She could
feel a whine pushing it
s
way up her throat, wanting to creep into her words, and she clamped
her jaw shut. Not that she was above begging now and again if it
got her and Jory a meal or a roof over their heads for a night or
two. But three months ago, the Lady Isolde had risked her own life
just to save Dera, a common army whore. And Dera still didn’t know
why.

“
And
hungry,” Lady Isolde finished for her. “Both of you are. I’ll get
you food and something to drink in a moment. But first”—her eyes
swept over Dera— “you’re injured, aren’t you?”

She didn’t look much like a fine lady.
Certainly not like a lady who’d been High Queen until a few short
months ago. Or a lady with the power of magic about her—which she
was, if all the stories about her could be believed.

Not that
Dera had seen many fine ladies for herself. Or magic, for that
matter. But the queens in
bards’ songs wore fur-trimmed clothes and fairly dripped
with jewels. The Lady Isolde’s dress was common blue wool, pinned
at the shoulders with plain bronze pins. And she must have had a
badly wounded man come in today, because the front of her skirt was
all spattered with blood.