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renew his vows?”
    “I have tried.”
    “Then try again, my son. A child is all we seek.”
    A child of Mark and Isolde?
    Dominian closed his eyes as the force of the idea took root. A child, yes! For years he had been too weak with Mark, infected by the King’s own weakness and lack of faith. But this could be the new opening he sought. And if it was God’s will, both King and Queen must submit.
    Yes, yes . . .
    Dominian’s heart swelled. Step-by-step he traced his way through the task ahead. First he would have to bring Mark to the sticking point, either to master his wife or to cast her aside. And then, alas, Isolde would have to learn that sex and childbirth tamed any woman, even her. What was marriage ordained for, after all, but as an instrument of God to keep women in their place?
    And once Isolde was broken, the Mother-right would soon be gone . . .
    A pageant of glory passed before Dominian’s eyes. He saw sturdy churches rising in every town and mighty cathedrals proclaiming the faith of Rome. Crosses would crown every building in the land and mark the humblest grave. Christianity would be taught in every school and enforced on every child. Women would be stripped of thigh-freedom, and men would be given God’s power and the use of the whip. Avalon would be no more, and neither man nor woman would know the Great Goddess or even remember her name.
    Now God be praised! Dominian sighed with delight as fierce visions of conquest and power inflamed his mind. Then we shall once again be pleasing to Rome. The Holy Father himself will call me to his side. Our faith will take over the world when the these pagans are gone. I see it all, once Cornwall is in my grasp. And Cornwall will be mine when Isolde is no more.
    “Magnus Dominus,
great and mighty is Our God—”
    Jerome launched again on his thin, high cricket’s chant, his ancient countenance transfigured with bliss. Dominian gazed at him with adoration, feeling a new sense of purpose flooding his veins. He clutched the old man’s hand, weeping with joy, murmuring the prayer of thanksgiving Jerome had taught him long ago. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
    And this he knew to be true.
    For Dominian had once again seen the face of God.

chapter 5

    S o the King’s loyal barons had asked Mark to name his heir? And they’d made their choice, Tristan was their man?
    Trembling, Sir Andred hurried through the court. They had turned against him, then, and rejected him as the next in line? Well, they would pay the price. Of course, when he had them writhing at the end of his sword, they’d all protest that they only wanted the best for the country, the people, what you will. But he’d hang the whole pack of them when he was king.
    All except Nabon. Andred paused to relish the prospect. That old fox he’d take care of himself. How would it be? Would he slowly slit Nabon’s windpipe or sink a sword and twist it in his guts? As long as he could enjoy the terror in the old man’s bursting eyes and catch the last rattle of breath in his dying throat, he did not care. Then he’d hang Nabon’s head on the highest battlement, as a warning to others that he would not be defied.
    Yes, he would have his revenge. But it would not wipe out this insult to his pride. That ever the barons would choose Tristan over him . . . A murderous rage swept through Andred’s soul. He bunched his fists. What in the world should he do?
    He dragged an angry breath into his lungs, oblivious to the gentle, rain-laden spring air. Darkness and devils, if only Elva were here! Andred’s mind turned hungrily toward his longtime love, the tall, vibrant woman who years ago had thrown her lot in with him. He’d been so sure of her love then that he’d persuaded her to make advances to the King. If Elva could capture the heart of the love-starved Mark, he had urged her, then between them they’d have the whole country in their power.
    Well, the