The Queen of Candelore: The Queen of Candelor Series, #1

By JoEllen Conger

Princess Gwyndalin Victoria Alexander, finds herself shipwrecked on a lonely island at the beginning of her voyage to Cornrow, where she is to be wed to King Anthony. She realizes she must survive until she can be rescued. Prince Laurance del Mar is selected by Brightland's Head Druid to Companion the future high queen. When Laurance and the king's messenger travel to Kamlaird to escort the princess to Cornrow, they discover her missing. However, Laurance knows where the lost princess can be found. And find her he does. King Anthony of Cornrow, seventeen years older than Gwyndalin demands that she convert to Christianity, so he may become the Darkdragon of Brightland, but she pleads with him to retain their Pagan ways. Years later, the queen learns that somewhere her and Laurance's love child still lives. But where?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590882382

Book preview

Dedication

We would like to extend our deepest appreciation to each and everyone who believed in this project and helped to make it a reality.

You all know who you are. And Kathryn Lively, an outstanding editor.

One

Shipwrecked

Kicking and clawing , Princess Gwyndalin Victoria Alexander screamed when the captain pitched her over the rail into the turbulent sea. The thrashing waves reached for her, their watery arms striving to clutch her in their deadly embrace. Gwyndalin could not gasp as the icy grip dragged her below the surface. Bubbles jettisoned from her open mouth, streaming upward.

Tons of stormy water closed above her head. The tempest grappled with the empty quarter-keg the captain had bound to her chest. The small brandy barrel surged upward under her chin, choking her. The rope stretched and sawed at her armpits. She managed to clutch the barrel’s rim and lever it downward, fearing it would break her neck. Her hysterical screams reverberated in her mind as she fought to survive... not truly believing she would.

The torsioned current dragged at her ankle-length skirt, sucking her toward the reef. She collided with the jagged coral ridge and her skirt caught. Salt stung her opened eyes. Her long, amber hair floated and tangled about her face, obscuring her view. With her high-topped boots kicking uselessly against the jagged stone that held her captive, Gwyndalin thrashed in desperation.

I’m going to die! Surely my lungs will explode.

Still trapped underwater, she could see the split and dying hull of the cargo sailing vessel being battered upon the jagged ridge. Precious moments passed before the fabric of her skirt finally tore free and the force of the storm-wracked sea swept her away in a matter of seconds. When she broke the surface she threw back her head, gasping for air. She could hear the screams of the crewmen.

From the deck, the captain shouted commands to deaf ears, while sailors still hesitated to jump into the raging sea. The storm shrieked in answer to their cries for help. Lightning pierced the night sky and struck the mast. The world exploded with thunder. The smell of ozone battled with the heavy iodine of the shredded kelp. The force of the wind gave no mercy. The last thing Gwyndalin remembered was watching the shattered mast pitching towards her, the tattered sails flapping and the writhing stays snapping as the mast fell.

WHEN GWYNDALIN WOKE, she lay face down over the barrel. The gulls watched her from a short distance, their sharp cries penetrating her consciousness. Instinct warned her gulls always went for the eyes, and that vivid picture in her mind empowered her as she pulled herself along the sand on her elbows, out of the lapping surf. She struggled to sit up.

Her tangled skirt was heavy with water so she undid the waist buttons and kicked it away. Next she fought the line that secured her to the empty keg that saved her life. The rays of the sun were so warm and comforting that she felt herself nodding, but the vision of the gulls was enough to keep her motivated.

Each time she rested only emboldened the gulls to draw closer to inspect her. Get away from me! she screamed and struggled up to swing her arms above her head. The startled gulls took flight, their cries of disappointment ringing in her head.

Fully awake, she took stock of her situation. Looking in both directions up and down the beach, Gwyndalin saw no one. She was the only person on the long expanse of white powdery sand. Her heart twisted with anxiety.

No, she scolded herself, the servants and the ship’s crew could be just down the beach. Surely everyone is safe. It is a modern ship, after all. The captain told her it had been built only two years ago, in 517.

With the barrel free, she shoved it aside and stood to survey the area. You’re all in one piece, Gwyndalin, she assured herself. They’ll find you. Don’t fret.

The voyage had been undertaken to deliver her and her sire’s tribute to Cornrow and her impending marriage with the aging King Anthony. Nothing bad could happen to her now. She was duty-bound to this arranged marriage.

On her fourteenth natal day she would become a married woman with responsibilities to the man destined to become High King Anthony Darkdragon of Brightland. I’ll be expected to run his household and all the servants. After all, this is what I’ve been trained for. I’ll be mistress of his castle and mother to his sons. She shivered just thinking about it, dreading the thought of childbearing.

She stood waiting. Still no one came.

The bow of the ship jetted upward from the ocean side of the reef. Small wavelets slapped and curled along the vessel’s sides. Goddess be, she whispered. It was hard to believe that during the night a wild storm had broken the ship like a toy. A storm that was nowhere in evidence this morning.

She dragged her sodden skirt up the beach to a group of mammoth rocks and spread it out to dry. Water oozed from its hem as she wrung it out. Grateful for her new high-buttoned boots, Gwyndalin climbed up on top of the boulders for a better view of the beach.

She looked first in one direction, cupping her hands against the reflected glare. Nothing. In the other direction she saw flotsam from the vessel scattered in the surf. Surely someone will come, she announced. Where in the world is everyone?

How will I function without my handmaiden? Without a manservant? They can’t just leave me here. I need a hat to ward off the sun. I need my hair washed and dressed. What I really need is a change of clothes. Again she studied the boxes still floating in the surf line.

Hello! she called. Nobody answered.

"Well, my girl, until someone does come along, mayhap you’d best go see what can be salvaged." She eased herself off the outcropping and hiked up the beach. She had to wade out into the water to retrieve the salvage, pulling it up onto the sand. Further on she rescued an orange and an apple from a tide pool. She scrubbed them clean against her petticoats and ate them both before she continued down the beach, poking here and there for whatever she might find. At this point, she had no idea what might come in handy. Not knowing why, she pulled a ragged piece of sail canvas back to her rocks and spread it out to dry.

Gwyndalin laughed. She had never envisioned herself as a castaway before now. Think of the adventure! she exclaimed as she twirled, her arms outstretched. Being a castaway...just think of the tales I’ll be able to tell at court.

Assuming I ever get back to court, she scolded herself.

There I go again, assuming the worst. This could be fun, she chided herself.

With all of her rescued flotsam piled neatly against the outcropping, Gwyndalin set off to explore. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and there was yet to be a breeze. Thirst finally introduced itself. What have we to drink? she asked herself. Even at thirteen she knew that fresh water was a must. She scanned farther down the beach with little hope of locating water.

Keep looking, Gwyndalin, she advised. Things could get pretty tough around here if you don’t find any...look over there. See those trees against the cliff?

Aye, I see them. Trees drink water, why not go and see? It couldn’t be more than a mile? She nodded at her own wisdom.

Finally reaching the strange trees, she mounted a tall sand dune and stood staring down into a crystal clear pool. A waterfall of sparking fresh water cascaded down the jungle cliff face. She held her breath. I’m truly in a magical garden! There are so many plants that I’ve never even seen before. Just look at that cascade. Well done, but is it drinkable? Gwyndalin slid down the inside of the dune, then stopped within the shade of a palm tree. She could already feel the sunburn glowing on her cheeks.

How can you tell if water is drinkable? she asked no one in particular. Not even her inner voice gave answer.

She approached the water’s edge and followed the shoreline back towards the steep cliff. She threw caution to the winds and waded out into the pool, testing the depth as she went.

You know you can’t swim. No point in drowning now.

She stood under the cascading water, allowing it to pour down her back, then turned up her face and drank. The cool water splashed over her face. Gwyndalin gave a deep sigh and began rinsing the sand from her long hair. Her petticoats and bodice plastered to her body as she worked the sand from her garments. When she felt clean again she stepped away from the falls and sat in the sun to dry herself. She fluffed her hair with her hands, dragging her fingers along its length.

Am I sharing this water with a bunch of animals? Well, probably.

On cue several parrots flew down to drink. Gwyndalin held still, not wanting to startle them. She marveled at their brilliant colors. Several small gray doves whistled down from the trees to join the parrots at the edge of the pool. Gwyndalin was delighted with their jerky little head motions. Whereas the parrots drank like chickens, lifting their heads for every drop, the doves squatted in the water and drank without raising their bills. It had never occurred to her to wonder that birds might have different methods of drinking.

Well, I best get back down to the beach and see if I can find something to carry water in.

Not a bad idea. She stood and shook the dried sand from her skirt. Hey, silly girl, you’ve got the brandy barrel. You could use that.

I remembered that, she retorted.

She eased back around the pool the way she came and suddenly noticed tiny handprints at the water’s edge. She stooped to examine them. Humm. She glanced about and pondered their existence. Animal, but what kind? I’ve never seen anything like it.

She found several other prints back toward the cliff. Gwyndalin looked up the cliff face but found nothing there. There was no question the creature came down that way.

So what walks on its hands and drinks water? she asked herself. With a shrug, Gwyndalin resumed her trek back on the beach. Her long tresses fluttered and tangled about her face in the freshening breeze. She finally captured her hair and held it down with one hand. This is going to be a nuisance.

Good observation.

She stopped with her back to the wind to tear off a piece from her undergarments. Then, facing the wind, she secured her long hair behind her neck. That’s better.

She continued down the beach to her selected mound of rocks against the bluff. She retrieved her skirt that had blown away, stepped into it, and pulled it up to minimize the wind that blew insistently through her petticoats.

Gwyndalin had to search for the piece of canvas. It had fluttered farther away downwind. Now that it was dry there was no problem carrying it back. With some well-placed stones she created a sunshade and installed herself inside its shelter. The unexpected warmth caused her to become drowsy, but she didn’t fight it. She closed her eyes and instantly fell asleep, feeling assured that soon someone would find her.

When she woke, the air had cooled. Feeling drugged from her nap, Gwyndalin sat up and stretched. The sun was sliding down toward the horizon, and the wind had changed angles. Small eddies of sand swirled around the base of the rocks, adding to a pile that was beginning to mound.

When she rose to stare seaward, there was nothing on the distant purple ocean except the lowering sun. Somehow, Gwyndalin had expected to see a ship coming to her rescue.

You’re a castaway. It’s only been a day. What kind of tale could I possibly tell with only one day gone? Still disappointed, she shrugged.

I didn’t have much breakfast, you know, she replied. Her stomach growled.

So, what am I going to eat? Surely not those nasty little periwinkle snails in the tide pools.

But what else is there? She brightened. Maybe I could spear fish.

That usually takes a spear, she reminded herself.

And I don’t have a spear.

That’s right.

Tomorrow I’ll take the keg down and fill it with water. Maybe there is something to eat down there.

But I doubt it. It isn’t going to be much of a story if I perish from hunger before I even start my adventure. That’s not fair.

Gwyndalin stared at the shipwreck. The possibility of getting out to it seemed inviting. It didn’t look all that far.

But I can’t swim. It might as well be on the other side of the world, she reminded herself.

It doesn’t look that far, she insisted with a stubborn twist to her lips. It looked like a storehouse of unobtainable booty now that she thought of it with a clearer mind.

The sun slipped into the ocean without fanfare. The wind renewed its efforts, blowing sand down the beach. Gwyndalin pulled the canvas down and wrapped it around herself against the cold blast.

What a change in temperature from noon to sunset, she mused. She slid a box around to the windward side of the rocks and made a nest for herself behind it. She could tell it was going to be a long, cold night. Tomorrow she would try to get things more organized while she awaited rescue.

SHIVERING, GWYNDALIN groaned when daylight finally lightened the sky. The adventure hadn’t gone at all well during the night she thought as she unfolded her stiff body and yawned. She stood and dropped the canvas to the sand, realizing it wouldn’t be long before she’d need it again for a sunshade.

Gwyndalin swung her arms to limber herself, noticing the sunrise was behind the ridge. It could be hours before she felt the sun’s warmth again.

Her stomach still growled. There would be no breakfast. If she were at home she would be in the kitchen overseeing the feeding of the field hands. She would have already eaten her bowl of cooked grain and might even have had a hot cup of mokacava with plenty of honey and a dash of cream.

Gwyndalin stamped her feet, feeling the cold in her toes like a shattering pain. She brushed sand off her soft leather hightops. The boots had been a special gift from her mother, Princess Lyndell of Haven, intended to last her a good long time. Now they were scuffed and water-stained.

A flutter of loneliness brushed her heart as she realized it could be a long time before she saw her mother again. Trying not to fret, she straightened and watched the bow of the shipwreck. The dawning sky brightened as she counted the intense blue and purple waves that raced up to the shore.

Well, don’t just stand here. Do something constructive, she suggested.

Like, find out where we are? Good idea. I don’t have to stay here and be miserable. I haven’t even looked. Maybe there is a farmhouse or a homestead nearby. I’ll climb the hill and have a look around. Could be that help is as near as just over the ridge.

What a numbskull. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? She studied the embankment behind her and picked the most likely route uphill. Pulling her skirts above her ankles, she scrambled up the hillside to the top of the first reed-covered dunes. The sunshine met her, and she gloried in its warmth.

When she finally reached the top of a rocky summit she was out of breath. She pulled her hair aside to cool her neck as her blue eyes scanned the empty horizon. There wasn’t a homestead or a barn to be seen. There were no fields of sheep, no herds of horses, no fence lines, no villages, no drifts of chimney smoke. She was truly alone.

Blessed be! she swore. A shiver ran the length of her spine. With cold realization she took a deep breath and scanned the vista once again to be certain. There was not a habitation in sight. The only thing she saw clearly was a line of jagged reefs that led away from the far coast.

Stunned, she sat with a thump. "I’m stranded on an island!"

Don’t panic, Gwyndalin Victoria Alexander.

Blinking back tears of disappointment, she carefully examined the terrain again. The island was about five miles long and a mile across in the center; the whole thing looked like a misshapened peanut.

Perspiration prickled her brow. I’m definitely on my own, she confirmed. Panic threatened her false peace of mind.

First off, I need to think about getting drinking water. Then I’ll worry about finding something to eat."

Gwyndalin nodded agreement then took a deep breath. It’s going to be up to me to stay alive ‘til someone comes. She knew that although she was only a daughter to Lesser King Leon Alexander of Kamlaird, she nevertheless was duty-bound to survive.

Suddenly, a new thought flashed through her mind. Until I’m rescued, I won’t have to marry that old man! Gwyndalin laughed. What a relief! Her heart sang. She hadn’t realized that given her own heart’s desire, she would much rather be wed to some handsome young prince than have to marry King Anthony, a man seventeen years her senior.

This could be fun. Like a child, she jumped up and raced down the hill with her arms outstretched like wings, catching the tips of the wild wheat shafts, stripping the seeds, and tossing them into the wind. All thoughts of duty to her realm were temporarily forgotten.

Back at the base of the hill, she tucked the quarter-keg under her arm and started off down the beach. The heels of her boots left new imprints as she strode upon the wet shore.

Small, long-legged birds ran in and out with the surf, feasting on small things in the churning sand. Their white underbellies reflected the color of the water and their legs flashed faster than her eyes could see, seeming to appear they ran without ever moving their feet. She laughed with delight as she watched them scurry in and out of the surf.

The gulls swept up off the beach in front of her, only to circle around and land again after she passed by them. Their plaintive cry didn’t seem nearly as threatening as it had the morning before.

Gwyndalin stopped to pull a small piece of brown kelp from a tidal pool. Putting it near her nose, she gave a sniff before popping it into her mouth. When she chewed, she was surprised it didn’t taste nearly as nasty as it smelled. Searching for another piece, she pulled it gently from the rocks. It joined the first piece in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed.

Not too bad. Beats having nothing. I should concentrate on getting the water. Obediently she lifted the keg and continued toward the far end of the strand, where she saw the vertical cliff at the end of the beach.

Gwyndalin was winded by the time she reached the grass-covered dunes. She set the keg down and sat on it while she caught her breath. When rested, she tossed it onto her shoulder like she had seen the sailors do and mounted the steep side of the sand dune. Sand sank beneath her boots and tugged at her ankles, but she plodded onward, head down.

She stood at the crest again, feasting her eyes on the shimmering surface of the pool. Mourning doves flitted among the large, bright flowers.

Tramping along the crest toward the falls with the keg still balanced on her shoulder, she heard frantic screams. She saw something thrash about in the water.

Oh no! It’s drowning! She tossed the keg aside and boldly jumped into the water, forgetting that she couldn’t swim. I’m coming, she shouted.

She struggled in the waist-high water, floundering toward the drowning creature until she managed to grab hold of its long tail. She eased it towards her, pulling it into her arms.

The bedraggled animal coughed and spluttered as Gwyndalin fought her way back to land. There she saw three other creatures leaping and jumping in hysterics. With good footing Gwyndalin held the creature upside down and patted it on its back. As it spluttered, the others fled into the jungle.

Are you going to be all right? she asked the small creature in her arms. When the animal finally quit coughing and looked up at her, Gwyndalin was awed by its striking turquoise eyes. Then she realized that this was no kitten, but an animal she had never seen before except in her study books. It had a dark muzzle and matching gloves, and its paws looked like hands. Its tail was quite long and dark, matching the eye patches and paws, but its body was a creamy buttermilk color. It definitely was not a cat.

Why... it’s a monkey, she exclaimed.

Their truce over, the wild animal struggled to escape. Gwyndalin set it carefully on the rocky edge of the pool. With frantic motions the creature disdainfully shook its wet feet, then its entire body. Water flew in every direction. Then it sat down and began licking its fur.

When the thrashing in the brush caught her attention, Gwyndalin looked up to see three pairs of turquoise eyes studying her. The tiny monkeys suddenly squealed in fright and scampered up the rocky face of the waterfall. The one at her feet uttered a startled cry and burst away to follow its littermates, leaving a dribbling trail in its wake.

After their departure, everything became still. Even the birds were silent. There wasn’t even any wind in the treetops to rattle the long saber blades of the palms.

Gwyndalin wrung the water from her petticoats. You’re welcome, she called with a laugh after the departing foursome.

Well, I know who my neighbors are.

They could have at least said thank you, Gwyndalin said, still looking in the direction of the creatures’ departure.

There’s no accounting for their manners, but at least the little handprints are no longer a mystery. I guess they’ll have a wild tale to tell about the giant that almost captured them. The very thought caused her to throw back her head and laugh.

Once filled, the small barrel was too heavy to carry, so Gwyndalin sat to give the problem consideration. While she tried to reason this through, she noticed the shattered pieces of a broken ball behind her. She examined one large shard; the outer shell was very hard, but the inside looked soft. With a stick she scooped out some of the inner pulp and cautiously tasted it. It tasted and smelled good, not like anything she had eaten before.

Not bad, she said as she scooped more of the creamy pudding out and stuffed it into her mouth.

So, Gwyndalin, where did this come from? Glancing about, she located its mates under the branches of a very tall palm tree. Humm. Must be what the little animals were doing here. I don’t think I could climb up there. I’d have to wait until one falls.

Very clever these monkeys. She scooped up another mouthful of the custard-looking material.

She finished half of the fruit and slipped the rest into her pocket, then washed her hands in the pool, splashing her lips clean. Now back to the problem of the keg, Gwyndalin asked herself, how am I getting this thing home?

It’s too heavy to carry the whole distance, and my back would kill me if I tried to roll it the entire distance. She studied the puzzle, then shouted, I’ve got it!

Jumping up, she removed her skirt and levered the keg onto the hem with a grunt. Taking a firm grip of the waistband, she pulled the weight of the keg that skidded nicely across the sand.

Very clever, Princess Gwyndalin Victoria Alexander. What a sharp brain you have. She complimented herself and nodded in appreciation of the praise. Let’s get this barrel home.

Home! she scoffed.

So, what else shall I call it? My little refuge away from the homestead? The Keep? Ha! The Keep! That’s what I’ll call it.

Of course, it needs a little work. She made a wry face.

Gwyndalin was silent the rest of the way back, repeating in her mind: Only one more step. It’s only one more step. When she reached her home site, she leaned against a boulder until her breathing steadied.

Rolling three small stones together to make a serviceable water stand, Gwyndalin hefted the keg into place and stood back to evaluate her handiwork. Not bad, and I even have a cup, she thought as she pulled the two halves of the shelled fruit from her pocket. She set the empty one near her fresh water supply.

The skirt was a little the worse for wear, Gwyndalin noticed as she slipped back into it. She knew she would need the warmth it would provide when the wind shifted tonight.

Say, if a ship goes by how am I going to let them know I’m here?

Start a fire.

Right! With what? What could she possibly do that could be seen from that far away?

How about a flag?

You got a flag I don’t know about? I didn’t think so.

A petticoat would work, she answered herself. Not a bad thought, Gwyndalin. Every castle and stead has its own flag. Wouldn’t Da be amused? She laughed aloud and removed her heavy skirt again. She slipped off one of her sheer petticoats.

No captain will be able to resist coming ashore to find out about my flag. I’ll have him hooked just like that. She snapped her fingers in obvious delight and pulled her skirt back on, glancing about for a suitable staff, one she would be able to jam into the top of the rocks. She set off down the beach in the opposite direction than she’d taken that morning. Soon she discovered a six-foot pole. Perfect, she thought.

She hiked back to her outcropping, picked up the petticoat, and climbed her boulders. Tearing strips off the bottom of the hem, she tied her house flag to the staff. When she righted it, the afternoon wind caught the material in a flutter. Then she wedged the pole tip between the rocks, moving a few stones to brace it. It worked just as she had envisioned.

Not bad, she complimented herself. She watched it flutter in the breeze before turning to study the empty horizon.

He’ll see it, she assured herself. He can’t miss it. In the meantime, girl, try getting out of the sun. You’re beginning to burn.

Gwyndalin touched her hot face and realized it probably would peel. She eased her way back down and reestablished her sunshade.

As the day wore on and the wind chilled, Gwyndalin ate the other half of the fruit and lazily watched the surf. She squinted her eyelids at the bow of the shipwreck and wondered again whether she could find a way to get out to it. There had to be all sorts of useful things still inside the hull. She shook her head at the senselessness of trying to reach the ship. Without being able to swim, the ship’s hull might just as well be miles away.

Don’t give it a second thought. You’d drown for sure. Then it wouldn’t matter what kinds of things are still in the hull of the ship.

From her vantage point, she noticed the western sky was getting dark far too early; the clouds looked too gray. She was in for another storm.

Gwyndalin, you’d best pull down your flag or it will blow away.

Good idea. She braved the building wind and brought her house flag back down to her living area.

Look on the bright side. If the storm is strong enough it might bring more stuff in from the ship. She secured what she had