Vijaya Schartz Special Edition
Published By:
Books We Love Ltd.
Chestermere, Alberta
Canada
http://bookswelove.net
ISBN: 978-1-927476-85-7
Copyright 2012 by Vijaya Schartz
Cover Art Copyright 2012 by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Princess of Bretagne
Curse of the Lost Isle - Book One
Chapter One
Iona Monastery, west coast of Alba - Spring of 806 AD
Friar Gwenvael stared down the rugged cliff and gaped at the giant Drakkars emerging from the morning haze. His heart stampeded to a hard gallop. The garden knife slipped from his hand, and a cold sluice trickled down his spine. Please, Lord, not again!
"St. Columba, protect us from these savages," he prayed in a whisper.
With sails furled, the ghostly dragonships glided swiftly toward the fishing village below, like skeletal harbingers of destruction and carnage. Scores of oars, like fish spines, slapped the gray water to the cadence of a muffled drum.
In the air, salty with sea-spray and the smell of fish gut, a spiraling bird cried a warning. Gwenvael pushed back the cowl of his habit to look up. Not a seagull, but a raven... The dark bird dove toward him, a strip of red ribbon trailing from one leg.
As the raven alighted on his shoulder, wings flapping, Gwenvael recognized Ogyr, his sister's pet. "Your warning comes too late, my friend. The Vikings are already here."
The raven cawed then took flight toward the monastery.
"Right." Gwenvael lifted the hem of his woolen robe and raced after the bird toward the cluster of gray stone buildings and thatch-roof huts, half way up the green hillock. His life belonged to the Christian God, but women and children needed protecting. In the desperate race, his bare feet trampled patches of sprouting cabbage, turnips, dandelions and white clover. While barely avoiding the thistles, he could not help but splat his toes into fresh cow dung.
"Viking ships on the shore!" Gwenvael shouted, breathless, upon entering the muddy lanes of the small community. "Hide the relics!"
Friars peeked out of their cottage windows as Gwenvael ran past the dairy and stables. Sheep bleated at the disturbance. Fretful chickens and geese scattered out of his path in a shower of feathers. One fearful monk scrambled toward the chapel.
The bell pealed, alerting the entire monastery. At the sound, Culdee monks rushed out of their huts with wives and children.
When Gwenvael reached the main stone building, he pushed open the cloister door and burst into the vast study full of morning sunlight. A young scholar, the front half of his skull shaved from ear to ear in Culdee fashion, like all the friars, looked up from the intricate illustration on his pulpit, quill poised, with a disapproving scowl.
"The Vikings are back!" Gwenvael panted.
The grating of quills on parchment ceased.
A grizzled friar rolled an illuminated parchment in haste, spilling an ink horn. The gray-hooded monks, young and old, pale with fright, quickly gathered the unfinished pages of St. John’s Gospel and scurried out of the study, jostling Gwenvael in their escape.
Dashing back outside, Gwenvael ran along thatched huts towards another stone building. "Vikings on the shore!"
Goats bolted and pilgrims ran, clutching their meager bundles. A woman dragged children by the hand toward the woods while another scooped a crying toddler and sheltered him in the deep fold of her mantle.
A few brave Culdee monks gathered in the courtyard. One brandished a wooden cudgel, another held a spear, remnants of their warring days. Gwenvael kept running, spreading the dreadful news on the morning breeze, like an ominous chant. "The Vikings are back!"
Past the holy thorn streaming with votive ribbons, Gwenvael entered the empty refectory on his way to the abbot's chambers. As he ran past the open windows, he caught a glimpse of dark smoke rising from the burning village two miles down the road. The pillaging had started.
Gwenvael had only heard stories of the last Viking raid on the monastery, thirteen years ago. They’d massacred hundreds that day. How dare the Vikings strike again at the heart of Christendom, and on St. Padarn's day, just after the spring planting?
St. Columba himself had founded the monastery. Had they no respect for the great Saint? Gwenvael reached the abbot’s chambers and rushed in without knocking. Inside, the abbot, tall and thin, struggled with a large chest of dark, polished wood.
"Help me!" The abbot motioned to the other end of the chest. "Push. We must save the treasure. Last time they plundered everything. But not today. I will not let them!"
Gwenvael shouldered one end of the chest while the abbot pulled the handle at the other end. "Are these St. Columba's holy relics?"
"Not the relics, simpleton." The abbot grimaced condescendingly. The straight gray hair on his back moved with each shove. "The treasures of the church."
"The chalice and the silver crosses?" Judging by the weight, there must be many.
The abbot scowled. "The stipends from our benefactors, guilt money for the redemption of mortal sins, the silver and the gold, Friar Gwenvael."
The abbot must have collected much silver, indeed. The two of them could not have lifted the heavy chest. They pushed and dragged it on the flagstone, through the doorway, and across the deserted courtyard, then into the chapel. There, kneeling friars chanted the Pater Noster with trembling voices, as if to draw courage in the face of imminent slaughter.
Three monks broke the ranks to help carry the coffer to the altar where more friars, under the abbot's directions, grappled with the altar stone. The slab moved aside. Inside the altar sat a box the size of a small keg, wrapped in a richly embroidered cloth.
A corner of the fabric fell, and Gwenvael glimpsed a gilded ivory vessel carved in the shape of a toy house. The Monimusk reliquary. Closed with a heavy lock, it contained the very remains of St. Columba. Gwenvael crossed himself.
The abbot fished out the reliquary and dropped it without ceremony into Gwenvael's outstretched arms. The holy bones weighed little. Bemused, Gwenvael watched the Culdee monks struggle to lift the heavy treasure chest and drop it inside the hollow altar. Then they replaced the altar stone and stood the wooden crucifix on top of it.
"Make haste," the abbot yelled at Gwenvael. "Bury the relics under the holy thorn!"
"Amen." Gwenvael re-wrapped the gilded box and carried it outside. He grabbed an abandoned shovel and dug a hole under the gnarled hawthorn tree, beribboned with the prayers of countless pilgrims.
Faint war cries, women's screams, and the stench of smoke floated on the wind and blended with the monotone chant of the Culdees. Gwenvael recited the Pater Noster as he dug deeper. After burying the reliquary, he stomped the dirt then heaped up white stones on top. The cairn would mark the burial place of the holy bones.
With a cry from above, Ogyr the raven dove and landed on the cairn. When the frenzied bird shrieked a warning, Gwenvael listened. A roar of warrior voices rose on the wind, accompanied by the stomping of hundreds of feet.
Glimpsing a flash of sunlight on a swarm of metal helmets, raised spears and battle axes coming up the hill, Gwenvael did not dally, even for a short prayer. While some straggling monks ran for the woods, he rushed back inside the chapel. With the help of two other friars
, he barred the heavy door with the iron-clad beam. Then he faced the altar and knelt on the cold flagstone.
Gwenvael joined the chanting, convulsively clasping his hands in supplication. Glancing up, he glimpsed the raven, perched on the highest windowsill.
Muffled sounds of carnage filtered in, intruding on the Lord’s Prayer. Outside, warriors yelled in a foreign tongue and people screamed, begging for mercy. The bell toll slowed then stopped. The monks’ chant grew hesitant.
When a rhythmic ram thundered against the seasoned oak door, the prayer stopped altogether. Gwenvael drew the sign of the cross as he dared peek at the door. It heaved and bulged under the repeated onslaught.
The crossbar bounced up and clattered to the flagstone. Then the oak panels splintered and crashed inward, trampled by the fur-bundled feet and legs of tall demons with flaxen hair and demented faces. Madness roamed in their pale blue eyes. Wielding long swords, hammers, and battle axes dripping crimson, they stank of blood, sweat, and mead.
Merciful God, please forgive their desecration! From his kneeling position, Gwenvael bowed in submission. This was no time to be foolishly brave. Surely they would spare an innocent friar. All they want is the silver and gold...
But the barbarians hacked at the Culdees. A head rolled at Gwenvael’s knees, and he recognized the old monk who had spilled the ink horn earlier. He recommended the gentle soul to the Christian God.
Would they all die here today? If God willed it, Gwenvael would accept his fate. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he prayed for a swift end. He had barely reached adulthood. When he saw the shadow of the axe poised over his head, he closed his eyes in surrender.
A yell from the direction of the altar stayed the barbarian's hand. Seconds passed and Gwenvael still lived, as attested by the pounding of his heart. He opened his eyes. The Vikings grumbled and turned to their leader.
In front of the altar stood a big bearded man, bare arms tanned by years of seafaring. A ghastly white scar ran along his left cheek and a leather patch covered the damaged eye. His natural authority marked him as a warlord. He laid his round wooden shield against the altar and spoke loudly in a foreign language. Slicing the air with his axe, the Viking motioned to one of his men who produced a dark haired youth in Viking clothing.
The warlord spoke, facing the monks. Spittle sprinkled his blond beard and moustache. When he paused, the dark youth standing at his side translated the foreign words into familiar Gaelic. Probably a Briton slave...
"I am Prince Bodvar," the Viking explained through the meek voice of the interpreter. "Give me your gold, your slaves, your women, your livestock, and you may live to serve me. Try to hide anything from me, and I’ll hack off your head."
The prince’s single bloodshot eye surveyed the frightened monks with unmasked contempt. Having spoken, Bodvar sat on the altar in an obvious show of false nonchalance, swinging the bloody axe to and fro like a pendulum.
The abbot rose from his kneeling position and glared at the barbarian. "You have no right in the residence of God! This is a sanctuary!"
Fixing his one-eyed gaze on the abbot, the warlord flashed a half smile while the youth translated, then he pointed to the abbot with his wicked blade.
Two sturdy Vikings grabbed the abbot and brought him before their prince then stepped back.
The abbot’s slight frame remained as rigid as his icy green eyes.
Gwenvael held his breath.
Prince Bodvar rose, his helmet towering above the abbot.
"Where is the treasure?" the youth translated.
The abbot kept silent and Gwenvael glimpsed disdain in his thin lips.
For the love of God, Lord Abbot, speak!
The axe rose and fell with a thud. The abbot's headless body wavered before collapsing to the flagstone in a spray of steamy blood. The chapel fell silent, thick with the fear of the quivering monks.
"I will slay as many as it takes," the youth translated.
The one-eyed devil singled out another monk. The friar refused to speak and suffered the same fate. After the fifth execution, Bodvar's demented blue eye set on Gwenvael, who frantically prayed for guidance. Are riches more important than life, or would the Lord want me to live to praise his glory?
From its high perch, the raven crooned encouragements.
Confident that the relics would remain safe under the holy tree, Gwenvael obeyed his primal instincts. When the Vikings dragged him before Bodvar, Gwenvael pointed to the altar. "Over there!"
An audible sigh of relief escaped the remaining monks. Gwenvael took pride in the fact that he might have saved their lives, although a few older friars pinned him with glares of disapproval. The Viking prince faced the altar and shoved aside the crucifix, then motioned for his men to heave the altar stone. With little effort, the heavy slab fell away in a shattering crash that shook the ground and raised a cloud of dust.
The barbarians lifted the chest from the hollow stone forming the altar base then they hacked at the metal lock. A warrior cheer rose when it broke. Bodvar stepped to the chest and lifted the lid. Flabbergasted, Gwenvael gawked at the sight of such riches. From the chest, the Vikings plucked golden torcs, silver brooches, rings, bejeweled daggers and swords, irreverently donning the priceless things.
Selecting a gold chalice, Bodvar admired it then raised it in a mock toast. "Now," he said with a lurid smile, pointing his axe at yet another monk. "Tell me where the women are."
When the monk lowered his head in silence, the axe rose and fell again. Gwenvael flinched. His blood chilled at the thought of children and women used for pleasure, or slaughtered if they struggled too much.
A cheer outside accompanied the frightened cries of women and children. Gwenvael glanced through the broken door and saw them pushed and dragged across the square. Bodvar laughed and voiced his approval in the foreign tongue.
On his order, the Vikings herded the monks out of the chapel. But when Gwenvael followed them, an axe barred his way. The warrior shoved him away from the door and motioned him toward the Viking leader.
Bodvar grinned with a full row of white teeth. "I make you my personal slave," the warlord told Gwenvael through the interpreter. "You will learn our language, and maybe you can teach me yours." He laughed, as if at a private jest.
Gwenvael nodded to the Viking, unsure whether this personal attention came as a blessing or a curse. From the high windowsill, Ogyr the raven cawed his approval. Thank you, sister, for your guidance.
All day, the barbarians looted every dwelling, emptied the cellars, and set the cottages ablaze. That night, they feasted on the monastery pigs, goats and sheep, drank the mass wine and the mead, and raped the women. The Vikings lit great fires inside the chapel, in the courtyard, and down on the beach near their boats. They burned everything, even the abbot’s precious furniture.
After hours of drinking and feasting in the warmth of the chapel, Prince Bodvar asked Gwenvael, "Where is the richest monastery worth raiding?"
Gwenvael gasped. It was one thing to sacrifice the treasure to save lives, but quite another to condemn another community to death or slavery. From its high perch, Ogyr cawed as if to catch the young friar’s attention.
Gwenvael rubbed his shaven forehead. Although he’d renounced his Pagan gifts, he knew his sister Pressine watched through the raven’s eyes. What kind of idea did she try to infuse into his brain? He calmed his mind to listen and suddenly understood. Yes, of course...
Gwenvael smiled for Prince Bodvar. "There is an island, Five days south, where some say legendary treasures are kept. Kingly treasures, magic treasures... I heard of a sword of power that makes a warrior invincible. Some talk about a silver platter, others about a cauldron, a magic spear, and shiploads of gold and silver."
A spark ignited prince Bodvar's blue eye. "How well is the island guarded?"
Gwenvael’s heart beat a furious tempo. "My Prince, it is not."
Bodvar lifted a blond eyebrow above the leather patch as the translator relaye
d the words. The Viking grumbled then tore a piece of meat from a roasted lamb a slave presented on a shield.
"The only guardians of the treasures are women, most of them maidens." Gwenvael prayed he had correctly guessed his sister’s suggestion.
The Viking drank from the chalice then burped. "Some women can be fierce warriors."
Bodvar threw a bone at the head of a young, beardless Viking, who ducked it and laughed. With a start, Gwenvael realized the warrior was a woman.
"But the Ladies of the Lost Isle do not bear arms, My Prince." He remembered his brief sojourn among them. "They are young and beautiful, most of them of royal lineage. They study the ancient ways, read and write, seek knowledge, and heal wounds and diseases. They are quite peaceful."
"Writing is evil!" Bodvar frowned as the youth translated. "No men at all?"
"Only a few villagers and aging Druids, My Prince."
"Why are there no warriors?"
"Like this monastery, it is a holy place, My Prince, shrouded in fog even on a clear day." Gwenvael measured his words, careful not to damn his soul with a lie. "But from a distance you can see the circle of stones cresting the cliff, in the shadow of Mount Elenore."
Prince Bodvar bit into another shank of mutton and washed it down with mead. "Tomorrow, we set sail for the island. And you," he pointed the gnawed leg bone at Gwenvael, "will guide us there."
In the glow of the open fire, Prince Bodvar grinned, probably relishing the prospect of easy plunder and beautiful women.
Gwenvael smiled back for a different reason. No one ever reached the Lost Isle unless the Ladies allowed it. Supernatural dangers lurked in the mists surrounding the island. The trespassers never returned, and if anyone could humble the bloodthirsty Vikings, it was the Ladies of the Lost Isle.
* * *
Gwenvael’s stomach churned as he stood on the rolling deck of a Drakkar, under a square sail of crimson and white wool. Earlier in the day, four dragonships had sailed north with the loot, livestock, provisions and slaves. Fading in the distance, the smoldering remains of the monastery marked the end of a blessed life steeped in spirituality.
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