Pressine wondered at the foreign word. It sounded ancient.
Gwenvael motioned toward a dozen shivering men, who gratefully accepted blankets from the maidens come to help. "It seems no other Vikings survived the onslaught, only a few Britton slaves."
Pressine stepped aside when Morgane reached the rafts.
After a quick glance at the survivors, the Lady addressed the priestess who had guided the rescue through the mist. "Warm them, feed them, and let them sleep in the Druids’ hall. Don’t spare the firewood or the mulled wine. When their color returns, they are free to stay or leave as they choose."
Morgane then pointed at Bodvar. "This man needs help."
The Lady nodded to a couple of fishermen who had stopped mending their nets to assist with the refugees. "Bring him to my cottage. Pressine, come with me."
Pressine nodded, curious about the Lady’s intentions.
After the men relieved Njal of his burden, the youth wrapped himself in a blanket. Gwenvael waved at Pressine as he headed toward the druids’ hall with his young friend and the other survivors.
The two fishermen half carried, half led the confused Viking, and followed Morgane who skirted the base of the cliff along the stream. Pressine walked behind them, wondering what Morgane had in mind. If Bodvar had lost his wits, only the Goddess could help him.
As the strange party crossed the village, geese scattered and honked in a flurry of feathers. Pressine held her breath at the stink of urine surrounding the tanning shed. At the laundering pool, women stopped pounding clothes and stared at the drenched Viking with open curiosity. Between the bath house and the dairy, the small party took the lane that wound its way up a grassy hillock in the direction of the cottages.
The beehive-shaped stone buildings, with narrow holes for chimney and windows, served as individual dwellings for the priestesses. One needed privacy to practice the magic arts. Pressine ducked through the hide covering Morgane’s doorway. The small circular room could scarcely hold five people.
Bodvar groaned when the fishermen laid him among the furs on the low pallet. A servant girl brought wool blankets, handed them to Morgane, then rushed out. The fishermen left as another girl carried in steaming bowls of mint brew and broth.
Pressine took the tray from the girl. "Thank you. Now revive the fire and warm some vinegar."
Seemingly unaware of his surroundings, Bodvar whimpered between chattering teeth.
Morgane tugged at the big man's fur vest. "Help me remove his clothes."
Pressine approached the quivering Viking and helped her aunt lift the heavy man's shoulders and pry off his armor plates. Deftly, Pressine loosened the crisscrossed leather straps holding the furry leg coverings. Morgane unlaced the leather jerkin, baring a well muscled chest. After removing the scabbard, belt, and hard leather cod piece, Pressine hesitated.
"Hurry," Morgane pressed as she unfastened the ties at the man’s waist, then she pulled down the wet woolen trews, exposing the Viking's powerful body.
Morgane’s interested gaze coursed the splendid naked man. "What a waste. Look at him."
How could she not look! Pressine had never seen a naked man before, and she suspected this one to be exceptionally healthy. A violent spasm coursed along Bodvar’s body.
Pressine refocused on the task at hand. "Are you going to use magic to revive him?"
Morgane scowled. "You should know better than to ask. Magic is allowed only for the service of the Goddess."
Bodvar muttered incomprehensive foreign words through his trembling.
The serving girl approached the bed with a jar. "The vinegar is hot. And I have brew warming on the hearth."
Morgane took the jar of vinegar. "You can go now."
After the girl left, Morgane motioned to Pressine. "We must rub the hot alcohol into the skin to warm his blood."
Despite their ministrations, the shivering persisted, even after a blazing fire made the two women glisten with sweat. Pressine trickled hot brew between Bodvar’s chattering teeth, but the barbarian coughed it up and kept shaking uncontrollably.
Pressine felt his forehead. "Still cold as a frozen brook. "
"He needs body warmth." A twinkle danced in Morgane's eyes. She took a sharp breath. "We shall hold him between us, skin against skin."
Nodding, Pressine discarded shift and boots. She kept only her linen chemise, but when Morgane disrobed entirely, Pressine did the same. The Viking’s nakedness felt like ice against her round breasts and flat belly.
She tried to ignore the warrior’s shriveled maleness. Should she feel excited like Morgane? Pressine did not find the experience arousing at all. Focusing on the shivering body, she willed her heat to infuse the giant’s skin and stiff muscles.
Covering themselves with wool blankets, the two women huddled with Bodvar under the covers. It took a while, but the tremors finally abated and some warmth returned to his skin. As Pressine stepped off the pallet and reached for her chemise, the man’s eye opened and bulged.
"Nidhogg!" he screamed.
"His mind is gone." Pressine slipped on her chemise and shift. Then she stuffed the bed with warm stones from the hearth. That done, she fed the Viking some more broth. "What’s Nidhogg?"
"Dread-biter, the scourge of the Viking gods." Morgane, now in her chemise, stirred a potion in a wooden bowl. It smelled of chamomile with a hint of bitter poppy. "In Norse legends, Nidhogg takes the shape of an evil dragon to devour corpses and gnaw at the root of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life."
Awed by the extent of Morgane knowledge, Pressine understood. "Then Bodvar thinks the sea-serpent is this Nidhogg dragon?"
"So it seems." Morgane poured the potion into a bowl. "This will help him sleep. Tonight, I shall make him whole again."
Pressine meant to ask how, but Morgane’s expression, as she hushed her out the door, barred any further question.
* * *
Bodvar remained in Morgane's cottage for the next two days, and the Lady forbade anyone to come near. What secret magic did she weave around the Viking prince? Not that Pressine wanted to visit. An expedition to woo a king required planning, and she had little time to spare.
The best seamstresses on the isle sewed rich dresses in haste. Skilled stitchers also added gold and silver trim to her finest clothes. More importantly, Pressine supervised the removal of her personal treasures from the secret cave for her royal dowry.
The night before her departure, two scores of priestesses, young and old, gathered around the moonlit circle of stones on the top of the cliff to celebrate the full moon and bless Pressine’s mission. They invoked the Goddess, circling sunwise, weaving between the monoliths as they chanted the song that binds heaven and earth.
Dressed in a thin white robe, Pressine drank the bitter potion. The air charged with the might of the chant made it difficult to breathe, but she felt ready to be empowered for her sacred endeavor. She approached the central stone slab with confidence then reclined upon it.
Morgane unsheathed a long sword that reflected the moonlight and rested it upon Pressine. In the chilly night, pinned between the cold rock at her back and the naked blade flat on the length of her body, Pressine stared at the stars. Her cold fingers enfolded the hilt that formed a cross between her breasts.
When the chanting ended, Morgane faced the low altar where Pressine lay. The Lady raised both hands towards the moon.
"O Mother Goddess, Mistress of light and darkness, empower your maiden, and the sword Caliburn forged in the otherworld by Gofannon, god of smithcraft. Render woman and blade enticing to Elinas, the chosen high king of Alba. Give Pressine strength in the struggle to come, protect her from malevolence, and grant her victory in your name."
A current raced through the sword from point to hilt, warming Pressine's body. She tingled with bursts of warm energy that emitted a blue radiance. In the glowing aura above her, the Goddess appeared as a sea serpent unleashing its fury upon an invisible enemy. When the serpent entered the sword, Caliburn
’s blade shook with life in Pressine's grip then shone blue before resting, inanimate but warm, on her supine body.
Offering thanks to the Goddess, the priestesses closed the ritual with a chant of gratitude. Flushed by the experience, Pressine rose and returned the blade to its bejeweled scabbard. Then the ladies filed out of the stone circle and down the steps of the cliff, and Pressine carried the empowered sword into her cottage.
On the way there, the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread from the feast in the druid’s hall reminded Pressine she had nothing to eat all day. After wrapping Caliburn in blue silk, she stored it in a travel chest. Then she hurried to the feast, guided by the heavenly aroma and the sound of laughter.
She stopped on the threshold to search for Gwenvael. Around the central fire illuminating the high-vaulted building, druids and ladies sat in a wide circle on the rushes covering the flagstone. Among them, the survivors of the battle looked fully recovered. Morgane did not preside at the feast, neither did the Viking, and Pressine wondered at their absence.
With a pang of regret, Pressine realized it would be her last celebration in the Lost Isle. She spotted her brother and his new friend, Njal. As she joined them and sat cross-legged, they welcomed her in their midst. On thick bread trenchers, the cooks served roasted lamb with dandelion greens, then hot cakes. The goat cheese on fresh bread with salted butter tasted wonderful.
Pressine ate and drank the sweet fermented juice of apples and reminisced with Gwenvael about their childhood. Late into the night they laughed and sang. Older folks retired while scattered revelers still conversed in low tones. At the edge of the glow from the fire, isolated silhouettes retreated to the corners of the hall and spread their blankets to sleep.
After Njal took his leave, Gwenvael scooted closer to Pressine. He looked fearful. His foreskull, freshly shaved from ear to ear, gleamed in the orange glow of the flames.
His brow furrowed. "Are you taking your dowry with you?"
"Yes." Pressine smiled. "What royal bride would not come with plenty of gold and silver? I will also carry special gifts from the Lady."
Gwenvael shook his head. "It is dangerous to travel with such a fortune. Without a war band, I mean... I had an armed escort when I brought it here."
"Trust me." Pressine laid one hand on her young brother's shoulder to reassure him. "The Goddess protects Her own."
"I hope she does." Gwenvael tightened the blanket around his shoulders. "Lucky our royal father provided for you."
Pressine smiled at his innocence. "Luck had naught to do with it. We make our own destiny."
A log collapsed in the fire, sending incandescent sparks to the high ceiling, and beyond through the smoke hole.
Gwenvael glanced up. "Mother often asked about you."
"Never mention her in front of me." Pressine regretted her sharp tone, but she shook inside at the very thought of her mother’s cruelty.
Gwenvael shook his head in a way that reminded Pressine of the little boy he had been. "I admire your independence, sister. It takes courage to follow the Goddess."
"I have no other choice." Pressine stared into the embers, realizing she would never be free to choose her destiny. She swallowed the knot in her throat. "But things are as they should be." She looked up and smiled. "What of our beloved Bretagne?"
A boy servant threw a new log on the ebbing fire, eliciting a shower of crackling ambers. New flames rose and hissed.
Gwenvael spat into the fire as if to ward off evil. "Just when we change the name of Armorica to Bretagne to fit us Britons, our father king sells our country to the Franks. It sickens me. Armorica was wild and free. What good is a country called Bretagne, if it pays tribute to the Franks?"
"It’s all because of the Christian shrew who stole our mother’s king." Pressine could not help the scorn in her voice. "At least, she will never bear any pups."
Pressine had made sure of that when she had cursed the princess to remain barren. But Pressine had paid dearly for the vengeful deed. In return, her mother punished her with a curse of her own.
Gwenvael sighed. "Becoming a Christian makes our father a powerful man. King Salomon of Bretagne, Paladin-knight of Charlemagne!"
Drawing a finger to her mouth, Pressine nodded toward the sleeping silhouettes in the shadows then whispered, "Perhaps our father king tried to spare his people unnecessary war, and maybe he was right."
Gwenvael nodded gravely. "Perhaps."
Pressine shivered despite the fire, remembering how, as a child, she had misjudged her father. "But why did Father refuse Merlin's help in times of need?"
"The odds were against him," Gwenvael whispered. "Charlemagne and his bishops believe druids are evil."
"But you are a Christian monk and you do not," Pressine observed flatly. "And Charlemagne himself takes counsel from a seer, the Great Malagigi."
The light of the flames danced on Gwenvael’s smile. "Malagigi is an enchanter, not a sorcerer."
"I see no difference." Pressine shrugged. "Just another name for the same purpose."
Gwenvael laid his hand on hers, a reassuring gesture from childhood. "You cannot keep the world from changing, sister. Yesterday the druids, today the Goddess against Charlemagne's bishops, tomorrow, who knows? If we are not careful, we could be worshiping Viking gods."
Pressine stared at her brother in surprise. "What are you saying?"
"I fear the raids over the past few years are only the beginning of a great invasion." Gwenvael glanced up at her, as if wondering how much to tell. "They want all the land."
"How do you know that?" Pressine considered her brother with renewed interest. "You renounced your gifts."
"Njal told me." Gwenvael’s soft brown eyes gazed at her in earnest.
Pressine shuddered at the memory of her visions. "I saw them terrorize the people of this land. That is why I agreed to marry King Elinas, to give him a better chance to fight back."
Gwenvael remained quiet for a moment. "I think I found my calling."
"Calling?" the word sounded strange to Pressine.
"I must convert the Vikings to the gentle ways of our Lord Jesus." Gwenvael looked too young and frail for such a task. "I shall go among them and preach, like St. Columba among the Picts."
Pressine cringed at such a dangerous task, but she understood. At least, the Christians were civilized. Still, she feared for her only brother. "I hope your god protects you well."
"I trust He will." Gwenvael flashed a strained smile.
"Promise me you will be careful." Pressine shivered and tightened the shawl around her shoulders. She had serious misgivings at the threshold of this new life.
* * *
On Tuesday morning, the islanders stood on the shore to bid farewell to Pressine and her retinue. Two large flat boats with sails, ready to carry the party to Alba, bobbed gently just a few white-crested waves away from shore.
Through the shallow water, villagers led stubborn ponies and oxen to the large boats. On the shore, bleating goats, sheep and skittish horses awaited their turn. Servants also loaded barrels of grain and mead for the journey.
Seven boys and seven girls between the ages of ten and twelve, dressed in blue tunics, each with a golden sash, now boarded the boats to escort Pressine on her journey. Ogyr circled overhead. When the raven shrieked, Pressine glanced back.
Morgane walked toward her on the beach with Bodvar, Gwenvael, and the young Njal. To Pressine’s surprise, Bodvar held Morgane by the waist in a possessive embrace. He looked fully recovered, coherent, and a new leather patch covered his missing eye. He smiled contentedly.
How did the Lady manage that miracle? Pressine took mental note of this unconventional healing method. Bodvar’s tender demeanor and clean attire did not suit him. The fearsome Viking looked like a silly white bear.
Morgane’s aura radiated with the afterglow of lovemaking. "Bodvar and Gwenvael will accompany you to your destination before joining the Viking fleet in the northern wilderness."
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Concerned, Pressine turned to Gwenvael. "Are you certain you will be safe with him?"
"Quite." Gwenvael beamed. "The Lord answered my prayers. Bodvar wants to make me his blood brother for saving his life. He will take care of me. I hope to make him my first convert."
Glancing at the formidable barbarian, Pressine felt troubled. "Truly? You trust him?"
"He vowed on his honor as prince and warrior." Gwenvael chuckled. "Besides, Njal is staying here with Morgane, as some kind of hostage."
Morgane ruffled the younger boy's hair. "I can educate the little weasel. His mother is a Celtic princess. A prince of mixed blood might come in handy when peaceful alliances are called for." She patted her belly. "I also have another child in reserve, just to be sure."
Pressine rolled her eyes. Morgane carried the Viking’s bastard! No wonder she bathed in radiance.
Bodvar nodded as if he understood. His raucous laugh blended with the sound of the surf. He gave Morgane a lusty kiss that made Pressine turn away with embarrassment. How she wished someone kissed her like that.
Gwenvael and Njal clasped arms in farewell.
Then Morgane held Pressine at arm's length. "If you need any help at all, use the water basin or send me Ogyr. In any case, let me know about your progress." She hugged Pressine and whispered against her cheek, "You will never be very far from my thoughts, child."
Pressine would miss the sweet lavender fragrance of Morgane’s hair. She struggled not to choke on her words. "Thank you, Aunt Morgane."
"I will keep you in my sight. And if you cannot contact the Goddess on your own, I shall inform you of Her wishes."
Boots in hand, hitching up her skirt, Pressine waded into the foaming surf, followed by Gwenvael and Bodvar. A gust of wind billowed her skirt. She did not glance back, fearing Morgane would see her tears. Once on the flat barge, where her coffers and her retinue waited, Pressine waved to Morgane.
Bodvar and Gwenvael pushed the boat out to sea then climbed on deck. Pressine’s vessel passed the second boat to take the lead into the mist. Standing at the prow, Pressine faced the cloudy veil, arms open and eyes closed.
Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition Page 3