"Guarantees?" How insulting. What woman ever asked guarantees from a king? Elinas struggled to keep a calm demeanor. "What kind of guarantee?"
"How about that exquisite sword hanging at your side?" The lady reached for the scabbard and lightly traced the intricate designs of gold and silver.
Elinas snatched her wrist. Could the woman be a common thief? "A lady should know that a warrior never surrenders his sword."
"As you wish." Pressine pulled her hand free. "Farewell then." She walked away.
Elinas started after her. "Wait!"
Pressine turned about and faced him.
In that instant, Elinas realized he cared nothing about the precious scabbard or the jewels encased in the silver hilt, but a warrior's blade was his soul. Yet, Elinas could not stand the thought of never seeing Pressine again.
He unhooked the scabbard from the baldric and held it out. "Take it."
When the lady smiled at him, relief and happiness flooded Elinas.
She hefted the heavy weapon as if it weighed nothing. "I promise to return it before you need it again."
She hooked the scabbard on her sash. Where the heavy blade should have dragged to the ground, it held perfectly in place, as if weightless.
When the lady extended a small hand, Elinas took the offered fingers with reverence and brought them to his lips. They felt smooth and cool under his kiss. His entire body tingled with elation as he offered his arm and guided Pressine's graceful steps toward the white mare brought by a page boy.
Elinas grinned as he lifted Pressine’s lithe body into the side-saddle. He reveled in the sweet fragrance of lily when her long hair brushed his cheek.
Lady Pressine adjusted the sword on her hip. She smiled one last time then slowly rode away, the page boy leading the mare and the servant girl following on foot.
After the small party disappeared around a thicket, Elinas shook his head, wondering whether he had dreamed the strange encounter. The sword missing from his side, however, attested to the incident, and he felt glad. Suddenly remembering his thirst, he approached the murmuring spring, took the wooden goblet attached to the rock with a rusty chain, filled it up to the brim, and drank in long gulps. Above his head, a raven cried and took flight.
Startled, Elinas glanced up at the circling bird then laughed as he splashed water on his face and short beard. Never had he felt so fascinated by beauty. He sat on the stone rim, caressing the very spot the lady had touched earlier. For now, he could only think about the captivating siren, and he congratulated himself for extending his hospitality.
The Beltane festivities might not be so gloomy this year, after all, although Elinas did not quite trust his feelings. Something in lady Pressine’s presence and behavior seemed a little strange, and he wondered what kind of trouble he might have invited to the castle, along with the beautiful princess.
Chapter Four
After her meeting with Elinas at the spring, Pressine’s mind brimmed with hope. She hummed as she rode the white mare back to camp. Gwenvael and the Viking had already folded the tents and readied the caravan. Smiling, Pressine gave the order to move on.
When she took the head of the line, Gwenvael and Bodvar gave her puzzled glances and mounted to ride at her side. The Viking looked silly in the gray robe of a monk, designed to conceal his blond hair and his warrior’s physique.
"So, how is the king?" Gwenvael’s eagerness betrayed his youth.
Pressine smiled dreamily at the memory of the encounter. "He is dark and handsome, and not old at all." She patted the royal sword hanging at her side. "And I own his soul." Alas, she wished it were that simple.
The caravan followed the wide Roman road at a leisurely pace, through the forest full of fragrant blossoms and bird songs. Child servants on foot flanked the heavy ox carts loaded with sacks, barrels, and richly ornamented chests. Sheep and goats closed the rear, bleating and grazing, as children prodded them forward with sticks.
Despite Gwenvael's pleasant conversation, Pressine’s mind returned to the spring and to Elinas. She had known from Ogyr’s cries that the king had spied on her before showing himself, but he displayed impeccable manners. He looked young and handsome, but level-headed, and in total command of himself.
Seducing him would take cunning. What if she failed? But Morgane and the Goddess counted on Pressine. She must succeed. Besides, she enjoyed the challenge, and she looked forward to her next meeting with King Elinas of Strathclyde.
By mid morning, the small party emerged from the forest, in full sight of the walls protecting Dumfries castle. The fortified Roman fort stood atop a green hillock dominating a fork in the river Nith. Unlike most forts made of timber palisades, the rectangular fortress had thick stone walls and square towers jutting proudly at each corner.
Cottages spread along the river, while all around, the forest had been cleared to make room for fields and meadows. At the base of the hill, a military camp of many large round tents spread along the bank of the Nith, controlling the stone bridge and the wide Roman way. In a field beyond the camp, soldiers trained with swords and spears.
Pressine halted her mare. It saddened her to say farewell again. For how long, this time? "This is where we part."
Gwenvael turned in the saddle to face Bodvar.
With his single eye, the Viking stared, not at the fortress but at the stone arches of the Roman bridge spanning the river. He said something in Norse.
Gwenvael seemed to grapple with the words then nodded and turned to Pressine. "He has never seen a stone bridge."
"Truly?" She stared at the ordinary structure.
Pressine remembered the many Roman bridges of her native Bretagne. The willows and alders lining each bank also reminded her of home. So did Gwenvael's presence.
"Is this the way you go?" Her voice wavered as she motioned with her chin toward the fork in the road before the bridge.
"Yes." Gwenvael glanced north along the river. "The road leads to the Antonine wall."
Struggling not to shed tears, Pressine changed the subject. "Elinas picked quite a strategic location for his garrison." The stronghold inspired respect for the king of Strathclyde. "From here, he can dispatch quickly to any part of his kingdom."
Gwenvael patted the neck of his impatient bay gelding. "On such a good road, we can reach Dalriada in two days."
"Be careful among the Scots. They do not like Bretons much." Pressine gave Bodvar a sidelong glance. She did not trust the barbarian. "Especially a Breton traveling with a Viking."
"Do not fret, sister. They will respect a Culdee friar."
Pressine rolled her eyes at the Viking’s poor disguise. "Even under a deep cowl, he may not fool a Scot."
Gwenvael dismounted, then helped Pressine down from her mount.
He winked at his sister. "Arstinchar, the Viking camp, lies far north in the wilderness. We will not tarry in the towns."
"I wish you luck in your daring endeavor, brother." Pressine pointed to the sword hanging over his gray robes. "I always thought holy monks led sheltered lives, but war has a way of changing things." She embraced him, unable to contain the tears that rolled down her cheeks.
"Be safe, sister." Gwenvael wiped her tears. "I hope for his sake that Elinas treats you well, or he will answer to my sword."
"I will give him no other choice." Pressine forced a smile. Emitting a bird cry, she called Ogyr. Immediately, the raven came to perch on her gloved hand. She cooed soft words, caressing the bird’s head, then set the raven on Gwenvael’s shoulder. "Keep Ogyr with you. If you ever are in danger, send him to me with a message."
After helping Pressine remount the white mare, Gwenvael hopped onto the gelding and spoke a few Norse words to Bodvar.
The Viking grinned, baring a row of strong teeth. He raised one hand in farewell then prompted his big horse along the northern road. Ogyr cawed a goodbye as Gwenvael followed.
Pressine watched them ride away then turned and led her party over the bridge, toward the impos
ing fortifications. On top of the gray rampart, watchful soldiers stared into the distance, searching the tree line. No doubt they had been watching her party.
No challenge came from the twin towers or the guards at the Western gate. The soldiers on duty bowed respectfully and let the wealthy party inside. Pressine returned the salute with a nod. To the eyes of a guard, rich ladies and their entourage must always be welcomed and posed no threat to a king.
When Pressine passed under the arch of the main gate, she admired the portcullis that reminded her of the Roman forts in Bretagne. This feat of engineering allowed the heavy iron-clad door to be lowered in case of attack. More soldiers loitered inside the gate. Within the vast enclosure, a well organized set of buildings attested to a lordly way of life.
Admiring the judicious use of the villa and other constructions, Pressine recognized the stone of old buildings in some of the newer structures. Earth and thatch cottages leaned against the inside perimeter wall. Stone buildings and wood shacks lay scattered throughout the castle grounds. A safe and fitting residence for the future High King of Alba. Dogs barked and geese scattered as the cortege streamed into the castle yard.
A boy ran out of the scullery to take the mare's bridle.
Pressine stopped the cortege. "Has the hunt returned yet?"
"No, my lady." The stable boy blushed. "The hunters will not return until mid-afternoon."
Pressine slid off the mare unaided and addressed the lad kindly. "I want to speak to whoever is in charge in the king's absence."
The lad nodded and took off with the mare, leaving her and the entire caravan standing in the middle of the yard.
Pressine sat on a stone bench in the shade of a tall oak. Spreading her riding dress around her, she waited.
Soon, the lad returned with the castellan, a pudgy middle aged man in green trews and tunic, puffed up like a courting pigeon with the importance of his function. Cleanly shaven, with thin lips that never smiled, he scowled as he surveyed the lordly train. This unexpected arrival would constitute a severe hindrance in his busy schedule.
Displaying the bejeweled sword as a token of the king's authority, Pressine stated her legitimate invitation.
The castellan bowed with reluctance. "I shall give orders to make space for you in the women’s quarters immediately, my lady."
"I fear this will not do, my good man." Pressine tried not to laugh at his surly expression. "Certainly the departed queen had private chambers. I would think them suitable for a princess of my rank, and large enough to host my entourage."
Obviously appalled by the request, the castellan waved pale hands in front of his face. "The queen’s chambers must never be disturbed. My lord king would forbid such desecration."
Pressine realized how much Elinas had loved his queen. But for his future happiness, as well as for the higher purpose of the Goddess, she must execute this sacrilege.
"I shall not hear of any other arrangement. I will take entire responsibility." She held the scabbard for the castellan to see. "This gives me the authority to rule this castle as I please."
"But I will fry in the fire if I grant your request," The castellan protested stubbornly.
Pressine hated to use her special gifts for small things, but it was for the Goddess, and she had no time to argue. The success of her mission depended upon it. She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. Dear Goddess, give me the strength to convince this stubborn man. A jolt of raw power ran through Pressine. When she stared the man down, he averted his gaze.
"Perhaps it can be arranged," the castellan uttered sheepishly, shifting his feet. Then he straightened and motioned to the castle servants gawking at the newcomers. "Take them to the Queen’s chambers."
The castle servants quickly led Pressine and her party toward a large building. It faced a twin construction across a small courtyard, and Pressine assumed the similar building contained the king’s chambers.
Upon entering the late queen’s apartments, Pressine choked on the dust. She marched to the windows and pushed open the wood shutters to bring in light and fresh air. The rooms stunk of disease. Spider webs hung from the ceiling.
Obviously, no one had set foot in the place since the queen’s balefire. Not even Elinas. So he hadn’t dealt with her death, yet. Bringing joy back into the king’s life might prove more difficult than Pressine expected.
The chambers had once been lovely rooms, but thick dust covered the faded draperies, the four-post bed and its canopy. Pressine would need more servants to clean up the place.
Another request to the castellan produced the extra help.
While lovingly cleaning and packing away the late queen's personal belongings in a square of rare blue silk, Pressine gave orders to a score of drudges to strip and burn the linens and scrub the place clean. In an hour's time the chambers sparkled with new life, filled with sunlight and bird songs.
The servants then carried her heavy chests into Pressine's new quarters. Opening her coffers, Pressine directed the redecorating. Elinas had mourned too long. Time to shock him back to life. It pained her to cause him such sorrow, but it was necessary. For the sake of Alba, the king must overcome his grief and return to active life.
With the help of many servants, Pressine hung lengths of white and blue silk from high beams to lighten the gray walls, then she spread rushes on the flagstone floor. She hung a white linen canopy over the bed posts and replaced the old bedding with a clean mattress, sheepskins and bright blue blankets. Soon, she had a small fire of fragrant pine burning in the fireplace.
Satisfied with her new decor, Pressine thanked and dismissed the servants and closed the bedchamber door. The smell of baking bread from the outdoor oven reminded her of the upcoming Beltane feast. A horn sounded in the distance. She must hurry before the return of the hunt.
After making sure everyone had left her bedchamber, Pressine congratulated herself for such a successful transformation. She reached for the bejeweled scabbard hanging from a peg. She had one more detail to tend to, and it could bear no witnesses.
Unsheathing the king’s blade, Pressine held it to the afternoon light. To think that a sword contained the soul of its owner... Thanks to the special link binding a warrior to his favorite weapon, she could enslave the spirit of the King with a spell. Through the sword she could bind his soul forever.
Now that the time had come, however, Pressine hesitated. Where would the challenge be in seducing a puppet? How would she ever know whether he really loved her? She wanted to measure the depth of her future husband, get a chance to love him for who he truly was. Returning the sword to its scabbard, she decided to wait and try her personal charm first.
A cacophony of horns, barking dogs, servants' cries, and the drumming of hooves signaled the return of the hunting party. Hiding the king's sword under the bedding, Pressine smoothed her long hair and composed herself for the inevitable confrontation. The stomping of boots on the flagstone and the fierce pounding of a fist on the door warned her of the king's foul mood.
Without waiting for an invitation, Elinas stormed into the bedchamber.
Pressine shuddered at the loathing in his dark brown eyes.
"Whatever made you think you could violate the apartments of my beloved queen?" Stopping short in the middle of the room, Elinas glanced around, eyes wide with disbelief.
Pressine struggled to sound casual. "Surely your gracious queen would have wanted these rooms light, warm and clean, even alive with laughter, rather than dark, sealed, and stinking of decay."
The king’s jaw tightened under the short black beard as he towered over her. His hands balled into fists at his sides. "I alone decide in my castle." The low voice turned to a raucous whisper, more threatening than the shouts of any battlefield. "I shall not tolerate defiance of any kind under my roof. Restore these rooms to their previous state and leave."
Barely able to slow her heartbeat, Pressine feigned distraction, dusting her blue riding dress. "It simply cannot be done."
"You dare challenge me?" His surprise would have been comical, if not for the menacing tone.
"The old linens were burned," Pressine said with a calm she did not feel, as if lecturing a child. She rose to fetch the bundle wrapped in blue silk and handed it to him.
Elinas looked at it suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Her comb, mirror, distaff, spindle, and other keepsakes." Pressine's waved her hand, encompassing the room. "The apartments themselves will never look the way they did before." She had made certain of that.
The king's eyes, velvety brown and soft this morning at the spring, now burned with the fiery amber of a wild cat's glare. Elinas looked ready to pounce. He snatched the bundle from her arm. "Out!"
Pressine showed none of the apprehension gripping her. The king's heart, beneath the leather gear, had more mettle than she anticipated.
"Remember that I have your sword." She paused, observing the sobering effect of her words. "Only this morning, you gave it to me, swearing you would honor your oath of keeping me safe in your halls. Does a king's word count for so little in Strathclyde?"
"I curse the ill fortune that made me hear you sing, lady." Eyes tightly shut, Elinas tensed, fists at his side, obviously struggling for emotional control. "I should have known that a princess who refuses to bow to the will of men can only bring strife."
Encouraged by the spark of reason returning to the distraught Elinas, Pressine hoped he could now face his grief. "I am sorry if I offended you. I meant no disrespect."
"I have enough Vikings, Angles, Picts and Scots to give me trouble. The gods know I do not want feuds in my home." Stillness made his stare frightening.
Pressine refused to be intimidated. "Will you honor your word and protect me, then?"
"I should throw you to the wolves!" His voice boomed.
"Wolves?" Pressine repressed a chuckle. She loved wolves. "What would your people think of a king who throws a defenseless princess to the wolves?"
"Defenseless?" The king’s face reddened.
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