"Everyone in the castle expects to see me at your side at the Beltane feast. If I do not attend, there will be questions. The rules of hospitality state that..."
"Let them ask," Elinas snapped. "The rules of hospitality do not apply to princesses who misbehave!"
"Please, my lord, do not throw me to the wolves!" Pressine dropped to her knees and grabbed his strong legs, gazing up at him. "I promise to behave like a proper lady and heed all your wishes from now on."
Elinas glanced into her eyes then averted his gaze. "Get up!" he said gruffly. "I spoke in anger. But you better behave as promised."
"Thank you, my king." Pressine rose. Her irrepressible smile broadened and she brushed her lips to his cheek. "Does this mean I may stay in these chambers?"
"I see no reason not to anymore." Elinas pursed his lips and sighed. His slow gaze perused the room. Unshed tears welled in his eyes. "My dear queen’s spirit has left this place."
Moved by his emotional display, Pressine bowed humbly. "I shall do my best to please you, my lord. I promise."
Elinas glanced at her riding clothes. "I hope you plan to wear something more suitable for the feast."
"Do not fear. I will do honor to your hall." Pressine curtsied. To her surprise, when she raised her gaze Elinas remained standing, staring at her.
"I need my sword," He said curtly.
"What?" Under no circumstance could Pressine give him back his sword.
"A warrior-king cannot show himself at Beltane without a royal sword." The dark stubble of his beard twitched.
Suddenly grasping the opportunity, Pressine went to the most ornate chest in the room. "If a great sword you need, my lord, a great sword you shall have."
Opening the chest, Pressine nonchalantly furrowed among the gold and silver jewels to retrieve the wrapped Caliburn imbued with the might of the Goddess. When Pressine faced Elinas again, he stared, gaping at the riches in the open coffer.
"What is all this?" He eyed the contents suspiciously.
"My dowry." Pressine slowly unwrapped the sword empowered by the ritual in the stone circle. "From my father, King Salomon of Bretagne, and from my aunt, the Lady Morgane."
The king’s gaze took in the other trunks as well. "You could supply a whole army for many years with that much silver and gold."
When Pressine unsheathed the blade, it caught the light and shone blue.
"Who did you say your aunt was?" Elinas seemed transfixed by the sight of the magnificent sword.
"Lady Morgane of the Lost Isle." Pressine presented the weapon to his touch.
"Incredible work." His hands caressed the blade. "I have never seen such flawless steel."
"Like the dowry, it will go to my husband in wedlock." Pressine sheathed the sword and handed it to him. "Would you wear Caliburn tonight, as a token of my good will?"
Elinas gave her a sharp glance as he took the sword. "Do not think this gives you license to oppose or contradict me in any way in front of my liege lords and barons. If you do, I shall have you thrown outside the ramparts in the middle of the night. And the royal Princess of Bretagne will have to contend with the wolves."
Caliburn in one hand the blue silk bundle in the other, Elinas marched out of the bedchamber. After the door closed, Pressine let out a long breath and her shoulders relaxed. Seducing this king might prove more difficult than she expected, but he was worthy, and she enjoyed a challenge.
* * *
The delicious aroma of roasting meat wafted into Pressine’s chambers. Through the window, she heard the jibes of the cooks taking turns manning the iron spit above the open fires. Dogs yelped, fighting over scraps. Her discriminating sense of smell told her the hunters had killed at least one deer and a boar. Hungry since she broke her fast at sunrise, Pressine rejoiced at the prospect of such an elaborate meal.
Checking her face in the dark water basin, she smiled. With her hair pulled back under a diaphanous veil, and a gold circlet of gemstones on her brow, she shone like her fae mother had... before turning into a cruel shrew. Pressine shrugged away the disturbing memory.
The white gown, embroidered with gold serpents, had a low neckline that generously exposed most of her round breasts. Her dark eyebrows, misty gray eyes and dark complexion needed no color from a jar. With a heavy gold torc on her throat, a touch of deer musk in the cleft, and silver rings and bracelets from her dowry, Pressine felt prepared to captivate a king.
Securing a precious dagger in the front of her sash, she glanced up at the sound of a soft knock on the door.
"Lady," an unfamiliar male voice called. "Our lord king requests your presence at his table,"
So, Elinas had already graced the hall. Pressine knew it was impolite to be late, but she wanted to make a grand entrance. Opening wide the door of her bedchamber, she found a grizzled gentleman in black finery, who smiled with great poise, and offered a wiry arm.
"Allow me, my lady." The red and black ribbons braided in the white beard moved as he spoke. "My name is Dewain, Baron of Ayre and Royal Counselor." He winked. "May I add that I am dazzled by your great beauty?"
"Pressine of Bretagne." She chuckled, accepting his arm. "Delighted to meet such a charming escort."
They crossed the antechamber, then Dewain led her outside into the fading sunlight. Stepping around muddy ruts, they avoided the detritus around the kitchen midden. The stench, however, could not be helped.
Dewain’s beady eyes twinkled with amusement. "I met your father once. In Armorica... long before you were born. You have wandered far from home, Lady Pressine."
"And what brought you here from Ayre, Lord Baron?" The appetizing aroma of venison assailed Pressine when they passed the outdoors kitchen on their way to the main hall. Frantic activity reigned around the two open fires, releasing smoke and delectable bouquets on the evening breeze. Pressine slowed her pace to match the old man's steps.
"I retired early to give my heir a chance to rule." Dewain flashed a quick, toothless smile. "Ever since, I have enjoyed the trust and the friendship of young Lord Elinas."
"Young?" Pressine searched for traces of irony in Dewain's lined face but saw none.
He raised an eyebrow. "By my standards, dear lady, a man of thirty-five, as hardy and vigorous as our king, is indeed very young."
"Vigorous? Really?" The thought brought heat to her cheeks.
From under the oak tree, a scullion gawked at Pressine's shapely figure and she smiled. She had made herself as irresistible as she could, but would it be enough to seduce Elinas?
"Oh, if you talk about consorting with ladies..." Dewain shook his head dejectedly. "He has not done that since his dear queen died. The gods know I presented him with many eligible noblewomen."
"Really?" Pressine wanted to ask how pretty the ladies were but refrained. "So, why is he still alone?"
"Grief... A pity at his age." The old baron guided her around a puddle. "Just a year ago at Beltane, when his queen was alive, he jumped over the fires with the young castle lads. I hope he finds happiness again soon."
"Otherwise?" Pressine sensed great sadness in the baron’s deep black eyes.
Dewain sighed. "I fear sorrow will break his spirit."
"That would be a shame." Pressine paused outside the hall's entrance. "What would it take, Lord Baron, for the king to spring back to life?"
The beady eyes blinked then stared at Pressine with renewed interest. "The right woman, dear lady. The right woman can always change a man. I hear you are looking for a royal husband?" Dewain’s lips curved into a thin smile. "Rather unusual for a lady to search for one herself."
"Well," Pressine held his gaze, making sure he would understand her meaning. "I am a very unusual princess."
When the door opened wide, Pressine smiled and straightened her frame. She hoped the nervous twinge in her legs wouldn’t make her trip. Through the candlelight illuminating the feasting hall, she sensed the envious stare of the ladies upon her, many of them young and beautiful. Strengthening her
grip on Dewain’s arm, Pressine walked stately as she entered the great hall.
Chapter Five
Elinas stopped conversing with a baron at the high table to stare at the unlikely couple walking toward him. The servants stopped pouring wine. The tinkling of ewers against pewter cups waned. A murmur spread among the crowd, then a hush fell on the feasting hall. Even the hounds looked up expectantly, with lolling tongues and wagging tails.
Pressine stood, framed in the open doorway. The penetrating rays of the setting sun behind her rendered the white silk gown translucent. Dark and lithe, she looked like a golden statue of Aphrodite, her nudity barely veiled, as if a sudden draft could expose her anytime. Elinas had never beheld such a vision before meeting her.
A powerful pulse in his loins responded to the sway of her fluid curves. He remembered the naked nymph who sang melodiously while bathing in the spring. The rare sight had occupied his thoughts all day and now made his cheeks burn. He wished he had more control over his emotions.
Still battling his anger at her transgression, Elinas decided to offer a truce in honor of Beltane. Besides, he must admit his late queen would have liked her chambers alive with vibrant colors. And how could he begrudge such a bright and beautiful woman as Lady Pressine?
He admired her willowy walk as Dewain guided her toward the royal table.
When she flashed a demure smile and curtsied, Elinas rose to face her. He discerned uncommon strength in the way she carried herself, subdued yet not subservient. Any prince or king would be proud to have her at his side. He shuddered, guessing that if thwarted, she could also make a ruthless enemy.
She offered her small hand. Elinas kissed the soft fingers. His lips lingered there as ripples of excitement coursed along his skin. A pleasing heat suffused his body. "Would you share the royal cup tonight, noble lady?"
Pressine responded with a radiant smile. "But I might shame you by being less than docile."
"Remember the wolves, my lady," he whispered in her ear as he eased the chair to his right.
She gave a small laugh and sat. "I gladly accept your cup."
Her musky perfume assailed Elinas’ senses as her veiled thigh almost touched his brown woolen trews.
"Only one condition," she said coyly. "Dare not turn the cup on me."
Elinas scoffed, both amused and excited by the sexual allusion. Turning the cup would be an open invitation to share his bed. The intriguing princess resembled no woman he had ever known. Setting aside all previous resentment, he decided to trust her... for now. "So, you feel like feasting dangerously tonight? It is Beltane after all..."
* * *
Pressine smiled at the mention of Beltane and watched a young servant refill the silver cup she would share with the king.
Tonight on the Lost Isle, after weaving ribbons around the phallic maypole, the priestesses would light huge bonfires. In the heat of the flames, they would couple with druids, princes, and tribal kings, to honor the Goddess and produce a new generation of future rulers.
Pressine glanced up at her king. Did Elinas know of the ancient custom? She did not regret keeping her virginity all these years for the sake of an alliance in the name of the Goddess. Otherwise, she could have been one of the priestesses offering themselves on the altar stone tonight.
Unsheathing her dagger, Pressine placed it on the white tablecloth, beside the thick trencher of hard shepherd bread. The soft glow of the massive chandeliers, alight with several rows of fat tallow candles, illuminated the richly dressed guests and the fussing servants. A woman gave Pressine a brief appraising glance. Laughter and the din of conversations mingled with the chime of silver and the occasional bark of a hound.
"I welcome your truce, Lord King." Pressine did not mind missing the Beltane ritual. So far, she preferred the extraordinary task of seducing a king.
"What if I meant you harm?" Elinas motioned the servant to leave the ewer on the table and handed the cup to Pressine. Did he plan to get her drunk?
"I can fend for myself if need be, Lord King. I fear no mortal man, only the wrath of the Goddess." Pressine tasted the strong mead, careful to drink on her side of the cup.
"Few still honor the old gods." Elinas took the cup from her and their fingers touched.
"I do." Pressine quickly removed her tingling fingers from the goblet. She found his contact too pleasurable and distracting.
"I once worshiped the old gods. But they took my queen..." Elinas cleared his throat. "Now, I strive to be fair and wise, but I doubt that my reputation spread all the way to Bretagne. What makes you think you can trust me?"
Pressine's surprise must have shown, causing Elinas to smile. She had no answer, just a feeling about him, and she trusted the Goddess.
A young boy ladled kidney stew on the bread trenchers, then a servant girl added creamed beets and boiled dandelion greens. Finally, a cook proudly set a silver platter containing the hind quarter of a deer in front of the king, on the high table.
Picking at the stew with clean fingers, Pressine observed less tidy diners. "To answer your question, like my aunt, the Lady of the Lost Isle, I can read men's hearts. I see in you a generous soul, destined for greatness."
Elinas carved a chunk of deer, dropped it on her trencher then cut another piece.
"I have no great ambition, dear lady. I feel satisfied with ruling fairly, protecting the borders against our enemies, and maintaining a fragile peace among tribal kings and barons. That is quite enough." He bit into his meat with lusty appetite.
"I understand." Pressine cut and speared a dainty bite with her dagger. The sweet meat melted in her mouth, satisfying her cravings.
"You do?" Elinas raised a dark brow.
"Of course. But what about the Vikings? What if they come in great numbers and sweep the land?" She blotted fingers and lips delicately on the hem of the long tablecloth, as good manners dictated.
Elinas threw his scraps to a begging hound. "The Vikings are a pricker in my backside." He drained the cup, refilled it, then returned to the food. "May the gods help us if the barbarians bring whole armies. We could not stop them."
This seemed like the perfect opening. "What if the Goddess helped you unify the land? If you were crowned high king of Alba over the tribes of Scots, Picts and Angles, they would stop fighting each other and bow to your authority."
Elinas groaned as he chewed a mouthful and waved a leg bone.
But Pressine would not give him a chance to protest. "The united tribes could join forces to protect the coast from the Viking threat."
The king swallowed hard, bobbing his Adam’s apple. "The old gods have grown weak in this land." With the point of his dirk, he dislodged a piece of gristle from his teeth. "A single king cannot control all the land between the Hadrian and the Antonine walls."
"It could be the only way to repel the Vikings, my lord." Pressine speared a slice of beet. "The Vikings used to strike and run, but now they have strongholds in the Caledonian wilderness. They prepare an invasion."
"I hope not." Elinas waved away her comment. He did not believe her.
"Still, you could unite the tribes to protect the coast from their raids."
Elinas shook his head. "King Alpin of Dalriada would never give me his oath. He would probably like the title of high king for himself, though. I understand he entertains big dreams. I’m glad the Picts keep him busy, otherwise, his Scots would fall on our land like wolves."
Having heard little of the northern tribes, Pressine asked, "How dangerous exactly are the Picts?"
Elinas shrugged. "A bunch of filthy savages. They rape and kill women and children. Every summer, they scramble over the Antonine wall, half naked, painted with blue woad and black pitch. They raid villages and small towns on the northern border, slaughtering indiscriminately for food, gold, and weapons. And all in the name of Christendom."
She drank a sip of mead, feeling suddenly warm. "What about the Angles?"
"The Angles of Lothian?" Elinas wiped the fat fr
om his mouth with a white linen sleeve. "They despise us Britons, befriend the Saxons, and covet our fertile lowlands. As for the Saxons of Mercia to the south, they have not crossed the Hadrian wall for a long time. But who knows when they may decide to ride north in search of new farmlands."
"Really?" Pressine knew all this but wanted him to open up, so she could gain his trust.
Around them, barons and lesser nobles, engaged in conversations of their own. They paid little attention to Pressine and the king, as if to give them privacy.
Pulling his chair back in a grating of wood on the stone floor, Elinas eased Caliburn on his hip and spread one long booted leg in front of him under the table. He sighed, his soft brown eyes on Pressine. "But what is all this to a beautiful woman?"
Although she acknowledged the compliment with a smile, Pressine did not relent. "If and when Alba finally unites, you would want to be in control, making the decisions rather than relying on Alpin of Dalriada or Loth of Lothian."
Elinas raised both eyebrows as if in subtle warning. "What king would not?"
When he brushed Caliburn's hilt with light fingers, Pressine wondered whether he could feel the sword’s magic.
She made her voice low and seductive. "So, you do like power."
"I used to, but I do not enjoy it lately, not since..." A shadow briefly darkened the king's gaze.
Realizing the extent of his grief, Pressine hesitated. "Your queen..."
Elinas refilled the silver cup. "She was cheerful and sweet, not as spirited and independent as you, dear lady. The fever took her before the last harvest." He drained the cup, set it down, then filled it again.
"I am sorry she left you so soon." Pressine fell silent. She couldn’t imagine the pain of such a loss. She also wondered how it might feel to be loved that much by a worthy man.
Children offered bowls of scented water and wet towels for the king and his guests to wash their hands. More servants brought baskets and gathered the bread trenchers soaked with the juices, and the leftovers of the meal. Later, according to custom, they would distribute these remains among the servants and the poorest of the town people.
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