The war party, still a blur at the forest line, stretched in a long ribbon, bristling with lances and colorful banners. Pressine noticed with a pang of sadness that the train scarcely reached a fraction of its numbers a month ago. The levies had probably returned to their homes, but the carnage had killed too many, and she grieved for the widows and orphans.
Although the object of her love had been spared, Pressine worried about Gwenvael. Her efforts to locate him through the water basin had failed. She dearly hoped her brother had survived. And Bodvar, was he killed? No one knew for sure. His death would place Gwenvael in great peril.
With each messenger, tales of heroic feats flew from hall to scullery and from guards to servants. The king’s exploits grew to fantastic proportion with each report. Even with Caliburn, Pressine doubted that Elinas single-handedly slaughtered a whole contingent of Berserkers. Many had died bravely, to be sure, but the Britons had routed the Viking horde. Today, victory belonged to the defenders of Alba.
As the line of soldiers neared the fort, Pressine recognized Elinas, tall and proud on his dappled gray, still wearing her scarf on his left shoulder. How she had missed him.
The young man riding to the king’s right, dark and slim, must be the Edling, Mattacks, returning from fosterage in Whithorn. And the prelate with a red cape on the king’s left must be Bishop Renald, the boy’s tutor. Pressine did not see Dewain, but the messengers said the old man had returned to Ayre to visit his son.
Behind the king’s escort, eight burly men carried a wooden pallet, on which lay the life-size statue of a woman, carved in black stone. A cortege followed, and Pressine heard chanting, like in a religious procession.
When the head of the column reached the main gate, Pressine hurried down the rampart steps to meet her future husband.
The castle guards, waiting in two lines on each side of the gate, raised their spears, cheering when the riders crossed into the walled enclosure. Pressine could see Elinas searching the crowd. His beard had grown a bit, making his face longer. He looked tired.
When Pressine stepped forward, the king smiled, slid off his steed, and embraced her in an unusual public display of affection. After a heady kiss, Pressine rested her head on his shoulder.
"I missed you so much," she whispered in his ear, reveling in the scent of his leather jerkin.
He kissed her neck. "I brought back your scarf."
Yet Pressine felt uneasy. She surveyed the crowd for the source of her malaise. Two paces away stood a youth in black tunic, trews, and leather boots. Tall and dark like his father but slimmer and smooth of jaw, the Edling stared at her with a deep frown.
When Pressine met his gaze, his eyes shifted and his mouth curled down at the corners in an expression of lofty disgust. Then he crossed his fingers against evil.
With a shudder of foreboding, Pressine noticed the heavy silver cross hanging from a leather tie on his chest. A Christian, like Gwenvael. But unlike her brother, Prince Mattacks seemed of the zealous sort. He had marked her as a Pagan, and his defiant stare now reflected the contempt reserved for heathens.
The Edling did not bow when Elinas introduced Pressine. The bishop, older if not wiser, hid his distaste under a false smile. His aversion for her kind might prove more dangerous than that of the youth.
When the men carrying the statue lowered the life-size sculpture in front of Pressine, she gasped in recognition. Dear Goddess!
Mistaking her reaction, Bishop Renald smiled.
"This is a very ancient representation of the Virgin Mary. A priceless relic, really. We call Her the Black Madonna. Some travelers found Her in a cave where early Christians used to worship. I am trying to persuade our king to erect a chapel for Her in this fortress, but he evaded my pleas, leaving the decision up to you, my lady."
Pressine glanced at Elinas, who watched the exchange with a mischievous grin. How sweet of him to let her decide. Elinas winked at her. Familiar with the old gods, he knew what the statue represented.
The kind face of the sculpture, the long braided hair, and the wreath on the Madonna's head were unmistakable. She wore the shift that had become the dress of the Ladies of the Lost Isle, but her sash was a serpent. The statue’s ample bosom could feed the whole land, and on Her left shoulder remained the broken claws of the raven that used to perch there.
"May I count on our future queen’s gracious support in this holy endeavor?" Bishop Renald crooned.
"A chapel? Here?" What in the world could motivate a Christian bishop to build a chapel for the Great Goddess?
"Yes, a chapel." Bishop Renald’s eyes shone with excited enthusiasm. "Such a testimony from the early Christians of this land deserves a fitting shrine."
Pressine relished the choice of words. A chapel would make a worthy shrine, indeed. Was it possible that the bishop had no notion of the statue’s real identity?
She smiled with benevolence. "What would you say if I financed the construction myself?"
Virgin Mary, Black Madonna, or Great Goddess, it mattered not what people called Her. As long as they prayed for help, the Great Goddess would gladly grant it and spread Her bounty over the land.
"Really?" The bishop’s eyes grew the size of silver crowns. "Thank you, Lady Pressine. You will be rewarded in heaven for your generous devotion."
Embarrassed by such praise, Pressine suddenly felt self conscious about her hidden motives. As a Lady of the Isle, however, she took comfort in the fact that the Goddess had come to her. What an auspicious sign, like a blessing upon her mission.
* * *
Elinas rose and paced his bedchamber. "I will not cancel my wedding to fit your religious preferences!"
Despite Dewain’s warnings, Elinas had not expected such hostility from his oldest son. "Who gave you the right to question my decision?"
The tall, slender youth stood firmly, facing his father with no fear in his dark eyes. "My God gives me the strength to stand up to anyone who does not recognize His supreme power. You, father, have ignored Him for too long. You must convert, then get rid of the venomous bitch you keep within these walls."
"How dare you defy me!" Elinas glared at Mattacks, unbelieving. "I love you as much as my other sons, but religion is mainly a political tool. That is why I gave you a Christian tutor."
Mattacks averted his gaze and remained silent.
Elinas resumed pacing. "I do not condone fanatics, whatever their faith. Too many crimes are committed in the name of religion. I love Pressine with all my heart, and I do not intend to give her up just because you disapprove."
Sensing no reaction, Elinas faced the Edling again. "Is that clear?"
Mattacks breathed deeply. "If she has poisoned you so that you cannot live without her, then bed the Pagan whore, but for God’s sake, do not wed her."
Elinas slammed the table with a hard fist. "You will speak of your future stepmother with the respect due to a queen!"
Realizing he was shouting, Elinas struggled to regain some control and went on in an urgent tone. "You are young, Mattacks. In time you might understand, but I shall wed Pressine as planned. And no, she has not poisoned me, nor have I bedded her. She is a virgin and so wishes to remain until our wedding night. I shall respect her decision."
"But, father, she is wicked." The Edling seemed at loss for words. "She has already won the bishop with her intrigues. All Renald talks about is the Black Madonna’s chapel. He has already picked a spot near the great hall and started drawing on parchment."
"Yes, Pressine has quite winsome ways. I could not have wished for a more accomplished bride." Elinas chuckled. "In the blink of an eye, she gave the bishop what he wants the most. She just turned a potential enemy into an ally who owes her a great deal. The woman is a gem."
Mattacks shook his head in plain disgust. "On your wedding night, the nuptial witnesses will find on her the mark of Satan. Remember my words."
"Very unlikely." Elinas would never subject Pressine to such a humiliating custom.
Mattacks drew breat
h to protest again.
Elinas raised his hand to stop him. "Since my succession is secure, no one will gawk at my naked wife but me."
"You will regret it, father."
"It is not your concern." Elinas sighed heavily, then considered his Edling with reproach. "From now on, I expect you to treat Pressine with the respect due to her rank. Whether in the hall or at the hunt, I shall tolerate no less from you. Is that understood?"
Mattacks calmly gazed into his father's eyes. "As you wish."
The Edling’s neutral voice and composed face gave no clue as to his true emotions.
* * *
Pressine noticed that neither the Edling nor the Bishop attended the evening meal, but no one seemed to mind. After supper, she lingered in the hall, sitting by Elinas, holding hands under the table while listening to the generals and barons retelling stories of the great battle. She asked about strategy and inquired about the Viking’s way of life. Mostly, she listened, each word bringing forth terrifying images of the bloody battle.
Then, one at a time, the candles started dying.
Elinas smiled and squeezed her hand. "Although I treasure your company, dear lady, my weary bones long for a comfortable bed."
"I understand, my lord." Pressine rose from the table. "Besides, the hunt leaves at dawn."
"I cannot believe my Edling is seventeen. I was married at that age." Elinas offered his arm. "On his first hunt as an adult he is expected to prove himself by killing some big game."
Pressine accepted the king’s arm and they walked across the hall. She never cared for brutal sports, but the traditional hunt was a social event. It also had the added purpose of keeping the guests fed.
They crossed the castle yard in the balmy spring night, fragrant with lilac blossoms. When they reached the door to Pressine’s chambers, the king bent for a kiss. She let herself be transported by the passion she felt, safe in the knowledge that Elinas loved her.
He released her gently.
"Twelve days..." she whispered in his ear.
Elinas chuckled. "I have often imagined our wedding night. Perhaps the thought helped me survive, just for you."
After kissing her hand, Elinas walked away toward his chambers across the courtyard. Pressine watched him go. When he glanced back and waved, her heart jumped and she blew him a kiss. Thank you, Dear Goddess, for keeping him alive!
* * *
When Elinas knocked on her door before dawn, Pressine had already dressed. Together, they walked through the sleepy castle grounds, to the stables. There, the hunting party gathered in a frenzy of hooves, creaking saddles and deerhound barks.
Pressine let go of the king’s hand to allow him to greet his barons in a dignified manner. The horses whinnied and fidgeted. Servants and guards ran among beasts and riders, carrying torches, crossbows and spears. A lad brought Pressine’s white mare.
"Let me help you," Elinas said softly. Seizing her by the waist, he lifted her into the saddle.
Heat rose to her cheeks when his strong hand held her aloft, then gently deposited her on the horse, lingering on her thigh while he checked the leather straps. Pressine brushed his knuckles with gloved fingers. Glancing up, the king took her hand to his lips.
Across from Pressine, among the hunters, the Edling mounted a skittish black stallion who excited the mares. She caught Mattacks’ flicker of condemnation as their eyes met. With a proud shake of the head, the young man threw back his long dark hair. He looked too serious, too conceited for seventeen, as if he already carried the weight of his father’s crown.
Conan, the second son, as fair as the elder was dark, had been allowed to follow the hunt as an observer. Pressine, however, noticed the unobtrusive sling hanging from his belt. The younger prince seemed eager to please, watching his father’s every move. Struggling for control over a huge bay, the boy gave Pressine a timid smile.
When the sky paled in the east, Elinas sounded his silver horn. Lining up behind him, the hunters followed their king and future queen through the main gate onto the forest road. A pinkish dawn prompted the larks to sing when the party entered the canopy of trees. Pressine filled her lungs with the green earthy smell of the undergrowth. In the wan light, morning dew twinkled on grasses and leaves.
Apart from weapons and hounds, the hunt resembled a pleasant ride in the woods, until Pressine caught sight of a boar. The black creature bolted out of a thicket and crossed the path, unsettling the horses. Judging by the many scars on its hide, the old solitary beast with sharp yellow tusks must have survived many skirmishes.
"The boar is mine!" Young Mattacks spurred his stallion ahead to chase the prey.
Suddenly, Mattacks’ stallion reared. An accomplished rider, the Edling remained on his mount. The boar had stopped to face the young prince.
Elinas nudged his steed protectively in front of Pressine’s mare. The hound master strained against the pull of the hounds, barking and ready to tear the prey to pieces.
"Hold the dogs!" Mattacks shouted.
The boar charged. Mattacks thrust his spear. The blade stabbed but the handle broke. The Edling lost his balance and fell to the ground. The squealing prey fled through the trees, the spear blade jutting out of its leathery back.
Leaping upon the stallion like an acrobat, Mattacks went after the beast, leaving the other hunters to follow the hoof prints and blood trail in the wake of the sniffing dogs.
Pressine turned around. Behind her, Conan had gone pale. The lad knew how dangerous a wounded beast could be. If his brother dies, he is the next in line, she thought almost wistfully. Ashamed of thinking such ill, Pressine reminded herself that the Goddess would handle things Her own way.
* * *
Ducking under low branches, Mattacks pursued his prey. Twigs snapped and saplings whipped his arms as the stallion galloped through the brush. It was his hunt. He would bring down the boar and force the respect of all the soft bellied barons his father called councilors.
Even Bishop Renald had betrayed him by siding with the Pagan bitch. Now, Mattacks stood alone in the shadow of God and, strong in his untainted faith, he would prevail.
Mattacks had waited long enough, studied long enough. His time had come, and he would show his father what sort of mettle the future king was made of. For Mattacks would be king. And unlike his father softened by age, he would rule with an iron grip, feared and respected throughout the land.
No one would stand against him unpunished, and certainly not a filthy heathen. The clergy had grown soft in Strathclyde. A strong Christian king could reinstate confiscations, and floggings for doing the devil’s work.
But a heathen priestess deserved to burn alive.
The boar weakened and slowed its pace. Mattacks had almost caught up with it when the wounded beast faced about and grunted, lowering its head. The warm stench of the swine spread through the clearing.
Dismounting, Mattacks faced the ferocious tusks and drew his hunting knife, heart pounding, poised to face the charge. With the hunt far behind, he stood alone. In God’s shadow, he reminded himself, taking heart in His mighty protection.
Mattacks stood his ground when the boar charged. At the last possible moment, he leapt to the side, avoiding the razor-sharp tusks. The blade missed the mark, only slashing the hide. Fortunately, he hung on to the knife. Running to the other side of the clearing, he waited for the next charge.
Blood oozing from its wounds, the black beast slowly turned around. Its small eyes under grimy lashes never wandered, but stared straight into Mattacks’ own.
Sure of himself, Mattacks glared back at the beast. With practiced agility, he moved from side to side to confuse the prey. When Mattacks stopped in front of a small tree and goaded the animal, exhorting it to fight, the boar charged again. Mattacks jumped clear, leaving the beast to slam into the tree and bury its tusks in the tender pulp.
While the beast heaved to pull free of the trunk, Mattacks thrust his sharp blade to the hilt below the jowl, then sliced through t
he throat, cutting short the frantic squeals.
"Die, you filthy spawn of Satan," he muttered, thinking of other filth he would like to slash open. Around him, hot blood spurted and pooled deep red, before seeping through the bed of dead leaves into the spongy ground. The boar collapsed. Thrashing in the throes of death, it gurgled a last breath.
The hunting party arrived just in time to witness the triumph. Aware of the dogs howling madly at the smell of fresh blood, Mattacks cleaned his blade on the hide and rose. Wiping bloody hands on his trews, he faced his father. After a slight bow to the king, hiding his jubilation, Mattacks signaled the servants, winded from running behind the horses.
"Take it away," he ordered with feigned indifference.
Inside, however, he exulted. If God gave him the strength to do this, with God’s help, Mattacks could do anything... Including eradicate paganism from his future kingdom.
* * *
That night, Pressine joined the feast in the hall. Sitting at the high table with Elinas, she watched Mattacks at a side table with the hunters and other young nobles. He received all the attention due a hero, telling and retelling the story of his kill with feigned boredom.
Well into the banquet, Elinas nodded to Pressine and let go of her hand. He rose and tapped his dirk on the silver cup he shared with her.
The guests quieted.
"Tonight, we count one more valiant man in our ranks," Elinas declared, full of fatherly pride. "The Edling proved his courage in the hunt, if not yet in battle."
The king picked up his family sword from the back of his chair, then called his son to the high table.
If Mattacks was surprised, he did not show it as he ambled confidently to his father’s side.
Elinas handed his son the heirloom. "My son, please accept this token of valor. May you always make me proud as you did today."
With an unreadable smile, Mattacks accepted the family sword and bowed slightly.
Elinas filled his cup with mead and handed it to Mattacks with a flourish. "After drinking this, you can choose any servant girl you like for the night."
Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition Page 14