The guests cheered and raised their cups.
The Edling held up one hand, asking for silence. "I do not indulge in such libations, nor do I fornicate like a heathen."
A general gasp answered.
"His Holiness the Pope recently condemned such practices, and I pray no one commits these sins in my presence," he said with open disdain.
As the Edling returned to his table, Bishop Renald gave a thin smile of approval, but the comment brought a wave of muffled protests from the hunters.
Unruffled, Elinas smiled at Pressine. He did not seem to notice the uneasy silence that ensued, but Pressine did. Soon, the servants brought the next course, and the conversations resumed.
Seized by foreboding, Pressine could not share in the general cheer. The intransigence and the calculating coldness of the Edling chilled her to the marrow.
Chapter Twelve
On the tenth day after the Viking defeat in Alba, a single Drakkar sailed into view of Arstinchar. A score of starving survivors cluttered the deck, some wounded. At the aft, rolled into a sail, lay the stinking corpse of Prince Ragnar. The two other longships that escaped after the battle had vanished during a night storm days ago.
Gwenvael wondered at the wisdom of returning to the Viking stronghold. Bodvar drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid, sometimes feverish. If by misfortune he died, Gwenvael could very well become a slave himself. Dear God, do not let this happen!
Staring in surprise beyond the circle of half-sunken palisades protecting the Viking harbor, Gwenvael saw a great fleet. Feathered banners, leather ribbons, bones, and fur ornaments floated atop a myriad masts.
"New arrivals from Gotland," the red-headed giant named Olaf volunteered with a smile as they crossed into the enclave.
How many more warriors would pour on the shores of Alba? Even with the Ladies’ help, how long could the Britons fend them off? It seemed a losing battle. God Almighty, please protect my countrymen.
The Drakkar came to shore among loud cheers. Did these people know they had lost the battle?
Four Vikings carried Bodvar off the ship on a pallet of shields and oars, and took him to his longhouse. After lowering him through the small entrance, they laid him on the wooden platform of the central room.
Bodvar shook feverishly, delirious, moaning in pain. Gwenvael had no way of telling whether he had improved or worsened. The Viking’s life rested in the hands of God.
Cliona emerged from her room. At the sight of her troubled face and teary emerald eyes, Gwenvael realized he had come home. When had he started thinking of Arstinchar as home? He could not say, but it had much to do with Cliona. Wherever she resided felt like home.
She threw herself into his arms. Her fiery hair smelled like a field of flowers in summer.
"I thought I might never see you again." Gwenvael kissed her throat with the passion he had kept in check since he had left her.
When she stiffened slightly in his embrace, a realization struck him.
"Have they forced you?" As he caressed her hair, he knew.
Cliona sobbed on his chest, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"When the new horde came," she explained between sobs, "they demanded sexual favors. A slave must submit or die. And I wanted to live to see you again."
Gwenvael understood only too well and felt guilty at not having freed Cliona earlier. He held her protectively against him. "It will never happen again. I promise. As soon as Bodvar recovers, I shall ask for your freedom." If he recovers... But if he did survive, how could he refuse his savior anything?
Cliona’s eyes gleamed through the tears.
Gwenvael hesitated before asking, "Would you be my wife?"
A glorious smile brightened Cliona’s face. "You would do this for me?"
"Yes, and much more." He brushed her lips in a tender kiss.
Olaf’s entrance broke the happy reunion. "We need you to help with the preparations for Ragnar’s funeral."
Clearing his throat, Gwenvael detached himself from Cliona. "I just need a moment."
While Olaf stood, waiting, Gwenvael checked Bodvar’s bandages and tightened his shoulder brace made of armor plates.
"I still cannot believe you shoved that shoulder back in place." Olaf grinned. "I thought the warriors on the boat would throw you overboard for making our prince scream like a bairn."
"Sometimes the treatment is painful, but the results are worth it." Satisfied, Gwenvael followed Olaf outside.
As they walked toward the beach, news of the brutal defeat and loss of so many warriors, far from sapping the Vikings’ morale, became an excuse for celebration.
"Death in battle is something to rejoice about," Olaf explained. "It secures passage into Valhalla."
Gwenvael assumed it was the Viking’s heaven. As they reached the beach, the survivors from the battle were digging a pit in the sand. Nearby, Ragnar’s corpse, still rolled in the sail, vilified the air and attracted seagulls.
Accepting a shovel, Gwenvael dug with the others. Then the warriors sat Ragnar’s corpse at the bottom of the hole and placed a drinking horn in his hand. In front of him, on a segment of tree trunk, they laid fruit and a pitcher of mead. Then they covered the hole with planks.
Gwenvael frowned. "Is that how you bury the dead?"
Olaf smiled. "We leave him to eat and drink merrily until his funeral. He will travel to Valhalla on a longship named Nagelfar, after the ship that carries glorious dead warriors to Ragnarok, the final battle of the gods."
"When will that be?" Gwenvael worried about the stench.
Olaf swatted at a fly. "Since he has been dead ten days already, we can have the ceremony very soon."
Gwenvael did not understand the relevance. "Why not take care of the dead right away?"
"When the great god Odin died, he came back to life after nine days. So, we always wait ten... just to be sure." Olaf chuckled. "And then the living have to feast and drink, too."
Nodding his understanding, Gwenvael remembered his precarious status in Arstinchar. "Since Bodvar is wounded, who is in charge?"
"Sigurd is the leader of the new fleet. He wants to see us all in the chieftain’s hall."
"Me, too?" Gwenvael shuddered with foreboding.
"Of course. You are part of the survivors." Olaf smiled. "Besides, you live in Bodvar’s house. You represent him until he can attend in person."
Later, in the hall, members of the most prominent houses stood in front of Sigurd, who sat in the high chair. Despite his fair grasp of the language, Gwenvael did not quite understand the subtleties of the lengthy deliberations. But he realized that a prince’s funeral was a major ceremony. The preparations would cost much in gold, animals, lumber and craftsmanship, as well as in fine cloth and women’s labor.
Finally, Sigurd called before him the four young women of Ragnar’s household. They stood very still, staring back in deadly silence. At first, Gwenvael believed them stunned by the shock of their lord’s demise.
"Which of you claims the privilege of accompanying her prince on his last voyage?" Sigurd’s solemn face and tone spoke of ancient rituals and ancestral customs.
Gwenvael wondered at the question.
None of the women volunteered.
"You!" Sigurd designated the youngest and prettiest of the lot, a blonde beauty with delicate features.
The girl’s eyes widened and she gasped.
"What is your name?" Sigurd asked in the same ceremonial manner.
Open fear washed over the young woman’s face. She could not be more than sixteen, and her small breasts heaved as she glanced around. She reminded Gwenvael of a hare caught in a snare. Finally, in the oppressive silence, under the stares of the assembled men, she composed her face.
"My name is Asa, my lord," she said in a barely audible voice.
"Do not be afraid, Asa," Sigurd offered in a softer tone. "The Valkyries will carry you to Valhalla with your lover, and you will share his glory and be spared the petty sufferi
ngs of this life."
Trembling, Asa bowed. "I am honored to be chosen."
No wonder the girl shook. What barbaric custom would sacrifice such a pure young woman? And for what? A dead tyrant? By bringing Christian notions to these savages, Gwenvael hoped to change all that. But now was not the time.
"Go and be merry, Asa." Sigurd indulged her with a paternal smile. "From now on, you can have anything you want. Every person in Arstinchar will yield to your slightest whim."
Asa filed out of the hall with the other women, two sturdy warriors following them closely. What a pity! Gwenvael guessed the lass would not be left alone for an instant until the sacrifice. No hope of escape for her.
Gwenvael remembered to breathe.
From then on, the whole population of Arstinchar, over three thousand people, worked feverishly for the ceremony. By night, they ate and drank heavily. The survivors dragged on dry sand the chosen longboat for the funeral, the Nagelfar. It would become Ragnar’s last residence. Warriors fitted the Drakkar for the funeral while, the women sewed luxurious clothes to send the prince and his consort to Valhalla in the most fitting finery.
A filthy crone in stinking rags they called the Angel of Death, supervised all the ceremonial details. As much as he tried, Gwenvael could find in her weathered face, lanky hair, and twisted body, no resemblance to the Christian Angel of Death, Michael. It felt sacrilegious to honor this old harpy as highly as the glorious Archangel who would lead the souls chosen by God into eternal light after Judgment Day.
The crone, however, must have had some healing knowledge. When she visited Bodvar, she inspected his armor shell with interest and nodded her approval. "You should use spider webs in your poultice."
Gwenvael could not hide his surprise. "I never heard of that."
"It works, but I do not have any on me. You will have to collect them yourself." The old woman pulled small pebbles out of a leather pouch at her belt and threw them in the air.
Gwenvael had heard about such ways of divination but had never seen it done before. The Angel of Death squatted to study the position of the pebbles on the earthen floor. Reading the runes carved upon them, she shrugged.
"He shall live and fight again," she declared, then retrieved the pebbles and left the house without a backward glance.
With Cliona’s help, Gwenvael treated Bodvar with herbal brews and poultices. Upon her insistence, he also used the spider webs recommended by the crone. The strange treatment worked. Within two days the fever abated. To Gwenvael’s delight, Bodvar ate voraciously. As his strength returned, he started to walk again, strolling about Arstinchar, left arm tightly bound to his chest.
"Did you warn the Britons about our raid?" he asked Gwenvael, as he inspected a new battle axe, under the lean-to that served as a forge.
"No, I did not." Gwenvael’s heart beat faster as he raised his voice over the hammering of the blacksmith. "How could I? I did not even know when or where you planned to attack."
"True. No one did. So, how could they have set an ambush?" Bodvar swung the axe, dangerously close to Gwenvael’s head.
Gwenvael took a step back, and glanced at the sweaty blacksmith, who elicited sparks from incandescent metal. "The Ladies have the sight."
Bodvar grunted. "You really believe that?"
"I have seen it with my own eyes." How much could Gwenvael tell? The place smelled of molten metal, hot as hell itself. Let the truth set him free. "My sister scries in a water basin to bring forth visions of what is to come."
"Does she?" Bodvar stared at Gwenvael as if to determine whether or not he was lying. "Then I believe you. Besides, if you had betrayed me, why would you save my life and return here?"
"Why indeed?" Gwenvael wondered at that himself.
Bodvar set the axe back on the work bench. "Of course, you sent me to the trap of the Lost Isle, then rescued me from drowning. Why?"
Gwenvael scrambled for a truthful answer. "I believe it was God’s will, because we must do His work together."
Reaching for a sword on a rack, Bodvar shook his head. "I do not want to hear another word about your stupid god."
Searching for a new topic, Gwenvael remembered his promise to Cliona. "I have a favor to ask."
Running his fingers along the edge of the sword blade, Bodvar cocked an eyebrow. "Well, what is it?"
"Something about Cliona."
"Oh!" Bodvar stopped to stare at Gwenvael. "You do not like her anymore? You want another slave? You Briton rascal!" He smiled and slapped Gwenvael’s thigh with the flat of the blade.
"Not at all!" Gwenvael rubbed his smarting thigh. "I want to marry her. I want her to be free."
Bodvar’s face grew serious. Slowly, he set the sword back on its rack. "In Odin’s name, what for? A slave is easier to control and far more eager to please."
"I love her." Gwenvael sustained the Viking’s gaze, hoping the man would understand.
"Love? Bah!" Bodvar suddenly turned away, fending off a fly with a wave of the hand, and walked out of the forge.
Gwenvael would not be dismissed so easily and ran after him. "Love is what my God teaches."
"Love makes men silly." Bodvar marched ahead in long strides. "We have mead for that."
"But a man in love cannot help himself. Just like with mead."
Bodvar chuckled and turned about. "You are an odd fellow. But what you are asking goes against my people’s rules."
"All great leaders change the rules for the better." Would brazen flattery work on Bodvar?
The Viking grunted. "Only because you saved my life again, I will present your request to the council. But I doubt they will agree."
Chapter Thirteen
At the sound of the horn, Pressine dropped the golden wedding gown into Ceinwyn’s lap and ran to the open window. Could it be?
A soldier hurried across the courtyard toward her chambers. She motioned to him.
The man came to the open window and bowed. "Lady Pressine! Your guest approaches the gate!"
"Ceinwyn, come!" Pressine rushed out into the bright afternoon sun bathing the yard.
Light as a fluttering bird, she flew past the great hall on her way to the main gate, and arrived just in time to see Morgane and her retinue riding through the stone arch. In a blue shift, Lady Morgane rode side-saddle, head high, a raven perched on her shoulder. As she halted her mare, a crowd of servants and visitors quickly formed around her party. In her wake, young servants on ponies came to a halt, while children on foot prodded the pack animals with sticks.
Pressine waved and ran toward her aunt. "Morgane! Ogyr! I am so glad to see both of you."
Ogyr cawed a greeting and flew to Pressine’s shoulder.
Pressine laughed, caressing the bird’s head gently, and kissed its feathery wing. "Hello to you, Old Friend. I thought I told you to stay with Gwenvael."
"I understand Ogyr does not care for the Vikings." Morgane chuckled. "Something about boiling in a pot. So he returned to the safety of the Lost Isle."
Pressine remembered the army of barbarians from the visions. "Can you blame him?"
She reached up to help Morgane dismount. Morgane took her hand and slid down the mare. As they embraced, Pressine delighted in the lavender scent of her aunt’s braided hair. Briefly, she longed for the peace of the small island, but her place was here. On her shoulder, Ogyr spread his wings for balance.
"Come." Pressine took Morgane by the hand. "Let the servants take the trunks to your chambers. There is something I want to show you."
The servants took away the animals and the traveling chests, and the curious dispersed.
"Where is Elinas?" Morgane glanced around with interest. "And what about this Mattacks, the heir you told me about?"
Pressine motioned with her chin in the direction of the stables. "Over there. It’s the Edling talking with Bishop Renald. The two crows, I call them. Both wearing black, strutting straight as spears. They are inseparable."
Morgane squinted at the two men in th
e distance. "And the king? I have not seen him since he was a child."
"With his councilors. He will be in the hall for the evening meal." Pressine stopped walking and stared at her aunt. "You radiate health and happiness!"
"It is the child growing inside me." Morgane patted her still flat belly. "A healthy boy, just as I wished."
"A boy?" Surprised, Pressine shivered at the implications. The Ladies rarely fared well with male children. Her mother almost died giving birth to Gwenvael. "What if he is deformed?"
"We cannot stop having babies for fear of a male child." Morgane exuded confidence. "If the Goddess wishes a boy, she will watch over him."
Unconvinced, Pressine resumed walking toward the great hall and changed the topic. "I am glad you saw Bodvar escape the battle alive with Gwenvael in your visions."
Morgane pressed her lips. "But I fear that new Viking Horde in Arstinchar."
"Nothing is ever perfect." Pressine exhaled slowly, to erase the new threat from her mind and focus on this happy moment. "It is so good to see you, smell you. I missed your sound advice."
"Any problems with the wedding?" Morgane slowed her pace and glanced at her with a coy smile.
"I fear for my sanity." An understatement. "The bishop insists on a high mass."
Morgane frowned. "And the king?"
"Elinas will defer to my wishes, but judging by his choice at our betrothal, he would prefer a druidic ceremony. All I want is the blessing of the Goddess." Pressine sighed. "This is all so confusing."
Morgane’s smoky eyes looked perplexed for a moment then sparkled with life. "Why not have all three? Three is a sacred number in every religion. Your groom is king after all. Too much blessing cannot hurt. That way everyone is happy."
"I knew you would come up with a solution." Without missing a step, Pressine glanced at the two men in black coming her way and lowered her voice. "I doubt the bishop will approve."
Taking Pressine’s hint, Morgane whispered. "You could argue that since the people of this country observe different faiths, you must acknowledge them all in order to rally their support."
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