Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  "It makes good sense." Pressine wondered why she hadn’t thought of it. "Elinas will love this idea."

  Morgane stopped short in front of the statue standing on a pedestal by the entrance of the great hall.

  Pressine chuckled. "Here is the surprise."

  "Mighty Goddess! Where did you find this?"

  "I found it in a cave." Bishop Renald, who’d hurried to catch up with the two women, answered for Pressine. He sounded out of breath but beamed with pride. "A Black Madonna, one of the oldest statues of the Virgin Mary worshiped by the early Christians of Whithorn."

  "Indeed!" Morgane’s face reflected genuine interest.

  "Bishop Renald, at your service, my lady." The bishop bowed. "You must be Lady Morgane, our future queen’s aunt. I can see the family resemblance."

  Morgane curtsied.

  "And this is Prince Mattacks," Pressine said, as the Edling joined them somewhat reluctantly.

  Mattacks smiled with disdain and did not bow.

  Morgane raised a brow but did not remark on his rudeness.

  Bristling at Mattacks’ attitude, Pressine hid her anger. "The Lord Bishop asked me to build a chapel to shelter his rare find, and I accepted."

  "I see..." A playful spark lit Morgane’s gray eyes.

  Enjoying Morgane’s mirth, Pressine pointed to a pile of stones to the side of the Great Hall. "The construction just started. When it is completed, pilgrims from all over the land will come to worship this symbol of pure grace and motherly love."

  "What a wonderful idea!" Morgane smiled to the bishop. "I shall come and worship myself every time I pass this way."

  Pressine caught Mattacks’ harsh look of hatred directed at the two women. As dark and handsome as Elinas, he lacked his father’s compassion.

  Morgane turned her back to the prince and took the bishop by the arm. "Tell me, Lord Bishop, why does the Black Madonna use a serpent for a sash?"

  The bishop spoke like a kind teacher. "Mary is universal love incarnate, you see... Her absolute purity allows her to forgive even the snake for the damning of Adam and Eve."

  "Really?" Morgane indicated the broken claws on the statue’s shoulder. "And why would she carry a raven, like my niece here?"

  Although Pressine enjoyed seeing the bishop cringe, she wished Morgane would stop her allusions. The man was dense but might catch on if he knew anything at all about the old faith.

  Renald seemed annoyed but smiled nevertheless. "I believe the missing bird must have been a dove, the Christian symbol of peace and love."

  Morgane grinned. "And why would they use black stone?"

  The bishop fingered his rosary one notch, and his smile grew strained. "The early Christians knew that Mary was born in the east Mediterranean lands, where the hot sun gives people darker skin. Some races in the south even have black skin, or so I understand. These early worshipers probably assumed that Mary had dark skin as well."

  "Like the legendary folks of our land." Morgane seemed deep in thought. "Then you believe Mary did not have dark skin, and her son was fair, right?"

  "Quite right. Blond and blue-eyed Our Savior was." The bishop’s fingers moved faster on the rosary. "And it is not our place to question the scriptures, Lady Morgane, but to worship the one true God."

  Morgane smiled benignly. "How convenient."

  Morgane, stop!

  Mattacks tensed and pressed his lips together, as if to suppress a caustic comment.

  The bishop shuffled his feet and flashed an embarrassed smile. "I know you would like to get settled in as soon as possible. So, I shall not stand in your way. We can resume this conversation another time."

  Bishop Renald lifted his black hat and left, followed by Mattacks.

  "This way." Pressine led Morgane in the opposite direction.

  "The heir did not say a single word," Morgane remarked, as soon as they had walked out of earshot. "He shows too much restraint for one so young."

  Pressine nodded. "He entertained murderous thoughts. I could see the tension in his face."

  "As could I." Suddenly, Morgane rolled her eyes and exploded in uncontrollable laughter. "A black Madonna, the Virgin Mary! Indeed! The Goddess works in mysterious ways!"

  Pressine joined in the gaiety. "Come see your chambers."

  "Yes, I need a bath," Morgane said cheerfully. "And I want to meet that apprentice of yours. Ceinwyn, is it?"

  "Yes, Ceinwyn."

  * * *

  Walking through the compound, deep in thought, Mattacks rehearsed his plan. He would not have a heathen for stepmother and another for great aunt. He must find a way to stop the wedding.

  He found his brother Conan at the kennel, as he knew he would. The silly youth loved the hounds as much as their father did. As if soulless animals should matter to a king!

  Mattacks wrinkled his nose. "What a foul-smelling place, full of howls and barks, straight from hell."

  Grinning, Conan glanced up from the greyhound he was combing. "Hounds are good company."

  Mattacks approached the lad with an engaging smile. "So, little brother, how do you feel about our father getting married?"

  Conan shrugged. "I think Father deserves to be happy."

  "And what of the bride?" Had the nitwit any opinion at all?

  The boy plucked a tick from the dog’s pelt and squashed it between two thumbnails, then scratched the animal behind the ears. "Pressine is kind and young, and pretty...and smart too. He could have chosen much worse."

  Mattacks dropped on one knee to his brother’s level. "You like her then?"

  "Of course, I like her. Who would not?" Conan stood up and threw a stick.

  The dog darted after it.

  Conan’s blue eyes narrowed. "Why? You don’t like her?"

  Mattacks rose, dusting his black trews. "Does it not bother you that she will replace our mother in the king’s heart and in his bed? Can you imagine them fornicating like hounds?"

  "I never thought of that." Conan blushed pink and lowered his gaze. "But as long as they are married, there is nothing wrong with that, is it?"

  "Nothing wrong?" Mattacks tried to sound horrified. "What if they have children?"

  Conan pushed a blond strand of hair away from his face. "Then I guess we shall have more brothers and sisters."

  "Right." Mattacks could not help a sneer. "And the brats will murder us for our inheritance."

  "Your inheritance, brother." Conan stared straight into Mattacks’ eyes. "Not mine."

  "Could be yours if I died." Mattacks looked away. His brother was too dumb to get such ideas. "But you are still a child. You do not understand the gravity of the situation."

  "I am thirteen," Conan protested, full of challenge. "Not a child anymore."

  "Oh? So where is your sword? I only see a sling at your belt, and I wager you never killed anything with it."

  "I did, too."

  Mattacks pulled out his dirk with a flourish. "Now, this is a man’s blade. It killed a wild boar. I bet you this dagger that you cannot shoot a raven at twenty paces."

  Conan glanced at the ornate weapon suspiciously. "I can do it."

  "Well, there is a raven in the oak near the stables. I bet you cannot hit the dumb bird."

  "I will prove you wrong."

  Mattacks pulled meat scraps from his pocket. "We can bait the bird with those, but I do not believe you can kill it."

  Conan resolutely started toward the oak.

  Walking beside his brother, Mattacks smiled inwardly. How easily he could manipulate the weak. Observation, diplomacy, strength of character, these were the primary virtues of a ruler, and he possessed them all. He would make a fine king someday. And it would happen soon if his father behaved foolishly, and let evil women poison his mind. Mattacks could have the king declared unfit by the council.

  Mattacks set the scraps on the stone bench under the oak, then the two brothers hid behind the hazelnut bush and waited silently. Soon, the raven flew down from his branch and pecked at the bait.
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  Mattacks remained very quiet as he watched Conan fit a rock in the leather sling. There could be only one throw. If the boy missed, he would not get another chance.

  The sling gyrated through the air with a faint whirr. When Conan let fly, the stone hurled faster than a bolt. The rock impacted with a soft thud, knocking the bird off the bench. The raven flopped to the ground, inert.

  Mattacks applauded. "Good shot, Brother. I am very impressed. I never thought you were that good," he lied.

  "Told you!" Conan beamed with naive pride.

  Mattacks laid one hand on Conan’s shoulder and offered him the dirk, hilt first. "Here is your prize, Brother. You earned it. May I keep the bird?"

  Taking the blade, Conan shrugged. "If you want to, but carrion is no good to eat."

  "I know. I would like to have it stuffed, as a souvenir."

  Sliding dirk and sling into his belt, Conan grinned, obviously reveling in his victory. Mattacks answered the smile in kind, but his thoughts traveled along a different path.

  * * *

  The next morning, when Pressine opened the shutters, something knocked and bounced off the wooden slats.

  She screamed.

  Hanging from a string tied to the eaves, a raven swayed upside down in the morning breeze. It was Ogyr, and he was dead.

  "What is it, My Lady?" Ceinwyn rushed to Pressine’s side. "Who on earth?" Hastily, she closed the shutters.

  Pressine slowed her breathing, trying to calm the beating of her heart. Horror and grief yielded to anger. "I think I know who did this and why." She walked away from the window.

  "Who would do such a thing?"

  "Sorry, Ceinwyn, I cannot tell you. Not until I am certain." She snatched her robe from the foot of the bed.

  "But if you know who did this, you should tell the king, My Lady," Ceinwyn said with vehemence. "Such cruelty should not go unpunished."

  "I agree." Sadness and anger battled in Pressine’s mind, but she must remain strong.

  Pressine could not tell anyone whom she suspected, not even Ceinwyn, and certainly not Elinas. One did not accuse the Edling on a hunch without irrefutable proof. Who would believe that such a refined, handsome, exemplary religious man, a future king, could be so hateful? Pressine, however, could sense the devious mind under the polished surface.

  "Go tell Morgane," she ordered Ceinwyn.

  As soon as the lass had gone, Pressine ran through the courtyard that separated her chambers from those of the king and knocked on the heavy door.

  A sleepy page with tousled hair opened it and bowed at the sight of her. "My lady... I shall tell the king you have come."

  "Do not bother, child. I can introduce myself." Pressine crossed the antechamber.

  "But, my lady," the page protested, following her.

  "Let me through." After a soft knock, Pressine pushed open the door to the king’s bedchamber.

  Sitting on the bed, Elinas looked up, delighted surprise on his face. Quickly, he cinched the waist strings of his trews, rose, then raked long fingers through his thick dark hair as he came to meet her. "Pressine, what prompted such an early visit?"

  Suddenly self-conscious about her own neglected appearance, Pressine groped for words. "Sorry to startle you, My Lord, but... someone in these walls killed my pet raven, Ogyr, and hung its carcass in front of my bedroom window."

  "What?" The king’s face went from pale to red under the black stubby beard. "Who would have the perverse audacity to offend my chosen queen?"

  Coming to Pressine, he took her in his arms. "Are you all right?"

  "I will be fine." She forced a smile as he kissed her forehead lightly. How could she possibly tell him she suspected Mattacks? "I only have vague suspicions, my lord, so I refuse to make accusations. But I would like to inquire into the matter, with your permission, of course."

  "Yes, dearest lady. But please be discreet." Elinas cleared his throat. "With all the guests arriving every day, I do not want to start false rumors and spoil our wedding. I shall have someone question the servants."

  Fear suddenly gripped Pressine and she separated herself from the king’s embrace. "I wonder whether we should postpone the wedding until this matter is settled. Such a hateful display feels like a warning."

  "I shall not yield to intimidation in my own fortress. The wedding will go as planned." Elinas broke into a smile. "By the way, the idea of three ceremonies is the best strategy I have heard in a long time. I like your aunt Morgane. How much older than you is she? I thought I remembered seeing her once, when I was still a child, but she cannot be that old."

  "She is older than she looks, my lord." Pressine could not reveal the Ladies’ longevity, not yet. After the wedding, there would be ample time to explain. "Aunt Morgane would never forgive me for divulging her age."

  Elinas offered Pressine a chair. "I will never ask again. Perhaps it was someone who looked like her."

  "Perhaps." Pressine sat at the table and smiled, but she wondered how Elinas would take the news that she, like her aunt, would never age.

  "In any case, I am glad she came." Elinas pulled a chair and sat across the table. "I have a surprise arriving for you today."

  "A gift?" Pressine’s heart raced at her king’s kindness.

  Elinas paused mysteriously. "A troupe of minstrels from Bretagne. They will perform at the feast."

  "How wondrous!" Pressine’s excitement rose. "Where did you find them?"

  "In Whithorn, where they entertained King Emrys of Galloway. They will make our wedding an unforgettable event for all our guests as well." Elinas took her hand across the table and kissed her fingers.

  "Thank you, my lord, for such kindness." Suddenly Pressine thought of home. "It has been so long since I heard from Bretagne. Sometimes it feels like a dream, or another life. Does my native land still exist, somewhere beyond the sea? It seems so far away."

  Elinas brought her close over the table, as if for a kiss.

  Young voices argued in the antechamber. Pressine glanced toward the door as Conan irrupted into the room. The kiss would have to wait.

  Elinas let go of Pressine’s hands and sat far back into his chair. "What happened to your manners, son. How dare you barge in here unannounced?"

  Pressine smiled flirtatiously. "You did not scold me that way, my lord."

  Elinas stared grimly at young Conan. "I hope you have a good reason for disturbing our conversation."

  Gravely, the lad came to kneel in front of his father. "I just learned about Lady Pressine’s raven. I am the one who killed the bird yesterday."

  Pressine gasped, astounded. "But why?"

  Conan looked up at her with a contrite face. "I did not know the raven was yours, my lady. I give you my word."

  At a loss for words, Pressine struggled to understand but could not. Why would sweet Conan kill her magic bird?

  Turning to Elinas, the boy added, "I killed it under the oak, to show off my skills with the sling. I did not know... honestly!"

  "Did you also hang the carcass in front of Lady Pressine’s window?" Elinas sounded threatening.

  "Certainly not!" Conan rose in protest. "Why would I do such a vile thing?"

  Vile indeed. Pressine could not suppress her tears and had to look away.

  "Then, who did?" the king asked in a steely voice.

  "I could not say, Father. I did not see it done."

  "But surely you have some idea of who it was." The king’s chilly tone demanded an answer.

  "Expect nothing more from me, Father. I am ready to take whatever punishment you see fit. That is all I can do."

  "I appreciate your honesty, son, but this prank has gone too far. Whose idea was this? Who hung up the raven?"

  Conan stared at the flagstone and remained silent. Was the lad protecting his older brother? Did he want to spare his father the painful truth?

  "At least the deed was not premeditated," Elinas concluded. "So it could not be a warning. There is no reason for alarm. Some scullion must
have found the bird and played a stupid prank. And I’ll find out who it is."

  But Pressine knew Elinas would find nothing. Unwilling to contradict him, she stood and went to the window. She could see the raven still hanging outside her bedchamber window. Mattacks had manipulated his brother and meant this as a threat on her life.

  Elinas rose and came behind her. "I am sorry for your loss, Pressine. I know you loved that raven."

  "You have no idea how precious this bird was to me." Pressine repressed her grief. She could not reveal the magic nature of Ogyr. If it became public, the Christians would side with Mattacks to condemn her heathen ways. The kingdom needed unity, not division.

  Turning to face Conan, Pressine could not be angry at him.

  "I am truly sorry, my lady," the lad said softly. "I swear I did not know."

  Pressine laid one hand on his shoulder. "I believe you Conan. Thank you for coming forward so quickly."

  "I also believe you, son," the king rallied. "But for defying me and refusing to answer my questions, you deserve seven lashes, and you will stand for it under the oak by mid-morning."

  Conan bowed. "As you wish, father." Turning around, he left the room without a word or a backward glance.

  "Brave lad." Pressine had no doubt his brother put him up to it and could only guess how the boy must feel.

  * * *

  With a shiver of guilt, Pressine watched as Conan stood shirtless in the morning sun. A hooded soldier roped his wrists to a low branch of the oak, where he had committed his crime. The lad carried himself like an honorable man. Morgane stood at Pressine’s side, and Ceinwyn held the wicker basket Pressine had prepared.

  Among the assembled crowd looking on with reproach, Pressine saw servants and nobles, as well as guests who had come from remote estates to attend the wedding. The king’s other children watched as well, even little Jared. The youngest prince still walked with crutches, but Pressine firmly believed he would fully recover.

  Elinas was nowhere in sight. The king did not attend public punishments, unless they settled a matter of state.

  Pressine’s gaze fell on Mattacks, whose smile briefly turned into a smirk. The Edling must have known Conan would never rat on his own brother. The heir looked so cocksure, so proud of himself. Pressine wanted to see him take the punishment he deserved. But Mattacks manipulated people from the shadows, never exposed, never chastised.