Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the flickering candlelight of his chambers, Mattacks assessed the young Christian baron who squirmed in the high back chair. How eager was he to please his future king?

  "If you perform this task without mishap..." Standing with his back to the hearth, Mattacks paused for emphasis. "I shall secure your future among my favorite councilors."

  Urien of Lanark, brushed a crumb off his fine maroon wool trews and cleared his throat. "This is quite a daring enterprise, my prince."

  Soft rain pattered against the closed shutters, the only sound in the castle at this late hour. Mattacks added a log to the crackling fire.

  "Take time to weigh the risks against the rewards, Urien." Mattacks wiped his hands on a silk handkerchief. "Once on the throne, I can grant you anything."

  "But, a future queen..." The young baron’s hazel gaze wandered from the wall tapestries to the floor rug, as if searching for clues.

  Checking the shutters, Mattacks closed the heavy drapes against possible spies. "She is only an obscure foreign princess, disowned by her father."

  "Still." The young baron’s Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

  Smiling encouragingly, Mattacks sat on the massive oak table and faced Urien. "Will you want more lands, with the privilege to collect taxes?"

  Urien’s expression remained closed.

  "Perhaps you need funds for a monastery, with genuine relics... or a magnificent church with a bishopric for your beautiful town of Lanark?"

  A sudden gleam of interest lit Urien’s eyes.

  "Or you might prefer an army to carve yourself a small kingdom? Or one of my sisters in marriage?" Mattacks enjoyed the battle raging on the young baron’s face. Greed against fear.

  The two youths understood each other well. Same age, same religious fervor, same pride and ambition. But Mattacks knew how to use men, while Urien followed like a hound, happy to snatch table scraps from his master’s hand.

  Urien’s eyes narrowed. "What if I get caught?" He flinched at a loud pop when cinder sparked from the smoky fire. "Queen or not, the king will have me executed for treason."

  "My father upholds the traditional law, which does not protect foreigners, as I shall remind him if it comes to pass." Had Mattacks made a mistake in choosing Urien of Lanark? "Besides, you cannot get caught if you use a discreet intermediary to hire a handful of brigands for the job."

  Mattacks filled pewter goblets with wine from the ewer and pushed one toward Urien. "That way, no one can connect you to the deed, even if the churls are caught."

  Urien considered his goblet but did not touch it. "Perhaps, it could work."

  "Think." Mattacks drank one long sip before admonishing his coup de grâce. "God will protect you while you do His work. There is no higher purpose. Bishop Renald highly recommended you for the task and has already granted absolution."

  "The order comes from the bishop?" Urien of Lanark stared, mouth half open, visibly shaken.

  "Yes. But he cannot be compromised. He should in no way be associated with this mission." Mattacks rose and paced the room to cover his blatant lie. He hoped God would absolve the small sin for the success of His greater purpose. "If asked, even by you, Renald will adamantly deny any knowledge of it. In his heart, however, he relies upon us to rid the kingdom of the devil-spawn."

  Urien looked baffled, raking his hair with nervous fingers. "I had no idea I would be working for Rome."

  Positioning himself behind the young baron’s chair, Mattacks used a tone of confidentiality. "Given the present circumstances, my father may not be in power very long. Think of what happens when I become king and you already handle my most sensitive affairs."

  "The offer sounds very attractive, my prince." Urien pulled down his embroidered sleeve. "I happen to know a capable and discreet man, who would welcome a handsome payment to make a mere woman disappear."

  Mattacks grinned at his victory. "I knew I could count on your loyalty!"

  Urien of Lanark straightened in his chair. "What does the bishop want done with the heathen bitch?"

  Savoring the thought, Mattacks spoke casually. "Have your man cut her tongue, dress her in rags, and sell her to slave traders in Northumbria."

  Urien seemed shocked but recovered quickly. "A slave?"

  "She is young and pretty enough to fetch a good price."

  Urien drummed well-groomed fingernails on the table. "It may take time to assemble such men."

  "You only have two days." Mattacks stared into the young baron’s eyes. "You must carry out the task before she becomes queen."

  "I understand." Urien hesitated then took a deep breath and released it slowly. "It will be done as the bishop ordered."

  "Good." Mattacks struggled to keep his excitement under control. "In any case," he said with a calm he did not feel, "make sure the hired help never suspects who the lady is. Suffice it to tell them where she sleeps. There are no guards at her door or windows, and only very young servants sleeping in the adjacent rooms."

  Urien dripped with new importance. "My men can enter the fort with the extra kitchen help during the day. At night, they strike and carry away their prize over the wall. What about the guards on the ramparts?"

  Mattacks could not suppress a grin. "I shall make sure they receive an ample supply of celebration wine." He winked. "Laced with a sleeping draught."

  Mattacks weighed the heavy purse at his belt. "Someone outside should be waiting with ladders. And fast horses. Riding all night, the captors will be far away by morning. The bride will not be found. Hence, no wedding and no heathen queen."

  Urien of Lanark eyed the purse intently. "Surely, the king will send search parties."

  "You and I will volunteer and lead them astray." Mattacks dropped the purse on the massive table and pushed it toward Urien. "This should buy everything you need."

  Urien smiled his approval. "Very cunning." He patted the purse. "And very generous, my prince."

  Mattacks raised his cup. "Under our vigilance, Christendom will prevail."

  "Amen!" hailed the young baron, then he drained his goblet.

  Grinning, Mattacks congratulated himself on this clever scheme.

  * * *

  Pressine’s heart beat so fast, she could not sleep. Tomorrow, she would marry her king. Did she hear something outside? Whispers? Hurried footsteps?

  She flung the blankets aside, walked to the window and opened the shutters but all was quiet. The memory of her dead raven hanging outside the window made her uneasy. The snarling face of Mattacks appeared in her mind. The Edling would try to prevent the wedding.

  A balmy summer breeze had blown away the rain clouds of the previous days and the moonlight could not eclipse the many stars. Far into the night, a dog howled at the moon. Toward the kitchen midden, toads sang in deep throaty notes, competing with the trills of the nightingale. At the mournful hoot of an owl, all sounds stopped. Why?

  All senses alert, Pressine held her breath, listening for clues, watching. There it was, a quiet shuffle. Suddenly, Pressine felt alone and vulnerable. Before she could close the shutters, a shadow jumped through the window, then another.

  A hand muffled Pressine’s scream. Another hand grabbed her waist. She saw the glint of a knife in the moonlight. She slapped and hit and kicked, but the men holding her were too strong.

  A stone throw away across the courtyard, the king’s window faced her own, but its shutters remained tightly closed. If only she could... Please, Elinas, wake up!

  As she struggled against the table, her hand knocked the fruit bowl. Her fingers closed on a small crab apple, smooth and hard to the touch. She did not have time to aim or evaluate the distance, but she had been good at this in her childhood games. She threw with all her strength. The hard fruit banged against the king’s shutters and bounced off.

  "Bitch!" The man holding her twisted her arm back.

  Pressine cried in pain, but the sound barely escaped the hand sealing her lips. A man seized h
er feet. Another shadow provided a large sac. No! As she fought back, Pressine stared at the king’s window. Elinas, please...

  A candle flickered behind the slats. The shutters slammed open and Elinas appeared in a night shirt. "Who dares disturb the king’s sleep?"

  "The king?" Muffled cries, an oath cut short. The men let go of Pressine and climbed out the window.

  Elinas raised his candle. "Who’s there?" His commanding voice cut like a blade through the still night.

  "Over there," Pressine shouted. "Do not let them escape. They attacked me."

  The king turned inside and called, "Guards!"

  Pressine exhaled a sigh of relief. Would the guards catch her attackers? Would the churls incriminate Mattacks and open the king’s eyes on the evil nature of his son?

  The outside doors to the king’s chambers burst open, and royal guards spilled into the courtyard. One of them lit the torches hanging along the walls, while others beat the thicket, thrusting spear or sword through every shrub, into every dark recess, behind every tree.

  Coming out of his chambers into the courtyard, Elinas buckled his sword belt on hastily drawn trews. "What in Bel’s name is going on?"

  The captain of the guards ran up to the king. "Marauders, My Lord."

  "Where are the sentries? Why did no one sound the alarm? A silver coin for every marauder caught!"

  A horn resounded, awakening the whole fortress. More horns responded.

  Pressine rushed out of her chambers to meet Elinas in the courtyard.

  "Pressine, my love, are you safe?" The king sounded relieved to see her unharmed.

  "Yes my lord." She attempted a smile.

  "The gods be thanked." Elinas enveloped her in his arms.

  "But not for your quick response, they might have succeeded in carrying me away." Pressine did not mention her gifts. In any case, she could not use them for selfish ends, only in the service of the Goddess.

  "Whoever dared do this will pay dearly for it." Elinas tightened his grasp on her. "I could not stand it if anything happened to you."

  "Obviously, someone does not want me to be queen." Pressine refrained to accuse Mattacks. She had no proof. How brazen of him to mount such a direct assault on her person inside the castle.

  Elinas walked Pressine back to her chambers. "You will be safe with my personal guards at each door and window. But right now, I must find out why the ramparts are not guarded."

  Pressine gripped his arm. "Be careful, my lord."

  Elinas smiled. "As always."

  "And let me know what you find out." She smiled back to soften the request.

  "I will." Kissing her forehead, Elinas walked out into the courtyard.

  Pressine shivered with dread at the thought of what could have happened. She might be safe for the rest of the night, but what kind of dangers was she walking into by marrying Elinas?

  * * *

  Mattacks repressed an oath at the sudden activity in the courtyard. No one was supposed to find out until morning. Praying Urien had not botched the job, he buckled his sword belt with trembling fingers. How could the incompetent sot jeopardize Mattacks’ greatest dreams?

  He hoped he could correct the blunder by covering the kidnappers’ tracks. Next time, he would remember not to trust an inexperienced whelp. Pulling on his riding gloves, Mattacks stepped out of his chambers.

  He stopped the captain who dispatched the guards.

  "What is the disturbance?" Mattacks hoped the captain would interpret his uneasiness as legitimate concern.

  "Intruders, my prince." The sturdy captain in red tunic and mail, grim under the helmet, looked stunned by the audacity of the deed. "Near the King’s chambers, no less. Just escaped over the wall."

  Mattacks wanted to know if Pressine was missing but could not ask. "Anybody hurt?"

  "No, my prince." The captain said with obvious relief. "They were interrupted and ran away. The king ordered a search beyond the walls."

  Mattacks dared to hope. If Pressine’s absence had not been discovered, his plan might still hold.

  "Do not bother, Captain, I will search the countryside," he declared with a magnanimous smile. "Keep your guards inside to stand watch on the king, and tell Urien of Lanark to meet me at the stables with his men."

  "Thank you, my prince." The captain bowed with a small smile of gratitude. "The king will appreciate your help. You should have seen how upset he was when Lady Pressine told him what happened."

  So, Urien had failed! Damn the whole bunch of them for ruining Mattacks’ last chance to prevent the wedding.

  "I see..." But Mattacks could not understand how a lowly woman could have thwarted the carefully planned abduction. Unless the devil himself was helping her! That must be it.

  The captain saluted. "I must go."

  "Thank you, Captain." Mattacks masked his anger under a forced smile and a friendly wave of the hand.

  How he hated himself for having underestimated the evil bitch. By becoming queen tomorrow, she would grow into a formidable opponent, and he could do nothing to prevent it.

  Mattacks kicked a clump of dirt as he marched toward the stables. It might take all his cleverness to get rid of the heathen shrew, but he swore before God Almighty that he would find a way, even if it took months or years to succeed.

  * * *

  In a gold wedding dress mirroring the radiance of the midday sun, black hair flowing below a crown of primrose, daisies, snapdragons, heather and forget-me-nots, Pressine slowly walked beside Elinas. Ahead of the royal bride and groom, three young pages, dressed in blue, threw handfuls of white petals in their path.

  As they crossed the castle grounds, Pressine could feel all the eyes fixed on her, judging her, loving her... or hating her. The king, in red and black silk, a gold circlet on his dark brow, nodded right and left, smiling at tribal kings and barons and waving to old friends. Pressine smiled to familiar faces on the way to the great white canopy stretched over the partially erected walls of the future chapel.

  Despite the perspiration dripping under the polished helmets, the royal guard stood motionless on each side of the path in two perfect rows. Spear points bright, armored shields straight and evenly spaced, they contained the crowd of invited guests.

  On both sides of the path formed by the guards, ladies in vermillion and yellow silk smiled and curtsied as the couple walked by. Men in deep green and purple bowed respectfully. The cheerful chords of stringed instruments from the troupe of minstrels accompanied the slow march.

  From the kitchens wafted the aroma of roasting meat and baking pies.

  Power always came at a price, and Pressine knew that better than anyone. The fright of the previous night seemed a faraway memory, like a nightmare that fades and vanishes in daylight. This marriage would make her Queen of Strathclyde. But soon, as planned by the Goddess, when Elinas rallied Britons, Scots, Picts, and Angles, today’s bride would also become the High Queen of Alba.

  The couple stopped in front of a dais where the old druid in white flowing robes waited beside a tree stump. Long white hair tousled by the gentle breeze, he smiled kindly from his high platform. His dark eyes twinkled as they rested on Pressine. The bride and groom ascended the nine steps of the dais to face the druid.

  After sprinkling spring water to the four horizons, the old man took Pressine’s left hand and Elinas’ right. With a braided rope of mixed green grasses, he tied their wrists together with a knot. Pressine relished the contact of her king’s hand as he squeezed hers. Then the druid circled the couple three times sunwise, arms open wide, chanting ancient incantations.

  A manservant joined them on the dais, carrying a bleating white goat, then laid the struggling animal on the tree stump and held it. The wood block looked almost black, stained by the blood of past sacrifices. Clasping the silver sickle hooked at his belt, the Druid slashed the goat’s throat in one sure stroke. Blood spurted then pooled in the nooks and crannies of the stump. The animal’s limbs twitched in the throes of dea
th.

  Blood smeared his white robes. Then the druid faced the couple again and spoke in a fierce voice belying his age. "In the name of Bel of the dreadful eye, and Lugh the shiny one, and Oghma who invented the alphabet, I hereby witness this couple’s nuptial vows. Do you promise to love and support each other until death?"

  "I promise," said Elinas in a firm voice.

  "I promise," Pressine said in turn.

  "May this union so please our gods that they spread their bounty on the land."

  Turning toward the goat, the Druid sliced open its belly, spilling the steamy innards in an untidy pile of slippery entrails. As he knelt to study the viscous mess, Pressine could see from his blank expression that the old man had entered a trance. Then, his jaw tightened and a shadow crossed his face. Pressine shuddered and wondered what he had seen but dare not ask.

  Rising, the druid faced the couple gravely. Staring at both of them in turn, he said in a barely audible voice, "May all promises be kept in this world, as in the otherworld." He untied their wrists, gave the grass rope to Pressine, then bowed as he presented the newlyweds to the cheering crowd.

  Under a shower of white flowers, the royal pair descended from the dais. Banners fluttered from neighboring trees and poles. Minstrels played the flute as Pressine walked with Elinas toward the open canopy covering the site of the future chapel.

  Sections of free standing walls, partial columns and low buttresses were decorated with lengths of white cloth and flower garlands. Piles of cut sandstones lay at regular intervals to mark the perimeter of the future building. From a temporary pedestal at the entrance of the future nave, the statue of the Great Goddess guarded the sprouting edifice.

  The fact that the bishop persisted in calling Her the Black Madonna had not deterred Morgane, who somehow had obtained Renald’s permission to give her blessing in front of the statue. No doubt the bishop allowed it, hoping some miracle would lead to Morgane’s conversion. Little did he know...

  Although smaller than the looming statue behind her, Morgane seemed to glow. Lithe and dark in her silky blue shift, she looked like the Great Goddess, black hair parted in the middle and gathered in a single braid down her back. Could anyone else see the striking resemblance? Since Pressine looked so much like her aunt Morgane, she realized with a start that she, too, must resemble the Goddess.