Eyes the color of mist, the Great Priestess of the Lost Isle gazed at the approaching couple. When she raised one hand, gesturing the bride and groom to go no further, silence fell on the assembled guests. Pressine could not remember when the minstrels had stopped playing. No one spoke or moved, as if time stood still.
"King of Strathclyde," Morgane heralded with authority. "Are you willing to serve the Great Goddess who yearns to lavish Her boons on this land and protect it from foreign invaders, drought, blight, and pestilence?"
"I am willing."
"Do you wed this woman to share with her your victorious crown?"
"I do wed her."
"Do you swear never to lay eyes on her in childbed?"
Elinas turned to Pressine, a puzzled look on his face. Surely he could not have forgotten the curse. She smiled encouragements.
Elinas turned back to Morgane. "I swear it."
"Do you promise to treat her as an equal?"
Elinas raised a questioning brow then shrugged. "I promise."
Now facing Pressine, Morgane announced, "Pressine of Bretagne, Lady of the Lost Isle, do you swear to love, help, and protect your king and husband in his sacred quest, by all means available to your kind, in the love of the Great Goddess, as long as your husband lives?"
"I swear it."
Morgane nodded. "In the name of the Great Goddess, I declare you bound in wedlock, king and queen in this world and the next. But if you ever break any of these oaths, be prepared to suffer the wrath of the Goddess. She will wrench you apart, blight your land, curse the royal lineage through the ninth generation, and you will know only grief and torment until one of you dies, freeing the other from this sacred bond."
As Morgane receded behind the statue of the Goddess, leaving the wedding guests in bewildered silence, Pressine’s heart faltered. Not until now had she understood the gravity of the curse. The fate of the entire kingdom was at stake.
Grasping her king’s arm for reassurance, Pressine glanced up and caught his stunned expression. Elinas covered her hand with his, then guided her down the future nave toward the Christian altar. To the monotone chant of visiting monks in brown robes standing behind the altar, the crowd followed the royal pair under the canopy.
There, on white linen, shadowed by a tall crucifix, a plate and a chalice of polished gold reflected the flickering flames of two white tallow candles. To the side, lay a large open book. Standing in front of the altar, Bishop Renald looked pale, white knuckles gripping his crozier. He greeted the couple with a nod then straightened the miter on his head.
Renald had accepted to perform the sacred ritual although they were not baptized, in hopes to rally new voices to the Christian cause. Pressine had accepted. Politics applied to every aspect of a queen’s life, even religion. She also understood the importance of rituals.
At least, there would be no holy water. Pressine had insisted upon that point. In occasions, holy water was rumored to have burned Faery born women like quick lime. Because of his gender, Gwenvael had survived baptism with holy water, but he had lost all his supernatural powers. Pressine would rather not chance either on her wedding day.
The sacristan came and waved a censer at the end of a chain in front of the bride and groom. Clouds of Myrrh-scented smoke floated toward the white canopy. Next, the man walked the crowd’s perimeter to incense the assembly.
"Kneel to show humility before the Almighty," Renald uttered in a bland voice.
Pressine knelt. So did Elinas. The bishop walked to the end of the altar, where the great book lay open. His back to the crowd, the bishop chanted verses in bad church Latin that grated on Pressine’s ears. From time to time, he turned to address the Christian crowd, which answered his prompts by mumbling the appropriate lines.
Although not interested in the Christian ceremony, Pressine wished her brother Gwenvael could see it. He would certainly approve. She observed Elinas. He did not pay attention to the bishop either, as if his mind wandered far away. A light brush of the hand brought him back to the present.
The litanies went on so long that Pressine’s knees started to hurt, even on the rush protecting them from the hard ground. Sometimes the bishop genuflected and kissed the book, sometimes he mumbled to himself. At other times, he shouted the ritual words at the top of his lungs. Finally, he approached the couple.
"Please rise," he said, simply.
As Pressine stood up on stiff legs, Elinas supported her arm.
"Elinas of Dumfries, King of Strathclyde, will you take this woman for wife and queen, honoring and protecting her until death, according to the rules of Our Holy Mother Church?"
"I will." Elinas sounded so solemn.
"Pressine of Bretagne, will you take this man for husband and king, serve him and honor him in obedience and humility until death, according to the rules of Our Holy Mother Church?"
"I will." Obedience and humility clashed with the previous vows of equality, but Pressine just wanted to be done with the ritual.
Dipping his right thumb in a bowl of scented oil carried by the sacristan, Bishop Renald anointed the king’s forehead then Pressine’s with the sign of the cross. Taking the chalice from the altar, the bishop drank from it some of the blood-red wine, then passed it to the king who took a sip, and finally to Pressine who did the same. Thank the Goddess, the blessed wine did not burn her throat.
Taking the golden plate, Renald broke a piece of bread and ate it, then gave a piece to the king, and a piece to Pressine.
As she ate and drank what should be the blood and body of Christ, Pressine tried to imagine the Christian god, the Holy Host, coming into her. But she found no magic in the food or drink. To her surprise, no enhanced awareness came with the communion bread. So much for the depth of Christian mysteries.
In her mother’s realm, the Ladies similarly ate the food of the gods, the Manna, baked with the white gold powder, to maintain their mystical powers and longevity. Pressine rarely partook of the divine food, but saturated with it in the womb, she remained strong and her powers needed very little to go on.
Finally, placing a gold circlet on Pressine’s brow, the bishop declared in a loud voice, "I pronounce you King and Queen in the eyes of God, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"
A loud "Amen!" from the crowd concluded the ritual.
Pressine and Elinas turned to face their subjects. Among the applause, a gleeful Hallelujah resounded from the choir of monks. Several Christian guests joined in the hymn.
Hanging onto her king’s arm, Pressine walked out of the white canopy, nodding to the statue of the Goddess. Elinas led her along the path delineated by the royal guard, toward a dais erected under the great oak. Pressine smiled and waved at the festive guests.
Banners streamed from the venerable branches as Pressine sat with Elinas on the crimson pillows of two heavily cushioned chairs, to receive homage. Soon, barons, tribal kings and princes lined up to renew their allegiance.
With an irrepressible grin, Elinas introduced to Pressine a few royal guests she had not met. She was delighted to see old Dewain again as he offered his warmest congratulations. The king’s children joined the crowd to pay respects. Little Jared still limped a little from the accident in the mill, and young Conan had tears in his eyes when he kissed Pressine’s hand.
On this peaceful day of celebration and religious tolerance, only one shadow darkened the horizon. Mattacks knelt before his father and kissed Caliburn’s point to pledge allegiance. When the Edling stood, Elinas turned and conversed with Dewain, who had joined his side.
Mattacks faced Pressine squarely, unblinking, without as much as a bow, a look of pure hatred on his face. Although deeply shaken by the blatant insult, Pressine nodded and smiled bravely, as to a beloved stepson. Unfortunately, Elinas saw nothing of Mattacks' insulting attitude.
What could Pressine do to impress on Elinas the dangerous nature of his son?
* * *
Later, in the hall, at the high
table, the troubadours played the flute and string instruments to accompany the good food and wine. While Morgane talked with the old druid and with Dewain, Mattacks engaged in conversation with Bishop Renald.
Turning to Elinas, Pressine whispered, "Any trace of last night’s intruders?"
The king shook his head. "The guards had too much wine and fell asleep. They will be chastised for it."
"What about the pursuit?"
"Mattacks and Lord Urien of Lanark searched all night with their men but found no trace of the fugitives" Elinas shook his head. "The tracks stopped at the river and the hounds lost the scent."
Pressine bristled inwardly. Elinas did not suspect his son. But if Mattacks had hired the miscreants, of course he would misdirect the search. Did Urien of Lanark support the Edling against her? As a staunch Christian, he might.
"Perhaps you need more experienced men to lead the search, lord husband," she suggested with a smile, "like the Baron of Ayre."
"I like the title of husband." Elinas squeezed Pressine’s hand and smiled. "But Dewain does not relish such arduous work anymore. It is time for young men to take over the chores."
"Of course. You know best. Who do you think is responsible?"
Elinas shrugged. "I have many enemies, but these particular miscreants are long gone. Believe me, they will not return anytime soon."
"But what if they do? Or what if they have accomplices inside the walls?" Pressine glanced in the direction of Mattacks. The Edling paid no attention to the royal couple.
"I doubled the guard. It will not happen again." Elinas kissed her fingers. "I assure you that we are now quite safe."
Pressine hid her disappointment. She knew that voicing her suspicions without proof would only upset Elinas and make her seem hostile for no reason. She would bide her time and wait for Mattacks to make a mistake.
But this was her wedding day, and she would not let anything spoil it. Her mind reeled with so many exciting thoughts. She flushed at the prospect of her wedding night.
Pressine tingled with anticipation, dizzy from the strong wine. Despite the spinach and egg flat cakes, the fattened goose and the roasted piglet, she felt the effects of the potent drink. Before taking another sip from the royal cup, Pressine turned it deliberately and looked into the soft brown eyes of her king, drinking where his lips had touched.
A slight blush colored Elinas’ tanned cheeks. He smiled devilishly. "Now, this is no behavior befitting a chaste lady."
"Perish the thought I would remain chaste for long!" Pressine winked. "I intend to find out for myself what everyone is talking and smiling about."
It dawned on Pressine that she knew little of human amorous behavior beyond a brush of the fingers, a secret embrace, or a kiss. She had witnessed an equine mating once, long ago, in a dewy pasture of her native Bretagne. Heat suffused her cheeks at the flaring of wild feelings the memory brought.
While the guests enjoyed the banquet with boisterous stories, toasts, and good wishes for the couple, Pressine suddenly wished she knew more about the details of a wedding night. Busy with all the preparations, she had forgotten to ask Morgane.
Chapter Sixteen
Elinas deposited Pressine at the foot of her bed then walked back to the massive door and lifted the heavy locking bar into its supports. It fell into place with a metallic clang. The events of the night before had left him shaken. He had no inkling of who would want to harm his bride, although he could guess why.
Pressine had grown quiet and watched him, her eyes shining in the soft candlelight.
"I want no interruption tonight." He flashed an apologetic smile.
He hoped she could not see the tension clutching the muscles of his jaw as he closed the shutters and drapes. He lifted every wall hanging, hand on Caliburn’s hilt, taut as a high-strung cat, ready to slit any intruder’s throat.
"I hate nasty surprises. Too many strangers on the grounds tonight. I cannot take any chances," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.
As he stoked the crackling fire, Elinas hid his struggle for self control. Despite his aching need, he did not trust his ability to satisfy this bride. It had been so long since he last made love, and eighteen years since deflowering his late queen, the only virgin he had ever touched. At the time, in the impatience of youth, he had probably rushed the task.
Although he felt nervous as a lad facing his first woman, he must exude strength, confidence, reassurance. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate his young bride by a clumsy joining.
"Do you like incense?" He struggled to control his shaky hands as he reached for the richly decorated leather pouch on the table. "I obtained a rare batch of Myrrh from a trader in Whithorn."
"What a wonderful gift, my lord. It must have cost a fortune." Pressine sat gracefully on the bed and arranged her dress around her. When she looked up at him, her clear gray eyes sparkled. "My father used to burn Myrrh on special occasions. I have not enjoyed it in a long time."
Opening the pouch, Elinas took a few of the golden crystals and threw them on the embers. Hissing on contact, they released a light smoke that filled the room with sweet fragrance.
"The scent is delightful," Pressine closed her eyes briefly.
Elinas inhaled the pleasing essence to calm his restless nerves, then exhaled slowly. He unbuckled his baldric, hung it to the sculpted high back of a chair, then removed his coat and tossed the crimson and black garment upon the same chair.
Walking toward the bed where Pressine sat, he found it easy to smile. He would win her, body and soul. The unconditional love in her expectant face was all he needed to woo her.
When he approached the bed, Pressine tensed slightly.
"What is it?" Elinas dropped to one knee on the deep blue rug at the side of the bed and caressed the satiny skin of her bare arm. "Apprehensive?"
She offered a timid smile. "A little."
"Not afraid of me, are you?" Her cheek felt soft under the light brush of his fingers.
"No." The shake of her pretty head sent lustrous waves through her raven tresses. "Should I be?"
"I would never harm you. All I want is to see you happy and safe." Leaving her silver coronet in place, Elinas picked a flower from the wreath crowning her hair and caressed her cheeks with the petals. "Your immodest behavior at the high table this afternoon certainly stirred my lusty impulses."
Pressine blushed. Such innocence....
Elinas lifted the wreath of wild flowers from her head. "Ouch!"
He had pricked his finger on a hidden pin. Laughing, he sent the wreath sailing and brought the injured fingertip to his mouth.
* * *
Pressine laughed with him, her scalp tingling from his loving touch. Slowly, the mirth died between them. The gleam of the king’s dark eyes spoke of feral depths. Would she enjoy the experience?
From listening to women talk, she gathered that a few delighted in the deed, but many loathed it. Suddenly, she wondered whether she could trust Elinas. He was but a man, and she knew nothing of the fierceness of a lover. Would he rend her apart, injuring her in his haste to satisfy his hunger?
"I need a skilled healer," Elinas murmured, holding his bloody thumb to her half-open lips.
Sustaining his piercing gaze, Pressine licked the warm, viscous blood tasting of rich copper. She derived a sensual pleasure from the intimate contact with his very life force, as if they sealed in blood a pact more binding than any wedding vow. When the finger grew insistent, demanding entry into her mouth, she felt inexplicably aroused by the impetuous intrusion. But when Elinas withdrew it, she missed the contact, feeling suddenly abandoned and wanting.
Disappointment must have shown on her face. Elinas eased her on the bed and embraced her, his face so close, she could hear his breath and feel the wind of it on her parted lips. Her heart beat faster as he hovered, blocking the candlelight with his wide frame, then gently covered her mouth with his. She closed her eyes.
This would never do. Driven by
a sudden urge, Pressine opened her lips, inviting his imperious tongue to penetrate and invade her. The whirlwind of his kiss filled her mind and body. As if the world around her ceased to exist, she abandoned herself to the sensual pleasures of his lips and mouth. When the kiss ended in soft long strokes, she lay shaking and panting.
Elinas beamed, breathless, a look of wonder flooding his dark features. "I always suspected you would be a gifted lover despite your inexperience, my lady, but the blaze in your belly burns hotter than the fires of Bel. Are you already familiar with lovemaking?"
Pressine’s heart leapt. Had she made a mistake? "Was I too forward, my lord? I know not what is expected of me... I followed an impulse."
"And a grand impulse at that!" His soft laugh held great tenderness. "Please do not hold back on my account."
"All right." Relieved, Pressine allowed her smile to return.
"Be as wild as your nature dictates, my love. I am not one to shy away from a spirited wife. On the contrary." The king nibbled her ear, his strong hand traveling from her waist up the curve of her round breasts.
Under his firm grip, Pressine found it difficult to breathe, like a doe pinned under a lion’s paw. Elinas could certainly impose his whim on her by sheer physical force. While the thought frightened her a little, it thrilled her more.
Butterfly kisses flew from her throat down to the low neckline of the golden dress where the hardening orbs of her breasts swelled under his expert touch. His soft tongue caressed the hills and valleys of her chest, nestling in her cleavage, teasing at the edge of the golden fabric, searching to free her hard buds from the constraints of the dress.
Pressine combed small fingers through his thick black hair and cradled his head against her. The fragrance of marjoram in his stubby beard made her smile. An unusual refinement for a man. When Elinas dislodged a nipple and caught it gently between his teeth, she cried in surprise, arching under his strong hands.
Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition Page 19