Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  As he looked around the empty room, curious interest tempered the sadness in the regular planes of his handsome face. By the scarce light of dawn filtering through the shutters, he looked tired and pale from lack of sleep.

  “Who is there?”

  Pressine’s heart went out to him. “I am your beloved, come to comfort you,” she heard herself say. “Dewain is happy now, free from the torments and pains of old age, and he sends his love.”

  “Pressine?” Although his eyes still searched the dim corners of the cold bedchamber, a smile etched his dark face. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, my love.” Pressine welcomed the warmth of his recognition. “I stand in front of you, and although you may not see me, I can see you.”

  How she loved the knitting of his dark brow.

  “Is this possible?” Wonder filled the king’s face as his eyes still searched for signs of her.

  Pressine rejoiced in his eagerness. “The traces of Fae blood in your line allow you to sense my presence and to hear my voice.”

  “Yes... My late mother used to say that even one ounce of that blood would make me a fair king some day.” His expression grew serious. “How is it with you and our unborn child?”

  “Not as well as we hoped... But what matters is that our love will survive beyond the constraints of even death itself.”

  His brow furrowed. “Pressine, please tell me you are not dead.”

  She could not stand the strain in his voice. “I am still alive, beloved, but there is little hope that the child and I will survive beyond this day.”

  Elinas slammed his fist on the bedpost then raked his hair and dropped into a chair. The expression of pain and desolation on his face, as well as the slump of his shoulders, stabbed Pressine with sadness. She wanted to console him but could only hover closer.

  “I will go mad,” Elinas said in a strangled voice, tears welling in his eyes. “I lost one queen already, and now my best friend. Is that not enough? I cannot bear the thought of losing you, too.”

  “Nor can I bear the sadness in your heart, my love.” Pressine would have wept if she could. Somehow, giving up life for the blissful serenity of death did not make sense anymore. “If you want me to live so desperately, I shall find a way to survive, even if it means breaking our sacred laws.”

  “I thought you could not use magic for selfish ends. Can you?”

  “Perhaps...” A plan emerged in Pressine’s mind. “With Morgane’s help, I could draw strength from the Goddess Herself. It is highly irregular, to be sure, but my mission is yet incomplete, and its success depends upon my survival.”

  “Whatever the reasons, I implore you to stay alive.” The deep lines of sorrow on his forehead wrenched her heart.

  “Have no fear, dear husband, I will not die today, not if I can help it.” Pressine smiled at the thought and hoped that Elinas, although he could not see her, would hear the smile in her voice.

  “Promise me we will be together again.” Elinas rose with new intensity in his gaze as he stared straight through Pressine. The raw need in his beloved face made her melt with tenderness.

  “I promise.” Wrapping her ethereal self around Elinas, Pressine overwhelmed him in bliss. “Your love is my strongest weapon.”

  Then she floated away, leaving Elinas smiling through his tears.

  Strong in her resolve to survive, Pressine floated out the window and rose high into the winter dawn. She headed south through Galloway, then beyond the coast toward the Sea of Lyoness, and the eternal mists shrouding the Lost Isle.

  “Morgane!” she summoned as she soared toward the circle of stones crowning the familiar cliff. “I need your help!”

  * * *

  Pressine cried at the pain wracking her body when her spirit slammed back into it. Why had she left the sweet serenity of the spirit state? Through the unbearable suffering, her awareness came back with jumbled memories of Elinas and Morgane.

  She had come back to live, to face the birth and push through the pain. For Elinas, for the welfare of the land, for future dynasties, with Morgane’s help and with the blessing of the Great Goddess. Pressine must survive.

  “Sweet Jesus have mercy! She is reviving,” Ceinwyn exclaimed, frantic hope in her voice. “Hang on, my lady. The bairn is almost here, but we need you to push him out. The little one has no strength left.”

  Around the bed, in the wake of swishing skirts, muted voices spoke in urgent tones. Pressine felt a cool damp cloth applied to her burning forehead. From the corner of her eye, she watched the castellan’s wife drop another log into the hearth. The draft from an open door shifted the veils of the overhead canopy. Bright candlelight flickered around the room and Pressine blinked.

  Standing by the bed, Ceinwyn ordered sternly, “Now, my lady, push as hard as you can. Go ahead, push.”

  Morgane’s disembodied face floated above the bed, smiling encouragements. “I am here to channel the power of the Great Goddess,” she said for Pressine’s ears alone.

  Upon Ceinwyn’s urging, Pressine surprised herself by pushing with renewed stamina, drawing strength from a seemingly inexhaustible source. Ignoring the agony, she labored to eject the child from her body. Suffering raked through her, not just physical pain.

  A baby two months premature could not survive out of the womb. But the Goddess, in Her clemency, had promised to grant him a blissful life in his next incarnation. Still. Pressine felt responsible for his present martyrdom. Bitter tears ran down her cheeks as she screamed through a powerful heave, finally expelling the baby.

  No newborn wail followed the exclamations of hope from the assisting women. Then deathly silence fell upon the room.

  “I want to see him,” Pressine said, although she already knew.

  “My lady, it is best if you do not.” Ceinwyn’s voice carried infinite sadness.

  “He is dead, is he not?” Pressine’s voice broke.

  Ceinwyn nodded silently.

  “Show him to me.”

  When the lass hesitated, Pressine stared into the girl’s face, daring her to disobey.

  “Your queen orders you,” Pressine managed in a stronger voice.

  Slowly, as if with regret, Ceinwyn went to the foot of the bed and picked up the small bundle wrapped in a blanket. From a tiny blue face with a mouth open as in a silent scream, two beady eyes stared into emptiness. Pressine closed the tiny eyelids, her chest clenching with repressed sobs.

  “Open the blanket,” she ordered in a tone that suffered no objection.

  Ceinwyn turned her head away as she opened the coverlet, baring the little body for Pressine to see.

  It was a tiny boy. The left foot looked twisted and bent. A club foot. So, her baby would not have been normal in spite of his father’s drop of Fae blood. Still. Although the Goddess would see to his future happiness, it seemed unfair that her baby had to die. Guilt gnawed at her conscience.

  “This is my fault,” Pressine sobbed.

  “How can you say that, my lady? You did nothing wrong.” Ceinwyn wrapped the baby and handed it to another woman who took it away. “But now, you have to finish the job. We must see you safe to the end.”

  Ceinwyn pulled out the bloody mess of the afterbirth. As Pressine lay shivering in childbed, she knew she would live. But her baby had died because she had chosen to protect her people from the wolves.

  Forgive me, little one. I shall never forget your sacrifice. Tell the Goddess I obeyed Her will. I love you.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and remorse gripped her heart. Pressine turned her head away, closed her eyes, and fell swiftly into exhausted sleep. She awoke several times in the dark, listening to the sounds of the night. Each time, she went back to sleep noticing that the mournful howling of the wolves had ceased. At least her precious child had not died in vain.

  * * *

  Startled by a knock on the door, Mattacks stifled an oath and flinched at the pain searing through his right hip. Damned wolves had almost killed him last night. With great
effort, he straightened on the chair of the alcove where he’d been praying, in front of a small altar surmounted by a tall crucifix.

  “Who is it?” He pressed one hand against his wrapped wound. Red blood soaked the linen shirt at the waist of his leather trews and dripped on the flagstone.

  “It’s me,” a sweet feminine voice answered, then Ceinwyn’s face peeked through the opening door. “I came to check on your wounds, my lord.”

  She smiled, closed the door then walked around the high bed covered with dark fur. Carrying a basket of healing salves and potions in clay jars, she joined him in the alcove that served as his private chapel.

  “What took you so long? I could spill my lifeblood before anyone cared to check on me.” Mattacks noticed with satisfaction that the girl’s face filled with dread. He harshened his voice. “Look at this mess... your wrappings are soaked through.”

  Ceinwyn dropped the basket on the floor and knelt by the chair. “Terribly sorry, my lord, I was detained. The queen needed my services.”

  “Why should I care?” Mattacks slid to the edge of the chair so Ceinwyn could reach his bleeding hip. He found it downright humiliating to face his lover in such a weakened state.

  “Her baby died.” Ceinwyn carefully lifted the soiled bandages.

  Mattacks flinched at the pull of tender skin imbedded into the bloody rags. The wound ran deep. “And the queen survived?”

  The heathen bitch. He did not voice his feelings in front of Ceinwyn, though. The foolish lass seemed quite infatuated with the queen.

  “It was the most wondrous thing,” Ceinwyn explained with animation as she sponged the edges of the wound with pungent willow bark brew. “Just when we expected her to die of exhaustion, she came to, then started pushing with the steady strength of a well-trained ox team. I have never seen such a miracle.”

  “Miracle?” Mattacks gasped at the sting of the brew into his gaping wound. “Do not blaspheme in my presence, woman. A Christian like you should know better.” The pale liquid in the wound effectively stopped the bleeding. “What did you do with the bairn’s body?”

  “We buried it under the hawthorn with the afterbirth. You know... Like we did for the tailor’s wife when her baby died. So no one gets the evil eye from such bad luck.”

  Ceinwyn uncorked a small horn container and smelled the contents.

  Mattacks strained to smile. “Her bad luck is my good luck. I do not need another brother to lay claim on my future throne.”

  Ceinwyn scooped some of the gooey salve with deft fingers. “But the queen’s bairn was unnatural, you see?”

  “Unnatural? How so?” Could this be the proof Mattacks needed to convince his father she had a malevolent influence?

  “One foot looked all bent and twisted. Poor little thing.” Ceinwyn gently applied salve to the hip wound.

  Mattacks flinched at the burning sensation. “A club foot?” He knew it. The Pagan bitch had dealings with Satan. “Did you ever see the queen do or say anything strange or peculiar?”

  “Not likely.” Ceinwyn looked up from her handiwork. “My lady is kind and wholesome. The best healer in the land.”

  When Ceinwyn pressed the folded cloth on his wound, Mattacks jumped under her touch. “Mind what you are doing, woman. That burns!” He hated himself for crying out and composed his face. “I am not talking about anything bad, just things out of the ordinary.”

  Ceinwyn dug into her basket. “She told us the bairn would be a boy ahead of time, but many mothers guess that right.”

  Mattacks allowed himself a superior smile. “Believe me, Ceinwyn, there is more to the queen than meets the eye.”

  Ceinwyn selected strips of cloth. “Well, she is different, for sure. And there is a curse on her.”

  “Really? What kind of curse?”

  The lass eyed the strip, as if measuring how much she would need. “I overheard my lady talking to the king about it once. Something like if he ever sees her in childbed, they shall both be doomed and separated for the rest of their lives. She sounded mighty serious when she mentioned it, too.”

  “How long will the queen remain in childbed?” Mattacks shifted to allow Ceinwyn to wrap his hip.

  “Until her bleeding stops, usually about eight weeks.” Ceinwyn tied the ends to secure the strip of cloth.

  “Interesting...” Mattacks suddenly remembered the strange vows of the Pagan wedding ceremony, and his father king swearing never to visit his wife in childbed. So that was a curse. He couldn’t help but grin. He’d finally found a way to free his father from the heathen queen.

  “Let me help you take off your tunic so I can see to your arm,” Ceinwyn ordered.

  Mattacks obeyed docilely, lending his right arm to the girl’s ministrations, but his thoughts dwelt on other matters. He would send a messenger to fetch the king directly. His father would return home if he believed the queen was at the brink of death. Tricking Elinas into her chambers should be easy enough.

  Ceinwyn unrolled the soiled cloth bandaging his arm and scrutinized the wound. “This looks clean.” She applied more salve. “It would be a shame to lose such a gracious queen to a curse, don’t you think?”

  The devil take the queen. Mattacks bit his lips, hating to remain quiet while Ceinwyn praised his archenemy. But he needed her eyes and ears in the queen’s chambers.

  “The queen is just and kind, and she taught me the healing arts.” The lass finished wrapping his arm, then looked up. “I hope to be as magnanimous as she is when comes my turn to be queen.”

  Ceinwyn brushed one hand against the hair on Mattacks’ exposed chest, smiling lasciviously.

  Mattacks closed his eyes. He could not believe the girl’s insolence. Where did she get such notions? The fact that she shared his bed would not make her queen. The wench had some gall.

  He forced a teasing smile. “So, you want to be queen?”

  “Why not?” Ceinwyn’s hand rested on his bare chest. “My father was a baron and you like bedding me, do you not? We make a perfect royal couple.” She kissed his nipple.

  Mattacks shuddered under the caress. Marriage had never entered his mind. “We get along fine, and I intend to keep you around, but you must be patient. Now, get me a clean tunic.”

  In truth, he intended to wed a full-blooded princess, and his father was actively looking for a suitable match. Mattacks, however, might also need Ceinwyn to breed him healthy bastards, if his high-born queen failed in her duty. As a future king, he did not have the luxury to observe sexual abstinence as he would prefer it. The crown required sacrifices.

  Ceinwyn brought a fresh tunic and helped him with the sleeves, then gazed at him with wonder. “Our wedding day will be the happiest day of my life.”

  “All in due time.” Mattacks forced a smile. “Now, go and tell the captain of the guard to send me a messenger. The king must be informed...” of everything.

  Chapter Three

  The flax yarn of Pressine’s tapestry snapped under her fingers, just as the subtle thread linking her mind to the very fiber of the universe had ruptured the moment she gave birth. She had lost her powers. Although it had only been a few days, and Morgane said her special abilities would return after the traditional childbed confinement, Pressine felt exposed and vulnerable.

  Ceinwyn, who shared the bleak light of the bedchamber window with her, glanced up from her needlework. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  Pressine squinted as she threaded her yarn through the eye of the long fishbone needle. “I will be fine.”

  But would the return of her extraordinary gifts fill the emptiness at her core? The loss of her baby left a gaping hole in her spirit. In a melancholy mood, Pressine welcomed the imposed isolation in her chambers, and even the monotonous stitching of her tapestry.

  “I have never seen you break yarn before, my lady.” Ceinwyn scooted her chair closer to Pressine’s. “Is something troubling you?”

  “I was just woolgathering.”

  Pressine did not dare co
nfide in the lass. She suspected Mattacks used her to gain information. Who else could have told him she had left her chambers on that fatal night when she went to meet the wolves? But Pressine could play the same game.

  “How is Mattacks these days?” she asked casually. “Are his wounds healing well?”

  Ceinwyn turned pale. “How do you know he was hurt, my lady? He made me swear not to tell a soul.”

  Pressine cringed inwardly at her faux-pas. How did she know indeed?

  “I hear he did not attend Imbolc celebrations in the great hall.” Of course, Pressine had not attended the banquet either but did partake of the food in the seclusion and the tranquility of her chambers. “How did he get hurt? Is it bad?”

  Ceinwyn fumbled with her needle but remained silent, eyes intent on her work.

  But Pressine knew how to loosen up the lass. “Do you need help with his treatment?”

  The look of doubt on Ceinwyn’s face turned into a smile as she lifted her chin. “Will you swear not to tell anyone?”

  Pressine repressed a smile. “You have my word.”

  “The Edling drove the wolves away. Did you notice they do not howl at night anymore?” Ceinwyn’s face flushed with animation. “But in his courageous battle, alone against the whole pack, he suffered serious wounds. He is too proud to let anyone see him in his weakened state, hence the secrecy.”

  “I see...” Did Mattacks take credit for Pressine’s accomplishments, or did Ceinwyn embellish the story?

  “His wounds are healing well, except for a deep gash in his hip. It oozes fetid pus, and the edges are swollen and a purplish red. But worst of all, Prince Mattacks has taken ill with a fever.”

  Pressine recognized the signs of infection. She did not spare the Edling’s life to let him die from lack of treatment. “You remember the clove potion we made for little Jared when the grinding wheel smashed his leg?”

  Ceinwyn’s face brightened in understanding.

  “Make the tea strong. It’s bitter, but Mattacks should take it for two days, until the fever abates.”