Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  The barons took an audible breath and froze. Only the bishop, the king, and Urien of Lanark already knew. Mattacks counted on the shocking effect of this news on the Christian barons, and it seemed to be working.

  Bishop Renald pursed his lips. “I have to admit that the king dismissed the incident with the wolves rather lightly, like a thing of little consequence.”

  “I find his lack of reaction suspect, to say the least,” Urien said, as planned. “And what about the freakish child, whose gender she knew in advance? It was unnatural.”

  A murmur of assent coursed the length of the long table, accompanied by nods and furtive glances.

  “The shrew took away my father’s wits,” Mattacks pressed on. “She manipulates him. There is nothing he can refuse her.”

  Renald’s dark eyes shifted uncomfortably. “It happens sometimes when a man is love struck, my prince. But I do not believe the king would go so far as to lose sight of his sacred duty to his subjects and to the land.”

  Mattacks snorted. “He is so besotted, he consults her on everything and never makes a decision without her approval. He would gladly give her the crown if he could.”

  The assembly mumbled in disapproval. All Christians agreed that women should never get involved in ruling the land.

  Kathel, a retired general and recent convert to Christianity, rose in protest. “That may be, my prince. Still, King Elinas is our sovereign.”

  Refilling his cup, Mattacks said casually, “Believe me, he will be grateful to be rid of her... once he comes to his senses.”

  General Kathel flushed red under the white beard. “This is a conspiracy against the queen, and I will not stand for it.”

  “Really?” Mattacks affected great surprise. “In that case, you are free to leave this room, General.”

  “With your permission, my prince, I will.” Old Kathel glanced at the bishop with hope. When the bishop looked away, the retired general turned on his heel and marched out, his boot heels resounding on the flagstone.

  In the stony silence that followed, Mattacks made a mental note of taking care of General Kathel. Staring at each councilor in turn, he asked, “Anyone else want to leave? Now is the time.”

  One by one, all lowered their gaze. No one else challenged him, not even bishop Renald. Mattacks relaxed into a smile. He had won this test of will.

  “You have the right on your side, my prince,” a baron suggested, “but this is a dangerous endeavor.”

  “Not necessarily.” Mattacks paused to gather the councillors’ undivided attention. “The queen could meet with an unfortunate accident, something we have no control over, like the judgement of a higher tribunal, or the wrath of a righteous mob. What if her demonic deeds were somehow revealed to the God-loving people of this town? They might take action.”

  Mattacks nodded to Urien.

  Urien of Lanark cleared his throat. “In the Holy Empire, heathens are summarily executed by imperial order. I believe the canker must be uprooted in our kingdom, before it festers and condemns us all to damnation for generations to come.”

  “The welfare of the land is at stake,” Mattacks declared, watching the barons intently. “As crown prince, I am sworn to protect it, and I will take whatever extraordinary measures are justified by the gravity of the situation. Do you agree?”

  Most barons nodded in grim approval. A few avoided his stare, but Mattacks knew they would not speak against him, especially since they had committed themselves to his cause by choosing to remain in the room. Mattacks only needed the support of the bishop to win them all to his cause.

  The bishop’s gaze surveyed the barons, as if he still wrestled with the idea. When Mattacks stared him down, the prelate sighed in surrender. It did not matter much what Renald thought, as long as he fulfilled his part of the plan.

  “But a public scandal might tarnish the crown.” Looking around the table, Mattacks smiled with benevolence. “So, since we are all in agreement, let me explain what I have in mind.”

  Chapter Five

  The threatening dream haunted Pressine’s nights since old general Kathel warned her about a conspiracy from Mattacks and the Christian barons. Nervously, she slipped the green silk robe over her head, still pondering the nightmare. Cold sweat snaked down her spine. The dream had all the qualities of a premonition. So much hatred, so much blood...

  Unfortunately, the loyal general knew nothing of what Mattacks plotted. Still, Pressine dared not refuse the Bishop’s invitation to attend morning mass in the chapel. Her refusal would bring criticism from her increasing number of Christian subjects.

  Besides, the invitation demonstrated good will from the Bishop. Mattacks might have enlisted the clergyman in his schemes, but Pressine refused to hide from the Edling each time Elinas left him in charge.

  Poised in front of the small mirror, she gazed into the reflection of her sparkling clear gray eyes. Filled with foreboding, she stopped brushing her long dark hair. Would the Edling ever cease hating her? What drove him? Ignorance? Misplaced zeal? The fear of powers beyond his control?

  Pressine often visited the chapel to pray before the statue of the Goddess, but not once had she attended a service since her wedding mass. To clear her mind, she exhaled slowly. What harm could come to a priestess of the Lost Isle in a chapel where a statue of the Great Goddess resided? Besides, Pressine liked the peace and serenity of the Christian sanctuary.

  A friendly gesture of tolerance might help the various factions get along harmoniously. For Pressine, diversity of religion did not present a problem. Hatred and intolerance did. Confident that she could handle almost anything, she vowed to remain alert.

  Outside, the chapel bell rang, muffled by the fog.

  Ceinwyn entered the Queen’s bedchamber, a white veil in her hands. “It is time to go, my lady.”

  “Must I wear this?” Pressine hated to cover her glorious hair.

  “The Christian rule demands it, my lady.” Ceinwyn smiled. “In church, women cover their hair and men take off their hats.”

  “It sounds silly.” Pressine sighed. “Oh, all right.”

  Deftly Ceinwyn secured the diaphanous veil on Pressine’s head with a few pins.

  After donning a warm mantle, Pressine followed Ceinwyn out the door and braved the morning mist. Several nobles answering the bell hastened alongside as she crossed the courtyard. Among them, she noticed an unusual number of brown robes and hooded faces.

  Where had all the monks come from? She did not remember hearing about visiting friars in the castle. Their tall stature, blank faces, and faraway gaze triggered Pressine’s fears. They did not belong here.

  She followed Ceinwyn inside the edifice. The high, narrow windows, filtered scant gray light, but the whitewashed walls and tall vaulted ceiling gave the edifice a graceful lightness. Candles sputtered in the air, thick with burning incense. Pressine observed Ceinwyn, who dipped her fingers into a free standing fount of holy water, not unlike her water basin. The girl genuflected, then crossed herself.

  Remembering the devastating effects of holy water on women of her kind, Pressine abstained from the custom. Even Fae males, though they did not suffer bodily harm, usually lost their supernatural gifts after being immersed in holy water during baptism. It had happened to her brother, Gwenvael, when he’d converted to become a Culdee monk.

  Taking the lead before Ceinwyn, Pressine made her way down the central aisle, through the standing worshipers, men on the right and women on the left. When she reached the front bench reserved for noblewomen in front of the altar, she had the distinct feeling of walking into a trap. Controlling her fear, however, she watched the freshly shaven monks lining up in a semicircle around the back of the altar. Benedictines, according to the habit.

  Dear Goddess, why had Elinas left her to fend for herself in such a hateful environment? To recruit young nobles to be knighted, Pressine reminded herself. Reviving the ancient tradition of knighthood had been her own idea. How ironic.

  “Yo
u look pale, my lady. Are you feeling faint?” Ceinwyn frowned. “Shall I escort you back to your chambers?”

  “I will be fine,” Pressine managed, with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  From across the aisle standing on the men’s side, Mattacks stared at her. Pressine wondered who he was stalking today, Ceinwyn or herself. But she could counteract whatever plot the Edling had hatched.

  Bishop Renald entered the chapel through a side door and bowed to the queen. After returning a guarded smile, Pressine watched the proceedings, alert as a doe who had caught the scent of the hounds.

  Focusing on the statue of the Goddess at her left, Pressine relaxed a little as the ritual unfolded. She even enjoyed the guttural voices of the monks chanting in Latin. Then the bishop ascended the stairs to the high pulpit jutting from a thick pillar, and rose both hands in blessing.

  “God sacrificed his very son’s life to redeem us, Christians, from our sins,” he declared with unexpected vehemence. “We have a mission to spread the Word of God and convert our fellow men to the true religion, to save humanity from itself and from evil.”

  “Amen,” said the Benedictines in unison, joined by other men in the congregation.

  “We must purify through holy baptism and bring to the light those who seek the one true God,” Renald went on, his bald forehead gleaming in the candlelight. “Like the mighty Archangel of God, we must crush the devil and cleanse the earth from those who worship evil, lest they plunge humanity into Hell’s eternal fires.”

  Pressine held her breath, dreading to hear where the sermon would lead.

  “But where is the devil?” The bishop set his gaze upon Pressine as his voice rose to fill the vaulted arches of the edifice. “Satan resides in all those who refuse baptism... especially women.”

  Pressine realized with growing dread that the Bishop directly aimed the harangue at her.

  “Most women have no soul,” the prelate went on, piercing gaze still fixed on Pressine. “And the few who have one, often are the instruments of the devil, for they are weak and treacherous, and unworthy of a man’s trust. Denying the true God is a sure sign of devil worship. One is either with God, or against Him, a God-loving Christian or a devil worshiper.”

  Grasping the nature of the trap, Pressine shook with anger while Ceinwyn stared at her in surprise.

  Looking fierce on his high pulpit, the bishop surveyed the assembled crowd from above. “We are gathered here today not only for holy mass, but to witness a solemn event. Our queen joined us this morning, to publicly renounce her evil ways. Today, she converts to the true faith by undergoing the sacrament of baptism. For only through this holy sacrament can she erase the stains of her debased soul.”

  Across the aisle, Mattacks smiled. In the unreadable faces of the monks surrounding the altar, Pressine saw harsh determination. All present now stared at her.

  With growing dread, Pressine imagined herself drowning in holy water or worse. But refusing baptism would mark her as a spawn of Satan. So would a show of supernatural powers, as Christians did not believe in miracles performed by Pagans. Magic might buy her time, but it would seal her death sentence. No Christian here today would ever forget, or forgive her for it. And without magic, she would not leave the chapel unscathed.

  From the height of the pulpit, Bishop Renald addressed the queen in a solemn tone. “Lady Pressine, daughter of King Salomon of Holy Bretagne and Queen of Strathclyde, in the name of God the creator, of Jesus Christ his son, and of the Holy Ghost, do you renounce Satan and the evil ways of your past, and humbly repent for your mortal sins as you beg acceptance into the bosom of Holy Mother Church?”

  Pressine swallowed hard and looked for support to the statue of the Great Goddess. A Lady of the Isle could neither lie about her true nature nor renounce the Great Goddess. Unable to deny her very essence, Pressine considered vanishing into thin air, but that would only mark her as a devil-spawn.

  Lifting her chin, Pressine said clearly, as loud as she could muster, “My ways have never been evil, Lord Bishop. On the contrary, like you I fight the likes of Satan, and I worship the Lady you call the Black Madonna. She inspires and guides every aspect of my life.”

  A murmur of protest rose from the assembly. Unlike the whispered lines of the previous ritual, that murmur sounded threatening.

  Raising one hand to appease the congregation, bishop Renald stared at Pressine accusingly. “How can you worship the Virgin Mary if you do not recognize her son as your savior and have not been cleansed of the original sin through holy baptism?”

  “I have committed no sin against any god or man,” Pressine declared, struggling to keep her voice from breaking.

  “Blasphemy!” the bishop yelled, purple with rage. “Your very words sin against the true God.”

  Upon a sign from the bishop, the Benedictines broke their ranks to converge toward Pressine. One monk motioned for Ceinwyn to stand aside. The fierce monks advanced upon Pressine, forcing her to step back. She stopped, trapped against the statue of the Black Madonna which now loomed behind her. The monks’ faces looked strangely foreign. Pressine had never seen any of them in the castle before.

  Brandishing a small wooden cross in front of Pressine’s face, the tallest and fiercest of the monks addressed her with a spark of madness in his eyes. “Repent and ask for forgiveness, unworthy woman. You bore the devil’s child!”

  Gasps of horror and murmurs of surprise erupted in the assembly.

  Despite terror and shock at the sordid accusations, Pressine noticed with a start that the monk spoke with a heavy Saxon accent.

  “The night before giving birth, you consorted with the hounds of hell in the forest,” the monk raved on. “Lucky for you the spawn of Satan died at birth.”

  Pressine glanced at Mattacks, who flashed a contemptuous grin.

  The other monks stared at Pressine, their condemning faces showing no sign of understanding or compassion. Saxons, all of them, Pressine realized. Did they obey Charlemagne and his Roman pope?

  Panic gaining on her, Pressine searched for a way out but saw none. Instinctively, she pressed against the pedestal behind her, looking for support to the statue of the Goddess. O Great Lady, help your Priestess in need of protection. Inspire me and grant me the strength to overcome my foe. Please spare my life to serve your great designs.

  Suddenly, as if the prayer itself had inspired her, Pressine thought of a way that would not betray her allegiance. Still looking the Saxon monk straight in the eye, she gathered her energy, then raised one hand to touch the foot of the statue. Sudden light flashed like lightning and sizzled, before glowing like a bright aura around the stone statue, making it hum like a living thing.

  The assembled Christians held their breath. A few fell to their knees, hands joined in fervent prayer. A clear feminine voice filled the chapel.

  “Have you forgotten my son’s message of universal love?” Pressine now wished she had paid closer attention when Ceinwyn explained her faith during the long hours spent sewing by the window. “Forgive those who offend you as you wish to be forgiven, and may he who never sinned cast the first stone. I placed this queen on the throne, where she serves me lovingly and faithfully. Beware! Whoever would harm her would sin against me.”

  The tallest monk stared at the statue with a puzzled look on his face, while the others fell to their knees at the marvel of light and sound.

  “It’s a miracle,” a noblewoman exclaimed, her voice full of wonder.

  “A miracle,” several voices echoed in awed whispers.

  “It’s a trick,” Mattacks protested hotly, but his voice drowned in the excited clamors.

  “It is a miracle! I saw it with mine own eyes and heard it with mine own ears,” a young baron insisted, to the furious nods and comments of many others. Stepping to the front for all to see, the young man declared, “It is a message from the Virgin Mary. She sent us a holy queen, and I presently take oath to guard her with mine own life as long as I live.”

&n
bsp; Slipping lively into the circle of kneeling Benedictines, the young baron drew his sword, shielding the queen with his body. Several other armed men followed his example and rushed to the defense of their queen.

  From the high pulpit, bishop Renald gave Mattacks a helpless glance.

  Livid, the Edling slapped his gloves violently in his free hand then stormed out of the chapel, followed by Urien of Lanark.

  In the chaos of the chapel, the statue still glowed with a luminous aura. To believe the tales circulating among the crowd, the Black Madonna had smiled and moved her lips as she spoke, then blessed the gathering with the sign of the cross. Everyone present would go to heaven for sure.

  Trembling with relief, Pressine struggled to remain standing and as solemn as the new situation dictated. After bowing to the statue of the Goddess, she rose on tiptoes and kissed the Black Madonna’s feet. Raising her chin and straightening her back, she stared at the bishop then strode toward the main portal, escorted by two watchful lines of volunteer bodyguards.

  When the party neared the door to the queen’s quarters, Pressine thanked her protectors with a grateful smile. Her new guard, however refused to leave, standing in the misty courtyard in front of her chambers. Closing the heavy door, Pressine leaned against it and released a long breath.

  As her body relaxed, her legs gave way, and she gently slid to the flagstone into a sitting position. This could have ended badly. What if the Edling’s plot had succeeded?

  At least, Pressine had cleared her reputation and gained a personal guard. Not bad for one morning’s work. Thrilled by her victory, she grinned. The statue would keep glowing for days to come, confirming the miracle that had taken place, but the feat had depleted Pressine’s strength.

  Where was breakfast? Hungry enough to eat a whole swine, she desperately needed nourishment. Then she would sleep for a week.

  But news of the miracle would probably rally more converts to the church. She broke into nervous laughter at the irony of it all.