Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  One rider in particular seemed to have caught Ceinwyn’s eye. The lass kept staring at a young man in full mail, long blond hair hanging under his helmet.

  “Enjoying the scenery?” Pressine teased.

  Ceinwyn’s gaze remained glued to the armored man. “He has bested all his opponents so far,” she said with obvious pride.

  Even at a distance, something familiar about the man puzzled Pressine. “I can see he is strong and agile, with a keen eye and a good arm.”

  Now the young man rode at reckless speed, aiming a fifth arrow at the black target painted with tar on a stack of straw. The projectile hit dead center like the others, prompting the ladies into delirious applause. When the armored youth dismounted and removed his helmet to wave to his admirers, Pressine recognized Conan’s grinning face. Elinas’ second son had definitely grown into a handsome young man while in fosterage.

  Flushed, Ceinwyn waved back and blew a kiss in Conan’s direction.

  Pressine could not help but smile. She had seen them together once or twice since the king’s return, and rumors of a tryst spread among the women. The spark in Conan’s blue eyes as he caught Ceinwyn’s gesture confirmed that these two were weaving a romance. The thought delighted Pressine, but she wondered how Mattacks would react.

  * * *

  Mattacks, who had sheathed his sword to watch his brother perform at mounted archery, observed the exchange and stifled an oath. By the seven deadly sins, the lass had some nerve, galling him with his own brother in public. Ceinwyn was his, whether or not Mattacks bedded her, and Conan couldn’t have her.

  Walking toward his brother, Mattacks forced a smile. “Good aim, little brother.” He slapped Conan’s back.

  “Thank you.” Watching another contestant perform on the field, Conan removed his heavy gauntlets and threw them inside the helmet. “Just a few lucky shots, really.”

  “Well done in any case.” Mattacks cleared his throat. “About lady Ceinwyn... I must warn you. Do not try your luck with her, she is mine. Has been for many months.”

  “Really?” Conan frowned. “The lady seems rather fond of watching me, and if I am not mistaken, you have a Frankish bride arriving soon.”

  “What of it?” Controlling his brother might not be as easy as Mattacks first hoped.

  Conan smiled roguishly. “I need a woman more than you do, brother.”

  Making sure no one stood close enough to hear, Mattacks controlled his temper and threatened in a low voice. “Do not play this game with me. I took her virginity, and the lass is mine.”

  Conan’s smile faded as he tucked the helmet under one arm and seized the horse’s bridle. “Does Ceinwyn know she is your property?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and led his mount toward the stable.

  Mattacks watched his brother walking away alongside the horse. The young prince had matured over the past three years and did not seem the least intimidated. He might not yield so easily.

  From the corner of his eye, Mattacks caught movement among the ladies. Ceinwyn had left the small party and, lifting her shift, ran toward the stable where Conan was headed. Swearing under his breath, Mattacks started in the same direction, but bishop Renald blocked his path.

  “Lord Prince,” the bishop called with suave respect. “The friars and I require your assistance with the planning of the ceremony.”

  When Mattacks looked again toward the stables, he could see neither Conan nor Ceinwyn. While the bishop talked about details that scarcely mattered, Mattacks’ mind wandered. He must talk the two young people out of committing a sin they would regret, for he would personally enforce decency in the castle.

  As briefly as he could, Mattacks answered the bishop’s questions, but more concerns kept pouring out of the holy man’s thin mouth. After what seemed like an eternity, bishop Renald, finally satisfied, bowed and walked away.

  Fearful of what he would find in the stable, Mattacks strode after the two young people. Panting more from apprehension than from exertion, he entered the dark building and paused just beyond the door, to accustom his eyes to the shadows.

  All was quiet and cool inside, and it smelled of manure, fresh straw and oats. Mattacks’ own stallion whinnied at his scent, but he headed for the corner where Conan kept his horses.

  Mattacks skipped a breath when he nearly stumbled upon the young couple rolling in the straw in a tight embrace, kissing wantonly. Intent on each other, they had not seen or heard him.

  In angry shock, Mattacks lashed out. “I thought I warned you the little minx is mine.”

  The two lovers broke their embrace and regarded him with dreamy eyes.

  “I am no longer yours, Lord Prince.” The calm insolence in Ceinwyn’s voice stabbed Mattacks’ pride. “And you now belong to another.”

  The girl rose, bits of straw snagged in her loose hair, and straightened her shift. After dipping into a quick curtsy, she ran out of the stable. Conan’s lusty gaze followed the sway of her skirts.

  “Jezebel,” Mattacks hissed through clenched teeth as his throat tightened.

  Standing up, Conan brushed a few blades of straw from the surcoat covering his mail and lifted the saddle off the steed’s back. “She does not want you anymore.”

  Mattacks made a supreme effort to control his temper. “And you fancy yourself her next lover, I suppose. Ah! You cannot handle the little wench.”

  Conan shrugged then picked up a handful of straw and brushed his steed’s shiny flanks.

  Interpreting his brother’s silence as a sign of surrender, Mattacks allowed himself a condescending tone. “I know her well... I taught her everything she knows. She is wild. You would never measure up. She would grow tired of your dull ministrations. Better to give her up now, before she breaks your heart.”

  “Enough!” Conan shouted. Suddenly turning away from the horse, he advanced on Mattacks, as if to strike him with his handful of straw. “Leave us alone. You lost your claim to Ceinwyn when you accepted the foreign bride.”

  “You know I cannot pass up this alliance.” Mattacks hated to be on the defensive. “And I might need Ceinwyn to breed me a few bastards, in case my queen is barren.”

  “Sorry, brother. Ceinwyn should decide for herself,” Conan declared with finality. “You cannot very well have her if she chooses me.”

  A whirlwind of unchecked emotions threatened to overwhelm Mattacks. “Do not provoke me, little brother.”

  Conan’s blue eyes, leveled with his. “I am not a child anymore. You cannot bully me into submission.” Breaking away, he returned to grooming the steed.

  A brilliant idea flashed through Mattacks’ mind. He smiled at his own cleverness. “If you keep her from me, I demand to settle this quarrel by the judgment of God.”

  Conan’s hand stopped on the horse’s flank. He turned slowly, his face white as milk. “Are you jesting? You would fight your own brother to the death because a lass rejected you?”

  “Why not?” Mattacks relished his brother’s dismay.

  “But you are the Edling, and I am next in line.” The shock grew on Conan’s face. “You cannot weaken the kingdom by risking the lives of two blood princes. Father will never allow it.”

  “Honor is foremost to a future king.” Mattacks smiled at Conan’s obvious lack of ambition. “The Christian law approves of such single combats, and father will not forbid it if he wants to keep his crown. Every Christian in this town will back me up, and so will the imperial envoys.”

  “For an unwilling concubine?” Conan frowned and shook his head.

  “My claim is legitimate. Charlemagne himself keeps many women.” Mattacks intended to have his own collection of concubines, whether he bedded them or not, as a mark of high status.

  “You cannot keep a free woman against her will.”

  Mattacks felt stronger as his cool countenance returned. “When I am king, I can take any wench to my bed, or have her decapitated if I damn well please.”

  Conan’s face turned red. “You woul
d not dare kill Ceinwyn.”

  “Then leave her alone.” Mattacks watched with jubilation as the threat hit home.

  Conan hesitated, as if pondering his next words. “What if I happen to like the lass and want to marry her?”

  “All right.” Mattacks smiled benignly. A public challenge would be the perfect opportunity to eliminate his main rival for the crown. “Then we’ll fight to the death. Ceinwyn will belong to no other man. Especially not you.”

  “You are mad.” Conan’s fists clenched at his side. “I refuse to fight my own brother.”

  “Believe me, you will.” Congratulating himself, Mattacks turned around and marched out of the stables toward the training field and smiled. If defied in public, Conan would have no choice but to defend his honor. Skilled as he might be, his younger brother lacked the experience of the battlefield. After years of rigorous training and victorious military campaigns, Mattacks would easily crush Conan.

  Chapter Seven

  In the chapel, Pressine sat next to Elinas, her back to the altar, facing the assembly. Without looking, she could feel the stare of the Benedictine monks, standing in a semicircle behind the altar. The same monks who had killed General Kathel and attempted to force her into baptism.

  At the end of Easter mass, the bishop had hastily locked away the gold chalice. As he now took his seat on the other side of Elinas, the prelate winced at the blare of horns heralding the start of the knighting ceremony. The sound echoed against the Roman arches of the small chapel. As if startled by the blast, the many candles and oil lamps brightening the edifice flickered.

  Pressine smiled inwardly. Since Elinas had threatened to hang the bishop’s wretched hide if he harassed the queen, life at Dumfries castle had been peaceful. Now acutely aware of his precarious position at court, the bishop would think twice before accusing of heresy a member of the royal family.

  The clinking of mail and scabbards marked the entrance of two dozen warriors in full armor, advancing in two columns down the central aisle. The files stopped five paces from the king. The young men fell to one knee in perfect ensemble, removed their helmets, then set them down on the flagstone.

  At the front of the left line of kneeling warriors, Pressine recognized Conan’s blue eyes and blond curls, and leading the right line, Mattacks with his dark hair and brooding face. Right gloved hand on the heart, the left gripping the sword hilt, all the aspiring knights bowed deeply.

  “The flower of Strathclyde,” Elinas whispered to Pressine, a tinge of pride in his smile.

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  Elinas rose, swept aside his crimson cape, then drew Caliburn in a majestic arc. The blade sparkled blue and shimmered as it sliced a shaft of sunlight from a high window. Holding the sword in the light for all to admire, the king addressed the men kneeling in the aisle.

  “Today, your life as prince, baron, or squire ends as you enter knighthood.” Lowering the sword, Elinas paced, as if it helped him find his words. “Each of you has proven his worth, but the title of knight comes with heavy obligations. From this day on, your life will never be your own. In a world plagued by Viking raiders, lawless brigands, and greedy neighbors, the knight shall defend the land and bring hope to defenseless towns, villages and families, fighting valiantly to maintain royal peace and justice.” Elinas paused, rested his sword point on the flagstone, hands braced on the hilt.

  In the respectful silence, broken only by a repressed cough and the fidgeting of a child, Pressine perceived the faint humming of Caliburn, the enchanted sword she’d given to Elinas before their betrothal. The polished jewels on the king’s coronet twinkled with an eerie glow, as if echoing the same song of power. Silently, Pressine thanked the Goddess for keeping her promise of prosperity for the land and happiness for its people.

  Facing the young aspirants, Elinas cleared his throat. “Because strength depends upon purity of heart and righteousness, the knight shall fiercely defend the honor of his name. Whenever accused or challenged, he shall fight to keep his reputation unblemished. On the battlefield, he shall demonstrate exceptional courage and valor.”

  “Amen,” answered the knights, joined by the monks and the standing crowd.

  Pressine could not help but admire the strength emanating from Elinas. His straight back and royal bearing cut a handsome figure in this formal setting. He was not merely a good man and a loving father, but a just and charismatic ruler.

  Elinas traced an arc through the air with the great sword, to encompass the aspiring knights. “Are you ready to follow this code of honor and lay down your life for the land and the crown?”

  As one, with faces set in determination, the young men shouted, “My life and honor for land and king!”

  In a solemn voice, Elinas declared, “Then, in the name of Bel of the dreadful eye, and Lugh the shiny one, and Oghma who invented the alphabet, as well as in the name of the Goddess Ostara, in front of the bishop bestowing the blessings of the Christian God, come forth and kneel before your liege.”

  Mattacks ascended first the three stone steps leading toward the altar and knelt before his father. Bishop Renald approached the Edling, dipped one thumb in a bowl of scented oil offered by a sacristan, and anointed Mattacks’ forehead with the sign of the cross. All the while, another sacristan waved a smoking censer of fragrant frankincense.

  Elinas raised Caliburn and tapped the Edling three times with the flat of the blade on head and shoulders. “Before these witnesses, in the name of the Mother Goddess, our ancestral deities, and the Christian God, I, Elinas of Dumfries, King of Strathclyde, bestow upon you the glorious burden of knighthood.”

  Standing on each side of Elinas, Pressine and the bishop simultaneously blessed the new knight. While Pressine chanted an incantation to the Goddess, the clergyman drew the sign of the cross in the empty air before him. Too bad Pressine could not bind Mattacks to do good against his will. This would have been the perfect opportunity. But sacred rules prohibited her from robbing a mortal of his free will... unless the Goddess Herself ordered it.

  Pressine wondered with amusement whether Mattacks or the bishop appreciated the full extent of the threefold blessing she had devised. It reflected the true allegiances of Strathclyde, while respecting the sacred trinity. Most likely, however, the bishop merely struggled to repel the demons he believed she’d invited through her Pagan blessing.

  “Rise, Sir Mattacks, knight of Strathclyde,” Elinas announced in a booming voice that echoed down the nave.

  The crowd cheered as the Edling rose to kiss his father’s blade in a token of fealty. After sheathing Caliburn, Elinas gripped the Edling in a manly accolade. Mattacks broke free of his father’s bear hug, as if embarrassed by the show of affection.

  Turning to face the crowd, Mattacks looked toward Ceinwyn who averted her gaze. As he picked up his helmet, the new knight glowered at his brother then took his initial place at the head of the column of young men on the right side of the central aisle, his face an unreadable mask.

  Immediately, Conan stepped up from his place at the head of the left column, to receive the same distinction. With a serious expression, the young prince accepted his charge. When he finally rose, after kissing the blade, he returned his father’s accolade with unexpected warmth, and his clear blue eyes brimmed with tears. His gaze sought Ceinwyn in the women’s ranks like his brother had. The lass returned a triumphant smile, and her worshiping gaze followed him as he took his place in the left row.

  Next, Urien of Lanark knelt before the king. One at a time, the carefully chosen young nobles claimed the supreme honor of offering their lives for the crown.

  In the end, all the newly anointed knights drew their swords high, to form a canopy of raised blades. The Benedictine choir intoned a joyous hymn, while Pressine and Elinas rose and walked slowly under the raised swords, down the nave, and out through the chapel’s open doors.

  Outside in the bright daylight, town merchants had set up shops to sell their wares. The young knights fi
led out of the chapel, followed by the nobles. Family and friends of the newly benighted congratulated the young men, exchanging pleasantries in the sunshine. But Pressine had to make sure everything in the great hall was ready for the feast.

  Leaving Elinas in front of the chapel in discussion with barons and foreign envoys, she headed toward the hall. The cheery sun had failed to dry the castle yard, drenched by an early morning downpour. Hanging from the ramparts, multicolored banners bearing prominent coats of arms fluttered in the spring breeze. When she caught a whiff of roasting meat, Pressine hurried her pace.

  New guests still arrived, and messengers rushed their mounts through deep puddles. Pressine stepped out of the way of a cart. A lady, admiring a brooch at a goldsmith stall, cried out when flying mud splashed her yellow dress. Near the stables, squires and lads polished armors and primped horses for the jousting games, to be held that afternoon after the banquet.

  The massive door of the great hall had been dressed with both royal banners. The king’s, on one side, presented three gold crowns on a crimson field, while Pressine’s, on the other side, displayed the gold serpent on field of azure. She smiled when she saw Conan approaching the hall with Ceinwyn on his arm. They looked very much in love, and she rejoiced at their happiness.

  When she spotted Mattacks, visibly upset, marching toward the young couple, Pressine froze. Upon sighting the Edling’s murderous expression, Conan also stopped, shielding Ceinwyn with his body. With growing apprehension, Pressine joined the circle of onlookers slowly closing around the two princes.

  “I claim the wench is mine,” Mattacks shouted for everyone to hear. “She is my rightful concubine.”

  How bold of Mattacks to claim Ceinwyn in front of the Frankish nobles. But no rule forbade any noble to have legitimate concubines.

  “Lady Ceinwyn does not wish to be yours any longer and chooses to remain at my side,” Conan declared with surprising calm.