Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition
Page 28
“In that case, you stole what was mine, and I demand reparation by invoking the judgement of God.” With obvious jubilation, Mattacks stepped closer to Conan and slapped his gauntlet on his brother’s cheek with a force that made Pressine flinch. Then he threw the armored glove in the mud. “Will you decide the lady’s fate in a single combat to the death?” He spat on the ground at Conan’s feet.
Silence surrounded the two brothers as the onlookers stopped their chatter.
Pale and motionless as an alabaster statue, Conan hesitated, glanced at the assembly, then at Ceinwyn, whose eyes pleaded for the young knight to champion her. Finally, after a long pause, Conan smiled sadly and bent down to pick up the muddy gauntlet. “So, it has come to this.”
Mattacks grinned, obviously relishing the prospect of the fight. “Well done, Sir Conan. For a moment I feared you might refuse the challenge and display your cowardice. God be my witness, we shall fight at the end of the games this afternoon. Choose your weapons well, brother. I intend to win this joust and do away with you.”
Mattacks turned away and strode toward the great hall. Angry red marks from the gauntlet crossed Conan’s cheek as he watched his brother disappear into the banquet hall. Offering his arm to Ceinwyn, Conan followed at a slower pace.
When the crowd disbanded, discussing the incredible piece of news with animation, Elinas reached the scene. “Is it true what I hear?”
“You cannot let them fight.” Pressine whispered, still shaken. “It could weaken the crown.”
“By the fires of Bel,” Elinas roared, his gaze following Conan and Ceinwyn who entered the banquet hall arm in arm. Then he turned to Pressine, his brown eyes filled with despair. “My hands are tied,” he uttered helplessly. “I cannot forbid the challenge after the speech I just gave. The barons would accuse me of favoritism for my sons, and they would be right.” He sighed heavily. “It’s a knight’s duty to defend any attack on his honor. I cannot interfere.”
Pressine struggled to whisper despite her outrage. “You will watch them kill each other and do nothing about it?”
Elinas straightened and sighed. “Above all his subjects, the king has to obey the law. Mattacks’ claim is justified.”
“Justified?” Pressine could not believe Elinas would no nothing.
Elinas shot her a hard glance. “Did Conan not steal his brother’s woman?”
“In a way...” Pressine couldn’t accept such a simplistic reason. “But it was not like that at all.”
“The circumstances are irrelevant,” Elinas said with finality. “Mattacks cannot be denied the right to a fight, and Conan is honor bound to defend his reputation.”
Understanding her husband’s impossible situation, Pressine did not want to torture him any further. He looked mortified. She admired his courage. No matter which son won, Elinas would lose. Taking his arm, she walked with him toward the feasting hall. Once inside, they took their place at the center of the high table.
During the banquet, everyone but a few members of the royal family celebrated in euphoric anticipation. Conan brooded at Ceinwyn’s side. Pressine ignored the delicious food on her trencher, noticing that Elinas hardly touched the mess of venison with mustard. Somber through the stuffed capon with mushrooms, the king threw most of his meal to the hounds and paid scant attention to the jugglers performing between removes. His gaze often strayed far away, beyond the feasting hall.
Even the foreign envoys seemed worried, probably pondering whether they would have to cancel a wedding and attend a funeral instead. Pressine caught a glimpse of silver coins changing hands along the side tables. The inevitable betting had begun.
Many barons studied the two princes sitting at opposite ends of the high table, and Pressine could see speculation in their eyes. Would Conan destroy their carefully planned future by killing his brother? Might he prove easier to manipulate than the Edling? After three years away from the castle, the younger prince’s abilities were unknown. He remained an enigma.
Naturally, Pressine would cheer for Conan. She felt tempted to tip the scales in his favor, but she could not interfere. She found it increasingly difficult not to meddle in human affairs, but any misuse of her gifts would bring grave retribution. If Mattacks deserved to die today, only the Goddess could seal his fate.
Morgane had often explained how human laws changed to fit the morals of a particular place or time. Right and wrong meant different things to different people. The victorious hero of a fair battle would be perceived as a heartless slaughterer by his vanquished enemies. And if Mattacks killed his brother, it might someday be praised as a heroic deed.
Nevertheless, Pressine would implore the Goddess for Conan’s victory.
* * *
When the heralds sounded the beginning of the games, cold tendrils of foreboding coursed through Elinas at the thought of the very last fight. Sitting next to Pressine in the high tribune, built to the side of the field less than twenty feet away from the action, he watched the exploits of new knights and other nobles displaying their skills. The friendly joust did not bring him the usual pleasure. Neither the pomp of the herald announcing the fights, nor the gallop of the horses, the clang of sword on armor, not even the cheering of the crowd could warm his heart.
After each fight, the victor approached the tribune to claim his prize. Straining to smile, Elinas offered a few words and a feathered trinket, a small banner, or a precious brooch. Jugglers and acrobats brought laughs to the crowd between jousts, but helpless anger boiled inside Elinas. His throat clenched so tight, he could not swallow his wine.
The rowdy clamors stopped when the horn called the final combat. Down on the muddy field, two of Strathclyde’s most precious princes would bring about Elinas’ worst nightmare by attempting to kill each other. Today he would lose one of his beloved sons, and perhaps the best general Strathclyde ever had.
Once again, the herald introduced the contestants at the top of his lungs. Mattacks entered the field first while the herald recited his full name, impressive titles, and long list of victories on the battlefield. Perched on an armored black stallion, the red dragon of his coat of arms emblazoned on the black surcoat covering his mail, the Edling grinned as he circled the field slowly, waving at the crowd, inviting cheers of encouragement.
Reserved at first, the spectators started to respond. The Christian nobles on the high tribune rooted for Mattacks. Other nobles and merchants applauded, depending on their bets. This was their future king. They knew him and saw in him the powerful monarch who one day would hold their destiny in his hands.
Checking on Pressine, Elinas noticed Ceinwyn staring at the black knight. The young girl, pale and distraught, trembled on her seat. She waved when Conan entered the field and rode along the royal tribune on a tall destrier. In his white surcoat with an azure salamander on his chest, Conan looked grave. He did not display the cool confidence of his brother.
When the herald introduced Conan, the short list of his titles failed to impress the onlookers. Few cheers flew his way, but he definitely gathered the support of many young females, as well as that of the kitchen servants, who yelled louder than the nobles, making up for Conan’s lack of influential friends.
Elinas grew cold, powerless in his predicament. As he felt the pressure of Pressine’s hand on his arm, he returned a grateful glance. “What about your gifts? Can you stop this before it’s too late?”
She looked so worried. “If you cannot intervene, neither can I. The Goddess will decide.”
Elinas understood only too well. “May the old gods protect us.”
Mattacks and Conan, at each end of the fighting lane, donned their helmets and accepted shield and lance from their squires. Once in position, they both stared at Elinas, waiting for his signal.
It took all of his courage for Elinas to raise his hand. Responding to the royal sign, the herald in the middle of the field waved the scarlet banner in a wide arc. Then he ran for safety as the galloping horses rushed at each other,
muddy clods flying in their wake.
They clashed in the middle, in front of the tribune. Mattacks’ lance caught Conan in the chest. Elinas flinched at the impact, and the crowd gasped then rumbled in anticipation. Unhorsed, Conan lost hold of lance and shield, falling in a patch of mud. In a simple joust, Mattacks would have dismounted then, but in a combat to the death, as in war, all was fair and no rules applied. Slowing his mount, the Edling turned around at the end of the field and positioned himself for another pass.
Struggling to get up as Mattacks’ stallion charged anew, Conan pulled a sling from his belt and, seemingly without aim, let fly a rock the size of a fist. It clanged on the Edling’s helmet, knocking it off his head. Unbalanced by the shock, Mattacks let go of the lance and fell off his horse, somewhat more gracefully than his brother. Even in his fall, he still held on to his shield.
But having lost his helmet, the Edling had only the mail hauberk for head protection. Conan then discarded his own helmet before retrieving his muddy shield. Fast on his feet, Mattacks laughed at his brother’s noble gesture then unclipped the mace at his belt. Conan drew his own mace.
The clumsy weapon still reached farther than the sword. The contraption could breach armor and smash bones, even through mail. This was a logical move, since the contestants used the various weapons in decreasing order of range. If the fight lasted long enough, next would come the long sword, then as last resort, the dirk.
Elinas’ two sons rushed at each other, uttering savage war cries, feigning, ducking, countering, lunging and side-stepping. Both fought with great courage and skill. In other circumstances, Elinas would have been proud of them.
Conan stumbled backwards when Mattacks bore on him, but the younger prince raised his shield just in time to protect his head. The mace buried itself deep in the metal-lined wood, depriving the Edling of his weapon and rendering Conan‘s shield useless. Conan threw aside his mace with dramatic bravado and drew his sword. A noble gesture that could cost his life.
When Mattacks pulled his long blade, Elinas recognized the bejewelled weapon. It had been his before Pressine gave him Caliburn. He patted the enchanted sword at his side and felt its tingling reassurance. It seemed so long ago... Had all his victories led him to this fated day? Bel be his witness, Elinas would give them all away to keep his family whole.
Instead of abandoning his shield weighed by the embedded mace, Conan kept the clumsy shield on his left forearm. Circling warily, the two princes studied each other for a while, then Mattacks lunged, bearing hard on Conan, who side-stepped and parried the powerful blows with great agility.
The clash of steel on shields resounded hollowly, like a hammer nailing a Christian coffin. Even from twenty feet away, Elinas could see the shine of sweat on their foreheads. Splattered with mud, both bled from cuts and bruises. After many fierce exchanges, punctuated by the cheers of the crowd, they looked hot and winded, but they went on bravely.
Mattacks seemed more aggressive, but what Conan lacked in strength and experience, he made up for in speed and agility. When Mattacks stepped on the mace handle dangling from Conan’s shield, he forced his brother back, in an effort to make him let go of the shield. But as Conan held fast, the mace freed itself from the wood.
The crowd bellowed at this new turn of events.
Seizing this opportunity, Mattacks discarded the sword to pick up the mace and rained strong blows on his brother’s shield. Under the onslaught, Conan fell back as Mattacks kept advancing. Suddenly, Conan bent low and shoved his shield into Mattacks’ leg. The Edling tripped over him with the momentum of his blow.
Discarding his shield, Conan grappled with his brother who had dropped mace and shield in his fall. In an instant, Conan towered above his brother, his sword point at Mattacks’ throat.
Dead silence surrounded this new development. Elinas’ heart stumbled in his chest as he stared at his sons. His chest locked and he could not breathe.
Sword poised over his brother’s throat, Conan hesitated.
“Go ahead, kill me!” Mattacks shouted venomously.
“Maybe I should.” Conan pressed the sword on his brother’s throat, eliciting a trickle of crimson blood.
“Well?” Mattacks railed, when Conan did not make his move. “Congratulations on seizing the crown! Now, get on with it, or I shall rise and kill you for certain.”
Mattacks attempted to get up, but Conan’s blade stopped him and slashed his face. A long bloody cut marred Mattacks’ right cheek when he fell back to the mud.
“I shall not kill my own blood,” Conan stated soberly. “But you will remember this day.”
Mattacks spat in the dirt. “You are too weak to be king.”
“I will not become king by murdering my brother.”
In the stands, the impatient crowd fidgeted and murmurs of impatience swelled. Forgetting who they rooted for earlier, a few nobles started asking for blood.
“Finish him off,” a spectator yelled in angry challenge.
A lady gracefully fainted in the stands.
On the muddy ground, Mattacks still baited his brother. “If you let me live, I will never forgive you for this humiliation. I swear I will find a way to destroy you, even if it takes years.
Conan seemed unmoved by the threat. “I shall take my chances, brother. Now get up and reassure Lady Ceinwyn that she can be mine. A future king should have better things to do than harass a defenseless female.”
Ceinwyn had risen from her seat, one hand clutching her chest.
Warily, Conan stepped back and moved his sword away to let the Edling rise. The crowd rumbled. Whether in protest, admiration, or surprise, Elinas could not tell. Such magnanimity was unheard of when two brothers fought over a crown. Mattacks finally struggled to his feet, a fierce look in his eyes.
Approaching the royal tribune, Mattacks managed a smirk of contempt as he quickly brushed a bloody cheek.
Elinas rose, anger filling his heart after the fright of losing his sons. “You shamed me today, Mattacks. Requesting this fight could have weakened the crown. You might want to learn from your brother the nobler qualities required of a future king.”
Mattacks managed a subtle sneer, then he bowed to Lady Ceinwyn in a rare display of chastised humility. “My apologies, my lady. The judgement of God proved I was wrong to cling to your affections. You are free to direct your favors elsewhere. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
“Certainly, my prince.” Ceinwyn’s voice trembled. The girl would never trust Mattacks as long as she lived. “You are gladly forgiven, my lord.”
Then Mattacks nodded to Elinas. “With your permission, father, I shall retire to my private sanctum and do penance for my sins.”
“Go.” Elinas waved him away, disgusted at the Edling’s attitude.
As Mattacks took the direction of his chambers, the delirious crowd booed him away then cheered Conan. The younger knight grinned and raised both arms in victory, saluting his supporters, who yelled louder.
After the ovation subsided, Elinas smiled at his victorious son. “Well done, Sir Conan. You proved today your valor as a knight and as a loving brother and son. You placed the kingdom’s welfare above your own. I am proud of you. How would you like to lead one of my war bands when we ride again after your brother’s wedding?”
Conan bowed. “I feel honored, father.”
As Elinas clasped Conan in a bear hug, he caught a glimpse of Mattacks glancing back toward the tribune. The Edling’s gaze held fury and hatred. He would not soon forget this humiliation.
Overcome by a sense of foreboding, Elinas wondered whether Conan’s nobility of heart had started a disastrous blood feud between the two brothers.
Chapter Eight
Three weeks later, at the wedding feast, Dumfries’ great hall exuded splendor, decorated with flowers and ribbons. From the high table, Pressine held her breath as Princess Radegonde of Duras and Florimond walked in, her slender hand resting lightly on Mattacks’ arm.
Pressine squeezed Elinas’ hand under the long tablecloth, remembering their own wedding with a pang of melancholy. She considered herself lucky. Few marriages involved the passionate love she shared with Elinas. As if reading her thoughts, the king looked into her eyes and grinned. And that knowing grin sent tingles all the way to her toes.
Answering the congratulations of Christian barons with a cordial smile, Mattacks never once looked at the dainty princess on his arm, seemingly immune to her feminine charm. Pressine felt pity for the lass. If Mattacks had singled out the strong and lusty Ceinwyn, he would not care much for such delicate beauty.
The young couple approached the high table. Radegonde’s perfect manners and poise denoted impeccable breeding and great resilience. Scared as she might be, the young princess kindly nodded to each guest, paying special attention to everyone. When the time came, she would make a kind, compassionate queen.
Radegonde blushed slightly when she curtsied to the queen and king.
“I feel deeply honored to be welcomed into your family.” Her softly accented voice matched the impression Pressine had formed of the princess. Yet, under the polished appearance, the girl sounded young, lost, alone.
When Radegonde took her seat at one end of the high table, Pressine caught the girl’s furtive looks at her brother Pepin, the crown prince of Aquitaine, who sat beside Elinas. The prince, representing his father as the guest of honor, watched his young sister with undeniable pride.
Throughout the banquet, while enjoying food and entertainment, Pressine glanced at Conan and Ceinwyn. The two love birds held hands under the table. They giggled and whispered in each other’s ear, largely ignoring the festivities and the world around them.