Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  Interested in the bounties of idyllic Aquitaine, Pressine shared her conversation with Elinas and Prince Pepin.

  “The king and I thoroughly enjoy your gracious company,” she offered between a bite of crispy goose giblets and a sip of sweet grape wine brought in oak barrels from the prince’s sunny land. “We would like to extend our hospitality for as long as you please.”

  Prince Pepin flashed her a charming smile. “I should not impose our large delegation upon you longer than necessary, my lady.” Tossing back a strand of light brown hair, he added, “Besides, my father will require a prompt account of this historic wedding, and he needs my help in managing the kingdom.”

  “I understand.” Pressine sat back to allow a servant to remove her bread trencher.

  Pepin poured more wine into the king’s cup. “I must head back for Aquitaine tomorrow morning.”

  “So soon?” Pressine cleaned her hands on the wet towel a child servant offered.

  Elinas sighed and wiped his lips with the hem of the long tablecloth. “Will you leave anyone behind with the bride, Prince Pepin?”

  “Only a handful of maids, Lord King.” The prince observed the jugglers and acrobats who elicited laughs with their jests. “Our nobles, armed escort, and other servants will accompany me on the return voyage.”

  The conversations stopped when a contortionist balanced the sharp point of a sword on his navel, then a black-skinned Moor, naked to the waist and rippling with shiny muscles, stared at the guests with round white eyes before blowing fire out of his mouth like a dragon.

  From time to time, Pressine watched Radegonde, wishing she sat closer so they could talk. Unfortunately, Mattacks seemed to call his bride’s attention every time Pressine tried to catch her eye. No matter, there would be plenty of time to get acquainted later.

  From the corner where the entertainers gathered, a weathered Gypsy woman in purple and yellow rags crossed the flagstone on bare feet, headed for the high table. Adorned with gaudy earrings, bracelets, and anklets that jingled as she walked, she approached the Edling. “Let me read the future in your palm, Lord Prince.”

  When she reached across the table with brown leathery fingers, Mattacks evaded her grasp. “I do not believe in such tales. Besides, God did not intend for us to know the future.”

  “How would you know what God thinks, Lord Prince? Are you privy to his most secret thoughts?” The old hag stared at the Edling, smiling insolently with sparse yellow teeth and dark purple gums.

  A few guests laughed at the saucy retort, but Mattacks’ brown eyes flared in anger.

  Princess Radegonde laid a staying hand on the Edling’s arm. “Please, my lord,” she entreated. “In my honor, as a present. Fortune telling is an innocent game that hurts no one.”

  The hall grew quiet as the guests, gradually becoming aware of the exchange, listened. A few young barons, already in their cups, offered loud comments about the crone.

  “She is uglier than the seven deadly sins!”

  “Let the hag speak.”

  “Eh, Witch! Are you a fair maiden in disguise? If you are, will you share my bed tonight?”

  Riotous laughter ensued.

  Elinas stared at the Edling disapprovingly. “I have gone through great pains to bring these Gypsies to perform at your wedding. I hope you appreciate my gift.”

  Outnumbered, and obviously unwilling to oppose his father in public, Mattacks managed a condescending smile and held out his hand, palm up. The crone squinted as she scrutinized it, then she reached for Radegonde’s milky fingers and held both hands side by side.

  Pressine caught a frown of dismay on the woman’s dark brow, then the Gypsy’s face froze, becoming expressionless, as if to hide some deep emotions. When the old woman glanced up at the Edling, she grimaced rather than smiled. “I see much happiness, power, wealth, prosperity, and many healthy sons.”

  “How wonderful,” Radegonde exclaimed, eyes bright.

  Instantly, the false smile vanished from the woman’s dark face. She paused then looked straight at Radegonde. “I wish you happiness, my lady.”

  After a curtsy, the crone retreated, quickly disappearing behind some hanging tapestries. Pressine knew the old Gypsy had lied about the reading. What dark and terrible secret had she glimpsed in the young couple’s future?

  Servants in the green livery of Aquitaine brought forth a great stringed instrument. Upon sighting them, Lady Radegonde rose to meet them in the center of the hall. Sitting on a chair, the princess straddled the tall harp.

  As her delicate fingers rolled up and down the strings, a flurry of harmonious notes tumbled off the silky cords. She conjured sounds reminiscent of bird trills, murmuring springs, or the clean splash of a brook cascading among rounded rocks and gliding across green meadows.

  Pressine had never heard anything so beautiful, except for the otherworldly voices singing deep in the woods of her native Bretagne. Reveling in the sweet melodies, thrilled to discover this common love of music with Radegonde, she resolved to seek the young lady’s friendship. Even Conan and Ceinwyn listened in pure awe. And at her side, Elinas seemed transfixed by the magic of such skillful sounds.

  More musical creations evoked the savage booms of a tempestuous sea, the soft pattering of raindrops, and the crashing of waves on a summer beach. Too soon, the performance ended with a melancholy tune that reminded Pressine of Bretagne. When the last notes faded into silence, the quiet hall seemed suddenly dull.

  After applauding and drumming the tables in appreciation, the guests resumed their merrymaking with renewed euphoria. Mattacks rose and met Radegonde in the center of the hall. He kissed her hand then nodded to the guests. The crowd cheered the newlyweds. Then Mattacks walked his bride out of the hall under the jibes of the young barons.

  When the noise subsided, Prince Pepin leaned toward Elinas. “Will your lordship honor me with a game of chess?” he asked with an irrepressible smile. “I believe I deserve another chance. Last time, if I remember right, you humiliated me in a few masterful moves.”

  Glancing at Pressine, Elinas winked and flashed a wolfish smile. “Only if the queen agrees to receive me later,” he said in good cheer. Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips.

  Pressine smiled back, enjoying the pressure of Elinas’ warm lips on her fingers and the tingle of his short beard. “I shall await you in my chambers, my lord.” Turning to Pepin, she added in a confiding tone, “Do not keep him up too late.”

  “I promise.” Prince Pepin laughed. “I would not want to interfere with the royal duties.”

  Leaving Elinas to his chess game with Pepin, Pressine rose and left the high table, following Conan and Ceinwyn, who whispered and laughed, stealing kisses on their way out of the great hall. Those two would have to be married soon. Pressine had noticed more than love in Ceinwyn’s new radiance. Although it did not show yet, the lass was with child. Pressine hoped it wasn’t Mattacks’ bastard.

  * * *

  Mattacks had never felt more awkward as he escorted his bride through the festive courtyard. How did God expect him to frolic with this dainty woman? She looked like a frightened hare. Her hand trembled on his arm. Why would she be afraid of him?

  Managing a reassuring smile, he asked, “Are you all right, my lady?”

  Radegonde nodded and smiled back, but said nothing.

  Mattacks considered a blessing the fact that she did not even remotely appeal to him. It would make it easy to avoid her feminine wiles. He would have preferred to forego the nuptial obligation all together, but future kings needed to beget sons.

  Sinning with Ceinwyn had been easy, but mating with Radegonde would require something akin to a miracle. The princess looked as if she might break the moment he touched her. Mattacks reminded himself that appearances often lied, and that women often proved to be much stronger than they appeared. This very quality made them the tool of choice for the devil’s dark purposes.

  And how in the world could he expect to beget a worthy he
ir with an inferior being, a weak creature to whom God denied a soul? Even he had fasted many times, and done penance in order to achieve the degree of sanctity required for his holy charge. Mattacks did not relish having his soul sullied by a mere woman.

  Lady Radegonde hesitated before stepping over the threshold of his chambers, but the Edling did not feel inclined to offer any comfort. He led her straight to the crowded bedchamber, where servants had lit candles, parted the bed curtains, and revived the fire. Despite the balmy summer night, the stone walls retained a damp chill.

  Mattacks had decided to follow the Christian tradition. Several nobles, men and women he trusted, stood around to witness the bedding. A few young men sat by the hearth, chatting as they enjoyed a cup of wine, while other witnesses sat on benches lined up along the walls. An old baron had fallen asleep and snored softly. He almost choked when his matronly wife shook him awake to do his duty.

  The Edling considered himself a practical man. It would not do for a future queen to hide any physical flaw that could mar the future dynasty with hereditary defects. His father had refused to submit Pressine to the custom, and Mattacks suspected that witnesses would have found the mark of the devil on her naked body.

  Three maids ran to the bride to help her undress. With little fuss, they quickly divested Radegonde of her layers of skirts, chemise and undergarments, down to her bare white skin. Quickly brushing the bride’s long black hair to the side to expose her white shoulders, the oldest maid prompted the princess toward the middle of the room into the bright circle of light from the candelabra.

  Blushing profusely, bare as a hairless mouse, Radegonde submitted to the stares and criticisms of all present, turning slowly, arms away from her body. Mattacks averted his eyes from the conspicuous triangle of black hair between her slim thighs. God Almighty, she looked even more fragile out of her clothes! How could such tiny breasts ever feed an infant? And the narrow hips bode ill for childbearing.

  Once satisfied that the bride was whole, witnesses and servants left in a bustle of swishing skirts, whispered comments, and suppressed laughter. Tomorrow morning, they would return to check the nuptial bed for traces of blood and confirm the bride’s virginity, as well as the consummation of the nuptial bond. Only such precautions could guarantee that a child conceived in early wedlock was of Mattacks’ bloodline.

  Radegonde still stood nude in the center of the bedchamber. “What is your pleasure, my lord?” she ventured timidly, her arms covering small breasts that rose with each rapid breath.

  “Wait for me on the bed,” Mattacks said with a hint of annoyance. “I wish to pray first.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” On dainty bare feet, her nudity covered only by the long hair falling below her waist, Radegonde stepped up to the elevated bed, disappearing among the cozy shadows of the drapes hanging from the canopy.

  In need of divine inspiration, Mattacks lit a candle on the small altar of the sanctum occupying the alcove. In the silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire, he knelt in front of the tall crucifix, asking for guidance in this most delicate matter.

  While praying, as it sometimes happened, the Edling received a divine revelation, astounding in its simplicity. Just as he often cleansed himself through pain, so should he cleanse his bride. Only physical suffering would oust the devil from her and render her worthy of bearing his children. He smiled. Somehow, the prospect of Radegonde writhing in agony aroused him.

  Thanking God for the invaluable insight, Mattacks admired the perfection with which the Almighty accomplished His designs, giving his chosen disciple the means to perform this otherwise unsavory duty to his bride. The Edling suddenly took heart. The faster the bitch’s womb quickened, the faster Mattacks could return to the purity of the solitary practices that never failed to bring him divine rapture.

  After crossing himself, he rose and removed his jerkin, feeling suddenly warm. Holding in his closed fist the well-worn scourge he often used on himself, Mattacks resolutely strode to the bed and his waiting bride. Ascending the three steps to the high bed, he flung aside the draperies and faced a trembling Radegonde.

  At the sight of the flagella, his naked bride gasped and cowered to the far recess of the canopied bed. Mattacks saw her shudder, pale on top of the dark furs, and despite the relative warmth of the room, gooseflesh dimpled her alabaster skin. Her eyes widened as she hugged herself.

  “Do not be afraid, woman. A good Christian should never be.” Mattacks removed his tunic, exposing his own scars from the many nails of the leather whip.

  Radegonde gasped at the sight.

  Mattacks smiled as, flagella in hand, he climbed onto the bed next to his new wife. Not bothering to remove his boots, he knelt over the frightened Radegonde, his shadow falling across the bed. “It is the devil in you recoiling from the scourge. Satan knows that as a true Christian, I will not tolerate his presence inside the body of my lawful wife. The devil does not want to leave you, of course, but I shall force it out of you. You see, unlike good Christians, Satan dreads pain.”

  Mattacks meted the first blow with a sure hand. Radegonde screamed and raised her arms to protect herself, but the whip lashed, and angry red scratches appeared on her forearms.

  “Have pity on me, my lord,” she cried. Suddenly rushing into his arms, she clung to his shoulders.

  The Edling pried her off his chest, but the wench held on with the strength of despair. “This will never do,” he explained patiently. “You have to welcome the pain.”

  “But why, my lord?” Her words tumbled off quickly, in obvious panic. “I hear love between man and wife can be sweet and tender.”

  Letting go of the scourge, Mattacks seized her slim wrists and held Radegonde at a distance, forcing her to face him. Staring into her ocean-green eyes, he said, “Love is sweet, and sweet is the cleansing pain the Almighty sends for your salvation. In the name of God, woman, submit to your husband.”

  “Please, be kind, my lord,” she sobbed, a fearful smile distorting her gentle face. “I will be good to you, I promise.”

  “I am being kind.” He sighed. “Lady, if you do not have the courage to face this crucial purification with decency, I shall have to bind you to the bedposts.”

  “Please do not, my lord.” She struggled frantically to get free of his grasp.

  “Enough!” His patience wearing thin, Mattacks realized he was wasting his time. The wench would never stop making a nuisance of herself. “Did you not vow before the altar to obey your husband in all things?”

  She swallowed a sob and nodded, but still made weak attempts to scramble free.

  Mattacks grasped both slender wrists into one fist. “In this kingdom a prince has power of life and death on everyone on his estate, servants, children, and wife alike.”

  Her round eyes fixed on him, Radegonde quieted and went very still.

  Hampered by his sword, Mattacks unbuckled the scabbard and sent it skidding on the flagstone, then he unwrapped the long strip of silk of his sash. None too gently, ignoring her silent tears, he tied Radegonde’s wrists tightly together before lashing them to a thick corner post at the head of the bed. Radegonde’s eyes still pleaded as he splayed her, face up, on the furs. Tucking her ankles under his knees, he retrieved the scourge.

  “You may scream,” he cooed reassuringly, lifting long black tresses away to expose her chest. “The servants are gone and the walls are thick. No one will hear.” Not that they would care to disturb their master’s nuptial joining. “When you scream, the devil will exit through your mouth. Only when all traces of evil leave you, can we hope to consummate our holy union.”

  With a pang of anticipation, Mattacks raised the scourge. The full force of the blow slapped the tender flesh of her breasts. Radegonde shrieked, straining against her bonds, head flapping from side to side.

  “Good!” Mattacks encouraged her. “The devil in you wants to get out.”

  With deadly accuracy, careful to leave her face unmarked to spare her public
shame, Mattacks flogged the most sensitive parts of the girl’s anatomy, from the rosy nipples to the soft stomach, and from the dark furry mound to the inside of her thighs. Every time the scourge flailed, inducing anguished screams, he remembered with delight his own sweet agony.

  Soon, the reddened skin broke and drops of blood sipped from the lacerations. Lovingly Mattacks expunged the devil from her, savoring each blow as his own, while Radegonde arched and writhed under him. He counted two dozen before he roughly flopped her over, pushing away her hair to expose the milky skin of her back.

  Her distracting cries now muffled by the furs, Mattacks could concentrate on his own arousal. He struck Radegonde’s perfectly round buttocks then realized he wanted the sweet pain for himself as well. He fumbled with the string at his waist. Freeing his stiff member as his trews fell to his knees, he flogged himself.

  Unable to control his need any longer, he let go of the whip to grab a firm hold of his bride’s narrow hips and entered her from behind with savage fury. Something gave inside her. She squealed under him, futilely trying to escape his impaling thrust. Securing her in an iron grip, he drove hard, deep inside her tight opening, forcing himself deeper, plowing faster and faster, until he exploded in a flurry of sweet sensations, moaning and shuddering as he fell atop her.

  When the throes of ecstasy waned, he sighed deeply. “You see?” he whispered in the sobbing girl’s ear, “That was perfect.” He rolled off her back. “And it will get better the more we do it.”

  As she only sniffled, Mattacks sat at the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots and trews, then fell back beside her. He considered untying her wrists for the night but thought better of it. He did not want to chase the silly goose around the room, should his need arise in the middle of the night. Keeping the scourge close at hand, he remembered to thank the Almighty for this unexpected gift, before surrendering to an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Nine