The next morning, a disheveled Ceinwyn burst into Pressine’s bedchamber. “My lady, quick. It is the Frankish princess! She is badly hurt.”
“What happened?” Heart pounding, Pressine seized a basket full of herbs, potions and ointments, from the top of a heavy chest.
“You would not believe what the Edling did to her.” Ceinwyn snatched another basket of bandages. “It’s a miracle that she dragged herself to the women’s quarters.”
Hurrying outside after Ceinwyn, Pressine hastened across the courtyard. Tendrils of mist kissed by the morning sun drifted up from the earth, gathering in sparkling dew drops on the hawthorn leaves. “What did Mattacks do?”
“You shall see.” Ceinwyn’s lips locked into a thin line.
What evil had Mattacks woven now? Just a few hours ago, at dawn, in his farewell to Prince Pepin of Aquitaine, the Edling hinted that his contented bride, who still slept from sheer exhaustion. Pressine had been right to suspect something else.
When she reached the women’s quarters, the gloom and consternation on the ladies’ faces confirmed Pressine’s worst fears. She ambled through the succession of stuffy rooms, scanning the many recesses and alcoves for traces of Radegonde. “Open the windows and let in some fresh air. It’s summer, for the Goddess’ sake.”
Noblewomen of various ages, maiden, married, or widowed, looked up from their loom or their stitching and hurried to obey their queen.
“Here she is, my lady.” Ceinwyn pointed to an alcove. “She screams if we get any closer.”
Under the worried gaze of a dozen women in various stages of undress, Radegonde huddled on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. Whimpering, she rocked back and forth and stared at the bare flagstone. When she glanced up at Pressine, dark smudges engulfed her green eyes. The dark chestnut hair, caked with blood, covered half of her small frame.
“Dear Goddess, what happened to you?” But Pressine already knew. She had cared for mistreated peasant wives before and recognized the deep fear in Radegonde’s furtive eyes. Pressine wished the fragile lass had been spared the harsh reality of a difficult marriage. Unfortunately, this was often a woman’s lot.
When Pressine crouched and stroked Radegonde’s arm, the girl scrambled away. A flap of blanket revealed dry blood on the broken skin of her legs. Pressine winced, seething with angry disgust as she remembered the flagellants of the Easter procession. How could the Edling subject his young bride to such cruel treatment?
“Let me help you,” Pressine pleaded gently, sitting on the floor next to her. “You are safe among our women. No man will dare venture in these chambers.”
“It’s true,” Ceinwyn added with a reassuring smile. “They would be too scared to prick themselves on a distaff and lose their virility.”
Radegonde frowned and bit her lips in a fearful smile, then she collapsed in Pressine’s arms, wracked by uncontrollable sobs. Immediately, the women who stood at a respectful distance let go of their spindle and distaff to flock to the girl’s help.
“Lay her down on a pallet and make her comfortable,” Pressine directed. “Careful... Do not pull the blanket away, it will break the scabs.” She turned to Ceinwyn. “I need a strong willow-bark tea.”
Directed by Ceinwyn, the women promptly went to work. Radegonde offered no resistance when they carried her to a low pallet and laid her upon a thick mattress filled with fragrant dried grass, and covered with furs and pillows. When Pressine, with infinite gentleness, pulled away the corners of the enveloping blanket, Radegonde flinched. A horrified murmur escaped the gathered women. A young lass raised a hand to her mouth and ran away to retch out the open window.
“Dear Goddess!” Pressine could not suppress the shock in her tone. Except for face, arms, and feet, the once delicate body was a swollen and bloody bruise.
“I must have deserved it,” Radegonde whispered. “A good wife must please and support her husband.” Tears ran down her face. “Perhaps I displeased him.”
“Nonsense,” Pressine exclaimed. “There is no excuse for this. The man is a monster.”
“To think that I wanted to marry that swine.” Ceinwyn dumped water from a wooden pail into a small cauldron, “it makes me sick. Even a queen’s crown is not worth this.”
Ceinwyn gave the cauldron to another woman, who hooked it onto a low tooth of the blackened iron rack dangling above the embers of the hearth. Then the woman threw a new log on the fire. It smoked and sizzled as steam escaped the damp wood.
Ceinwyn helped Pressine clean the wounds. “Can you talk to the king about Prince Mattacks, my lady?”
“I will, but I doubt it will help much,” Pressine said grimly. “And if Mattacks learns that I intervened, he might do even worse next time, just to spite me.”
“Next time?” Radegonde rasped.
The frightened look on her face made Pressine regret her careless words.
Surrendering to the women’s ministrations, Radegonde sobbed as she let them comb her hair and wash her face. Meanwhile, Pressine and Ceinwyn cleansed the many lacerations on her body, turning the lass over to access her ravaged backside.
“Is my brother gone?” Radegonde asked between sobs, as if apologizing.
“He left at dawn.” Pressine applied a glob of thick salve to soothe the raw shoulder.
“I wish I could have talked to him. I miss him.” Radegonde’s tears rolled down on the fur coverlet.
Pressine smoothed the narrow strips of flayed skin with salve, then she applied a snug bandage. “I know that your brother loves you very much, but as a man he might not understand your predicament.”
“It is unfair!” Ceinwyn frowned but kept her eyes on the leg she bandaged.
“I know.” Pressine bit her lips. It galled her to think that, despite her youth, Radegonde would carry the physical scars of this dreadful night for the remainder of her life.
Ceinwyn looked up pleadingly. “Can we do anything at all, my lady? You are powerful, a queen, and a healer.”
Pressine sighed. Healing the wounds through magic would only enrage Mattacks further. She patted Radegonde’s hand. “I promise you that something will be done.”
Radegonde offered a grateful smile then drank the willow-bark tea, sip after dutiful sip. When she fell into an uneasy slumber, the conversations in the women’s quarters dropped to a whisper.
Outraged by Mattacks’ behavior, Pressine returned to her chambers. What could she do to insure that such cruelty never happened again to Radegonde? Since Elinas was in council and she had to wait, she decided to write a missive. Male or not, Radegonde’s brother seemed to care much about his young sister. Perhaps he would use his influence to help in her hour of need.
After fetching parchment and ink, Pressine found some measure of calm as she sat at her table and wrote. In no uncertain terms, she denounced the predicament of Lady Radegonde. She had no idea how her letter would be received, but it felt good to strike back at the Edling for a change.
She rolled up the parchment and called the captain of her personal guard.
The man bowed as he entered.
After sealing the message with wax, Pressine slid the parchment into a leather quiver, closed the flap, and handed it to the guard. “I want this message delivered to Prince Pepin of Aquitaine, who is on his way back to France. If the messenger cannot catch up with Prince Pepin, I fear he will have to go all the way to Aquitaine, but this is important.”
The man took the quiver and bowed respectfully. “It shall be done, My Queen.”
* * *
When Elinas returned from his council, Melusine brought him a cup of spiced wine. With a grateful smile that lit his dark topaz gaze, Elinas took the pewter cup, then dropped into the offered chair.
Glad for his presence, Pressine sat across from him. Cradling her own cup, she reveled in the spicy aroma and let the honeyed wine soothe her. What she had to say would be difficult. Suddenly guilty about her happiness, Pressine lifted her head. “I worry about Radegonde. Mattacks beat her viciously last night.
”
Elinas shifted uncomfortably. “Mattacks is a grown man. How he treats his wife is no one’s concern. Perhaps she deserved a beating.”
“How can you say that?” Pressine glowered at him and rose, bristling from the offensive remark. “He flogged her! I treated her wounds myself, I know.”
A shadow crossed Elinas’ face as he sighed, staring out the window. “I understand how you feel, love, but I cannot intervene.”
Hurt by his stubbornness, Pressine unleashed her anger. “You are king. You can do whatever you please! Why not take away his crown?”
Elinas remained quiet. Only a tinge of impatience showed in the way he twirled the wine in his cup. “Mattacks is the most capable of ruling this kingdom after me. My barons would think I lost my wits if I took away his crown. They could force me to relinquish the throne immediately... to Mattacks.”
Refusing to surrender, Pressine now paced in front of the hearth, careful not to set the hem of her brown skirt on fire. “Perhaps Radegonde’s family could intimidate Mattacks and force him to relent. I am certain her brother will do something when he learns how she was treated.”
Dark amber eyes flared at her. “You know better than that. For the welfare of this kingdom, I forbid you to warn her family. And make sure she does no such thing either. It could start a bloody war we cannot win.” Elinas drained his cup in one gulp and set it down on the rug.
Foreboding coursed through Pressine. What had she done? Could her missive trigger a war with Charlemagne? Should she recall the messenger? No. She refused to abandon Radegonde to such an unjust fate. But Elinas was a man and would not understand, so she could not tell him... “I believe you are more caring than most men.”
“I am.” Elinas softened his gaze. “I married for love and I never mistreated you, did I?” He rose as if to leave. “But I also have a kingdom to rule.”
Despite her frustration, Pressine understood how rare true love was among married couples. She stepped in front of him, barring his retreat. “I did not mean to accuse you of cruelty. You are the kindest man I ever met. But I wish you would be firmer with Mattacks. He tried to kill his brother, now he mistreats his wife. His behavior is unacceptable.”
Elinas sighed. “I shall speak to him one more time... just for you.”
He enveloped her in a warm embrace. Pressine closed her eyes, enjoying his warmth and the woody scent of his tunic.
“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. But all the time, she thought of the missive she’d sent to Prince Pepin. Would it unleash the wrath of Charlemagne upon the kingdom of Strathclyde?
* * *
Later that afternoon, a messenger announced that the Picts had breached the Antonine wall, the northern border of Alba, and raided friendly territory. Within three days, every able man in the kingdom, whether knight, noble, soldier, merchant or simple farmer, stood outside the fort, ready for the summer campaigns.
While Radegonde remained abed, greatly relieved that Mattacks was leaving, the ladies of Dumfries climbed the ramparts once more to watch their men ride away in defense of the land. Ceinwyn waved to Conan, and Pressine blew Elinas a kiss. She would miss him dearly.
She watched as the various war parties, under their respective banners, crossed the old stone bridge and disappeared from view into the woods bordering the Roman road. The fortress, once again, would remain in the care of elderly guards, women, children and servants. This year, however, they would be joined by a handful of Benedictine monks, who resided in the new monastery of the Black Madonna.
* * *
In the deserted castle, the summer days passed slowly, carding, spinning, weaving, sewing and embroidering. Traditional songs punctuated each activity, the verses describing in details the way to perform each specific task. There were songs for planting, for butchering, for making wine. Memorized in childhood, these songs had taught the old generations and would now teach the young people.
One morning, the women of Pressine’s entourage seemed so giddy and excited, she had to ask. “What is making you so chirpy today?”
“The spice merchants are in town,” Ceinwyn blurted. “Shall we go to the marketplace, my lady?”
Pressine smiled. For a week now, news had circulated that a caravan of itinerant merchants, carrying rare spices, as well as scented oils and silks from the orient, were making their way from town to town and would soon pass through Dumfries. “Will they not stop by the castle?”
“Of course, they will, my lady.” Ceinwyn smiled coyly. “But today is market day, and the best merchants from neighboring towns will be there as well. They will have festive foods and the best of everything, even jesters.”
“Then we should not miss it.” Pressine laughed at the women’s excited cries. “Spread the word to the women’s quarters and tell the stable boys to prepare the large ox cart. We shall meet in front of the stables as soon as I am ready.”
The women scattered like a flock of doves. The captain of Pressine’s depleted guard argued that it might prove difficult to protect her among so many people. But Pressine would not need guarding on the market place, only protection from the brigands on the road.
Alone in her chambers, she went to her money coffer and dropped several silver coins in a fine leather purse made of a sow’s ear. Consulting the book where the castellan kept track of inventories, she memorized the orders she needed to place with the local merchants. She would also replenish her stash of medicinal herbs. After tucking her long plait with a pin on the top of her head, she hung the money pouch to her sash, then strode out into the balmy summer day.
The slow ox-cart ride on the bumpy road bubbled with the chatting and songs of a score of women spinning on their distaff. Even the mounted guards escorting the cart, surrendered to the light mood.
“Good thing our men are not here to forbid us to spend too much.” Ceinwyn laughed as she glanced at the guards riding alongside. Over the past weeks, her belly had grown a little rounder.
“I need some ribbons for my new festival gown,” Radegonde said shyly. Her wounds had healed and she had forged new friendships in the women’s quarters.
Mirren, the king’s oldest daughter, blonde and blue-eyed like her late mother, had joined the women today. Now allowed to celebrate the festivals with the adults, she took the event very seriously. “Do you think I could get some red silk for my first gown?”
“Red will suit you fine.” Pressine smiled. Someday she would have a daughter of her own, but for now, she enjoyed teaching Mirren how to be a lady.
Fragrant bluebells and red poppies danced in the grass bordering the rutted dirt road. Shading her eyes, Pressine studied the play of dappled sunshine on the water as the road followed the river. The flow teemed with life force, reminding her that the Goddess often resided in watery depths. The song of the larks cascaded down from the top of alders and willows lining the banks.
The mud cottages and stone houses grew closer to each other as the ox cart neared the town. Soon the iron-shod wheels hammered the uneven wood-cobble. The ox-team came to a full stop when a cart loaded with kale spilled on the narrow street in front of them. Ignoring the pandemonium greeting the obstruction, the oxen started to chew on the crunchy kale. The women chuckles at the colorful oaths of a fishmonger driving a pony cart that reeked of smoked herring.
“We shall walk the rest of the way,” Pressine suggested, stepping lightly out of the cart.
The other ladies climbed down while Pressine instructed driver and guards on where to wait for them at the end of the afternoon. The captain of her guard protested on account of her safety, but Pressine remained firm. “I do not need chaperones to visit the shops. Enjoy yourselves or rest. I want you alert for the ride back home.”
When Pressine started toward the open market, the ladies followed and soon scattered in groups of two or three, milling about the throng already flooding the busy square. At one end, the church and its steeple dominated the rectangular marketplace. At the other end, the slaughterhous
e resounded with the squealing of pigs, and the summer breeze carried the faint stench of blood.
Shops lined each side of the cobbled square, their weatherboard open to display cheese, eggs, venison, or dried berries. A host of loaded carts and trestle tables offered a variety of goods rarely seen in these parts. To attract attention to a cloth merchant’s display, dwarfs in colorful attire juggled and danced, praising with exaggerated grandeur the credentials of the merchant, and the exceptional quality of his silks.
Pressine recognized a familiar figure feeling a swath of cloth. It was the widow of general Kathel. Just a few seasons ago, the old general had warned Pressine of a plot against her, and had paid with his life. The warriors who’d murdered him had made it look like an accident, but Pressine and Lady Aurora both knew they were Saxon warrior monks, sent by Mattacks and his bishop to eliminate the only witness to their treachery against the queen.
Pressine shivered at the thought that the very same monks now resided in the castle’s new monastery. “Lady Aurora!”
The widow turned upon hearing her name. A wide smile illuminated her kind, weathered face. “My lady.”
Pressine squeezed her arm. “It is so good to see you. Shall we visit a while?”
“Tell me all about yourself.” The matron had a jovial way about her. “I was on my way to the candlemaker and the parchment shop.”
As they walked through the square, Pressine answered lady Aurora’s many questions, enjoying her company. Each placed their orders with the shopkeepers. Pressine purchased wooden pitchforks and rakes, and also coils of hemp ropes, and twine to bind the harvest into sheaves.
Passing by the silversmith, the two women admired clasps, buckles and amber-inlaid brooches, as well as silver rings and bracelets. Next door, the swordsmith had an imposing display of shields, claymores, dirks, and axes that reminded Pressine of the ongoing war.
After sampling some leek and mushroom pie, and almond bread sweetened with honey, Pressine and lady Aurora stopped at the dye shop to order ink, pigments, and cloth dye.
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