Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  Strings of bawdy songs from the tavern attested to early imbibing, and the aroma of baking bread, roasting meats and dumplings filled the square, making Pressine’s mouth water.

  From the church steps, three sour-faced Benedictine monks harangued the crowd. The cowl of their habit drawn up over their shaved heads, each of them brandished a crucifix. Intrigued, Pressine led Lady Aurora to join the idle passers-by, gathered in a wide semi-circle around the friars.

  “Your heathen ways and lack of repentance for the original sin will drive you straight into the fires of hell,” the youngest monk shouted with an undeniable Saxon accent. “Eternal damnation is the lot of those who ignore the true God.”

  Another gangly friar gazed at the crowd with feverish eyes. “If you persist in ignoring God, when the demons sneak into your houses at night to snatch your children, the Almighty will not protect them. Nothing will stop the epidemic of putrid murrain from rotting and decimating your sheep, or the ergot from poisoning your grain.”

  With a shiver of foreboding, Pressine realized these monks resided in the castle’s monastery. She could not let them scare the good people of Dumfries into converting to Christianity. Elinas would not tolerate it either. She walked up to them, determined to stop the nonsense.

  “The people of this land lived in prosperity, long before your god made himself known,” Pressine said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “The old deities protected them well and still do. And my husband king and I have the safety of their children at heart. You would do well to remember that, before you go stealing bairns from their cradles and accuse the devil.”

  A murmur from the crowd punctuated her accusations.

  Hooking index and forefinger together against evil, one of the monks spat over his shoulder then waved his crucifix as if to ward her off. “Do not come closer, spawn of Satan.”

  The onlookers retreated one step, but Pressine stood her ground. “How dare you speak of evil, when you burden your congregation with tithe and soul taxes and threaten people’s livelihood to force them to convert?”

  Eyes bulging, a third friar with a beard rested the foot of his crucifix on his hip. “If you listen to her, the she-devil will suck the life from your progeny to feed her demonic powers.” He pointed a finger at Pressine. “She fooled our lord bishop, but I see the stigma of Satan on her dark mind.”

  Before Pressine could react, the youngest friar declared, “The queen is possessed by malefic spirits and needs to convert to cleanse her soul, or she will bring calamities upon this land.”

  “I thought women in your church did not have a soul!” Pressine could not help the anger that tainted her words.

  The bearded monk took one step closer. “Most of them do not, but queens do, and they also carry the burden of the original sin. They require thorough cleansing through baptism.”

  Pressine shuddered at the very mention of baptism, remembering how close she had been from falling into Mattacks’ trap in the chapel. If she had not used her gift... holy water could be deadly to a Lady of the Isle.

  “They also need the strict tutelage of Holy Mother Church in order to redeem themselves,” added the skinny monk. “Those who turn away from the true God become vessels for the devil himself.”

  From the crowd, Lady Aurora raised her voice. “Our queen is a holier person than the whole lot of you!”

  Pressine smiled with gratitude at the matronly woman shaking a pudgy fist at the Benedictines.

  “A heathen queen is no queen at all in the eyes of God.” The tall Benedictine did not seem intimidated. “On the continent, Pagans are executed on sight by imperial order.”

  “You monks are a pricker in the good people’s side,” Lady Aurora went on bravely. “If not for our beloved queen and king, you would bleed the land dry. Your vagrant priests are thieving murderers, adulterers and hypocrites. Christianity is the true scourge of this land, not the Vikings or the murrain!”

  “We have come to restore order in your misguided church.” The friar swaggered as he straightened his six foot frame. “We Benedictines have renounced women and bring the higher enlightenment of Rome and its holy empire. As for the tithe and the soul taxes, we put them to charitable use.”

  Pressine scoffed. “They go straight to Charlemagne’s coffers. We owe no loyalty to the Roman emperor and need not finance his grandiose dreams.” Pressine controlled her anger and measured her words. “As a matter of fact, neither the king nor I invited you to reside in Dumfries.”

  The crowd gasped. It was Mattacks who had insisted on bringing the friars. Pressine could not bear to see her people exploited. In the king’s absence, she held his power and decided to use it. Elinas would be glad to be rid of them.

  Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back. “I hereby revoke your monastery privilege inside the castle walls. I hope you return home, and tell your emperor that Dumfries will not fall prey to his intrigues.”

  The monks stared at her in bewilderment. The bearded one stuttered. “But, but the Edling himself...”

  “The Edling is not king. And I am queen and I wield the king’s power in his absence.” Satisfied by their shock, Pressine repressed a smile. “So be it. You have outlived your welcome. I shall speak to bishop Renald upon my return and make it official.”

  The gangly Benedictine stared into Pressine’s eyes with open challenge. Pressine did not flinch. The monk mumbled something incomprehensible. Upon his sign, the other friars retreated inside the church and he followed them.

  Turning to lady Aurora, Pressine struggled to slow the wild beating of her heart. “Thank you for defending me.”

  “You are welcome, my lady.” The grizzled woman smiled warmly. “These bullies may have killed my husband, but they are mistaken if they think that will shut me up. It is time they paid for their evil deeds.”

  Still trembling Pressine glanced at the closed church doors. “They gave up too easily. I wonder what they are planning now.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They will have to accept your decision.” Lady Aurora patted her arm and pulled her aside. “You are the queen, whether they like it or not.”

  “True enough.” Pressine reluctantly followed lady Aurora. “Still...”

  The sun had lowered in the west when Pressine took leave of her friend and returned to the ox-cart waiting behind the shoemaker’s stall.

  The captain of the guard fussed about failing Pressine at the church. “You should have called for the guards, my lady.”

  “No. It would have shown weakness on my part.” Pressine had no regrets. It felt good to face the monks and beat them at their own game.

  During the return ride, the ladies buzzed with the recounting of the incident. Even the Christian ladies, like Ceinwyn, took Pressine’s side and praised her courage.

  Pressine, however, wondered at the wisdom of revoking the Benedictines’ privileges. Their sudden surrender made her uneasy, but she could not allow such zealots to slander and defy her authority in public. Elinas would have done the same. She allowed tender thoughts of her king to soothe her. He would approve of her behavior today.

  * * *

  Before the evening meal, Pressine sent for the bishop, but he could not be found, nor could the Benedictines. Had they already left? Weary from a long day, she wrote her purchases in the ledger.

  That night in the dining hall, no one had seen the monks. Everyone else seemed to be there. Noble ladies at one table, servants at another, and guards in the back. The high table was never set in the king’s absence, and the fare remained simple. The bishop always ate alone, but the monks usually shared their meals with the servants. Where were they? Pressine could not believe they would scare so easily.

  Supper consisted of a light stew delicately flavored with spices that Pressine had not authorized. Did cook decide to try some of the new spices bought today? She would speak to him about it in the morning. For now, invaded by a strange lassitude, she decided to retire early.

  Chapter Ten

>   Pressine awoke in the middle of a nightmare. A dreadful pulse in her head pounded to the bouncing of a galloping horse. Head down, unbound hair flowing in the night downpour, she felt nauseated. Gradually, she realized she was bound, unceremoniously trussed across a saddle in front of a big man in black leather. Unlike other dreams, this felt dangerously real, down to the smell of horse sweat and leather, mixed with faint traces of incense.

  Pressine’s sluggish mind refused to function. Her throat felt parched. She struggled, but neither her bare toes nor fingers would obey her will. She vaguely recalled returning to her chambers after supper and unbraiding her hair, but not going to bed. She still wore her shift. Unable to focus or use her powers, Pressine realized with growing panic that this was no dream at all.

  Cold fear threatened to freeze her mind. Had she been drugged? How? She would have recognized the taste of any dangerous plant in food or water. Suddenly, she remembered the pleasant spice in the stew. It had hidden the taste of the drug. What was it? Ergot? Marjoram? Digitalin? A strong poison would have killed her. She was only paralyzed.

  If the potent substance was in the food, everyone in the castle was asleep, or paralyzed and unable to speak. It meant that no one would come to Pressine’s rescue.

  She forced herself to think. Her awkward position and the bouncing of the horse gave her a restricted view of her surroundings. In the dark rain, she heard other galloping horses. For an instant, she glimpsed the shaved head of a man and recognized one of the Benedictine monks who had harangued the crowd on the market square.

  Upon an order given in Saxon, the horses slowed, and the ironshod hooves clanged on hard stone. The Roman bridge! The rain cooled Pressine’s clammy skin and drenched her hair. Unable to move or speak, she realized her predicament.

  Slowing to a halt, the horses snorted and stomped. The riders dismounted and conversed in Saxon. A harsh language, Pressine noticed, as if in a dream that did not concern her. Pulled down from the saddle, she slid to the cold stone of the bridge. She kept her eyes closed, so as not to reveal her conscious state. She could hear the rush of water under the arches and smell the river. Rough hands loosened and untied her ropes. Despite her best efforts, Pressine still could not move.

  Opening her eyes a bit under thick eyelashes, she fearfully spied upon the men. Although they wore warrior clothes, she recognized two other monks from the square, and more monks from the monastery. Her heart should be beating fast, but the drug had slowed that, too. As if in a dream, she saw her mare brought forth. For what purpose?

  Strong arms lifted her and carried her to the low stone rim. She wanted to scream and fight back, but no sound came out, and her body would not obey. She now understood the full extent of her predicament. They would drown her and make it look like an accident, like one of her night escapades gone wrong. After her bout with the wolves, Elinas might even believe them.

  Pressine’s heart filled with ice as she realized she was about to die.

  Rough hands shoved her off the bridge and she opened her eyes. Stomach lurching, she felt the rush of air and flew down endlessly then plunged into frigid waters. Holding her breath, she sank deeper and deeper, the swift current carrying her along.

  Paralyzed, Pressine could not swim. Dear Goddess, take me in your arms, and forgive my foolishness, but remember my love.

  When she could not hold her breath any longer, Pressine felt something slither in the depths underneath, something big and slick, like a sea-serpent. Remembering the monster she had raised from the deep to fight the Vikings year ago, she prayed with great fervor. Dear Goddess, please make my miserable end painless.

  A little at a time, Pressine released the air trapped in her lungs. Her mind grew foggy, but she felt the back of the beast underneath her. The water creature undulated and nudged her toward the surface. Golden visions of the Goddess filled Pressine’s mind then water rushed into her lungs. She coughed violently as she floated for a while on a wide slick surface. At the edge of consciousness, she gasped and took a breath of air, then all went black.

  * * *

  Pressine awoke to the snorting of a horse that nuzzled her matted hair. Where was she? Trembling in the mud under the glow of a golden dawn, she ached all over.

  She rose on stiff legs and patted the white mare’s head, glad for her reassuring presence. “Good girl. You found me.”

  Her speech sounded labored, and her muscles cramped. She flinched at the pain exploding in her head. The violent urge to retch sent her tumbling to the water’s edge.

  While she knelt and splashed her face, Pressine recalled the night’s events. The castle monks, dressed as warriors, had thrown her, paralyzed, into the river. Had the Great Serpent Herself rescued her from the depths? Dear Goddess! Humbled and grateful to be alive, Pressine prayed her thanks.

  But the Goddess would only save her for a higher purpose. Pressine suddenly remembered her mission, the reason she’d married Elinas. She must unite the tribes of Alba under one high king, Elinas of Dumfries.

  A gray heron screamed and took flight. Jolted back to the present, Pressine collected her thoughts. She had grossly underestimating the Benedictine monks. But that battle was not over. And this time, she would show them who was in charge. First, however, she needed to restore her strength.

  After washing her face and combing her hair with twigs, Pressine gathered mint leaves and wild berries to settle her stomach. She felt in no hurry to return. Since the monks believed her dead, let them savor their victory. Pressine would surprise them when they least expected it.

  By the time she rode through the castle gate in late afternoon, she knew exactly what to do.

  The captain of the guard ran to her with a look of relief. “My Lady, we searched the countryside for you all day. I’m glad you are all right.”

  “Lock the gates and arrest all the monks.” Pressine couldn’t help the snapping tone. “They should be in the chapel.”

  “The monks?” The captain stared at her in surprise.

  She forced herself to relax. “Summon everyone in front of the great hall, and tell the blacksmith to light a fire under the great oak and bring the triskel iron.”

  “At once, my lady.” The captain bowed then ran toward the guard room.

  As Pressine rode sedately through the castle grounds, dwellers came out of every building to gather by the tall oak in front of the hall. Most of them still looked pale from last night’s poisoning. Pressine took heart in their relieved expressions at the sight of their queen. How had they interpreted her absence? Had the monks offered an explanation? It did not matter anymore.

  Out of the chapel came a line of eight protesting monks in shackles, marched out by Pressine’s personal guard. She smiled inwardly for having timed her intervention just right, while the monks, gathered in the chapel for vespers, prayed on their knees... unarmed.

  The bishop surged out of the chapel behind them, brandishing his crozier at the arresting guards. “This is an outrage. How dare you violate the holiest of sanctuaries with drawn swords! Surrender and repent, for your sacrilege!”

  The bishop froze when he noticed Pressine, perched on her white mare, towering over the assembly and staring down at him. Too bad she could not afford to arrest him, too. As a high ranking noble, the bishop could cause trouble with Charlemagne. But after she deprived him of his warrior monks, Pressine knew she could control him.

  “Surprised to see me, Renald? Did you believe me dead?”

  The bishop crossed himself. The monks now stared at her, fear distorting their faces as they realized Pressine was alive. A few cursed in Saxon. They tugged on the chains, but the guards had done a quick and efficient job of restraining them.

  Regaining his composure, the bishop faced Pressine with haughty poise. The old fox knew how to play the games of power. Although he had most likely hatched the plan to kill her, he would deny everything.

  “Why do you attack innocent monks?”

  “Innocent?” Pressine let out a nervou
s laugh. “These louts attempted to assassinate me!”

  A disgruntled murmur coursed through the gathering.

  “She is a ghost from hell,” a Benedictine shouted, eyes rolling with madness. “This is devilry. I saw her die with my own eyes!”

  Pressine glared at him. “So you did! I remember you well. But did you know that Pagans, too, can rise from the dead?”

  The monk recoiled in sheer terror.

  Pressine turned to the assembly. “Good people of Dumfries castle, these men poisoned our food last night.”

  The castle folk vociferated insults at the monks and raised their pitch forks, distaffs and other tools.

  “The murrain on them all!” an old woman yelled, clutching her belly.

  “The murrain and the pestilence!” The stable boy spat in the dirt.

  “While we slept,” Pressine went on, gazing at her people in turn, “they captured your queen and threw her into the river, numb and paralyzed, where they left her to drown.”

  More cries of outrage rose from the castle folks.

  “But I survived.” Pressine sat very straight atop the mare. “It takes more than a handful of knaves to make me abandon my subjects.”

  She surveyed the crowd, thankful that all of Mattacks’ noble friends had followed him to the battlefield. Still, she recognized several Christians in the assembly. “In Dumfries, I welcome all creeds, all religions, as long as they practice tolerance. But vile murdering louts will not be allowed to reside here, whether monks or otherwise.”

  The castle women and servants now cheered deliriously. Only the bishop and the monks sulked in silence.

  Pressine stayed her people with one hand. “I could have these men executed, but unlike them I abhor murder. Instead, I banish them from this land, and to make sure they never return, they will be branded.”

  Gasps of surprise rose from the crowd. The monks struggled in their chains as the guards forced them to kneel at sword point.