Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  Pressine turned in the saddle to look around. “Where is the blacksmith?”

  “Here, my lady!”

  Bristling with tangible anticipation, the onlookers parted to let through a burly man. He bowed before the queen.

  Pressine smiled warmly. “I believe you have branded highway cutthroats before, my good man.”

  The blacksmith grinned, flashing yellow teeth. “With great pleasure, my lady.” Cheered by the crowd, the blacksmith pulled a red hot branding iron out of the brazier.

  The monks’ clenched jaws told Pressine they knew about the custom. The castle folk watched in silence as two guards forced the first squirming monk to lift his head then held it up. When the hot iron seared his forehead, the monk screamed. He spit as he glowered at Pressine. On his forehead, the Pagan triskel, a triple swirl joined in the center, would mark him for the rest of his days.

  The stench of burnt flesh filled the courtyard, but Pressine did not flinch. Although repulsed by the practice, she kept her head high. It was necessary to make an example.

  When all the monks were branded, Pressine said solemnly, “This brand will insure that these evil-doers can never return to our beloved land, they are now banished from it forever.”

  Pressine motioned to the captain of her personal guard. “Keep them in chains and under armed escort, and get them on a ship headed for the continent.”

  “It shall be done, my lady.” The captain bowed.

  “And I want you to remain on the shore until the ship disappears over the horizon. Only then will you return.”

  “As it pleases you, my lady.”

  Loud murmurs of agreement welcomed Pressine’s decision. In no hurry to resume their daily chores, the castle folks lingered, while the guards herded the branded monks, dragging their chains, into an ox cart.

  Pressine breathed easier, as if a weight had been lifted from her life. She hoped Elinas would approve of her bold actions... but how would Mattacks react? Whatever their opinion, she had made a just decision and had no regrets.

  * * *

  When Elinas and his knights returned after a victorious campaign, Pressine explained the incident with the monks. Elinas ratified her actions and silenced Mattacks’ protests. Since the Edling was nowhere around the castle at the time of the attack, however, Elinas refused to believe his son had any part in the attempt on Pressine’s life.

  Pressine rejoiced at the abundance of the crops that fall. No drought, flood, pestilence or vermin spoiled the towns’ life. The soldiers had returned in time to help with the harvest. Even the grapevines from Aquitaine bore sweet fruit that the villagers stomped into new wine.

  Conan and Ceinwyn wed in the fall, just before Samhain. When the first snow finally fell, cellars, pantries, larders, and smokehouses overflowed with preserved meats, bushels of grains and nuts, casks of wine, tallow candles, apples, lard, lamp oil, dry cheese, roc-salt, and even rare spices from afar. Each day, the aroma of baking bread filled the castle yard. Even the stable lads had a healthy glow about their faces.

  Pressine enjoyed the cold months, when she could snuggle with Elinas, share his love, warmth and strength, while talking about the future of the land. The midwinter feast that year eclipsed all previous winter festivals. Ceinwyn bloomed in her pregnant state, but princess Radegonde wasted away, paler and slimmer than ever. The heavy floggings had stopped, but she still suffered subtle abuse at Mattacks’ hand.

  Radegonde seemed resigned to her fate, and Pressine prayed to the Goddess each day to lighten the poor girl’s burden. She felt sorry for the Frankish princess. The pillars of her safe childhood in Aquitaine had shattered, plunging her into a frightful world, at the sick whim of an uncaring stranger she called husband.

  As they decorated the feasting hall for Twelfth Night celebrations, Pressine approached Radegonde. “Have you heard from your brother?”

  “Not once since I came to live here.” Radegonde’s deep green eyes consumed most of her face.

  Pressine had not told Radegonde about her missive to her brother Prince Pepin. When would he act and save his sister from the claws of Mattacks? Or did men really not care what happened to their women folks?

  “I hope I get pregnant soon,” Radegonde sighed, admiring a long garland of holly she had just made. “Ceinwyn assured me you could help accomplish that. Is it true?”

  “Certainly.” Somewhat surprised, Pressine took the offered garland and set it lengthwise on the white tablecloth. “But why such a hurry to have babies?”

  Radegonde blushed and scanned the hall. Around them, other women chatted and laughed as they hung beribboned mistletoe, banners, and wreaths of pine boughs with brightly painted cones, making the hall look quite festive. The aroma of cooking meat and baking bread wafted in with the cold draft each time the door opened or closed.

  “When I get with child,” Radegonde said softly, “Mattacks will stop calling me to his bed. He said so.”

  “I see. I will gladly provide the tonic.” Pressine cried inside as she considered the thin girl in her dark green wools. “But I wish you ate more, young lady. You need to get your strength up if you want healthy babies.”

  Radegonde looked down like a child caught stealing. “Mattacks says good Christians must not indulge in food.”

  Trying to hide her anger at Mattacks’ despotism, Pressine remained firm. “But you must eat well in order to get with child.”

  “I shall try.” Radegonde smiled shyly. “I promise.”

  “Good.” Pressine squeezed the girl’s hand in encouragement. “I will bring the tonic to the women’s quarters... with some food, which I order you to eat... all of it.”

  Pressine kept her promise, But over the twelve days of the festivities, in Mattacks’ presence, Radegonde hardly touched the food on her bread trencher.

  * * *

  Shortly after Twelfth Night, Ceinwyn gave birth to a big healthy boy. The blond child delighted Conan, as well as Elinas who loved children and thoroughly enjoyed playing grandfather. The child had fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes like Conan. Pressine rejoiced. At least Mattacks would not destroy that family by claiming paternity.

  By Imbolc, which the bishop insisted on calling Candlemas, Pressine herself felt the first stirrings of new life in her womb.

  Late one night, while Elinas still slept in the peaceful hours before dawn, Pressine left the royal bed. Wrapping herself in a woolen shawl against the winter chill, she revived the fire, then tiptoed on the sheepskins to the water basin in a corner of the chamber.

  With a firebrand, she lit twelve candles in a semicircle around the stone rim. She prayed to the Goddess, then emptied her mind and called softly. “Morgane, are you awake?”

  In her mind, Pressine felt her aunt awakening from deep sleep. As she bent over the rim, her own reflection blurred into the candlelight, then the water rippled, and Morgane’s face appeared, smoothing ruffled hair under the hood of a heavy mantle.

  “It has been a long time since you called me, little one,” Morgane said with a sleepy smile. “Something important? Still happy with Elinas, I hope.”

  “Very happy, thank you. But I have something to tell you,” Pressine whispered, giddy with the thought. “I am with child. A girl, I think.”

  “A girl? Are you sure?” From the water basin, Morgane laughed, her clear gray eyes alive with mirth. “I see a mother’s glow on your face, but I beg to disagree. Trust my experience. If I read you well, it is much more than a girl.”

  “More?” Confused at Morgane’s enigmatic expression, Pressine protested. “But I feel with child, and not with a boy!”

  Morgane smiled smugly. “I did not say it was a boy.”

  Gripping the stone rim, Pressine stared intensely at Morgane’s reflection. “What is it, then?”

  * * *

  At dawn, unable to wait any longer, Pressine stretched among the bed furs and blinked in the wan light filtering through the shutters. Propping herself onto one elbow, she kissed Elinas gently on the fo
rehead to wake him. “My lord, I have good news.”

  Elinas seized her by the waist and pulled her down to him, mumbling something indistinct as he buried his face in her swollen breasts. He suddenly looked up as he realized what she said. “News? What news?”

  Pressine smiled, savoring his puzzlement.

  “Did I hear you get up in the middle of the night?” he asked, frowning.

  “I am with child,” Pressine declared boldly, not bothering to answer.

  “What?” A brief shadow crossed his face. “You are?” He grinned with a full row of white teeth. “Are you well?”

  “I feel fine,” Pressine reassured him, caressing his glossy black hair. “We are expecting daughters this summer.”

  “Good!” His deep voice rumbled through her whole body as he held her close. “A daughter, you say?” His eyes sparkled with boundless joy.

  “Not just one, my love, three...”

  Chapter Eleven

  Spring came early that year, gay with the songs of returning birds and fragrant with apple blossoms, punctuated by a cortege of festivals, betrothals and weddings. Soon after the first planting, Pressine accompanied Elinas and Dumfries nobility on a long ride north to Lanark. Mirren, Elinas’ daughter from his former queen, was to marry Urien of Lanark, Mattacks’ closest friend.

  Fifty ladies and nobles, as well as several hundred guards and soldiers formed the royal party. Pressine wondered at the wisdom of traveling in her condition and already dreaded the return trip. Although only four months along, the weight of the triplets made travel uncomfortable... but she wanted to be there for Mirren.

  After five days of travel, Pressine caught her first sight of the Lanark enclosure. Accustomed to the stone ramparts of Dumfries’ Roman fortress, she could not hide her disappointment. The palisade, backed by a rampart of banked earth and surmounted by a wide wooden walkway, seemed shabby, even with the soldiers pacing the top of the battlement.

  She turned to Elinas who rode beside her. “It looks like a bunch of flimsy sticks lined up into a makeshift fence. Are you sure you want this for your daughter?”

  “Not to worry.” Elinas flashed an encouraging smile then gazed upon the rudimentary fortifications. “These ramparts are just as safe as stone walls. Mirren will be quite safe here.”

  Not at all convinced, Pressine shifted in the side saddle to ease her discomfort. As they neared the fort, she made out the wide moats surrounding the fence of rough tree trunks.

  A horn blared, announcing their arrival. Pressine and the royal party entered the fortified enclosure through a double set of wooden gates. Once inside the fort, thatch cottages and simple huts confirmed her first impression. Even the great hall looked small and coarse compared to that of Dumfries. The place would be dreadfully wet and cold in winter.

  The next day, however, the enclosure filled with the aroma of spring lambs roasting on open pits full of glowing embers. The mild weather allowed the tables to be set outside rather than in the dreary hall, and the sun brightened the merrymaking. Thanks in part to the provisions and experienced cooks brought from Dumfries castle, the feast offered savory food and the wine kept flowing.

  Pressine enjoyed the joyful atmosphere. Elinas looked happy, and her heart rejoiced to see him smile at the entertainment. She squeezed his hand under the table, and he turned to her his soft brown gaze. How she enjoyed to see him so relaxed. His duties left little time for enjoyment.

  Beyond Elinas, on the other side at the high table, Mirren and Urien smiled profusely. Pressine had grown fond of the girl’s bright smile in the women’s quarters. She would miss it next time she visited there.

  Pressine could almost forget that Urien was Mattacks’ friend, seeing him so civil and even tender to the blond, blue-eyed bride. She caught Mirren blushing at a drunken knight’s uncouth banter. Mattacks, on the other side of the newlyweds, ignored Pressine and blocked her view of Radegonde.

  “How strange to be marrying off your daughter,” Pressine remarked softly to Elinas. “It seems only yesterday that she ran barefoot among the muddy puddles of the courtyard. To think that she is now a full-fledged wife.”

  “She reminds me of her mother.” Elinas smiled and his eyes twinkled, but he seemed to have misgivings, too. “Do not fret, love. Although I hate to lose my little girl, it is a good match. Mirren has a good head on her shoulders. I look forward to more grandchildren.”

  Pressine smiled as Elinas gazed with pride and fondness upon the other young couple, Conan and Ceinwyn, who crooned to their baby boy at the far end of the high table.

  “Lanark’s fealty is now sealed in bloodlines.” Elinas winked, raised his pewter cup and drank deeply.

  “At least, since Urien and Mattacks are such good friends, Mirren will get a chance to visit often.” Pressine’s gaze trailed toward Radegonde. Then she faced Elinas again. “I hope Urien treats her kindly. I want Mirren to be happy.”

  The gate horn drowned her last words. As she glanced in the direction of the sound, a loud commotion accompanied a lone knight galloping hard through the castle yard. Jumping off the lathered horse before it stopped, the messenger sprinted to the high table and knelt before Elinas.

  “Sire... Northumbrian war parties. They crossed our borders,” the knight reported breathlessly. “They looted several villages...”

  Elinas’ brow shot up and his face turned grave.

  “All the villagers were gutted alive...”

  “Disemboweled?” Pressine’s stomach heaved at the thought.

  “I swear it, my lady. And their hearts ripped out,” the young knight added in earnest.

  Pale, expressionless, Elinas sat, very still.

  Pressine’s heart clenched in her chest. With a tinge of foreboding, she shielded her abdomen protectively with both hands. Great Goddess, please don’t let anything happen to my babies!

  At the far end of the high table, Ceinwyn cradled her child against her breast. Mirren squeezed Urien’s hand so hard on the tablecloth her knuckles showed white. Beyond them, Mattacks stared at his father expectantly, while Radegonde sat very still.

  Elinas nodded to the messenger, his jaw tight with determination. “Send word to assemble the troops.”

  After a curt bow, the knight vaulted onto a fresh horse brought by a stable lad and took off at a gallop.

  “Mattacks,” Elinas called in a steely voice. “Escort the women and servants back to Dumfries immediately.”

  “Women and servants?” Mattacks’ offended tone indicated he did not relish such an ordinary task.

  “You are my best general. I need you to organize Dumfries’ defenses.” Elinas shook his head. “The enemy is too close to home. If we lose the fortress, we lose everything.”

  “Of course, Father.” Mattacks relaxed somewhat.

  Elinas squeezed Urien of Lanark’s shoulder. “You should gather your forces to protect your own lands, son-in-law.”

  “I wish to stay with my husband,” Mirren cut in bravely.

  “As the Lady of Lanark, it is your rightful place, daughter. We leave you in good hands.” Elinas flashed Mirren a thin smile then turned to Conan. “Meanwhile, you and I will lead our armies into Northumbria to squelch this war before it spreads.”

  * * *

  Pressine had refused to travel in a bumpy cart, but even the gentle gait of the mare jostled her belly. A few days ago, this same road had been full of song and chatter as they rejoiced on their way to the wedding. Now, guards and noble ladies remained quiet as the few carts followed the River Clyde under the cool shade of tall poplars.

  Pressine kept her eyes on Mattacks, who led the column. His gaze darted right and left, scrutinizing both sides of the road. Pressine struggled to keep the pace as best she could, hoping her discomfort didn’t show.

  She smiled to Radegonde riding in the cart alongside her mare. “Perhaps, when we reach Dumfries, you will have news from your brother.”

  Radegonde smiled sadly. “I dare not hope anymore.”

 
Slowing his stallion to fall back in step with Pressine’s mare, Mattacks snarled. “Do not attempt to poison my wife’s mind with heathen notions. I forbid you to speak to her during the journey.”

  Pressine had no patience for Mattacks’ harassment. “Watch how you speak to your queen!” she snapped. “And do not deprive your wife of the simple pleasures of conversation. Radegonde has little enjoyment in life as it is.”

  Mattacks spat to the side. “It’s because of you that she cannot get with child. Your presence at Dumfries is an insult to God and will bring calamities to the land. This war is probably one of them.” Spurring his black stallion, Mattacks took off at a gallop toward the head of the train.

  Why was Radegonde still barren despite the potion? Pressine suspected her food deprivations made her too weak to bear children.

  That afternoon, as the convoy progressed on the straight strip of barren dirt covering the ancient Roman road, the muted horn of an advanced scout sent chills along Pressine’s spine. The train came to a halt, and the two dozen soldiers assumed defensive positions around the royal retinue.

  “What is it?” Pressine asked the captain of her guard.

  “Enemy war band in sight.” The seasoned soldier looked grim.

  Mattacks gestured toward a wooded hillock to the side. “Take the women under cover among the trees and protect them!”

  Ladies, children and servants climbed out of the cart and scrambled up the slope to hide in the woods, under the protection of a handful of guards. Pressine rode up the hillock among them and found a vantage point between two tall oaks. Restraining her nervous mare, she squinted to watch Mattacks lead the rest of the armed escort to meet the incoming threat.

  The Northumbrian war party, a yellow banner flapping overhead, appeared up the road, riding hard to meet Mattacks’ troops head on. Both sides seemed evenly matched in number and fierceness. Without hesitation, as if his life meant nothing at all, the Edling charged the enemy.