Conan fidgeted, disgust plain on his face. “The curse does not just affect our father and Pressine. The whole kingdom is doomed, and so are we, and all the males in this family for nine generations. Did you not listen to Morgane’s warning at our father’s wedding?”
“Your brother is right.” His throat clenched as he recalled Pressine’s words. “This defeat is only the beginning. Famine, pestilence, the murrain on our livestock...”
Mattacks stopped pacing and faced Elinas squarely. “Do not worry bout that. Now that we are rid of her, God will protect us from whatever the heathens have woven in their blasted curse.”
“Really?” Elinas stared at Mattacks, shocked by his arrogance. “Look around you. This is the land of the ancient gods. The Goddess has just demonstrated her power. She took away your Black Madonna. The treasury is gone. You lost a battle that could not be lost. Your Christian god has no hold here.”
The Edling crossed himself then kissed the silver cross hanging on his chest. “God will provide. I shall find a way to make things right.”
“What about the loss of the woman I love, and the three daughters I never held in my arms?” Elinas raised his voice dangerously. “Did you even think about my feelings for them?”
Mattack’s face stretched with contempt. “They are an abomination, an anathema, an insult to everything holy.”
“Enough!” Elinas slammed a fist on the table. “You are my son, and I will not kill my own blood. But I can take the crown away from you.”
Mattacks straightened his back and gave Elinas a measuring gaze. “You may not live long enough to enforce your words, old man.”
Rising, Conan knocked down his chair and rushed to his father’s side. “You would not dare!”
Mattacks unsheathed the dagger at his belt. “Once I kill him, I am king, and you will obey me or follow him to hell. Move away, brother.”
Conan launched himself at Mattacks and wrestled him for the dagger.
“Guards!” Elinas shouted in his battle voice. “Restrain the Edling.”
Two guards barged in. Three more crowded the open door. They seized Mattacks by both arms and disarmed him. Conan stepped back, raking rebellious blond hair with his fingers.
In the guard’s grip, Mattacks struggled with vehemence. “Do not dare touch your future king.”
Strangely calm, Elinas considered Conan, so loyal and brave. “Thank you for defending me.”
Addressing Mattacks, who stopped struggling and straightened with pride despite his defeat, Elinas smiled bitterly. “You always wanted to be king. But since you are not worthy, Conan shall inherit this ruined kingdom.”
“You can’t do this!” Mattacks shouted.
Awe filled Conan’s face. “Me? King?”
“Kneel!” Elinas ordered Conan. “Captain and guards be my witnesses.”
After an instant of frozen surprise, Conan fell to one knee and bowed in front of his father.
Lifting the coronet that rarely left his brow, Elinas set it on Conan’s head. “I hereby resign the crown and pronounce you, Conan, king of this poisoned land.” Elinas stepped back. “You can devise a public ceremony for your official crowning, one that does not require my presence.”
“Why?” Conan’s eyes widened in sudden alarm as he rose to his feet. “Tell me you are not thinking of...”
“Falling on my sword?” Elinas looked away and laughed bitterly. “I do not even own a sword anymore.”
“You will regret this, old man!” Mattacks sputtered.
Elinas gestured to the guards. “Throw him in the dungeon. And make sure he does not escape. This one is a snake who bears watching.”
Mattacks threw his head back in defiance. “I have powerful friends. You will pay for this humiliation.”
As the guards took Mattacks away, a string of unseemly profanity punctuated his march out of the chambers and into the courtyard.
Elinas bit his lips. “I should have caged that beast long ago.”
Conan frowned. “Why are you leaving? Where are you going?”
“The curse forces me to leave.” Quite sober now, Elinas faced his second son, the new king. “This kingdom will be a heavy burden. But do not give up hope. I wish you the very best under these grievous circumstances.”
“What about you, father?”
The genuine concern softening Conan’s face warmed Elinas somewhat. He had chosen his successor wisely. His kingdom and the rest of his children would be in good hands.
Gazing out the window into the pale dawn, Elinas said in a softer voice, “Pressine is somewhere out there with my daughters. I shall comb the known world until I find them, no matter how long it takes. My life has no meaning otherwise.”
* * *
In the dark, fetid cell, Mattacks reeled from the surprise of his arrest. How could God abandon him, so close to seizing the crown? The bowl of foul gruel on the floor next to him remained untouched. Somewhere in the dark recesses of the dungeon, water dripped from the low ceiling into a puddle.
Mattacks shivered with cold but ignored the pain of the iron shackles chafing his wrists and ankles. He considered himself above such ordinary suffering, mainly since he could not get from it the bliss he had experienced with the scourge.
After days in this hell, he had stopped counting. Why had his friends not rescued him yet? When they did, Mattacks would happily have his father and his brother summarily executed. Then he would take the crown and convert his kingdom to Christianity, by force if need be.
Rats scattered at the clink of a key turning in a lock. The heavy iron gate grated. As Mattacks straightened to a sitting position, his chains rattled and his heart leapt with hope.
The glow of a torch illuminated the entrance of the dark corridor. His expectations soared when he recognized the dainty figure in white walking toward him in the dim light of the guard’s torch. It was his runt of a wife, Radegonde, accompanied by the bishop. At last, they had come for him.
The guard set the torch in a sconce then walked away into the dark tunnel. Yellow light flooded the low arches of the small rectangular cell.
Hiding his relief under a mask of irritation, Mattacks struggled to look dignified. “It took you long enough. Now get me out of here.”
The bishop in golden robes lowered his gaze to the floor but did not respond.
Radegonde smiled sweetly. “I fear I have terrible news for you, husband.”
Mattacks had no time for the ravings of a silly woman. He focused on the bishop. “I order you to get me out of here immediately.”
Radegonde’s smile grew unusually confident. “You see, dear husband, my grandfather, the Holy Emperor of Occident, believes that you had dealings with the devil.”
“Never!” Mattacks had done nothing wrong. “We won, and we rid this kingdom of a filthy heathen queen. Charlemagne should thank me for that.”
“We?” The bishop raised his brow. “I had no part in this. Furthermore, it appears that you used forbidden magic.”
Mattacks could not think among all the confusion in his mind. “What are you insinuating?”
The bishop steepled his fingertips and pressed them to his mouth as if to think. “It seems that in your zeal, you intentionally activated a Pagan curse. It made the Black Madonna disappear. Holy Mother Church considers this sorcery. I fear you recklessly tarnished your eternal soul. There is no redemption from such a sin. In the Holy Roman Empire, such deeds are punishable by torture and death.”
Radegonde gazed at him calmly. “And my grandfather insists that we keep you in captivity, until he decides your fate.”
“Charlemagne? Decide my fate?” Mattacks could not believe it. “But he has no authority in Dumfries.”
The bishop scowled. “Are you denying the divine authority of the Holy Roman Emperor? For a Christian, that is heresy.”
“The king will never allow Charlemagne to meddle.” Of that, Mattacks was certain.
“But, my prince,” Radegonde said softly, “King Conan is
away. Queen Ceinwyn acts in his stead.”
“Queen Ceinwyn?” Mattacks still could not believe the little upstart had become queen after all. “What of my father?”
Radegonde lowered her modest gaze. “He left on a journey from which he does not intend to return.”
Stunned, Mattacks struggled to gather his thoughts. “I only acted for the good of the Church and the salvation of this kingdom.”
“Is that what you believe?” The bishop drew the sign of the cross as if to protect himself against evil.
“You know my soul is pure.” No one could take that away from Mattacks.
The bishop averted his gaze and sighed.
Radegonde lifted her sleeve discreetly, exposing striated scars on her milky skin. “Remember how you gave me these, husband? I cannot wait for your retribution.”
“Retribution? Hogwash.” Desperation raised Mattacks’ pitch a notch. “As my wife you owe me obedience, and I order you to release me this instant.”
“It is not possible, not now, not ever.” Radegonde’s gentle smile turned demonic. “I wish you strength in the face of your punishment, Lord Husband, for it will be terrible.”
“Not as terrible as what I have in store for you when I get out,” Mattacks shouted in frustration. What had happened to his meek wife? Where did she find the strength to face him with such poise? Did he not beat her enough?
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” The bishop glowered at him. “The devil is speaking through you again. Very unfortunate... I shall have to report this to the council of bishops. Guard!”
The guard came running and lifted the torch from the sconce. The Bishop followed the guard outside the cell.
“Fare well, husband.” Radegonde curtsied then walked away behind the guard and the bishop.
“Wait!”
But they did not turn back. The iron gate rasped and the key turned in the lock, leaving Mattacks in the dark, cold cell. Their steps faded as the torchlight receded in the corridor.
Was this a conspiracy? Where had he gone wrong? Could God possibly have abandoned him? Trembling with the weight of his potential sins, Mattacks fell to his knees and prayed.
“God Almighty and compassionate, take pity on your humble servant, whose only fault was to serve you the best he could. Smite the ignorant bishop and my misguided wife, and restore my crown, so I can serve you from a position of power forever. Amen.”
But an ominous thought gnawed at the edges of Mattacks’ mind. A shudder of foreboding shook his very soul. What if he really had strayed from the righteous path? Could his dealings with the heathen bitch have besmirched his eternal soul and barred him from heaven? He could not stand the thought.
Mattacks awoke from an uneasy slumber when two guards grabbed him and dragged him down a narrow set of stairs, to a deep underground cellar with no windows. By the glow of torches, he realized it was a torture chamber. Since when did Dumfries have one of those?
All sorts of instruments hung from hooks on the stone walls. Leather and metal collars, scourges with many twisted nails, spiked shackles, evilly curved claws, as well as an assortment of blunt and sharp blades of all sizes and shapes... These instruments left much to think about the torments they could inflict. In the middle of the room, a tall blond man sat, sharpening a wicked knife.
“What is all this?” Mattacks struggled to shake the surprise out of his voice.
The tall man glanced up and guffawed. “The latest in the art of confessing the truth,” he said with a strong Saxon accent. “A gift from the emperor himself.”
Charlemagne’s Black Guard? Could Mattacks turn him around, like he did the other monks? “I used to have Saxon monks among my loyal friends.”
“I hear they were branded.” The man set aside the blade on a table and rose to face Mattacks. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I am your friend. I am a master at inflicting pain. You will confess.”
Mattacks would not abase himself by answering taunts. He was innocent and would never admit to his guilt. He had done the right thing. He did not deserve torture. But if God willed it, he would submit with as much courage as his state of fast and his weakened body permitted.
But when the guards stripped him of his clothes, and the Saxon rolled forth the chair on which they meant to strap him, Mattacks realized he might not get out of the dungeon alive. The sharp iron spikes rising from the seat, back, armrest and foot of the chair would pierce his skin. Scores of spikes... How long could he remain alive under such treatment? Still, as a martyr, he would endure.
But how could he serve God once dead? Doubt crept into his mind. This was all a mistake. He strained in his jailors’ grip. To no avail. He had no strength left. All he could do was make himself heavy, like a rebellious child, and wail like a woman.
Where was the time when sweet pain brought him closer to God? Today, the very sight of the torture chair made him shake with fear and anguish.
The guards pushed him roughly onto the chair, and the sharp pain of dozens of spikes stabbing the skin of his back, thighs, arms and feet exacted a long, desperate scream from the depth of his gut. But his torturers remained deaf to his agony.
“I will say whatever you want to hear. I will admit to my guilt. There is no need for this.” How he hated the whine in his voice.
Deaf to his words, the torturer tightened the straps of the chair, forcing the spikes to pierce further into Mattacks’ flesh. A long scream escaped his throat.
The image of Radegonde on their wedding night came to mind. She had wailed and begged just like he did now. But he was powerless in the hands of his jailors... Just like his enemies had been powerless when he held power.
Tears filled his eyes as Mattacks realized no one would come to his rescue. And his repeated howls of pain tore through the cold corridors of Dumfries’ dungeon.
* * *
Mattacks awoke, chained to his cell wall, shivering with fever. He had survived the chair. Rats licked the sweet blood oozing from many wounds through his stained clothes, and he had no strength left to scare them away. What had he said under torture? He could not remember. He must have passed out.
As long as he was alive, however, Mattacks could not give up hope. He could still escape, regroup, find his allies, then come back to Dumfries and crush his brother and his enemies. They would pay with their lives for the humiliating torments they inflicted upon him.
When next he awoke, a group of Christian nobles and priests, including Radegonde and the bishop, stood around him, crowding the small cell. Mattacks had no energy left to stand or even sit up. The guards unchained him and propped him up as his legs could not hold him.
“Mattacks of Dumfries, hear your sentence.” The bishop unrolled a parchment scroll and read.
“In the name of the Lord God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I, Charlemagne, Holy Emperor of Occident, on the year of the Lord 812, declare that Prince Mattacks of Dumfries, for his many dealings with the devil, witnessed and reported by trustworthy nobles, and confessed under divine questioning, is condemned to death by burning alive at the stake.”
“No!” Mattacks’ head swirled. Was it from the fever? the fasting? Or the realization he was about to die horribly? “Radegonde,” he pleaded in a pitiful moan. “Have mercy.”
“God will give you the mercy you deserve.” Radegonde gave him a thin smile. How could she agree with such a sentence?
“Furthermore,” the bishop added emphatically, “You are from this day forth, ostracized from the bosom of Holy Mother Church and excommunicated. You are barred from receiving the sacraments, and condemned to languish after death in the eternal fires of hell.”
Mattacks had no words left. How did this happen? How could he be one day the instrument of God, and the next the scourge of God? The sweet promise of heaven had kept him strong and focused in his quest for Christianity... Now he had nothing left. Nothing to live for, and nothing waiting for him after death.
The guards dragged him out of the cell and up the
dungeon stairs, into the castle yard. Once in the open for the first time in weeks, Mattacks blinked into the timid morning sun. Around the stake erected in front of the chapel, a quiet crowd awaited. But Mattacks did not recognize anyone. Where were Elinas? Ceinwyn, Conan?
Only strangers with hateful faces rejoiced at the prospect of his martyrdom. As soon as they saw him they shouted insults and spit to avert evil. Some reached to claw him as the guards parted the crowd on their way to the stake. The crowd booed and threw rotten fruit and stones at him. Each jibe stabbed him more deeply than the rocks impacting his mutilated body.
Mattacks had no will left to fight or speak. Tears rolled freely from his eyes as the guards walked him up the steps and tied him up to the pole on top of the stake. From his vantage point, he could see Radegonde and the bishop, but while she watched with a condemning gaze, the bishop seemed to pray. Should Mattacks do the same? Did God listen to the excommunicated?
Almighty God, do I deserve this humiliation? Do I deserve this pain? Where did I go wrong? How can I repent if I do not know my sin?
From the crowd, an older woman came forward, holding a live firebrand. As she bent to touch the brand to the stake, grey hair fluttered out of her bonnet. Mattacks thought she recognize her. Lady Aurora, General Kathel’s widow. When the tinder flared, she gazed up at him with open defiance. She was avenging her husband killed by warrior monks, upon Mattacks’ order. But did everyone else in Dumfries have reason to hate him as well?
Mattacks struggled to breathe through the smoke and soon the flames licked his feet. He hollered with the burn of the flames and the stench of his searing flesh. As he yelled his pain up to the sky, he saw a face high above him, a hated face, that of Pressine.
“May the great Goddess have pity on you, mortal,” she said with a compassionate smile. “May she give you better judgement and fill your heart with gentleness in your next incarnation.”
And in the midst of agonizing death, Mattacks whimpered. The Pagan queen never smote him, although she had the power to do so. In the end, she was the only one with kind words to soothe his martyrdom.
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