Melusine stood up and held out her hands. “Form the circle.”
She chanted the ancient incantation. The guttural tongue from another time and another land blocked every other sound, as all life on Mount Elenore fell silent. Working their magic, the sacred words echoed in her mind, conjuring images of solemn rituals.
When the sphere of power shimmered, enveloping the three girls, Melusine asked, “Do you swear secrecy before the Great Goddess and Gofannon, Master of the Underworld?”
“May the Goddess strike me dead if I break this vow,” Palatina declared. “I so swear.”
“On my very life,” Meliora joined in, “I do swear secrecy.”
* * *
Sitting at the loom, Pressine interrupted her song and shuddered at some unnatural silence. Shrugging away the feeling, she focused on threading the shuttle, wondering what took her daughters so long to fetch water for the vats. She hoped the news of having a mortal father did not upset them too much. Girls that age tended to dramatize everything.
Soon, Melusine entered the weaving shed, followed by Meliora and Palatina.
“Mother?” Melusine called, out of breath, spilling drops from her pail in her excitement. She hurried to fill the large cauldron on the hearth. “Palatina, Meliora and I decided that we want to meet our father.”
“We could remain with him for a while.” Meliora emptied her pail into the same cauldron.
Touched, Pressine felt close to tears at such filial love. “The sight of your glorious young faces would bring a ray of joy to the old man’s miserable life. I wish it were possible... unfortunately, no one knows which land Elinas walks in these troubled days.”
“But the three of us can find him, mother,” Palatina offered. After emptying her pail, she pushed the heavy cauldron directly above the embers. “His blood sings in our veins. There is no curse preventing us to see him, and if we join our powers, I know we can succeed.”
Although she could not stand the idea of the three lasses leaving her side, Pressine would gladly make this sacrifice, if she knew it would bring some happiness to the man she had never ceased to love. “How do you propose to do that?”
Melusine smiled mysteriously. “We are old enough to travel with cousin Ivar to Alba, when he visits the Viking prince. We could bring your news to our infamous Uncle Gwenvael, the Christian monk who chose to live among the barbarians. After Ivar accomplishes his mission, he can help us in our quest.”
Picturing her daughters among the unruly Vikings made Pressine shudder. She hid her apprehension, however, reminding herself that each of the triplets had powers to match her own. Pressine could think of nothing that could possibly endanger them, especially if Ivar, Morgane’s son and an adept sorcerer in his own right, watched over them.
After a moment’s hesitation, Pressine overcame her motherly fears. “Nothing would please me more than knowing that your father has you three at his side to watch over him. Since the curse does not affect you, it would be a wonderful gift on your part. Besides, you can carry a missive from me, and send me news of him.”
The thought of writing to Elinas filled Pressine with wondrous joy.
* * *
The following Tuesday, the most auspicious day to start on a journey, the population of the Lost Isle gathered on the beach to bid farewell to the four young travelers. Pressine smiled bravely, but her heart felt heavy and full of foreboding. Since it was the first time she had ever been separated from the triplets, she attributed the feeling to motherly concerns.
Glancing back up the cliff, she saw Morgane, watching from the circle of stones.
Horses, ponies, mules and goats reluctantly braved the surf to embark on the large ship. A line of servants also loaded bushels of grain and dried fruit, smoked fish and meat, barrels of wine, and many other supplies. It reminded Pressine of another day just like this, when she had left the Lost Isle to seduce and marry Elinas of Dumfries, some twenty years ago. Like her daughters today, with a heart full of hope, she had parted the mists and sailed to the land of Alba.
Even young Ivar reminded Pressine of his Viking father, Bodvar, who had accompanied her on that first expedition. Except for the finely woven tunic belted at the waist, and two perfect eyes exempt from battle scars, Ivar looked just like his father. Impossibly tall and muscular, with pale blond hair falling on broad shoulders, he had the same long angular face. His golden tan accentuated cool blue eyes that gazed straight into the soul.
Although she could not age physically, Pressine felt the weight of bitter experience. Longevity, power and knowledge had cost her the man, the land, and the people she loved. It would take a long time to let go of the pain. But she found solace in the fact that her daughters would not have to suffer her curse.
Forcing a cheery smile, she hugged the three lasses. “Remember to let me know how you are through the water basin. I expect to hear from you soon.”
“We promise to let you know, Mother. Do not fret, we shall be fine.” Melusine kissed her mother’s cheek. “I am so excited at parting the mists for the first time.”
“I love you, Mother,” Meliora whispered in Pressine’s ear, the fragrance of her flower wreath superseding the salty sea-spray for a moment. “We all do and always will.”
Palatina flashed wide gray eyes so much like Morgane’s. “We promise to be fair to mortals and make you proud of us.”
Lifting the hem of their white shifts the three lasses waded through the surf to board the waiting ship.
“Dear Goddess, protect them all,” Pressine prayed aloud as she waved in farewell.
Chapter Fifteen
Standing at the prow of the ship, Melusine scanned the coastline. She could scarcely control her excitement The sail flapped as the boat dipped into a hollow, and the land disappeared from view. When the vessel sliced through the foaming crest of the next wave, sea-spray chilled her skin through the white shift as the coast reappeared. Licking salty lips, Melusine resisted the urge to drink the three-day-old water from the barrel. She could wait for fresh water until they landed in a few hours.
Soon, the boat entered the wide mouth of a river. Slowed by the current, the travelers made their way up the estuary between grassy banks. On the left shore, an outcropping of circular earthen walls protected the Viking camp. From the log tower jutting above the mud wall, the sound of a conch heralded the visitors
Despite its simple architecture, the Viking fortress looked ominous, and a chill rippled across Melusine’s skin. Here was the stronghold from which Bodvar ruled, terrorizing the population of western Alba.
Scores of longboats lay at anchor in a natural berth. Three dragonships left the harbor to meet the Gaelic vessel. Palatina, Meliora and their cousin Ivar joined Melusine at the prow to meet the approaching longships.
On the leading Drakkar, a rugged giant with flaming red hair balanced himself beside the dragonhead prow. Intently watching the approaching vessel, he toyed with a deadly battle axe. “What is your business in these parts?” the warrior shouted in accented Gaelic. “Any sick people among you?”
The ship captain froze at the sight of the menacing Vikings.
“We come in peace...” the captain ventured, but his voice lacked confidence.
“It is war,” the giant argued. “All vessels in these parts are our property, and their occupants are our slaves. If you have sickness on board, we will torch your boat. Otherwise, prepare to be boarded.”
Melusine smiled. “We come from a healthy isle, to visit our kin, Prince Bodvar.”
The giant’s laugh bellowed over the river. “Bodvar’s kin do not travel on Briton barges.”
The two other Drakkars now cut the visitors’ retreat. Melusine understood there could be no reasoning with such hotheads. Only magic could help them through this dangerous encounter.
Weaving a friendly taming spell in the tone of her voice, Melusine let her words ring clear over the water. “We bring offerings of food, honey-mead, and wine.”
“Food and d
rink are always welcome.” The red haired warrior frowned when his gaze fell on Ivar, a tall blond man of his own race who stood next to Melusine.
“Not bad for a girl,” Ivar whispered. Seemingly amused by her spell, he smiled cooly and nodded to the Viking.
The red Viking studied Ivar. His frown deepened, then recognition flashed in the warrior’s eyes. He bowed slightly to Ivar, with renewed respect. “Follow us closely and you will be safe.”
A rumble of approval rose from the two other longships, as the Vikings standing on deck recognized Ivar. How could they not, if as Morgane said, he was a spitting image of their prince? They clapped axes and swords against shields in a terrifying clatter that raised the small hair along Melusine’s spine.
Framed by longships, the Briton barge navigated through the maze of sharp jutting pikes protecting the anchorage. Any vessel approaching the harbor unaware, or at night, would impale itself on the deadly spikes. Not unlike the protective mists of the Lost Isle... How cunning.
And once inside the protected berth, an enemy ship could not escape. A mortal would be too frightened to enter the Viking stronghold, but not Melusine. Confident in her abilities, she feared nothing.
To her surprise, she discovered in the harbor many trading ships of various sizes and shapes alongside Viking longships. Most boats, lined up side by side, were linked by broad planks on which men carried heavy burdens, loading and unloading from one ship to the next.
Drifting paths of floating logs, tied with slick gray ropes, formed buoyant walkways along the rows of anchored boats. Melusine climbed down the rope ladder first and stepped down onto the log path. It shifted underfoot, to the same gentle sway as the boats. An eager hand offered support, but Melusine refused it.
Steadying herself, she smiled her thanks to the grinning redhead towering over her. “What kind of ropes are these?” she asked, intrigued. “Certainly not hemp.”
“Seal skin.” The man’s amber gaze resembled that of a wolf. He turned to Meliora coming down the ladder and helped her to the floating jetty.
The captain and crew remained on board.
Followed by her sisters and her cousin Ivar, Melusine walked alongside the Viking giant onto firm land. On the shore, the hustle and bustle of trade filled the air with the sounds of bartering and the smells of spices, smoked herring, and fermented mead. Heaps of dried fish, seal skin ropes, and piles of barrels lined the waterfront.
Melusine marveled at the abundance. “You do not seem to be starving despite the famine.”
“We have ample supplies.” The red giant looked strong and healthy.
None of the big men flanking her party looked sick or undernourished. Obviously the Vikings did not suffer the curse of Dumfries’ people. Many guards, standing in the log tower and walking the top of the earthen ramparts, watched the visitors silently from above. As she crossed the open gate into the fortified enclosure, Melusine wondered with excitement what she would discover in this Viking stronghold.
The news of their arrival must have preceded them. In the busy lanes, lined with earthen longhouses in the shape of upturned boat hulls, slaves in metal collars dropped their tools to gawk. Tall people with fair hair stared at Ivar, who paid them no heed. The reason for their curiosity became obvious when Melusine and her party reached what looked like the central square.
* * *
Bodvar stood in front of his longhouse and crossed his arms to hide his impatience. His sons and chieftains armed with swords, axes, and battle hammers, surrounded him. The guards had reported a Viking among the visitors, and their lack of further comments about this oddity intrigued him. His eyepatch itched, or was it the scar underneath? Family, they said, but Bodvar expected none.
As soon as the visitors entered the square, however, Bodvar felt a tinge of recognition. A thrill made his blood tingle. He focused briefly on the three dark girls, who seemed so familiar, but stopped on the tall blond youth. He would have looked like one of his sons, if clad like a warrior.
“By Thor’s hammer!” Bodvar boomed in surprise. “The enchantress has released her cub!”
Uncrossing his arms, Bodvar burst into a string of Norse curses and strode toward them. Waving aside the guards, he walked past the three girls straight to his foreign son and gripped him in a mighty hug. The young man returned the embrace and greeted his father in fluent Norse.
“My name is Ivar,” he added in Gaelic. “Not son of Odin’s whore.”
Bodvar roared at the comment. “Ivar! By Thor’s hammer, it’s a good Viking name.”
Suddenly remembering the three girls, Bodvar managed a smile to cover his concern. If they were related to Morgane, their magic could be dangerous. “Welcome to my stronghold. Let us honor the return of my long awaited son.” Laughing, he slapped Ivar’s shoulder.
“We come in peace,” one of the girls declared pointedly, breaking the mood. “And we hope that you will be open to talk with us in the name of the oppressed kingdoms of Alba.”
Bodvar raised his brow. “A lass who speaks out of turn in front of men three times her size? Few women have that arrogance.” He winked at Ivar. “Morgane was one of them. I wager your mother has not changed much.”
Ivar smiled ironically. “I reckon she has not changed at all.”
“Well,” the girl insisted. “Will you listen to us?”
“I fear I shall have to, young lady, since you will not let the matter rest.” Bodvar sighed. “But you will have to wait until tomorrow. Today is for my son. By the way, who might you be?”
The lass blushed when reminded of her manners. “My name is Melusine, and these are my sisters, Palatina and Meliora. We are princesses, daughters of King Elinas of Dumfries and Pressine of Bretagne, and cousins of your son Ivar.”
“I see.” Bodvar turned away and shouted, “Do you hear this? Cliona! Gwenvael! Come meet your relatives!”
The older couple came forth through the ranks of Bodvar’s household gathered in front of his longhouse.
Dismissing Melusine, Bodvar turned to his son. “What happened to your brother Njal?”
Ivar smiled. “He is safe in the Lost Isle, with his wife and many children.”
“Hear that, Cliona?” Bodvar called in good humor. “You have more grandchildren than you know.”
Despite the streaks of gray in her auburn hair and the lines on her face, Cliona looked as lovely as the day Bodvar had given her to Gwenvael. When she smiled, her startling emerald eyes still reminded him of a deep forest.
Cliona ran to embrace the lasses, followed by Gwenvael. “I’m delighted to meet you.” Her ecstatic smile matched that of her husband.
“Uncle Gwenvael?” Melusine asked, as if taken aback. “Mother never mentioned that you wore a beard.”
Still holding Ivar’s arm, Bodvar shouted, “Let us have a feast tonight to celebrate the return of my long lost son.”
Slaves, wives and warriors immediately dispersed to obey their prince, and the Viking settlement turned into a beehive buzzing with frantic preparations.
* * *
While washing up, using a small tub of cold water in Gwenvael’s longhouse, Melusine finally breathed as she relaxed with her sisters.
“You would think that with the river so close, they would have plenty of clean water to wash.” She dried her face and hands with a soft cloth.
“Did you see the size of these men?” Meliora’s dripping face beamed with wonder as she reached for Melusine’s thick bath sheet. “I thought cousin Ivar was a freak of nature, but I like the looks of these big bears. And their fiery hair.”
“Always the romantic, aren’t you?” Palatina wrinkled her nose. “These savages may treat us like princesses, but they stink.” She dipped a kerchief in the small tub and dabbed at her face with delicate strokes. “For our first foray outside of the Lost Isle I would have hoped for more refined company.”
“I wonder what they have for dinner,” Meliora mumbled, her face buried in the towel. “I am starving.”
&nb
sp; Melusine had to admit that the aroma drifting through the small square window near the ceiling smelled delicious.
Palatina frowned. “I would not expect too much from this bunch.”
Two male slaves brought in a trunk from the boat and set it on the rushes covering the packed earth floor. Melusine and her sisters immediately opened it and fished inside for fresh clothing.
* * *
At the evening feast, Melusine elected to sit by her uncle Gwenvael, hoping he might supply some information about her father. In the Viking hall, the elite sat on hemp rushes on the wide wooden platforms running like benches along the walls. Ivar occupied the place of honor at his father’s side against the back wall.
Smoke from the central fire clouded the hall. Looking up, Melusine noticed that only part of the smoke escaped through the central hole in the roof. Even through the haze, the warriors looked rather repulsive, pawing their women in public without a shred of decency.
At Melusine’s side, Gwenvael looked more like a kind father than the intrepid friar who set out to convert the barbarians. Not exactly the dashing youth her mother had described in her story, who had stolen the heart of the Irish slave. Years had a way of changing mortals. They did get old. How could anyone give up immortality and angelic powers for the new religion? How disappointing... She would have liked to meet the young Gwenvael, full of life and passion, not this bearded uncle, with whom she had nothing in common.
Palatina had chosen Aunt Cliona as dining companion, probably expecting more refined conversation from the educated princess. Next to her sat Meliora. She glanced with open longing at the red-haired chieftain with amber eyes, who had summoned their boat earlier. Such a soft-hearted girl did not fit in coarse company.
When the food arrived, carried on large shields by female slaves, the Vikings shoved each other to spear the best chunks of meat. The rowdy diners threw bones to the hounds, spilled their mead, and still managed to drink too much. Maybe the mead explained their outrageous behavior.
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