Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  "What?" A twinge of foreboding clenched Pressine's chest. Visions seldom brought good news.

  Morgane’s face remained serious. "The Vikings will attack in great hordes. I saw carnage on the Western shore, south of Ballantrae. In the vision, the moon was but a sliver, making it three weeks hence. Time enough for Elinas to march his army to the coast."

  "Will he be victorious?" Pressine’s chest constricted at the thought of Elinas going to war.

  "From what I saw, it could go either way. Even warned and prepared, Elinas will face a fearsome opponent, but the Goddess favors him." Morgane stared right through Pressine. "In my vision, Bodvar himself led the fray."

  "Bodvar?" Pressine's mind whirled at the thought of Gwenvael's gentle soul among the dreadful Vikings. "But he has not yet reached his camp. We parted ways only two days ago."

  Morgane shrugged. "His warriors are preparing the attack, and he will lead them despite his promise."

  "What about your hostage?"

  Morgane looked away. "Bodvar does not believe I can harm his son, or else he cares not. Njal is just a pawn in the gods’ game of chess."

  "Am I also a pawn in that game?" Somehow Pressine did not find it such an honor anymore.

  "Not a pawn, little one, but a queen. Or you soon will be. Good night, Pressine. Remember that the fate of Alba rests in your hands."

  As the candlelight flickered again, the water rippled. Morgane had gone, and the shallow basin only mirrored Pressine’s worried face. Could she really save the land from the Viking threat?

  * * *

  Pressine’s powers of coercion had no effect on the king.

  Boot heels pummeling the flagstone, hands behind his back, Elinas paced Pressine's chamber. He crossed a ray of sunlight alive with suspended dust, then suddenly turned about.

  "You expect me to raise an army, ride to Ballantrae through my vassals' lands, and stake my reputation as warrior king on the word of two women who converse through water basins?"

  "Lady Morgane wields the power of the Goddess, my lord."

  "What if her vision does not come to pass? My chieftains will laugh at me for believing old wives' tales. The Christian barons might even see the work of the devil in this."

  Pressine rummaged in her mind for a persuasive argument. "A few days before it happened, I had a vision of the Viking raid on Iona. Then I defeated Bodvar's longships by summoning a sea-serpent."

  "You?" Elinas squinted at her quizzically for a few seconds. "I know not how I feel about all that magic." He turned away. "With all due respect, Lady Pressine, when it comes to war, I value training and strategy. I concede that luck often determines the outcome of a battle, but I never directly experienced the powers of the gods."

  "You doubt the Goddess?" How could a king refuse her favors? "Why not ask your druid what he thinks of Morgane's vision? Or do you prefer to let Bodvar plunder your kingdom while you make up your mind?"

  The king stopped pacing. His expression stilled and his voice rose with menace. "No one is going to steal my kingdom while I live!"

  "Then you have to trust me." Slowing her breathing, Pressine focused and grounded herself in calmness. She must convince Elinas. "The Goddess never lies," she said, from the deepest place in her soul. "She favors you, my king, and wants to give you foreknowledge. You should accept Her gift."

  The anger vanished from the king’s features. "Although I tend to believe you, I could never tell my barons in council how I came by this information."

  Encouraged by his openness, Pressine rested one hand on his arm. "My brother is a Christian Friar among the Vikings. He could have relayed the warning."

  "A spy among them? Very clever..." The king’s hand covered her fingers. The brown eyes softened. "And if the Vikings do not attack, I can save face by blaming the agent, or his circumstances."

  "But they will attack, my king, and you must act quickly." Finding the contact of his arm distracting, Pressine freed her hand and took two steps back in order to gather her thoughts. "You must assemble the largest army you can manage, then head for the western coast."

  "Since when are you giving your king orders?" The coy smile belied the gruffness of his voice.

  "I beg your forgiveness, my lord. Far from me the thought..."

  "You seem in a hurry to see me gone." Elinas stepped toward her, impossibly close. "Could this all be a ploy to postpone our betrothal?"

  "No." Pressine nestled against his chest. "We can be betrothed before you leave, then wedded when you return victorious. Think of the glory. Alba will see you as the scourge of the Vikings. The Scots, the Picts, and the Angles will look upon you with respect."

  Elinas grinned, enveloping her in strong arms. "I never realized, until I met you, how much I relish the taste of victory."

  Safe in his embrace, Pressine enjoyed his cheerfulness. "With the Goddess at your side, you will see many triumphs."

  His belly laugh shook her body and reverberated throughout the chambers.

  "Amazing, how you make me feel young and ambitious again."

  "It suits you, my lord." She gazed into his hazel eyes, and as if by magic, their lips met for a lusty kiss.

  * * *

  Two days later, Pressine’s heart beat like a Beltane drum as she left her chambers with a retinue of servants for the betrothal walk to the great hall. As she led the cortege, her long hair, crowned with wild flowers, blew in the breeze. She picked up the hem of her white gown to avoid the mud around the midden.

  As a girl, she had often imagined this blessed day. Today, the Goddess would give her a king. But the Goddess would also make him ride to war immediately after the feast. Pressine shivered at the thought. Hard as she tried, she could not foresee the outcome of the battle.

  Around her the girls laughed as they walked. Messengers galloped in and out through the western gate. For the last two days, fast riders had dispatched messages and brought the support of neighboring lords. An army a thousand strong, made of nobles, mercenaries, and freshly levied youths, camped outside the fortifications. Other reinforcement from the westernmost provinces would join the troops near their destination.

  When the small group passed the open gate, Pressine glanced at the camp outside the wall. White, red, and yellow tents had mushroomed on the green slopes around the Roman fort. Tribal kings and barons, come to fight the Vikings, would attend the betrothal before going to battle.

  Their banners hung above the ramparts and fluttered in the morning breeze. The white lion on a field of azure represented Galloway. Pressine also recognized the three gold crowns of Strathclyde, the red poppy of Mochrum, and the three white stars of Murray. Further along the wall flew more pennants, Cunningham with its unicorn, the black cross of Nithdale, the crimson heart of Douglasdale, and the stag of Ayre.

  Pressine led her cortege through the jumble of ox-carts loading supplies from the cellars for the army’s journey. Her long flowing hair, crowned by wild flowers, caught the fragrant breeze. The blare of horns and the yells of the cart drivers punctuated her walk.

  In front of the great hall, royal guards in red uniforms stood at attention in two straight lines, forming an honor path to the door. At the end of the path, under a bower of white lily, ferns, and heather, stood a gnarled druid in white robes.

  Leaving her now silent retinue, Pressine walked the honor path alone.

  As she took her place under the bower, she felt like the young virgin she was, waiting for her beloved to formally claim her as his future bride. The ends of the blue and gold scarf at her waist stirred in the breeze. On her throat, the necklace Elinas had given her two days earlier sparkled in the midday sun.

  Ladies in their best finery, children and noble guests crowded each side of the path behind the guards, to witness the betrothal. Their sudden hush told Pressine the king had arrived.

  Dressed in white, Elinas walked confidently towards her between the two rows of guards. The great sword Caliburn clicked and sparkled on his left hip. How magnificent he look
ed, trimmed beard and hair raven black. A younger man could not have displayed such poise and bearing.

  Even the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchens did not stir Pressine’s appetite. Despite her happiness, her stomach knotted at the thought that Elinas would leave immediately after the feast. What if he were wounded, or worse, slaughtered in battle? What if Caliburn failed to protect him? Suddenly, Pressine wished they had made love when they had the chance.

  The King took his place under the bower on the other side of the druid who smiled benignly. Elinas gazed upon Pressine and grinned as he took her hand. She squeezed his fingers, returning the smile.

  "Let us begin," Elinas ordered.

  The holy man bowed then raised both arms and eyes to the cloudy sky. "In the name of Bel of the Dreadful Eye, and Lugh the Shiny One, and Oghma who invented the alphabet, may all promises be kept in this world as in the otherworld, and may a happy marriage follow this solemn engagement."

  Chanting an incomprehensible litany, the druid circled the bower sunwise three times. Then he dipped a mistletoe sprig in a pail of water from a sacred spring and sprinkled betrothed and guests. Pressine noticed that he did not name the Goddess. A druid would feel more inclined to invoke male gods.

  Mentally, Pressine thanked the Goddess and felt her reassuring presence. When it came to the wedding proper, Morgane would also officiate and make sure the Goddess took part in the invocations.

  Then Elinas produced a wide glistening ring. Holding her hand steady, he slid the jewel onto her finger. Pressine realized with delight that the gold, amber, and jet stone matched the necklace he had given her earlier.

  "My King, it is exquisite!"

  The druid coughed, as if to call everyone’s attention. "In the presence of the Celtic gods, I declare Elinas of Dumfries, King of Strathclyde, and Pressine, Princess of Bretagne, solemnly betrothed, to be lawfully wed at midsummer."

  Flushed with happiness, Pressine let Elinas slide his hand around her waist and bring her close. His kiss lingered, and he held her tight. Her head reeled, and her legs weakened in his embrace.

  Spring flowers showered the couple. The crowd cheered when the double doors of the great hall opened wide behind the bower. Taking Pressine’s hand, Elinas guided her inside, then everyone filed in through the bower after them, to enter the great hall.

  They sat at the banquet tables, arranged in U-shape, with flower garlands and white tablecloth, like for Beltane. But despite the splendid feast, the mead, and the dandelion wine, the merriment in the hall did not match that of the previous agape. Pressine hardly touched the roasted goat, lamb, fowl or goose. Elinas seemed preoccupied, paying much attention to his generals, with whom he discussed military matters.

  As the meal progressed, Elinas dismissed the entertainers, and most of the ladies retired. The celebration turned into a war council, and the charming king metamorphosed into a leader of men.

  Fascinated by the aura of power emanating from Elinas, Pressine wondered whether the Goddess had a hand in it. Everyone deferred to the king’s wisdom, his cunning, his experience. Even old Dewain seemed to admire his knowledge. Barons and chieftains obviously liked and respected him.

  Pressine understood why the Goddess had chosen such a man. In perilous times, Elinas glowed like a beacon of hope. He reminded Pressine of a dragon, wise, mature, dangerous, and full of fire.

  * * *

  By mid afternoon, the army had assembled in ranks outside the wall, and Pressine struggled to control her tears as she faced Elinas in the courtyard, near the gate.

  "Farewell, my betrothed." The king had changed into leather battle gear. Standing by a dappled steed, he blinked against the sun piercing the light clouds and gazed into Pressine's eyes. He seemed unconcerned about the watching crowd.

  Pressine's throat constricted, preventing her from speaking for a moment. Warm tears rolled down her cheek, but she forced a smile, for his sake. "I shall stand on the rampart, when you return victorious, my king. I will pray the Goddess to protect you."

  Elinas took her chin and gently kissed a tear. "I have one good reason to come back, Pressine. Nothing can keep me away from you for long." The horse at his side shook its mane and whinnied impatiently.

  Pressine untied the blue and gold scarf from her waist then slipped it through a leather strap on the king’s left shoulder and fastened a knot. "As a reminder that I expect you back, my lord."

  Gazing at Pressine, Elinas kissed the end of the scarf. "It will remain on my shoulder night and day, until I return to you."

  The king mounted the tall steed, waved once, then galloped through the western gate, toward his army.

  The hoof-beats resounded in her chest as Pressine ran up the wooden stairs leading to the top of the ramparts. Shading her eyes from the sun, she watched as the old druid and two priests from the town walked among the departing troops, bestowing similar blessings with twigs dipped in a pail of water. Pressine shuddered. Christian holy water could sometimes be lethal to her kind.

  Men loaded the dismantled tents on ox-carts. More oxen pulled heavy catapults of wood, metal, leather and rope. At the sound of a horn, Elinas detached himself from a party of barons to take the lead of the column.

  The king rode ahead on the western road, followed by a long line of riders. Soon, they picked up speed and galloped towards the tree line. The infantry marched behind them. Then the train of ox-carts pulling heavy equipment and supplies closed the rear at a sluggish pace.

  "Dear Goddess," Pressine prayed, when the last riders had disappeared into the woods. "Please protect Elinas, and victorious or not, bring him back safe and whole."

  Chapter Eight

  Gwenvael and Bodvar emerged from the woods as the sun dipped in the western sky. Gwenvael straightened in the saddle, stiff muscles screaming for some rest. For many days, he had followed the Viking warlord through rolling hills, highlands, meadows and woods. The barbarian had long since shed his monk disguise and looked like a fierce warrior.

  Spring had melted the snow, but the nights remained cold. Gwenvael never complained, even when Bodvar insisted in traveling all day, stopping only to water the horses, and at nightfall to eat and sleep.

  The daily stew of hare or partridge, felled from the saddle with a sling, lacked the savor of unavailable herbs, or the aroma of roasted venison. The Viking liked his game boiled in a pot but Gwenvael longed for more flavor in his food. Today, no easy prey had crossed their path. They would dine on stale bread, salted fish, and moldy cheese.

  When Bodvar pointed to a towering oak in a meadow, Gwenvael nodded with relief. They dismounted and unloaded the saddlebags. After tethering the horses, Gwenvael gathered dead wood for a campfire. With the branches in place, he knelt to spark a flint stone, then blew softly on the dry grasses he used as tinder.

  "Call your bird," Bodvar ordered gruffly in Norse. "I am hungry."

  Perched on a high bough, the raven cawed in protest, as if sensing danger.

  Gwenvael rose, outraged. "You cannot eat Ogyr!"

  "Why not?" Bodvar’s single blue eye narrowed in challenge.

  "Ogyr is my sister’s pet bird."

  "Birds are for eating and belong in the pot." Bodvar glanced up at the raven in the tree, then selected a round rock on the ground.

  Gwenvael planted himself in front of the Viking to prevent his next move. "You cannot kill him. Ogyr is a friend."

  "Animals are not friends." Bodvar shoved Gwenvael aside. "They cannot save your life in battle," he grumbled.

  "But this bird can." Gwenvael frantically searched for the Norse words among his limited vocabulary. "He is magic."

  Bodvar shrugged, fitting the rock into the leather sling. "Only Odin has magic ravens that tell him the news of the world." He stared at Gwenvael. "And Odin is a great god. You are nothing."

  "But this bird belongs to the Goddess!"

  Ignoring the comment, the Viking swung the leather straps wide. In desperation, Gwenvael broadsided Bodvar who stumbled and caught
himself, letting the rock fly far off the mark. Ogyr flew away toward the woods.

  The Viking’s hand went to his sword hilt. "Are you denying a warrior his meat?"

  Gwenvael trembled. He remembered how, when the rain had prevented all fire, Bodvar had eaten a raw squirrel. Who knew what else this savage was capable of?

  Steel rasped against the scabbard as Bodvar slowly drew his sword.

  But Gwenvael made no move. He could not win against the Viking. Nevertheless, he stood his ground with bravado. "You'll have to kill me first."

  Gwenvael knelt in the grass but kept his head high. God Almighty, have pity on your humble servant.

  Bodvar’s menacing expression turned to disbelief. The big man erupted in raucous laughter that echoed through the nearby woodlands.

  "You look meek, but you have the balls of a Berserker," the Viking bellowed between laughs. "I could have killed you."

  Daring to hope, Gwenvael swallowed hard then rose. When Bodvar slapped him on the shoulder, he staggered but regained his footing.

  "I like your loyalty, even to a bird." The Viking sheathed the sword.

  "So Ogyr will live?" Gwenvael held his breath.

  "Raven meat is not that good anyway." Bodvar made a disgusted face and dismissed the matter with a wave of the hand. Picking up the sling, he motioned toward the woods. "There is enough daylight left to kill something better."

  Glad to be alive, and relieved that Ogyr would not garnish the pot, Gwenvael rushed back to the fire and fanned it so it would not choke.

  They had fox for dinner that night, boiled with dandelion greens. By the light of the campfire, Bodvar smiled below the eye patch. He finished the last of the skin then wiped his moustache with one forearm. "No more mead until we reach Arstinchar."

  Gwenvael considered the empty wineskin with some disappointment. "God will provide..." He had tried to broach the topic of religion many times without success.