Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  Bodvar planted his knife in the ground and admired the loose wicker frame he had fashioned. Then with great care, he proceeded to slip the fox pelt, like a sleeve, over the frame. "All the gods are barely enough to look after the world. How could one single god possibly do the job properly?"

  Gwenvael lacked the words to explain the concept of monotheism. "My god is more powerful than all the Norse gods together."

  Bodvar’s brow shot up in warning. Then he shook his head slowly and mumbled something in his beard as he smoothed and stretched the skin.

  Gwenvael sighed but did not pursue the matter, unwilling to antagonize the Viking.

  "Tomorrow..." Bodvar threw his handiwork on the pile of curing pelts collected during the trip and similarly prepared. "We feast and get drunk, and we sleep in Arstinchar."

  "Your camp? Really?" Gwenvael glanced around at the moonlit countryside. "All these hills look the same. How do you know we are close?"

  "I saw a seagull." Satisfied by his explanation, Bodvar lay down on his sleeping fur, closed his good eye, and started snoring.

  Gwenvael slept better that night, knowing that the arduous trip would soon end. The grueling pace imposed by Bodvar had considerably shortened their journey.

  Awake before sunrise, Gwenvael saddled and loaded the horses. By the time the sun warmed the dew on the meadows, the two riders had climbed up and down several craggy hills. Toward midmorning, Bodvar slowed his mount and waited for Gwenvael to catch up. He pointed straight ahead, to the northwest.

  "Behind that hill is the sea."

  Gwenvael stared at the hillock facing them. "How can you tell?"

  "A sailor can always smell the sea." Bodvar laughed then made a show of sniffing the breeze.

  Gwenvael filled his lungs. Closing his eyes, he could detect salt spray, seagulls, fish, and seaweed. Indeed, the air had a different quality, reminding him of the monastery in Iona.

  The two travelers rode on, and by noon they crested their last hill. Shading his eyes, Gwenvael gazed at the scintillating sea.

  In the bay, a great fleet lay at anchor. Row upon row of longships bobbed on the waves, sails furled, inside a harbor fenced with a palisade of partially sunken stakes. The sharp points, jutting at a dangerous angle above the surface, forbade any illicit entry or surprise invasion.

  Gwenvael estimated the number of ships to about a hundred Drakkars, a dozen merchant longships black from the pitch that coated their hull, and a myriad fishing boats.

  At the edge of the bay, a large fortified settlement straddled the mouth of a river. Tall mud embankments, separated by wide moats full of shiny water, guarded the swarming borough. Long houses buried in turf resembled upside-down truncated boats, forming rectangular patterns around central courtyards. Smoke from many hearths fanned into the breeze.

  "God Almighty! Arstinchar is no camp. It is the biggest town I have ever seen!" Gwenvael must have sounded like an ignorant farmer but did not care.

  Bodvar laughed at his surprise. "Springtime!" he exclaimed. "My brothers have come from Gotland, my home land."

  With no other comment, the Viking spurred his big horse down the slope, sending clumps of sod flying in its wake. Ogyr took flight.

  Gwenvael sent his bay into a gallop after Bodvar, yelling encouragements to the horse. Lagging behind in enemy territory would be unwise.

  The two travelers rode through the southern gate. They crossed the moats on wooden bridges connecting a maze of imposing clay walls. Flat and wide at the top, the walls allowed sentries to walk their lofty lengths.

  The Vikings cheered when they recognized their prince. They clanged swords and axes on round shields in an enthusiastic welcome. Those who had no shield brandished their favorite weapon and yelled at the top of their lungs. Soon the noise rose to a deafening din.

  Gwenvael felt rather vulnerable among so many barbarians, but God would protect him. After all, he had come to do His work, convert these barbarians to Christianity.

  Gwenvael and Bodvar dismounted amidst the clamor. Boys wearing slave necklets led the horses away. Bodvar motioned for Gwenvael to follow him into the central longhouse. Green turf topped the curving clay walls. Bodvar went in, stooping through an impossibly low door, half the height of a man.

  Surprised, Gwenvael hesitated. Laughter erupted from inside. When he bent under the lintel to follow, Bodvar mimicked the action of slicing off his head. Gwenvael shuddered.

  "Only one entrance." Bodvar winked. "One warrior can defend the house by himself." He shooed away several female slaves who ran into an adjacent room.

  "Clever." Gwenvael nodded. And bone chilling deadly.

  The tiny windows, covered with hide oiled to the point of translucency, could not accommodate even a child’s body. Whoever tried to snake through the central smoke hole in the roof would inevitably land into the fire, which burned bright and hot.

  On four sides of the central room, a raised wooden platform, like a wide bench, two feet high and three feet wide, served to sit and socialize. Gwenvael noticed the ample storage space underneath, filled with jars, barrels, coffers, and wineskins. In one corner, a pit containing refuse served as an indoor midden. In another corner, a pile of dry dung waited to feed the fire.

  The central room had one door on each end, opening into smaller rooms. From the door to the left emerged a beautiful woman with long auburn hair and startling emerald eyes. Although she wore a slave necklet and a dress of rough maroon wool, her proud bearing bespoke a noble birth.

  The woman faced Gwenvael, then Bodvar. "What have you done with our son?" she asked, in Gaelic. Tiny lines of worry crinkled the delicate skin around her eyes.

  "Njal is safe, Cliona," the Viking said in Gaelic, with only a hint of foreign accent. "I left him in fosterage to the Ladies of the Lost Isle. My son needs to study his Celtic heritage."

  "Thank you for honoring my ancestry, my lord." Cliona bowed stiffly.

  Gwenvael smiled at the woman’s credulity, certain that Bodvar had ulterior motives. But maybe the woman just played Bodvar’s pride. Then Gwenvael realized that Bodvar had spoken in fluent Gaelic. The sly fox understood and could speak the language all along.

  A trace of fright froze Cliona’s lovely features as she stared at Bodvar. "Who told you about the Lost Isle?"

  "My friend." Bodvar clasped Gwenvael’s shoulder and winked at his surprise. "From now on, I want you to serve him just as you served me. Now go."

  Raising her emerald gaze to Gwenvael, Cliona smiled in a way that made him blush, then she left the room.

  Gwenvael wanted to protest the services of the slave but instead freed himself from the Viking’s grip to voice his outrage. "So you understood Gaelic all this time? Why did you pretend not to?"

  "Just because we Vikings do not write, does not mean we are ignorant. Of course we speak our enemy’s language. Even the strongest warrior is useless without cunning." Bodvar grinned. "It made you learn Norse faster, yes?"

  Gwenvael struggled to hide his shame at being manipulated. "How many languages do you speak, then?"

  "The languages of all the countries where we trade. We learn from our slaves. During raids, we pretend not to understand, so the enemy will speak freely." Bodvar winked. "We hear useful information that way."

  Suddenly, everything made sense. In many instances, Bodvar had not reacted as expected because he already knew. He had remained calm and serene among the Ladies. Gwenvael wondered whether Lady Morgane had detected the subterfuge, inwardly smiling at the thought that, perhaps, she had been duped as well.

  "Come!" Bodvar walked toward the door. "I will show you around and we must wash up before the feast. Then we can enjoy good food, good mead, and the warmth of women."

  Gwenvael’s cheeks grew hot at the last comment. He had little experience with drink and none with women. His fostering among the Ladies and his life as a friar had sheltered him from the crude realities of village life. Would he know how to behave if put to the test? He secretly hoped to find out soo
n.

  When he stepped out of the stuffy house with Bodvar, Gwenvael welcomed the invigorating sea-breeze. The day had started to fade under an overcast sky, and the wind blew from the sea.

  Bodvar glanced at the sky. "It smells like rain."

  Everywhere warriors and slaves busied themselves around smoky fires. The aroma of baking bread escaped from small earthen ovens, while other kilns fired clay bricks. Beneath a lean-to, a sword smith forged a blade. It hissed and steamed as he plunged it into a tub of strong smelling urine.

  Further down the main fare, various kinds of meat and fish simmered in large pots hanging from iron tripods over open fires. The sweet-sour smell of honey emanated from large vats of fermenting mead. Strings of herrings hung over a smoky fire.

  Gwenvael recognized the reek of a tanning shed as they passed it. A herd of reindeer pastured in a grassy square, watched by children. When he neared the stables, Gwenvael thought he heard the whinny of his bay. He wondered where Ogyr had gone but trusted the raven to hide at a safe distance.

  Everywhere, warriors saluted Bodvar with the enthusiasm of a friend or the respect due a prince. The Viking led Gwenvael to a storage longhouse near the harbor. Made of hewn timber, the building had a wide open door, revealing a wealth of trading goods.

  "Look," Bodvar boasted, hooking both thumbs in his belt.

  Gwenvael stared at riches beyond imagining. Mountains of ivory tusks, fine furs, balls of wool, ironware, grindstones, rope, tallow, masts, bronze anchors, antlers, wooden chests, baskets full of gold, silver coins, jewelry. Leather goods hung from walls and rafters, or lay in piles stacked to the ceiling.

  "Where does all this come from?" Gwenvael scanned the building for the heavy coffer stolen during the raid on Iona’s monastery but failed to see it.

  "Gotland, Osterland, Iceland, Greenland, Vinland... See this?" He picked up the end of a rope hanging from a huge iron hook on the wall, and handed it to Gwenvael.

  Heavier than hemp rope, the tightly braided material had a sleek gray texture, like the rigging of the Viking Drakkars.

  "Sealskin," Bodvar explained. "The best rope for boat rigging." The Viking took a few steps and lifted from a pile a straight tusk of white ivory, wonderfully convoluted, as if sculpted and polished by a skillful artist. "And this is a unicorn."

  "But unicorns are magic and belong to the world of fae. They never venture among regular people." The sheer horror of unicorn hunting chilled Gwenvael to the heart.

  "Never seen any myself." Bodvar shrugged and handed the ivory to Gwenvael. "It's the single tooth of a fish called narwhal. Very rare and valuable. The other tusks against the wall are walrus."

  As he set the ivory back on the pile, Gwenvael wondered why the storage house was not guarded. Such riches would surely tempt any barbarian in Arstinchar.

  "And what kind of shoes are these?" Instead of a flat sole, a long sharp blade of bone protruded lengthwise under the leather footwear.

  "These are for sliding on the ice." The Viking took wide steps, moving his arms, as if running in slow motion. "We call them ice-skates. You can also unstrap the bone blade and wear the shoes without them."

  A young Viking with long blond ringlets reaching to his ankles stormed into the storage house. His blue eyes twinkled as he smiled brightly. Pink lips and white teeth flashed in a sparse beard. "By Thor’s thunder, it is good to see you again, Brother."

  As if stung, Bodvar whirled, drawing his sword to strike down the newcomer, but his blade met with the steel of a broad axe. Both warriors held each other’s stare, arms trembling under the strain of their powerful lock. The veins at their temples swelled and pulsed, while their faces reddened in a contest of pure strength. Suddenly, both Vikings relaxed and exploded in laughter. Dropping the weapons, they clasped each other in a manly embrace.

  "Your speed and strength have improved, Ragnar. Always prepared to defend yourself, even against your favorite brother. You have learned much."

  "I had the best teacher." Ragnar winked.

  From Bodvar’s proud smile, Gwenvael gathered that he had taught his brother how to fight.

  Bodvar sobered and his gaze softened. "What news of our father?"

  Ragnar gave Bodvar a puzzled look then glanced at Gwenvael. A Culdee friar with a fuzzy tonsure and no slave necklet would indeed raise suspicion in a Viking settlement.

  "You can talk." Bodvar sat himself on a pile of furs. "I owe him my life."

  Ragnar flashed Gwenvael a quick, wolfish grin then returned his attention to his brother.

  "King Alrik’s health is good enough, but the young men of our beloved homeland are restless. They grow tired of Gotland’s long winters and poor crops. The reports of plunder and rich lands in the south and the west are tempting."

  Gwenvael could not believe the barbarians would so casually divide the lands of Alba like a prize.

  "New hordes, commanded by young nobles, take to the sea each spring. Many never return."

  "And what prompted you to leave our father’s hall?" Bodvar’s brow shot up.

  Ragnar sighed. "I came to carve myself a kingdom. You were right after all. Our father has too many sons."

  "A pack of wolves! Killing each other for his kingdom. One day, they will kill him, too." Bodvar spit as if to avert a curse then relaxed into a smile. "But there is enough land in these isles for both of us. I plundered Britannia for ten years and the loot only gets better. Welcome to the land of plenty, Brother."

  Gwenvael’s gasp went unnoticed by the two Vikings, too engrossed in their rejoicing to pay attention to him.

  Ragnar’s blue eyes twinkled. "I brought a great army. Tonight we celebrate, and tomorrow we sail south to find me a summer kingdom. I would be honored if you joined my raid."

  Bodvar smiled widely. "With pleasure. A warrior gets rusty when he does not fight. Which lands shall we conquer?"

  "The lowlands just south of the territory occupied by the Scots." Ragnar spoke fast, with the enthusiasm of the young.

  A shadow crossed Bodvar’s forehead. "Are you sure that is the land you want?"

  "It is the best suited," Ragnar explained. "And the most vulnerable kingdom, if my spies told the truth."

  After a short hesitation, Bodvar rose. "Then you shall have it!" He clapped Ragnar’s back.

  Gwenvael barely contained his rage. How could Bodvar plan to invade Pressine’s kingdom despite the promise he had made to the Ladies?

  "Tonight, we feast." Ragnar squeezed Bodvar’s shoulder then walked out of the storage house.

  "What about your son, Njal?" Gwenvael could not believe Bodvar’s treachery. "You left him with Morgane as a hostage. What will happen to him?"

  "Nothing." Bodvar laughed. "Women would never harm an innocent boy."

  "But you gave your word!" Outrage strangled Gwenvael’s voice.

  "A warrior must take advantage of every circumstance. Things change." Bodvar stepped outside. "I will take you to the sauna. I shall see you later at the feast."

  Stunned by the betrayal, Gwenvael fell silent. Dispirited, he followed Bodvar through the settlement, wondering how he could warn Pressine of the upcoming raid. He had to find Ogyr.

  * * *

  Pressine’s heart rejoiced at the sight of Gwenvael’s reflection on the calm surface of the water basin. Surrounded by naked Vikings in a cloud of steam, he submitted to a slow massage by young females in scant clothing. Pressine smiled at his shyness. He looked well, even strengthened by the long journey, judging by the added muscle on his wiry frame.

  Pressine wished Gwenvael could see her, or at least hear her thoughts, but her brother had renounced and lost his gifts to embrace the Christian faith. She should be grateful he survived baptism. Even now, he searched for a way to warn her, unaware that she had witnessed the conversation between the two Viking princes. Although she did not grasp their language, Pressine had followed their thoughts. Their duplicity only confirmed Morgane’s prediction of the coming raid.

  Not far from Gwenvael, a sto
ut warrior straddled a lusty lass. Uncomfortable, Pressine erased the image with a wave of the hand. The water surface misted over.

  When it cleared again, the basin reflected the beloved face of Elinas. Sitting in council amongst his barons, he looked grave, preoccupied, restless. Pressine’s heart went out to him. She missed him, wishing she had followed him to war, but she knew quite well that the king would refuse to place her in any danger. She sent him thoughts of love, woven in a spell of protection.

  Elinas relaxed and looked up, straight at her, surprise in his eyes. "Pressine?" Not a question, but a cry of delight.

  Overwhelmed, Pressine realized that he had felt and recognized her presence. Warm currents of energy poured from her whole being toward the man she loved. He now looked happy and full of vitality. Suddenly Pressine understood why the Goddess had chosen Elinas. From a faraway past, traces of Fae blood flowed in his veins.

  * * *

  Back to Bodvar’s longhouse, Gwenvael berated himself for refusing the slave’s sexual advances in the sauna. Where did he ever get the notion to save himself for a special woman? Or was he simply afraid of displaying his inexperience?

  In the end room assigned to him, Gwenvael unpacked his meager bundle. Since he had no clean clothes, he gladly accepted the Viking attire the lovely Cliona had laid out for him.

  The woolen leggings, hemp shirt, leather jerkin, and laced fur boots were big for him but felt comfortable enough. The sword, however, hampered his movements. Not only did he have to carry the awkward weapon at all times, but Bodvar wanted him to practice sword fighting.

  Gwenvael sighed. What could he do in his present situation but conform? Perhaps, he would grow from the experience.

  Careful not to be noticed by the slaves in the adjacent room, Gwenvael furrowed among his possessions. He found some parchment and cut out a small piece with his knife. He pulled a quill and black ink from his pack then scratched a short message. After blowing to dry the ink, he tucked the message into his shirt.