Lost Isle, the same day
Exhausted by the strain of summoning the sea serpent, Pressine collapsed into the cool grass at the top of Mount Elenore. Her head swam as she lay, staring at fast scudding clouds, but she grinned. She had summoned the sea serpent all by herself. Such a stretch of her precious gift, however, had sapped her strength.
Ogyr flew down in a flapping of wings and perched on a small bush nearby.
"You did well, my friend," Pressine crooned.
The bird cawed and tilted its head.
"Thanks to us, the Goddess has destroyed this Viking fleet. It will show aunt Morgane how strong I am." But Pressine could not rejoice yet, not until she knew Gwenvael had survived.
"Pressine!" Morgane called from the Orchard below. She sounded short and irritated. Why?
Pressine pushed herself up despite her dizziness, picked the hem of her blue shift and strolled downhill on wobbly legs. When Ogyr alighted on her shoulder, she stumbled but caught herself. As she wove through the apple trees, pink blossoms snowed on her head, and the breeze carried their fragrance as it blew her long dark tresses.
Pressine stopped in front of Lady Morgane, heart pounding. "Did you see what I just did?"
Morgane scowled. "I see all that happens on this isle."
Like Pressine, Morgane wore the royal blue shift tied at the waist by a golden sash, but the lady’s hair hung in a single braid down her back. She squinted into the bright sun that warmed the land after a long winter. "You should have consulted me. You were reckless to attempt this alone."
"But I did it." Pressine refused to let her aunt spoil her victory.
"Abusing our gift for selfish endeavors carries severe consequences," Morgane snapped.
"I know that." Pressine ignored Ogyr who flew off her shoulder. "I only summoned the Goddess for help. She did the work."
The lady pressed her lips together. "But wasn’t your goal to show off your strength? Possibly to impress me?"
Pressine looked down under Morgane’s steely stare and sighed. "Perhaps, a little."
"We must not take pride in our special abilities, child."
"I am sorry." Pressine had enough of one curse on her head, she could not afford to anger Aunt Morgane.
"You look tired." The Lady’s voice softened. "But you handled thesummon flawlessly." The lady almost smiled but not quite. "Next time, let me know before attempting something that dangerous."
"I will." Pressine basked in the recognition. The lady rarely praised anyone. "I want to make sure Gwenvael is safe."
"I sent rafts to fetch the survivors." The lady started down the slope. "I wonder whom the Goddess decided to spare."
Pressine followed at a sedate pace. From this height, she could see most of the island bathed in sunshine, and all around, the magic mist that hung low on the water, like a crown one mile wide. Overhead, Ogyr uttered happy shrieks.
Morgane glanced over her shoulder. "Your reckless enthusiasm may turn against you someday." She sounded concerned. "We need not provoke the Vikings."
"But we won," Pressine crooned, in an attempt to charm her way to forgiveness.
Shaking her head in surrender, Morgane kept walking. "Yes, we did, for now..." When she stopped and turned to wait, her gray eyes softened and she smiled. In that instant, Morgane’s ageless face bore a striking resemblance to Pressine’s mother.
Pressine cast away the thought. She hated her mother for cursing her.
"You need to learn patience, child." The mild reproach in Morgane’s voice stung Pressine.
"You speak like old Merlin." Pressine braced her steps, unwilling to show her fatigue as she caught up with her aunt. "And despite your youthful looks, you think like a crone."
The lady exulted in a clear laugh. "You will, too, in a few centuries. Power comes to us before wisdom, child, but you will learn, in time."
Time... There would be plenty of that.
Morgane grew serious and squeezed Pressine's arm, leading her down the gentle slope. When they reached the circle of stones that crowned the plateau, at the edge of the cliff, the lady sat on a stone bench facing the sea.
"The rescue rafts have not returned yet." She patted the space beside her. "Come sit."
Pressine obliged her and dangled her legs as she looked out to sea above the magic fog. Nothing she could do but wait to find out whether or not Gwenvael lived. Dear Goddess, although my brother is now a Christian, please have mercy on him!
"Did you think about my proposition?" Morgane’s clear voice pierced the breeze.
Pressine frowned at the reminder. Although she understood the necessity to rally the country against the Viking hordes, the sacrifice seemed enormous. "You mean my marriage to that old king?"
Morgane snorted, a strange sound from such a lady. "Thirty-five is not old, child."
The spring breeze made Pressine’s blood rush with strange stirrings. "Is the king handsome despite his age?"
"He is brave and wise." Morgane cast her a side glance. "A widower."
"I would have preferred a dashing young man to take my maidenhood." Pressine bent over and plucked a buttercup from the grass, then tucked the flower in the braid crowning her dark tresses. "They say you never forget your first lover."
"Indeed." Morgane gazed faraway to where the sky met the sea. "I will forever remember Achilles."
"See, what I mean?" Pressine crossed her legs like a scribe on the stone bench. "That is the kind of man I want to marry. Not an old king."
"Demigods and heroes make terrible husbands, child, believe me." A faint smile brushed Morgane’s lips. "But you should have seen Achilles before the ramparts of Troy, shouting insults to Memnon."
Pressine patiently indulged her aunt as the chirping of sparrows intruded. She hoped that when she reached Morgane's advanced age, she would refrain from recounting the same old stories.
"...what a glorious combat, when he killed the Prince of Ethiopia..." Morgane’s gaze searched the azure sky. "Of all the men I loved, Achilles still haunts my dreams."
Pressine’s sigh escaped unbidden. "I guess any kind of service to the Goddess must be better than rotting in this secluded place. I miss home. Does the land of Alba resemble my native Bretagne?"
"Elinas of Dumfries rules over the tribal kings and barons of Strathclyde. You will enjoy the lakes, the forests and the bubbling springs." Morgane’s expression remained neutral. "The country needs a high king to unify and protect the land."
"I would have preferred a Scot, a Pict, even an Angle." Just mentioning the wild northern tribes filled Pressine with tingling curiosity. "Britons are so tame."
Pressine hated the assignment, but she had sworn to serve the Goddess.
Morgane smiled. "I need a royal virgin to seduce him into marriage, a delicate and vivacious beauty wielding the might of the Goddess. With such a brilliant mind, you are the perfect choice."
How Pressine resented Morgane's manipulative ways.
The lady smoothed Pressine's dark hair. "What man could resist these lustrous tresses? Or those eyes, clear as a mountain stream in sunlight?"
Pressine pulled her head back. "How do you propose I make him high king over all of Alba?"
"Do not fear." Morgane squeezed her hand. "The Goddess will provide opportunities and give you signs. Will you obey Her will?"
Although her heart grew heavy, Pressine knew she must obey. "Do you think I can learn to love Elinas, in time?"
Brushing a small sprig from her shift, Morgane sighed. "Do you know the hardest part?"
"No." What terrible secret had Morgane kept from her?
"It is sad to see your mortal lover whither and die while you remain young and vibrant." Morgane paused. "And never underestimate the power of the curse."
"Aye, the curse..." The mention of it made Pressine shudder. She now understood its severity and felt the oppressing threat closing upon her. "I wish I could forget Mother’s cruelty. She ruined my life."
"Hush, little one." Morgane patted her hand. "Nothing you can do but accept your fate. King Elinas must never see you in childbed."
"But, if by misfortune he does?" Pressine’s throat clenched and her voice cracked.
"You will lose each other," Morgane said, matter-of-fact. "The kingdom will wither, the wealth dwindle, and the king’s sons be cursed for nine generations." She stared into Pressine's eyes. "So, will you wed the Briton king?"
Pressine straightened her back and forced down her dread. No one would ever accuse her of shirking her duty. If the Goddess requested she marry King Elinas, so be it. She took a deep breath. "When do I leave?"
"Tuesday, of course. Have you learned nothing of our ways? You of all people should know the most auspicious day to start on a journey."
"Tuesday?" It seemed so sudden.
"You have three days." Lady Morgane rose and glanced down to the shore below. "The first raft is emerging from the mist. Let us go meet the survivors."
Still stunned by the news of her impending departure, Pressine surveyed the beach below. Beyond the surf, a raft approached to the slow rhythm of a paddle. The priestess who had guided the rescue boat through the mists stood on the flat deck.
Pressine scanned the sitting figures huddled on the raft. Dear Goddess, please let it be Gwenvael! She stood up and hurried down the stairs cut in the face of the cliff, a steep shortcut to the beach below.
Gusts of wind whipped her shift, and sea spray dampened her hair. Behind her, Morgane followed at a lady-like pace. A second raft emerged from the mist as Pressine reached the base of the cliff.
She hurried toward the shore, her booted feet sinking into sand. The boatman leapt into shallow surf and dragged the boat onto the wet sand. The silhouettes on deck slowly unfolded.
Desperate to find out whether or not her brother lived, Pressine searched the shivering refugees.
Although she had prayed, the Goddess offered no guarantees. Magic often worked in unexpected ways. Sometimes, it escaped the bonds of the spell and took a life of its own, crushing everything in a destructive frenzy. And on occasion, Pressine had seen people spared by the sea serpent, only to go mad or die of fright.
"Gwenvael!" She called toward the gathered survivors.
When a young man looked up and waved, she ran to her brother. Relief washed over her. Thank you dear Goddess for sparing his life. She hugged him tight and felt his laugh against her chest, then she held him at arm’s length.
"I was spared, sister." The Culdee tonsure made Gwenvael look older. Salt water had reddened his eyes in a pale face. He turned and nodded toward another youth, who supported a dripping giant with long flaxen hair. "This is Prince Bodvar and his son Njal."
A horrible scar twitched on the Viking’s face, as a single blue eye stared into emptiness. Pressine shuddered. She recognized the warlord from a vision, but the man had changed. He looked as if he had just visited the land of the dead and would forever gaze upon it.
"Nidhogg!" the barbarian blurted in a daze. An empty scabbard dangled on his thigh as he leaned heavily on the youth.
Pressine wondered at the foreign word. It sounded ancient.
Gwenvael motioned toward a dozen shivering men, who gratefully accepted blankets from the maidens come to help. "It seems no other Vikings survived the onslaught, only a few Britton slaves."
Pressine stepped aside when Morgane reached the rafts.
After a quick glance at the survivors, the lady addressed the priestess who had guided the rescue through the mist. "Warm them, feed them, and let them sleep in the Druids’ hall. Don’t spare the firewood or the mulled wine. When their color returns, they are free to stay or leave as they choose."
Morgane then pointed at Bodvar. "This man needs help."
The lady nodded to a couple of fishermen who had stopped mending their nets to assist with the refugees. "Bring him to my cottage. Pressine, come with me."
Pressine nodded, curious about the Lady’s intentions.
After the men relieved Njal of his burden, the youth wrapped himself in a blanket. Gwenvael waved at Pressine as he headed toward the druids’ hall with his young friend and the other survivors.
The two fishermen half carried, half led the confused Viking, and followed Morgane who skirted the base of the cliff along the stream. Pressine walked behind them, wondering what Morgane had in mind. If Bodvar had lost his wits, only the Goddess could help him.
As the strange party crossed the village, geese scattered and honked in a flurry of feathers. Pressine held her breath at the stink of urine surrounding the tanning shed. At the laundering pool, women stopped pounding clothes and stared at the drenched Viking with open curiosity. Between the bath house and the dairy, the small party took the lane that wound its way up a grassy hillock in the direction of the cottages.
The beehive-shaped stone buildings, with narrow holes for chimney and windows, served as individual dwellings for the priestesses. One needed privacy to practice the magic arts. Pressine ducked through the hide covering Morgane’s doorway. The small circular room could scarcely hold five people.
Bodvar groaned when the fishermen laid him among the furs on the low pallet. A servant girl brought wool blankets, handed them to Morgane, then rushed out. The fishermen left as another girl carried in steaming bowls of mint brew and broth.
Pressine took the tray from the girl. "Thank you. Now revive the fire and warm some vinegar."
Seemingly unaware of his surroundings, Bodvar whimpered between chattering teeth.
Morgane tugged at the big man's fur vest. "Help me remove his clothes."
Pressine approached the quivering Viking and helped her aunt lift the heavy man's shoulders and pry off his armor plates. Deftly, Pressine loosened the crisscrossed leather straps holding the furry leg coverings. Morgane unlaced the leather jerkin, baring a well muscled chest. After removing the scabbard, belt, and hard leather cod piece, Pressine hesitated.
"Hurry," Morgane pressed as she unfastened the ties at the man’s waist, then she pulled down the wet woolen trews, exposing the Viking's powerful body.
Morgane’s interested gaze coursed the splendid naked man. "What a waste. Look at him."
How could she not look! Pressine had never seen a naked man before, and she suspected this one to be exceptionally healthy. A violent spasm coursed along Bodvar’s body.
Pressine refocused on the task at hand. "Are you going to use magic to revive him?"
Morgane scowled. "You should know better than to ask. Magic is allowed only for the service of the Goddess."
Bodvar muttered incomprehensive foreign words through his trembling.
The serving girl approached the bed, holding a jar with a thick cloth. "The vinegar is hot. And I have brew warming on the hearth."
Morgane took the wrapped jar of vinegar. "You can go now."
After the girl left, Morgane motioned to Pressine. "We must rub the hot alcohol into the skin to warm his blood."
Despite their ministrations, the shivering persisted, even after a blazing fire made the two women glisten with sweat. Pressine trickled hot brew between Bodvar’s chattering teeth, but the barbarian coughed it up and kept shaking uncontrollably.
Pressine felt his forehead. "Still cold as a frozen brook."
"He needs body warmth." A twinkle danced in Morgane's eyes. She took a sharp breath. "We shall hold him between us, skin against skin."
Nodding, Pressine discarded shift and boots. She kept only her linen chemise, but when Morgane disrobed entirely, Pressine did the same. The Viking’s nakedness felt like ice against her round breasts and flat belly.
She tried to ignore the warrior’s shriveled maleness. Should she feel excited like Morgane? Pressine did not find the experience arousing at all. Focusing on the shivering body, she willed her heat to infuse the giant’s skin and stiff muscles.
Covering themselves with wool blankets, the two women huddled with Bodvar under the covers. It took a while, but the tremors finally abated and some warmth returned to his skin. As Pressine stepped off the pallet and reached for her chemise, the man’s eye opened and bulged.
"Nidhogg!" he screamed.
"His mind is gone." Pressine slipped on her chemise and shift. Then she stuffed the bed with warm stones from the hearth. That done, she fed the Viking some more broth. "What’s Nidhogg?"
"Dread-biter, the scourge of the Viking gods." Morgane, now in her chemise, stirred a potion in a wooden bowl. It smelled of chamomile with a hint of bitter poppy. "In Norse legends, Nidhogg takes the shape of an evil dragon to devour corpses and gnaw at the root of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life."
Awed by the extent of Morgane knowledge, Pressine understood. "Then Bodvar thinks the sea-serpent is this Nidhogg dragon?"
"So it seems." Morgane poured the potion into a bowl. "This will help him sleep. Tonight, I shall make him whole again."
Pressine meant to ask how, but Morgane’s expression, as she ushered her out the door, barred any further question.
* * *
Bodvar remained in Morgane's cottage for the next two days, and the lady forbade anyone to come near. What secret magic did she weave around the Viking prince? Not that Pressine wanted to visit. She had little time to spare. An expedition to woo a king required much planning and preparations.
The best seamstresses on the isle sewed rich dresses in haste. Skilled stitchers also added gold and silver trim to her finest clothes. More importantly, Pressine supervised the removal of her personal treasures from the secret cave for her royal dowry.
* * *
The night before Pressine's departure, two score of priestesses, young and old, gathered around the moonlit circle of stones on the top of the cliff to celebrate the full moon and bless Pressine’s mission. They invoked the Goddess, circling sunwise, weaving between the monoliths as they chanted the song that binds heaven and earth.
Dressed in a thin white robe, Pressine drank the bitter potion. The air charged with the might of the chant made it difficult to breathe, but she felt ready to be empowered for her sacred endeavor. She approached the central stone slab with confidence then reclined upon it.
Morgane unsheathed a long sword that reflected the moonlight and rested it upon Pressine. In the chilly night, pinned between the cold rock at her back and the naked blade flat on the length of her body, Pressine stared at the stars. Her cold fingers enfolded the hilt that formed a cross between her breasts.
When the chanting ended, Morgane faced the low altar where Pressine lay. The lady raised both hands towards the moon.
"O Mother Goddess, Mistress of light and darkness, empower your maiden, and the sword Caliburn forged in the otherworld by Gofannon, god of smithcraft. Render woman and blade enticing to Elinas, the chosen high king of Alba. Give Pressine strength in the struggle to come, protect her from malevolence, and grant her victory in your name."
A current raced through the sword from point to hilt, warming Pressine's body. She tingled with bursts of warm energy that emitted a blue radiance. In the glowing aura above her, the Goddess appeared as a sea serpent unleashing its fury upon an invisible enemy. When the serpent entered the sword, Caliburn’s blade shook with life in Pressine's grip then shone blue before resting, inanimate but warm, on her supine body.
Offering thanks to the Goddess, the priestesses closed the ritual with a chant of gratitude. Flushed by the experience, Pressine rose and returned the blade to its bejeweled scabbard. Then the ladies filed out of the stone circle and down the steps of the cliff, and Pressine carried the empowered sword into her cottage.
On the way there, the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread from the feast in the druid’s hall reminded Pressine she had nothing to eat all day. After wrapping Caliburn in blue silk, she stored it in a travel chest. Then she hurried to the feast, guided by the heavenly aroma and the sound of laughter.
She stopped on the threshold to search for Gwenvael. Around the central fire illuminating the high-vaulted building, druids and ladies sat in a wide circle on the rushes covering the flagstone. Among them, the survivors of the battle looked fully recovered. Morgane did not preside at the feast, neither did the Viking, and Pressine wondered at their absence.
With a pang of regret, Pressine realized it would be her last celebration in the Lost Isle. She spotted her brother and his new friend, Njal. As she joined them and sat cross-legged, they welcomed her in their midst. On thick bread trenchers, the cooks served roasted lamb with dandelion greens, then hot cakes. The goat cheese on fresh bread with salted butter tasted wonderful.
Pressine ate and drank the sweet fermented juice of apples and reminisced with Gwenvael about their childhood. Late into the night they laughed and sang. Older folks retired while scattered revelers still conversed in low tones. At the edge of the glow from the fire, isolated silhouettes retreated to the corners of the hall and spread their blankets to sleep.
After Njal took his leave, Gwenvael scooted closer to Pressine. He looked fearful. His foreskull, freshly shaved from ear to ear, gleamed in the orange glow of the flames.
His brow furrowed. "Are you taking your dowry with you?"
"Aye." Pressine smiled. "What royal bride would not come with plenty of gold and silver? I will also carry special gifts from the Lady Morgane."
Gwenvael shook his head. "'Tis dangerous to travel with such a fortune. Without a war band, I mean... I had an armed escort when I brought it here."
"Trust me." Pressine laid one hand on her young brother's shoulder to reassure him. "The Goddess protects Her own."
"I hope she does." Gwenvael tightened the blanket around his shoulders. "Lucky our royal father provided for you."
Pressine smiled at his innocence. "Luck had naught to do with it. We make our own destiny."
A log collapsed in the fire, sending incandescent sparks to the high ceiling, and beyond through the smoke hole.
Gwenvael glanced up. "Mother often asked about you."
"Never mention her in front of me." Pressine regretted her sharp tone, but she shook inside at the very thought of her mother’s cruelty.
Gwenvael shook his head in a way that reminded Pressine of the little boy he had been. "I admire your independence, sister. It takes courage to follow the Goddess."
"I have no other choice." Pressine stared into the embers, realizing she would never be free to choose her destiny. She swallowed the knot in her throat. "But things are as they should be." She looked up and smiled. "What of our beloved Bretagne?"
A boy servant threw a new log on the ebbing fire, eliciting a shower of crackling ambers. New flames rose and hissed.
Gwenvael spat into the fire as if to ward off evil. "Just when we change the name of Armorica to Bretagne to fit us Britons, our father king sells our country to the Franks. It sickens me. Armorica was wild and free. What good is a country called Bretagne, if it pays tribute to the Franks?"
"It’s all because of the Christian shrew who stole our mother’s king." Pressine could not help the scorn in her voice. "At least, she will never bear any pups."
Pressine had made sure of that when she had cursed the princess to remain barren. But Pressine had paid dearly for the vengeful deed. In return, her mother punished her with a curse of her own.
Gwenvael sighed. "Becoming a Christian makes our father a powerful man. King Salomon of Bretagne, Paladin-knight of Charlemagne!"
Drawing a finger to her mouth, Pressine nodded toward the sleeping silhouettes in the shadows then whispered, "Perhaps our father king tried to spare his people unnecessary war, and maybe he was right."
Gwenvael nodded gravely. "Perhaps."
Pressine shivered despite the fire, remembering how, as a child, she had misjudged her father. "But why did Father refuse Merlin's help in times of need?"
"The odds were against him," Gwenvael whispered. "Charlemagne and his bishops believe druids are evil."
"But you are a Christian monk and you do not," Pressine observed flatly. "And Charlemagne himself takes counsel from a seer, the Great Malagigi."
The light of the flames danced on Gwenvael’s smile. "Malagigi is an enchanter, not a sorcerer."
"I see no difference." Pressine shrugged. "Just another name for the same purpose."
Gwenvael laid his hand on hers, a reassuring gesture from childhood. "You cannot keep the world from changing, sister. Yesterday the druids, today the Goddess against Charlemagne's bishops, tomorrow, who knows? If we are not careful, we could be worshiping Viking gods."
Pressine stared at her brother in surprise. "What are you saying?"
"I fear the raids over the past few years are only the beginning of a great invasion." Gwenvael glanced up at her, as if wondering how much to tell. "They want all the land."
"How do you know that?" Pressine considered her brother with renewed interest. "You renounced your gifts."
"Njal told me." Gwenvael’s soft brown eyes gazed at her in earnest.
Pressine shuddered at the memory of her visions. "I saw them terrorize the people of this land. That is why I agreed to marry King Elinas, to give him a better chance to fight back."
Gwenvael remained quiet for a moment. "I think I found my calling."
"Calling?" the word sounded strange to Pressine.
"I must convert the Vikings to the gentle ways of our Lord Jesus." Gwenvael looked too young and frail for such a task. "I shall go among them and preach, like St. Columba among the Picts."
Pressine cringed at such a dangerous task, but she understood. At least, the Christians were civilized. Still, she feared for her only brother. "I hope your god protects you well."
"I trust He will." Gwenvael flashed a strained smile.
"Promise me you will be careful." Pressine shivered and tightened the shawl around her shoulders. She had serious misgivings at the threshold of this new life.
* * *
On Tuesday morning, the islanders stood on the shore to bid farewell to Pressine and her retinue. Two large flat boats with sails, ready to carry the party to Alba, bobbed gently just a few white-crested waves away from shore.
Through the shallow water, villagers led stubborn ponies and oxen to the large boats. On the shore, bleating goats, sheep and skittish horses awaited their turn. Servants also loaded barrels of grain and mead for the journey.
Seven boys and seven girls between the ages of ten and twelve, dressed in blue tunics, each with a golden sash, now boarded the boats to escort Pressine on her journey. Ogyr circled overhead. When the raven shrieked, Pressine glanced back.
Morgane walked toward her on the beach with Bodvar, Gwenvael, and the young Njal. To Pressine’s surprise, Bodvar held Morgane by the waist in a possessive embrace. He looked fully recovered, coherent, and a new leather patch covered his missing eye. He smiled contentedly.
How did the Lady manage that miracle? Pressine took mental note of this unconventional healing method. Bodvar’s tender demeanor and clean attire did not suit him. The fearsome Viking looked like a silly white bear.
Morgane’s aura radiated with the afterglow of lovemaking. "Bodvar and Gwenvael will accompany you to your destination before joining the Viking fleet in the northern wilderness."
Concerned, Pressine turned to Gwenvael. "Are you certain you will be safe with him?"
"Quite." Gwenvael beamed. "The Lord answered my prayers. Bodvar wants to make me his blood brother for saving his life. He will take care of me. I hope to make him my first convert."
Glancing at the formidable barbarian, Pressine felt troubled. "Truly? You trust him?"
"He vowed on his honor as prince and warrior." Gwenvael chuckled. "Besides, Njal is staying here with Morgane, as some kind of hostage."
Morgane ruffled the younger boy's hair. "I can educate the little weasel. His mother is a Celtic princess. A prince of mixed blood might come in handy when peaceful alliances are called for." She patted her belly. "I also have another child in reserve, just to be sure."
Pressine rolled her eyes. Morgane carried the Viking’s bastard! No wonder she bathed in radiance.
Bodvar nodded as if he understood. His raucous laugh blended with the sound of the surf. He gave Morgane a lusty kiss that made Pressine turn away with embarrassment. How she wished someone kissed her like that.
Gwenvael and Njal clasped arms in farewell.
Then Morgane held Pressine at arm's length. "If you need any help at all, use the water basin or send me Ogyr. In any case, let me know about your progress." She hugged Pressine and whispered against her cheek, "You will never be very far from my thoughts, child."
Pressine would miss the sweet lavender fragrance of Morgane’s hair. She struggled not to choke on her words. "Thank you, Aunt Morgane."
"I will keep you in my sight. And if you cannot contact the Goddess on your own, I shall inform you of Her wishes."
Boots in hand, hitching up her skirt, Pressine waded into the foaming surf, followed by Gwenvael and Bodvar. A gust of wind billowed her skirt. She did not glance back, fearing Morgane would see her tears. Once on the flat barge, where her coffers and her retinue waited, Pressine waved to Morgane.
Bodvar and Gwenvael pushed the boat out to sea then climbed on deck. Pressine’s vessel passed the second boat to take the lead into the mist. Standing at the prow, Pressine faced the cloudy veil, arms open and eyes closed.
"O mighty Goddess, lead us safely through the mists."
In her mind, Pressine visualized the rocky coast. She heard Ogyr's cries far ahead, but everyone remained silent during the passage through the fog. Only the rhythmic grating and splashing of the oars punctuated the raven's calls. Then she felt the warmth of the morning sun on her face. The cheers of sailors and passengers told her they had emerged on the other side of the mist.
Thanking the Goddess, Pressine opened her eyes to behold the scintillating sea. She glanced back to check on the second boat. Reassured, Pressine noticed Bodvar’s expression of intense relief. She smiled inwardly. The Viking would not soon forget his encounter with the sea serpent... or the Lady of the Isle.
The rugged coast Pressine had seen so close in her mind, still lay far ahead beyond the horizon. The boats would follow it north to Galloway. When the sailors stilled the oars and unfurled the sails, a strong breeze made the boat lurch forward. The Goddess had blessed them with good wind.
Nausea rose to Pressine’s gullet. Was it the swell of the waves, or the sudden realization that she now stood alone in the face of an impossible task? How could she unite the many tribes of Alba against the Viking aggressor? For the first time in her life, Pressine felt small and vulnerable in the face of such a responsibility.
Sensing the prickly drill of an unfriendly stare on her back, Pressine turned for a glimpse of Bodvar, her sworn enemy... The Viking held her gaze then turned away and exchanged barbarian words and sign language with Gwenvael.
What would become of her brother? What awaited Pressine in Alba? Would she even like King Elinas?