After her meeting with Elinas at the spring, Pressine’s mind brimmed with hope. She hummed as she rode the white mare back to camp. Gwenvael and the Viking had already folded the tents and readied the caravan. Smiling, Pressine gave the order to move on.
When she took the head of the line, Gwenvael and Bodvar gave her puzzled glances and mounted to ride at her side. The Viking looked silly in the gray robe of a monk, designed to conceal his blond hair and his warrior’s physique.
"So, how is the king?" Gwenvael’s eagerness betrayed his youth.
Pressine smiled dreamily at the memory of the encounter. "He is dark and handsome, and not old at all." She patted the royal sword hanging at her side. "And I own his soul." Alas, she wished it were that simple.
The caravan followed the wide Roman road at a leisurely pace, through the forest full of fragrant blossoms and bird songs. Child servants on foot flanked the heavy ox carts loaded with sacks, barrels, and richly ornamented chests. Sheep and goats closed the rear, bleating and grazing, as children prodded them forward with sticks.
Despite Gwenvael's pleasant conversation, Pressine’s mind returned to the spring and to Elinas. She had known from Ogyr’s cries that the king had spied on her before showing himself, but he displayed impeccable manners. He looked young and handsome, but level-headed, and in total command of himself.
Seducing him would take cunning. What if she failed? But Morgane and the Goddess counted on Pressine. She must succeed. Besides, she enjoyed the challenge, and she looked forward to her next meeting with King Elinas of Strathclyde.
By mid morning, the small party emerged from the forest, in full sight of the walls protecting Dumfries castle. The fortified Roman fort stood atop a green hillock dominating a fork in the river Nith. Unlike most forts made of timber palisades, the rectangular fortress had thick stone walls and square towers jutting proudly at each corner.
Cottages spread along the river, while all around, the forest had been cleared to make room for fields and meadows. At the base of the hill, a military camp of many large round tents spread along the bank of the Nith, controlling the stone bridge and the wide Roman way. In a field beyond the camp, soldiers trained with swords and spears.
Pressine halted her mare and turned to her brother. It saddened her to say farewell again. For how long, this time? "This is where we part."
Gwenvael turned in the saddle to face Bodvar.
With his single eye, the Viking stared, not at the fortress but at the stone arches of the Roman bridge spanning the river. He said something in Norse.
Gwenvael seemed to grapple with the words then nodded and turned to Pressine. "He has never seen a stone bridge."
"Truly?" She stared at the ordinary structure.
Pressine remembered the many Roman bridges of her native Bretagne. The willows and alders lining each bank also reminded her of home. So did Gwenvael's presence.
"Is this the way you go?" Her voice wavered as she motioned with her chin toward the fork in the road before the bridge.
"Aye." Gwenvael glanced north along the river. "The road leads to the Antonine wall."
Struggling not to shed tears, Pressine changed the subject. "Elinas picked quite a strategic location for his garrison." The stronghold inspired respect for the king of Strathclyde. "From here, he can dispatch quickly to any part of his kingdom."
Gwenvael patted the neck of his impatient bay gelding. "On such a good road, we can reach Dalriada in two days."
"Be careful among the Scots. They do not like Britons much." Pressine gave Bodvar a sidelong glance. She did not trust the barbarian. "Especially a Briton traveling with a Viking."
"Do not fret, sister. They will respect a Culdee friar."
Pressine rolled her eyes at the Viking’s poor disguise. "Even under a deep cowl, he may not fool a Scot."
Gwenvael dismounted, then helped Pressine down from her mount.
He winked at his sister. "Arstinchar, the Viking camp, lies far north in the wilderness. We will not tarry in the towns."
"I wish you luck in your daring endeavor, brother." Pressine pointed to the sword hanging over his gray robes. "I always thought holy monks led sheltered lives, but war has a way of changing things." She embraced him, unable to contain the tears that rolled down her cheeks.
"Be safe, sister." Gwenvael wiped her tears. "I hope for his sake that Elinas treats you well, or he will answer to my sword."
"I will give him no other choice." Pressine forced a smile. Emitting a bird cry, she called Ogyr. Immediately, the raven came to perch on her gloved hand. She cooed soft words, caressing the bird’s head, then set the raven on Gwenvael’s shoulder. "Keep Ogyr with you. If you ever are in danger, send him to me with a message."
After helping Pressine remount the white mare, Gwenvael hopped onto his gelding and spoke a few Norse words to Bodvar.
The Viking grinned, baring a row of strong teeth. He raised one hand in farewell then prompted his big horse along the northern road. Ogyr cawed a goodbye as Gwenvael followed.
Pressine watched them ride away then turned and led her party over the bridge, toward the imposing fortifications. On top of the gray rampart, watchful soldiers stared into the distance, searching the tree line. No doubt they had been watching her party.
No challenge came from the twin towers or the guards at the Western gate. The soldiers on duty bowed respectfully and let the wealthy party inside. Pressine returned the salute with a nod. To the eyes of a guard, rich ladies and their entourage must always be welcomed and posed no threat to a king.
When Pressine passed under the arch of the main gate, she admired the portcullis that reminded her of the Roman forts in Bretagne. This feat of engineering allowed the heavy iron-clad door to be lowered in case of attack. More soldiers loitered inside the gate. Within the vast enclosure, a well organized set of buildings attested to a lordly way of life.
Admiring the judicious use of the villa and other constructions, Pressine recognized the stone of old buildings in some of the newer structures. Earth and thatch cottages leaned against the inside perimeter wall. Stone buildings and wood shacks lay scattered throughout the castle grounds. A safe and fitting residence for the future High King of Alba. Dogs barked and geese scattered as the cortege streamed into the castle yard.
A boy ran out of the scullery to take the mare's bridle.
Pressine stopped the cortege. "Has the hunt returned yet?"
"Nay, my lady." The stable boy blushed. "The hunters will not return until mid-afternoon."
Pressine slid off the mare unaided and addressed the lad kindly. "I want to speak to whoever is in charge in the king's absence."
The lad nodded and took off with the mare, leaving her and the entire caravan standing in the middle of the yard.
Pressine sat on a stone bench in the shade of a tall oak. Spreading her riding dress around her, she waited.
Soon, the lad returned with the castellan, a pudgy middle aged man in green trews and tunic, puffed up like a courting pigeon with the importance of his function. Cleanly shaven, with thin lips that never smiled, he scowled as he surveyed the lordly train. This unexpected arrival would constitute a severe hindrance in his busy schedule.
Displaying the bejeweled sword as a token of the king's authority, Pressine stated her legitimate invitation.
The castellan bowed with reluctance. "I shall give orders to make a pallet for you in the women’s quarters immediately, my lady."
"I fear this will not do, my good man." Pressine tried not to laugh at his surly expression. "Certainly the departed queen had private chambers. I would think them suitable for a princess of my rank, and large enough to host my entourage."
Obviously appalled by the request, the castellan waved pale hands in front of his face. "The queen’s chambers must never be disturbed. My lord king would forbid such desecration."
Pressine realized how much Elinas had loved his queen. But for his future happiness, as well as for the higher purpose of the Goddess, she must execute this sacrilege.
"I shall not hear of any other arrangement. I will take entire responsibility." She held the scabbard for the castellan to see. "This gives me the authority to rule this castle as I please."
"But I will fry in the fire if I grant your request," The castellan protested stubbornly.
Pressine hated to use her special gifts for small things, but it was for the Goddess, and she had no time to argue. The success of her mission depended upon it. She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. Dear Goddess, give me the strength to convince this stubborn man. A jolt of raw power ran through Pressine. When she stared the man down, he averted his gaze.
"Perhaps it can be arranged," the castellan uttered sheepishly, shifting his feet. Then he straightened and motioned to the castle servants gawking at the newcomers. "Take them to the Queen’s chambers."
The castle servants quickly led Pressine and her party toward a large building. It faced a twin construction across a small courtyard, and Pressine assumed the similar building contained the king’s chambers.
Upon entering the late queen’s apartments, Pressine choked on the dust. She marched to the windows and pushed open the wood shutters to bring in light and fresh air. The rooms stank of disease. Spider webs hung from the ceiling.
Obviously, no one had set foot in the place since the queen’s balefire. Not even Elinas. So he hadn’t dealt with her death, yet. Bringing joy back into the king’s life might prove more difficult than Pressine expected.
The chambers had once been lovely rooms, but thick dust covered the faded draperies, the four-post bed and its canopy. Pressine would need more servants to clean up the place.
Another request to the castellan produced the extra help.
While lovingly cleaning and packing away the late queen's personal belongings in a square of rare blue silk, Pressine gave orders to a score of drudges to strip and burn the linens and scrub the place clean. In an hour's time the chambers sparkled with new life, filled with sunlight and bird songs.
The servants then carried her heavy chests into Pressine's new quarters. Opening her coffers, Pressine directed the redecorating. Elinas had mourned too long. Time to shock him back to life. It pained her to cause him such sorrow, but it was necessary. For the sake of Alba, the king must overcome his grief and return to active life.
With the help of many servants, Pressine hung lengths of white and blue silk from high beams to lighten the gray walls, then she spread rushes on the flagstone floor. She hung a white linen canopy over the bed posts and replaced the old bedding with a clean mattress, sheepskins and bright blue blankets. Soon, she had a small fire of fragrant pine burning in the fireplace.
Satisfied with her new decor, Pressine thanked and dismissed the servants and closed the bedchamber door. The smell of baking bread from the outdoor oven reminded her of the upcoming Beltane feast. A horn sounded in the distance. She must hurry before the return of the hunt.
After making sure everyone had left her bedchamber, Pressine congratulated herself for such a successful transformation. She reached for the bejeweled scabbard hanging from a peg. She had one more detail to tend to, and it could bear no witnesses.
Unsheathing the king’s blade, Pressine held it to the afternoon light. To think that a sword contained the soul of its owner... Thanks to the special link binding a warrior to his favorite weapon, she could enslave the spirit of the King with a spell. Through the sword she could bind his soul forever.
Now that the time had come, however, Pressine hesitated. Where would the challenge be in seducing a puppet? How would she ever know whether he really loved her? She wanted to measure the depth of her future husband, get a chance to love him for who he truly was. Returning the sword to its scabbard, she decided to wait and try her personal charm first.
A cacophony of horns, barking dogs, servants' cries, and the drumming of hooves signaled the return of the hunting party. Hiding the king's sword under the bedding, Pressine smoothed her long hair and composed herself for the inevitable confrontation. The stomping of boots on the flagstone and the fierce pounding of a fist on the door warned her of the king's foul mood.
Without waiting for an invitation, Elinas stormed into the bedchamber.
Pressine shuddered at the loathing in his dark brown eyes.
"Whatever made you think you could violate the apartments of my beloved queen?" Stopping short in the middle of the room, Elinas glanced around, eyes wide with disbelief.
Pressine struggled to sound casual. "Surely your gracious queen would have wanted these rooms light, warm and clean, even alive with laughter, rather than dark, sealed, and stinking of decay."
The king’s jaw tightened under the short black beard as he towered over her. His hands balled into fists at his sides. "I alone decide in my castle." The low voice turned to a raucous whisper, more threatening than the shouts of any battlefield. "I shall not tolerate defiance of any kind under my roof. Restore these rooms to their previous state and leave."
Barely able to slow her heartbeat, Pressine feigned distraction, dusting her blue riding dress. "It simply cannot be done."
"You dare challenge me?" His surprise would have been comical, if not for the menacing tone.
"The old linens were burned," Pressine said with a calm she did not feel, as if lecturing a child. She rose to fetch the bundle wrapped in blue silk and handed it to him.
Elinas looked at it suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Her comb, mirror, distaff, spindle, and other keepsakes." Pressine's waved her hand, encompassing the room. "The apartments themselves will never look the way they did before." She had made certain of that.
The king's eyes, velvety brown and soft this morning at the spring, now burned with the fiery amber of a wild cat's glare. Elinas looked ready to pounce. He snatched the bundle from her arm. "Out!"
Pressine showed none of the apprehension gripping her. The king's heart, beneath the leather gear, had more mettle than she anticipated.
"Remember that I have your sword." She paused, observing the sobering effect of her words. "Only this morning, you gave it to me, swearing you would honor your oath of keeping me safe in your halls. Does a king's word count for so little in Strathclyde?"
"I curse the ill fortune that made me hear you sing, lady." Eyes tightly shut, Elinas tensed, fists at his side, obviously struggling for emotional control. "I should have known that a princess who refuses to bow to the will of men can only bring strife."
Encouraged by the spark of reason returning to the distraught Elinas, Pressine hoped he could now face his grief. "I am sorry if I offended you. I meant no disrespect."
"I have enough Vikings, Angles, Picts and Scots to give me trouble. The gods know I do not want feuds in my home." Stillness made his stare frightening.
Pressine refused to be intimidated. "Will you honor your word and protect me, then?"
"I should throw you to the wolves!" His voice boomed.
"Wolves?" Pressine repressed a chuckle. She loved wolves. "What would your people think of a king who throws a defenseless princess to the wolves?"
"Defenseless?" The king’s face reddened.
"Everyone in the castle expects to see me at your side at the Beltane feast. If I do not attend, there will be questions. The rules of hospitality state that..."
"Let them ask," Elinas snapped. "The rules of hospitality do not apply to princesses who misbehave!"
"Please, my lord, do not throw me to the wolves!" Pressine dropped to her knees and grabbed his strong legs, gazing up at him. "I promise to behave like a proper lady and heed all your wishes from now on."
Elinas glanced into her eyes then averted his gaze. "Get up!" he said gruffly. "I spoke in anger. But you better behave as promised."
"Thank you, my king." Pressine rose. Her irrepressible smile broadened and she brushed her lips to his cheek. "Does this mean I may stay in these chambers?"
"I see no reason not to anymore." Elinas pursed his lips and sighed. His slow gaze perused the room. Unshed tears welled in his eyes. "My dear queen’s spirit has left this place."
Moved by his emotional display, Pressine bowed humbly. "I shall do my best to please you, my lord. I promise."
Elinas glanced at her riding clothes. "I hope you plan to wear something more suitable for the feast."
"Do not fear. I will do honor to your hall." Pressine curtsied. To her surprise, when she raised her gaze Elinas remained standing, staring at her.
"I need my sword," He said curtly.
"What?" Under no circumstance could Pressine give him back his sword.
"A warrior-king cannot show himself at Beltane without a royal sword." The dark stubble of his beard twitched.
Suddenly grasping the opportunity, Pressine went to the most ornate chest in the room. "If a great sword you need, my lord, a great sword you shall have."
Opening the chest, Pressine nonchalantly furrowed among the gold and silver jewels to retrieve the wrapped Caliburn imbued with the might of the Goddess. When Pressine faced Elinas again, he stared, gaping at the riches in the open coffer.
"What is all this?" He eyed the contents suspiciously.
"My dowry." Pressine slowly unwrapped the sword empowered by the ritual in the stone circle. "From my father, King Salomon of Bretagne, and from my aunt, the Lady Morgane."
The king’s gaze took in the other trunks as well. "You could supply a whole army for many years with that much silver and gold."
When Pressine unsheathed the blade, it caught the light and shone blue.
"Who did you say your aunt was?" Elinas seemed transfixed by the sight of the magnificent sword.
"Lady Morgane of the Lost Isle." Pressine presented the weapon to his touch.
"Incredible work." His hands caressed the blade. "I have never seen such flawless steel."
"Like the dowry, it will go to my husband in wedlock." Pressine sheathed the sword and handed it to him. "Would you wear Caliburn tonight, as a token of my good will?"
Elinas gave her a sharp glance as he took the sword. "Do not think this gives you license to oppose or contradict me in any way in front of my liege lords and barons. If you do, I shall have you thrown outside the ramparts in the middle of the night. And the royal Princess of Bretagne will have to contend with the wolves."
Caliburn in one hand the blue silk bundle in the other, Elinas marched out of the bedchamber. After the door closed, Pressine let out a long breath and her shoulders relaxed. Seducing this king might prove more difficult than she expected, but he was worthy, and she enjoyed a challenge.
* * *
The delicious aroma of roasting meat wafted into Pressine’s chambers. Through the window, she heard the jibes of the cooks taking turns manning the iron spit above the open fires. Dogs yelped, fighting over scraps. Her discriminating sense of smell told her the hunters had killed at least one deer and a boar. Hungry since she broke her fast at sunrise, Pressine rejoiced at the prospect of such an elaborate meal.
Checking her face in the dark water basin, she smiled. With her hair pulled back under a diaphanous veil, and a gold circlet of gemstones on her brow, she shone like her Fae mother had... before turning into a cruel shrew. Pressine shrugged away the disturbing memory.
The white gown, embroidered with gold serpents, had a low neckline that generously exposed most of her round breasts. Her dark eyebrows, misty gray eyes and dark complexion needed no color from a jar. With a heavy gold torc on her throat, a touch of deer musk in the cleft, and silver rings and bracelets from her dowry, Pressine felt prepared to captivate a king.
Securing a precious dagger in the front of her sash, she glanced up at the sound of a soft knock on the door.
"Lady," an unfamiliar male voice called. "Our lord king requests your presence at his table,"
So, Elinas had already graced the hall. Pressine knew it was impolite to be late, but she wanted to make a grand entrance. Opening wide the door of her bedchamber, she found a grizzled gentleman in black finery, who smiled with great poise, and offered a wiry arm.
"Allow me, my lady." The red and black ribbons braided in the white beard moved as he spoke. "My name is Dewain, Baron of Ayre and Royal Counselor." He winked. "May I add that I am dazzled by your great beauty?"
"Pressine of Bretagne." She chuckled, accepting his arm. "Delighted to meet such a charming escort."
They crossed the antechamber, then Dewain led her outside into the fading sunlight. Stepping around muddy ruts, they avoided the detritus around the kitchen midden. The stench, however, could not be helped.
Dewain’s beady eyes twinkled with amusement. "I met your father once. In Armorica... long before you were born. You have wandered far from home, Lady Pressine."
"And what brought you here from Ayre, Lord Baron?" The appetizing aroma of venison assailed Pressine when they passed the outdoors kitchen on their way to the main hall. Frantic activity reigned around the two open fires, releasing smoke and delectable bouquets on the evening breeze. Pressine slowed her pace to match the old man's steps.
"I retired early to give my heir a chance to rule." Dewain flashed a quick, toothless smile. "Ever since, I have enjoyed the trust and the friendship of young Lord Elinas."
"Young?" Pressine searched for traces of irony in Dewain's lined face but saw none.
He raised an eyebrow. "By my standards, dear lady, a man of thirty-five, as hardy and vigorous as our king, is indeed very young."
"Vigorous? Really?" The thought brought heat to her cheeks.
From under the oak tree, a scullion gawked at Pressine's shapely figure and she smiled. She had made herself as irresistible as she could, but would it be enough to seduce Elinas?
"Oh, if you talk about consorting with ladies..." Dewain shook his head dejectedly. "He has not done that since his dear queen died. The gods know I presented him with many eligible noblewomen."
"Truly?" Pressine wanted to ask how pretty the ladies were but refrained. "So, why is he still alone?"
"Grief... a pity at his age." The old baron guided her around a puddle. "Just a year ago at Beltane, when his queen was alive, he jumped over the fires with the young castle lads. I hope he finds happiness again soon."
"Otherwise?" Pressine sensed great sadness in the baron’s deep black eyes.
Dewain sighed. "I fear sorrow will break his spirit."
"That would be a shame." Pressine paused outside the hall's entrance. "What would it take, Lord Baron, for the king to spring back to life?"
The beady eyes blinked then stared at Pressine with renewed interest. "The right woman, dear lady. The right woman can always change a man. I hear you are looking for a royal husband?" Dewain’s lips curved into a thin smile. "Rather unusual for a lady to search for one herself."
"Well," Pressine held his gaze, making sure he would understand her meaning. "I am a very unusual princess."
When the door opened wide, Pressine smiled and straightened her frame. She hoped the nervous twinge in her legs wouldn’t make her trip. Through the candlelight illuminating the feasting hall, she sensed the envious stare of the ladies upon her, many of them young and beautiful. Strengthening her grip on Dewain’s arm, Pressine walked stately as she entered the great hall.