Lancashire England, Priory of St. Mary, April 1471
“Ah, there’s our hero. You’re remarkably prompt, Sir Roan of Ellan Vannin.” Prince Ambros grinned when he saw how sickly pale Roan seemed, gazing about at the churning sea as if he was ready to swoon away. “Not much of a sea dog, are ye?”
The others laughed at their prince’s taunting. Roan blinked, attempting to focus on Ambros. There were two of him moving in haphazard directions as the ship took another steep dive into the swells. Roan shook his head. “Agh…damned, forsaken ship…” He groaned, feeling his stomach tighten.
“Let’s hope the storm does not become truly fierce or it shall go badly for ye. My cousin Britta is remarkably swift, light of foot and skilled at arms.” Prince Ambros sighed with a hint of pity.
“I doubt not that I can deal a swift, sure deathblow to the creature,” he responded with cool confidence. “If she is as good as you claim she is, we shall be evenly matched.”
“She did bid me to give ye this gift,” Ambros said, pulling a golden necklace from his pocket, a small golden canister dangled from the end. “She hoped ye would accept the gift, despite the outcome of the battle, saying these words, ‘Do not be quick to scorn my gift to ye, Roan, for ye shall long for the liberation of crossing through the Cosmic Veil ere the end. So shall ye know that I loved ye true. Taim i’ngra leat.’ Take it, cousin,” Ambros insisted, holding out the glittering, golden pendant.
Roan frowned, staring at the token with distrust. “I care not for gifts from one I intend to kill.”
“May the goddess smile upon ye, Sir Roan. Hither comes our cousin now and she has the flame of vengeance aglow on her face,” Prince Ambros said with a jerk of his chin.
Roan turned to find Princess Britta and her attendants appear from below deck in cloaks of dark green. The hull of the ship tipped suddenly and sharply to the starboard side, causing everyone on deck to check balance. Roan saw that Britta indeed looked grim, determined to triumph or die. She removed her cloak and handed it over to her attendant. She wore a black tunic edged with green spiral patterns gathered at the waist by a leather belt, black hose and leather boots. Her hair was tied back in a long, tight braid. Upon her head was a circlet of gold which she removed and gave into the care of her ladies. She adjusted her gauntlets and unsheathed a long, slender blade.
“Sir Roan, may the goddess smile upon this meeting and show her favor to the one most worthy of victory.” Her voice was cold and stern.
The ship continued to sway as the wind whipped and the ice-cold rain pelted from every direction. Roan proceeded to remove his cloak. Being heavily drenched, it was of no further use.
There was a sound of cold steel as he drew his weapon and lifted his shield. “’Tis God and St. Michael who shall guide my hand, Britta, in bringing you to justice.”
Britta proclaimed her final prediction. “I hope ye did take the gift, Sir Roan. Your Songbird shall play the whore again to the King of Vannin and utterly forsake ye, but in doing so gain a crown. I see the fruit does not fall far from the tree, for her mother delighted in her status as the king’s whore. Yet, ye would forsake my offering of love and devotion and cling to a memory, for all that shall be left for ye are bitter memories.”
“Come for me, Britta. ’Tis time your heretic tongue is silenced forever.”
So Britta leapt forward, slipping slightly along the wet planks as the ship tossed to the portside, creaking and straining from the stress. Roan regained his balance and lunged forward so their blades clashed. Britta proved to be swift and fleet-footed as Ambros forewarned, but Roan was alert and easily countered her every move.
They battled intensely amid the increasing fury of the tempest, both drawing blood from the shoulder region. The ship was tossed about so violently in every direction that it was impossible to stand without holding on for dear life. Roan cried out in shock as the frigid waters came crashing down to completely drench him. The waves did not relent and neither did his opponent. Britta continued to strike at him, also drenched to the bone, her lips blue and quivering from the cold.
There was soon a commotion all about as the deckhands warned the ship was taking in more water, weighing it down to its doom. The duel was off, every soul for himself. Roan sheathed his sword and clung desperately to anything he could find. Britta gazed up to the skies with sword still in hand. The bow of the ship plunged deep into the water, causing massive strain to the midsection. The stern lifted high out of the water with scores of poor seamen dangling on, awaiting the bitter end. Roan found a stray rope and grabbed on to it, climbing higher and higher as the hull was steadily engulfed by the sea.
There was no time for prayer—he was thinking of Estelle. What he would give to see her face again. How he missed his darling son and longed to know his newborn daughter. Curse Britta and her hellfire predictions! What if all she said did come to pass? Alas, their love must prevail.
“Roan,” Princess Britta cried out, now dangling from the railing. “I do not fear the liberation of death as ye do. I know our paths shall cross again, praise be to the goddess!” She gave him a triumphant smile and released her hold.
Roan watched in horror as she fell straight down a considerable distance, splashing into the wild, churning waters. Witnessing Britta’s death and the howls of the dying all about him, Roan realized that his final hour had come. Now he uttered a prayer and crossed himself, taking in long, deep breaths, preparing for the inescapable plunge.
The ship descended with greater speed, water rushing in to weigh down the hull. Roan intertwined his arms with rope and held on with all his might. He felt the tremendous rush of water completely engulf him. He released his hold on the rope, feeling the force of the sinking ship drag him down.
Roan battled against the current, kicking wildly to reach the surface again. He had to reach it soon. His lungs were bursting with pain, desperate for air. The salt was burning his eyes. He could no longer keep them open. His strength was fading fast but not his will to survive. He continued to struggle until a calm peace overcame him. He was warm again, relaxing in the glow of a glorious light.
| 
