Avelynn (27 page)

“I'm warning you.” She glowered at him and yanked the cross from her neck, throwing it into the rushes on the floor.

He hesitated.

“Demas's intentions were to take your daughter and force her hand in marriage. If I had not happened upon the scene, she would have been raped.”

“Liar.”

“I may be many things, Eanwulf, husband of Aileen, most esteemed high priestess, but I am not a liar.” She scowled at him. “Is your pride so blind that you would condemn your daughter to this marriage? It was Demas who schemed behind your back, arranging the marriage at the tribunal. Your daughter merely protected herself and her legacy.”

I watched doubt flicker in my father's eyes.

Muirgen continued. “You'll remember my daughter Leenan and the babe fathered by Osric, a child born with a scar across his chest?”

“What of it?”

“Demas is that child.”

“Impossible; the babe was killed.”

“No, the child was never found. Yet he stood here today a man. There was no denying the birthmark.”

“That cannot be proven. Only a handful of people saw that scar, and most are dead.” He flashed a look at Muirgen that seem to imply he wished she were one of them.

She ignored it. “And if it could be proven? If they knew something we did not? Once Demas is married to your daughter, Osric will, in all but name, control Wedmore. You and your son, dear Eanwulf, will be the last things standing in his way. Did you not run into trouble on your journey to Rome?”

“Vikings and pirates.”

“Yet where did they attack? A monastery where your son lay ill? A convenient way to dispatch the last heir to your great fortune—a monastery where presumably Demas also lay ill.” She shook her head. “You are blind and foolish.”

Could Demas have orchestrated the Viking attack? How was that even possible? I watched my father and my stomach clenched, waiting for him to strike out, but he stood there.

“And since we're sharing in an environment of acceptance and honesty, you should also know that your daughter is now a high priestess. I have ordained her.” A smirk edged the corner of her thin lips. “War has come, Eanwulf. Your daughter has foreseen it.”

He blanched white as newly fallen snow and looked at me with an expression somewhere between terror and disbelief. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow, lacking any of the depth and conviction I was used to hearing. It sent chills up my spine. “Aethelred has sent an envoy. He's prepared to pay the Vikings to leave Wessex,” he said.

“Money will not save Wessex this time. Prepare your men, Eanwulf. You'll ride to war before the calends of January.”

He looked back and forth between us, his eyes wild like a cornered stag, and then spun on his heels and left. The crackle and hiss from the hearth was the only sound that remained in the vacuum of his departure.

“Dear gods.” My stomach lurched, and heat flushed my face. I held the back of my hand against my mouth as a wave of nausea threatened.

“It will be all right now.”

“How can you say that? Didn't you see the look on his face?” I collapsed onto a bench. “And when did you come up with the first of January for war? I've never seen a date.”

“You saw snow. A storm is coming.” She grabbed her cloak. “I must go, Avelynn, but before I leave, I ask only two things.”

I waited.

“Keep my book safe.”

I furrowed my brow.

“And bury me under the large oak.”

I leapt to her side. “Are you unwell?”

She laid a withered hand on my cheek and smiled. “I'm fine. I ask only so that when my time comes you honor me with a proper burial, in the old ways.”

I studied her face for any sign of imminent illness. “Of course.”

She moved to the door but paused. “When life seems at its darkest, those are our most powerful moments, moments when the Goddess shines through us, offering us an opportunity to embody our fullest potential. Choose wisely, Avelynn. Always remember your strength.”

I grew increasingly anxious with each word she said. “What is it, Muirgen? What have you seen?”

The specter of sorrow flitted across her face. “Be well, child.” She smiled weakly. “The war has come. Right now, the Vikings march to Reading.”

Reading was a rich and prosperous royal village in Berkshire, only a day's ride from here. “You need to tell Father … the Witan…”

“They'll find out soon enough.”

*   *   *

It was the twenty-eighth of December, and we were still at Winchester, assembled in King Aethelred's hall for another feast. The Christmastide festivities would continue until the Epiphany, the sixth of January. Edward sat to my left. He had been quiet and reflective since coming home, and when I looked in his eyes, shadows hovered above the dark blue beneath. I tried to engage him in conversation, but he answered only in short yes-or-no quips and would say no more. My father, stiff and silent, sat on my other side, his eyes never drifting far from his brother, Osric. He hadn't spoken a word to me, hadn't even looked at me since that day with Muirgen in the cottage.

The place next to my father was empty. Demas was still curiously absent. I hadn't seen him since the trial. I looked farther down the bench. Ealdorman Aethelwulf of Berkshire and his wife, Cyneburga, sat at our table just as they had a year ago. My shoulders dropped as if under the pressure of a thousand sacks of grain. One year had passed. So much had changed, yet here I was, still stuck in the exact same position.

A young boy ran into the hall and bowed before Aethelred. “The Vikings have taken Reading, my lord. The emissary you sent to offer terms has been beheaded. His head is mounted on a spike overlooking the old Roman road.”

The hall exploded into action as men stood, preparing to fight.

“Hold!” It was Aldulf, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

“God is testing our faith. He has brought the heathens to our door during our Lord's, the Savior Christ's, most holy week. We must spend time in prayer to seek our Father's guidance. We must not rush, lest this be a trap from Satan.”

“But they have taken Reading, my lord,” the messenger said.

“Then there is nothing we can do to root them out now. If we attack without God's favor, we risk certain failure.”

Nervous whispers filled the room.

Aethelred, our noble king, stood. “I will not risk earning God's displeasure. Wulfrida, see to it that the Christmas feast continues without interruption. Alfred, send messengers out to the shires—tell them to prepare for war. I will join the priests in silent contemplation and prayer. Once we have word from God that it is an auspicious time to attack, we will march.”

I stared at them in disbelief. Aethelred and his priests left the hall, while the men of Wessex stood around, helpless. My father exchanged glances with Aethelwulf, who nodded and left, his wife clinging to his side. Despite the pious praying that the king would undertake on our behalf, Aethelwulf was clearly a man of action.

Three days later, word came that Earl Aethelwulf had ambushed a large Viking raiding party. Two powerful Viking leaders were killed, and the stragglers who escaped hobbled back broken and dejected to the fort. If this was the mystical word from his God, only the deity knew for sure, but Aethelred took it as a sign and ordered the Wessex fyrd to march for Reading.

*   *   *

“I will fight alongside Father,” Edward said, and put on his new helmet and padded leather coat.

We had returned to Wedmore yesterday so that my father could levy the men of Somerset to his side. Edward had come to my cottage to say good-bye.

“You shall do no such thing. You are to stay at the back of the flanks and observe so that when you're old enough you'll know what to do. Besides,” I said, straightening his coat, “leather will not protect you from a Viking blade.”

“A coat of mail wouldn't be a bother to me. I'm ready to fight—I want to fight. Father is being unreasonable.”

Even soaking wet and with a full stomach, Edward would be outweighed by a mail coat. “You're still too weak from your ordeal in Francia to wear a coat of mail.”

“I am not helpless.” He ripped off his helmet and threw it on the floor. He sat down in a huff on my bed and looked distractedly at the smoke rising from a single beeswax candle on the bedside table.

“Edward, what happened in Francia?” During the raid on St. Denis, the Vikings had taken Edward prisoner, holding him for ransom. Upon receipt of the news, my father and his men returned from Rome and chased the pirates to a small town in northern Francia. With a contingent of men from King Charles's court, they defeated the Vikings and rescued Edward and several monks unharmed, including the abbot of the monastery.

He continued to stare.

“Please, talk to me.” I knelt at his feet.

“The Vikings tortured the monks. They made me watch,” he said quietly, never taking his eyes away from the curling smoke.

He opened his palm and held it above the orange flame. “Men of God, good and holy men. They scalped one young acolyte—just cut along his forehead and pulled. Blood poured everywhere.”

I could smell his skin burning. He pulled his hand away from the candle and rubbed at it absently.

He looked at me, his eyes rimmed with red. “Remember the blood eagle we heard about? That thing the Vikings did to King Aelle of Northumbria? It wasn't a myth or a tale to scare children. I saw them do it.”

He grew silent again. The wind whipped around the cottage, wheezing and whistling. Snow was coming.

“Some monks lost their eyes or their tongues. Others had their hands or feet cut off. I could do nothing to help them.”

“You cannot feel guilty, Edward. Those men were monsters. They would have hurt you or worse if you tried to stop them.”

“I'm of no help to anyone.” He picked up his helmet and pulled it onto his head. “God keep you safe, sister,” he said, and left.

I grabbed my cloak and opened the door, ready to chase after him, but my father's shadow blocked my way, and he advanced into the cottage. He walked over to the fire, removed his gloves, and warmed his hands. He was wearing his mail coat, and soft blond waves stuck out from underneath his helmet. His bear-pelt cloak draped off his broad shoulders, and his sword and sax hung from his belt. He was ready for war.

“I have come to say good-bye.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“It is I who am sorry.”

My breath stopped.

He turned to me. “I have done you a great disservice. Will you forgive me?”

I ran forward and crushed myself against him, my heart bursting with gratitude, relief, love, and happiness. He reached around and held me.

“What of Osric?” I asked. If everything Muirgen said was true, Demas and Osric were a sinister threat to our family.

He released me and walked to the door. “I have no proof of his deceptions, but I can put a stop to this betrothal. It is a start.”

He waited a moment, and a knock sounded. He opened the door. Wulfric and Sigberht shuffled to the central hearth. Dressed in full mail, their sword hilts clanked softly against the linked metal as they moved. Father Plegmund followed and sat at the table, producing an inkwell, a feather, and a swatch of parchment. With all these stalwart male bodies in my small cottage, there was little room to maneuver.

We'd not spoken since the scene in the cottage, and I'd had no opportunity to fill my father in on what had happened during his absence. As acting reeve, Bertram must have informed him of the situation with the grain accounts and my judgment in the case. I was furious that Sigberht was once again in my father's good graces—especially given his testimony against me at the Witan.

My father cleared his throat and nodded to Plegmund. “I hereby call off the betrothal of my daughter, Avelynn of Wedmore, to Demas of Wareham.” He turned to me. “These men will sign as witnesses and swear to my decree.”

Plegmund produced the newly writ charter and each man penned his name. My father moved to the bedside table and poured hot wax from the candle onto the folded parchment. He waited a moment and then pressed his gold ring into the cooling wax.

He stepped in front of me, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Sigberht has been charged with delivering this letter personally to the king. He will not let me down again or he will lose his position here as reeve.”

Relief surged through me. He understood. He approved. I would have jumped and thrown my hands around his neck had it not been for the audience. Instead, I smiled. He nodded and handed the letter to Sigberht, who bowed slightly and left. Plegmund and Wulfric followed closely behind.

I was filled with a giddy lightness. I looked upon my father with a sense of awe and adoration. He was fair but firm, gentle but ruthless when crossed, and like the man I remembered from my childhood, he was once again my greatest champion and hero.

He lifted my chin. “You are so much like your mother, Avelynn.” He kissed my forehead. “She was bloody headstrong and single-minded too.”

I hugged him fiercely, the tiny circles in his mail coat blurring through my tears.

“Now, wish your father well.”

“God keep you, Father.”

“It is not God I ask.” He pulled out an amulet of amber that my mother had given him. It was tied around his neck with a leather thong.

In my wildest dreams, I couldn't have imagined this moment. He accepted me, all of me, for who I was, for what I was. For all that I had done. The world, my future, seemed brighter. “I will pray to the Goddess every day that you come back to me safe and sound.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, priestess.”

*   *   *

Nine months had passed since I'd stood outside my father's hall, watching them leave for Rome. Now my brother and father were marching off to war. The uncertainty that surrounded their last departure had been nothing like it was now.