Avelynn (36 page)

“I'm a high priestess, daughter of the Goddess.” I hiccuped through tears. “I cast the Ogham, symbols of magic and power like your runes. I prophesize.”

The woman stood and pressed her back against the door.
“Völva!”
She pointed a grubby finger at me.

“Be still, Hilde,” Halfdan roared. “She's no witch.”

Hilde whimpered, clutching a talisman of Thor's hammer that hung from her neck. “She will curse us all!”

“I said be still!” Halfdan landed a strike across Hilde's cheek, which sent her staggering. The toe of her leather shoe scattered the glowing pokers across the dirt floor. She fell into a heap, cowering by the stool.

A thought, vague and unfocused, coalesced into inspiration. “Are you feeling well, Hilde? I will send an evil spirit to grip your belly with pain. Can you feel the demon possessing you, filling your blood with fever?”

Her hand flew to her stomach, and her eyes gaped in terror. Scrambling off the floor, she lunged for the door and ran screaming from the hut.

Halfdan stalked toward me. “Preying on the weak and simpleminded with your trickery will not help you, wench.”

I lifted my eyes. “Goddess, I call upon thee. Come to your child, use my body, fill me with your power. Strike down my enemies.”

His jaw was clenched. His teeth were bared beneath thin lips. “Enough!” He raised the whip as if to strike me, but stopped.

The crackle of something burning drew his attention back to the opened door. The rushes were alight. The flames licked at the roof above us.

The fire gave me courage and my voice grew steady. I raised it high. “Guide and guard Alrik the Bloodaxe, keep him safe from harm. Crone and Raven, grant Alrik strength and success in battle. Smite those who would stand against him.” The hut began to fill with acrid black smoke.

“Stop now, witch!” He raged, but would step no closer.

I laughed, beyond caring what he would do to me, and borrowed Alrik's oath. “I swear on Odin's eye and Thor his son, I will bring about your ruin, Halfdan Ragnarsson.” Using the last ounce of strength I had, I pulled myself up on trembling legs. My hair, drenched and matted, framed wild, crazed eyes as they locked with Halfdan's. “The more pain you inflict on me, the more I curse you in this life,” I spat. “You will die a weak and useless man, Halfdan. You will never see Valhalla.”

The last thing I saw before I fainted was Halfdan's face, ashen white, with eyes bulging in their sockets as the roof caught on fire.

*   *   *

I lay on my stomach on a nest of soft rushes. I smelt comfrey and something strong and astringent. My wounds had been treated.

“Up, wench,” a gruff voice called in Norse.

A boot crashed into my side. I wheezed and whimpered.

“Up!” the voice repeated.

I was hauled to my feet, dragged, and thrown onto the ground outside. A brisk wind whipped around me and set my body shaking in violent tremors. A rope was secured to my wrists, and I was pulled, crawling and sliding, through the dirt to the back of a wagon. Taunts and insults hurtled at me, along with fistfuls of mud and refuse.

A figure knelt on one knee at my side. His hand reached out and yanked my hair, pulling my face to him. My head swam in pain and confusion. My eyes still hadn't adjusted to the brilliant sunlight, and I blinked, making out a dark hood trimmed in white ermine, dark laughing eyes, and a small smirking mouth.

“We are late for our wedding,” he said cheerily. “Do try to keep up.” Demas stood, brushing the dust from his trousers, and tied the rope to a post on the back of the wagon before disappearing around the front.

My senses, jumbled and disoriented, gradually came back to me, the courtyard rendering itself in stark relief. I was dressed in the tunic and trousers I'd had on the day I was captured. My hair had been braided and tied back with a leather thong. I didn't know who had administered to my wounds or took pains to tie my hair away from the sticky, gaping slashes on my back, but I was grateful. My gaze followed Halfdan as he approached the front of the wagon, giving me a wide berth. Demas reached out his hand and the two men clasped arms.

A raven flew overhead and perched on top of a sack of wool in the wagon, its large dark eyes regarding me silently. One of the horses snorted and stomped its feet. The bird took flight, disappearing into a thicket nearby.

I wondered if it had been sent by the Goddess to give me strength—to let me know she was still with me. But I didn't feel strong. I felt weak and horribly alone. Everything I had done, every step I had taken, led me back to the man about to cart me away. Fate was implacable. I was destined to live my life as Demas's captive. Had I just accepted the betrothal, none of this would have happened. Instead, I fought, I kicked, I screamed. I taunted fate. I goaded the Norns and their twisted game. I never had a choice. Warm tears rolled down the coolness of my cheeks, and I gave in to the inevitable. I surrendered my soul into fate's cruel hands.

“Time to leave, sweeting,” Demas yelled back to me. “Best hold on.”

The wagon jerked forward, pitching me face-first to the ground. I thrashed around, trying to gain footing. Where was I to find the energy to stand, let alone walk? I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since breakfast in the cottage when Ingvar came in. I had no idea how long ago that was, but several days must have passed since Halfdan's change of heart. The burn on the bottom of my foot was blistered over, and my back was tight and itchy with fresh scabs, though the recent movement had reopened a few tears. I could feel the blood oozing through the thick medicinal paste plastered to my back. Every part of my body hurt. My legs quaked, and my arms were weak and feeble in their attempts to set me right. I was sweating profusely, but my teeth chattered so hard my jaw ached. I suspected the chill had more to do with an emerging fever than with the temperature of the day.

“Avelynn!” A thundering growl erupted from somewhere behind me. I looked over my shoulder. Alrik charged toward me, his sword swinging wild, his tunic covered in blood. My heart leapt at seeing him, but then plummeted as all of Reading swarmed him.

“Another suitor, perhaps?” The amusement in Demas's voice cleaved my heart. “A shame he's too late.” He laughed, the wagon set off, and I staggered onward. Merciless, insufferable fate pulled me farther away from the desperate sounds of battle behind.

*   *   *

We had come to an agreement, Demas and I, during the long journey to Wareham. After a short spurt of dragging my limp body along the old Roman road, he decided that my death was not advantageous and tossed me into the back of the wagon, the sacks of wool there a boon to my aching body. For my part, I decided that I would no longer fight my fate and became a complacent captive. On the second day, he provided me with a tent and a bed to sleep in, clean clothes and food.

Prior to my apparent rescue, Demas had approached Aethelred and offered to pay my ransom. The king, unwilling to pay such an exorbitant fee for my freedom, happily conceded the inconvenience onto someone else and granted his blessings to the exchange—and Demas's petition for marriage. The ceremony was to take place on the ides of March.

Having selflessly bought my freedom, despite my cruel treatment of his character at the Witan, Demas cemented the affection and respect of those around him. All the affluent people from Somerset and Dorset would be present for our wedding feast. Aethelred, injured and recovering from the wound he suffered in the battle at Basing, would stay in Windsor, but Alfred and Ealhswith would attend in his stead.

I scoffed. All his planning would be for naught. The future state of my conjugal affairs seemed irrelevant. By the time we reached Wareham, fever ravaged my body, and I was certain there wouldn't be a wedding. I was delirious. I wanted to die. I couldn't imagine a life without Alrik, but a thousand warriors against one ensured I would never again feel the soft wool of his tunic against my cheek or the strength of his solid arms around me. Instead, I would have Demas's foul hands touching my flesh. The thought repulsed me, and I welcomed the languid darkness pulling my soul to the underworld.

But when we passed through Wimborne, Demas retained the services of Father Anlaf, a prominent leech, who expertly tended the growing infection festering through the rancid poultices on my back. Despite my heavy heart and yearning desire to give up, Anlaf roused my body's traitorous instinct for survival. Fate, it seemed, was not finished baiting me.

I closed my eyes. I could feel the weight of Demas's body as he sat beside me on the down-filled mattress. I had been given a luxurious chamber in Wareham. The ornate poster bed was crowded with furs and finely woven linens. At the front of the room, closest to the door, stood a large table and several chairs, the legs intricately carved. Thick wall-clothing hung on the walls, each exquisite image painstakingly embroidered into the fabric and embellished with silver and gold thread. I had a fine bone comb to untangle my hair and sparkling glass horns for my wine. But it was only temporary—until the guests left after the wedding feast. I shuddered to think where he would dispose of me once the witnesses were gone.

“I see the good Father Anlaf has brought you back from death's door,” Demas said.

“Not without a fight.” I rolled over, my back to him.

“Now that I see you are back to your recalcitrant self, you have a host of guests wishing to speak with you. Foremost amongst them is the Archbishop of Canterbury. He wishes to ascertain for himself your consent to this marriage after what happened at the Witan in Winchester. He wants to know what has changed your mind.”

“What do I tell him?”

“You tell him you were lying, and you pray that God will forgive your transgressions.”

I heard the door to the chamber open and then close.

“Ah, wonderful! Come, come,” Demas called jovially to whoever had just entered the room. “In keeping with tradition, my bride, I have a wedding gift for you.”

“Avelynn?” a timid voice called out.

My eyes sprang open. I lifted my head. Edward shrugged off Gil's possessive hold and rushed in. Demas moved off the bed, and Edward crashed into my side, wrapping his arms around me. I sucked in a sharp breath and winced as pain shot through my back. It was the most glorious thing I had ever felt. I held him tight.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“I'm well,” I said, half choking on the words. “And you?” I pulled away long enough to look into his dark blue eyes. I scanned his face, his full smiling mouth, the healthy, ruddy glow to his skin.
Dear gods, he's alive! He's real!

“I'm well, sister.”

I embraced him again, sobbing quietly into his soft wheaten hair.

We stayed clinging to each other until Adiva, my new chambermaid, interrupted our reunion. “The archbishop is waiting.”

“Gil, see that Edward returns without incident to his room,” Demas said.

Gil nudged Edward's shoulder, and Edward disentangled himself from my embrace, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.

“I promised she would be treated well,” Demas said.

Edward stiffened. “You kept your word.”

“I remind you to keep yours.” Demas nodded, and Gil led Edward from the room. Adiva followed, shutting the door behind her.

“I see your mind working,” he said.

“What game are you playing at, Demas?”

“I am merely reminding the lad of our previous arrangement.”

“And what arrangement is that?” I could feel the blood boil through my veins.

“That is between Edward and me.”

“If you so much as harm him—”

“You'll what?” He laughed. “You are in no position to threaten me.” He removed the knife from his belt and sat beside me. He admired the steel in the candlelight and then began to pick the dirt from beneath his fingernails with the deadly point. “No one knows Edward is alive, except a few of my closest friends. He is my collateral for your compliance. As long as you are willing and agreeable, he will remain alive.”

It didn't make any sense. His whole purpose in marrying me was to gain control of my father's legacy. With Edward healthy and well, Demas would assume control over only half of Somerset. “What can you possibly gain from keeping him alive?”

“Well, let me put it this way.” He leaned down, the knife's edge resting on my cheek, and whispered in my ear. “You will determine the manner of his death. If you are a well-behaved little girl, he will die quickly, without pain. If you so much as say one thing to thwart my plans, he will suffer interminably, and you, dear lady, will watch.”

Rage coiled and burned, threatening to consume me. Demas's treachery and madness knew no bounds. He had kept Edward alive only to kill him when it suited his purposes.

I imagined grabbing Demas's knife and plunging it into his stomach, twisting and turning the blade until his intestines spilled onto the floor where I could step on them and grind them into the dirt.

He stood and straightened his tunic. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Excellent!” He clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “Then let's put your loyalty to the test, shall we.” He pulled a scroll of parchment from beneath his tunic. “We will start by amending your will.”

 

TWENTY-TWO

The procession began, each guest eager to view the spectacle—the girl who was tortured by Vikings and lived to tell the tale. I was never left alone with my visitors. Demas, or his spy Adiva, my faithful new lady-in-waiting, was always present.

Archbishop Aldulf was duly convinced of my contrition, Alfred relayed the king's sympathy and expressed his personal lament for my ordeal, ladies tittered as Demas wove a tale of depravity and torture, and men nodded when he pointed out that a shield wall was no place for a woman to begin with. I was a caged bear, poked and prodded, forced to do tricks for my audience.