Avelynn: The Edge of Faith Page 3

Marared followed my gaze and pulled on my arm, spinning me around. She drew me back in the direction we had just come from.

  “What is it?” I asked and stopped upon hearing Marared’s name called.

  She released me from her grip and groaned. “My mother.”

  All cheekbones and angles, Marared and Gil’s mother floated toward us. Dignity and self-possession infused her every lithe move. Her hand rested on the little girl’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize we had visitors.” She spoke in Norse and stared down her austere nose at her daughter, glancing at me out of the corner of her eyes.

  “Of course not. You never noticed a long ship moored in the bay. It’s just happenstance that you were strolling along the path as we walked by,” Marared said.

  “It’s a fine day for an outing.” She lifted a small basic filled with greenery. “Branwen and I were just out collecting more cuttings.” She waited, staring from me to her daughter, a forced smile on her face. “Manners, my dear.”

  Marared huffed. “Avelynn, this is my mother, Sigy, sister to the king of Dyfed, and the child is my foster sister, Branwen.”

  “Pleased to meet you both.” I smiled at the girl, but she maintained an air of propriety. Her tight-lipped expression matched that of her foster mother’s.

  “What business brings you to Wales?” Sigy asked.

  “Alrik stopped here in the hopes of selling some goods,” I said.

  “Then you are merely passing through?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and placed a hand to her heart. “Where is my Welsh hospitality? Come. Let me offer you a drink. My home is just there.” She pointed to a circular, dry-stone cottage near the end of the road. It was set well apart from the other dwellings. Wattle fencing enclosed a small yard, within which several chickens pecked at the ground.

  “Wonderful.” Sigy weaved an arm through mine, and before I could find the words to protest, she led me through the front gate.

  Once they were inside the cottage, a servant whisked Branwen away. Sigy placed her basket next to an assortment of plant material strewn across a large plank table. The table rested against a side wall to make best use of the light streaming in from a tall narrow window.

  She snapped her fingers and another woman ran forward. Squat and dark, she looked like the stub shadow of Sigy’s regal figure. The woman offered Sigy a bowl to wash her hands and a towel to dry them. She then presented Marared and me the wash water and waited while we did the same. When the task was complete, she slipped out the door, carrying an armful of wool skeins. Another servant brought a platter of cheeses and bread. With eyes downcast, she held the sampling out for us to nibble on.

  Sigy picked out a bundle from her basket and started chopping. A sharp scent, redolent of mint, filled the room.

  Marared steered me to one of two stools at the side of the table, motioning for me to sit. She reached above the counter along the side wall and grabbed a pitcher and three wooden cups.

  “You should let the servant fetch that.” Sigy admonished her without even lifting her head. Her eyes remained focused on the material she was dicing.

  “She is otherwise preoccupied.” Marared motioned to the young girl, who stood stalk still, the plate held in a viselike grip.

  Sigy barked at the girl in Welsh.

  I didn’t need to know the words to understand their meaning. The girl looked panicked as she surveyed the room. Something covered every surface. Every inch of the table was covered in some sort of root, leaf, or stem. Clay pots and urns littered the shelves. The floor rushes competed for space with assorted crates and boxes. Curious oddities mingled with the familiar. A calf’s skull sat propped on a box, its empty eye sockets staring at the closed door. A wooden shield depicting Odin and his Valkyries leaned against the wall. A gold cross hanging on a peg peered down at the pagan display from its lofty perch.

  Sigy growled and brushed some of her plants aside, pointing at the cleared space.

  The girl scampered to the table, set the platter down, and retrieved the pitcher and cups from Marared with a curtsy. She offered me a drink, then Marared, and placed a cup beside Sigy’s elbow. Task completed, she set the pitcher back on the shelf and reclaimed the platter, once again holding it out for our dining pleasure.

  Marared took another piece of cheese and peered over her mother’s shoulder. One of her dark braids blended in with Sigy’s long locks. “What are you working on today?”

  Sigy turned a cutting over in her long fingers. The surface of the leaves was fuzzy, the edges jagged. “Hoarhound.” She plucked a leaf from the stem and handed it to me. “Bite and chew.”

  I hesitated, but following an encouraging nod of Sigy’s head, I took a small piece in my mouth. The furry texture felt odd on my tongue, and once bit, the leaf released juices that were strong and bitter. I swallowed quickly.

  “The stem and leaf are good for digestion and foul belching. A tea made from the same will calm the mind.”

  “My mother is a healer. She knows the plants and their uses, their benefits, and of course their dangers. Her knowledge is a divine gift,” Marared said.

  Sigy stiffened. I watched the slow intake of her breath. Marared had said her knowledge was a divine gift, rather than referring to a gift from God. Was that an oversight or a deliberate choice? I looked again at the wood carving. Was Sigy pagan? Was her skill with plants akin to that of Muirgen’s?

  Sigy smiled; it was not a warm smile. “Yes, well, my daughter is a whore—a waste of her divinely endowed gifts.”

  My mouth hinged open. I stared at the two women. My mother would never have said anything so brazen and indelicate.

  “Mother, you are overly dramatic.” Marared smirked and rolled her eyes in an attempt to downplay the insult, but her hand curled tightly into a fist at her side. “I keep Gil’s guests sufficiently entertained, enjoying one fine specimen in particular.” She winked at me.

  Sigy shook her head. “My father was a proud Northman. For a hundred years, the Danes controlled Dyfed. My father’s rule was absolute. Hyffaid is the first Welsh-born king to hold the throne since his maternal grandfather’s weak and brief attempt. The people know our proud history, yet despite our background, the Northmen are not welcome in Wales. There have been too many raids by Ivar the Boneless and his allies. Fraternizing with Northmen is a risky exchange.” She pointed the end of her knife at Marared. “You would be wise to keep your distance. No good can come from your involvement.”

  “All the best traders are Northmen. They have brought many riches to our house.” She turned to me. “We are prosperous because we understand their ways and speak their language. We can meet them on common ground.”

  “Yes, and fuck them.” Sigy’s eyes remained focused on her plants.

  I coughed, sputtering the contents of my cup into my dress sleeve. My eyes darted around the room, looking for a means of escape. A squeal of delight caught my attention, and I glanced out the window. Branwen ran past, a mass of raven tangles without a speck of clothing on. One servant chased after her with a bowl of wash water while another tried to corral her with a towel. I deemed the girl to be about six or seven. At that age, my father would have tanned my hide had I behaved in such an unladylike manner.

  Marared narrowed her eyes, glaring at her mother. “I am not sure where my mother’s good Welsh hospitality has disappeared to. She doesn’t normally speak like this in front of guests.”

  Sigy shrugged. “I am speaking the truth, and you above everyone, my dear daughter, should remember the cost of associating with the sons of Ragnar.”

  Marared set her shoulders. “Alrik is different from his brother, as you well know. If it wasn’t for him, I’d not be standing here talking with you. I do what is necessary to advance the position of our family.” She lifted her cup to Sigy. “My mother’s history is not very different from my own—a fact she is loath to admit.”

  “You should focus your considerable talents on one of the many fine ge
ntleman native to the land.”

  “They are useless.”

  “What of Gwgon?”

  Marared smiled, her lips pinched, and took a deep breath. “I don’t think this is the time or place for this discussion.” She set her cup down on a clump of cuttings. “I will see our guest out.”

  Sigy stood to her full height and blocked Marared’s retreat. “I’m sure our guest would agree with my position.” Sigy addressed me. “Gwgon is a king. As a peace weaver, Marared would align two kingdoms. She claims she is motivated by a desire to advance her family, yet she refuses to enter into such a prosperous match. Instead, she walks away from it all because her thatch cannot get enough of Alrik’s cock. Surely a lady of your … station would agree with her duty.”

  Dear Goddess. Aside from the blatant disregard for etiquette and the sheer extent of insults against her daughter, I was probably the last person on earth Sigy should be asking that question to. I squirmed in my seat. Despite the implications of Sigy’s revelations, and the surreal feeling of being trapped between two butting rams, I empathized with Marared’s situation. I didn’t abide by her choice in men, mind, but no one should be forced into marriage against their will.

  “I’m really in no position to comment. This is a matter best left to discuss between family.”

  Mother and daughter stared at each other in an awkward standoff.

  Sigy broke the silence first, addressing me. “Avelynn. That is not a Norse name.”

  “Avelynn is from England,” Marared said.

  “From England.” Sigy switched to English. “Yet you speak Norse? Curious.” She looked me over. “It appears I misjudged you. Either you are a lady, well educated, or intimately familiar with the Northmen and their ways. Are you a whore?”

  “Of course not,” I stammered.

  Like a vulture, she circled, scrutinizing. “You’re dressed too fine to be a slave, even a household one. A freewoman then? His mistress?”

  I gaped at her. “I am not his mistress.”

  “Then the two of you are wed?”

  The inquisition caught me off guard. My hands turned clammy, and a bead of moisture threatened my upper lip. I’d not considered what people would think of our situation, and my mind grasped for a respectable explanation. Christians didn’t abide by unchaste, immoral behavior. I avoided making eye contact with Marared as I spoke. “Alrik and I are promised.”

  Sigy’s face lit up. “How delightful! Congratulations are in order, then.” I received a warm embrace before she straightened. I could feel the antagonizing heat of Marared’s glare burrowing into my spine.

  Sigy’s smug smile launched at her daughter. “Now there is nothing to stop you from entering into a more suitable match. Alrik has chosen another.” She scampered back to her plants, leaving a frigid wave of animosity behind her.

  I cleared my throat and stood, setting my cup on the table. “It was lovely to meet you, Sigy, but I think it’s time I took my leave.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Marared said.

  I nodded a curt “thank you for your hospitality” and all but tripped over myself in an effort to get outside.

  Sigy’s blunt accusations of Marared’s behavior and the object of her desire had curdled in my stomach. By Marared’s own admission, she had “known” Alrik. The two had a comfortable intimacy. How often had she shared his bed? Now that he was here, would she attempt to rekindle that relationship? A part of me, one that I never knew existed, wanted to make sure that didn’t happen. Alrik and I were not promised, yet I couldn’t help the words sputtering from my mouth. One look at Marared’s face, however, made me regret my haste and imprudence.

  A cold chill, like an icy breath, frosted my spine. The last thing I needed was another enemy.

  I followed a well-worn path that led up and away from Sigy’s cottage. I wasn’t ready to return and face Marared or Alrik quite yet.

  A tall woodlot blocked the village on my right, and sweeping vistas of rolling hills rose in the distance to my left. A squat church stood sentry on a nearby hill. A tall, slender stone marked the end of the trail and the entrance to the churchyard. Etched with a thin cross bordered by a circle, the smooth, weathered surface bore Ogham symbols along one edge. The inscription commemorated the death of a young girl, the land for the new church dedicated in her name. She must have been a daughter to a king to have such a marker made for her. I followed the grooved lines with a forefinger, recalling my mother’s grave.

  For a moment, I could almost pretend I was still in England. I closed my eyes. Birds called from the trees around me. Insects buzzed. The wind stirred the hair around my temples. I wanted to go back to a time before all the pain and suffering. Pretend my mother and father were still alive. That Edward would come running along the path, a frog in his hand or mud in his hair. I leaned against the stone and slid down. I was so tired.

  “Goddess.” I scanned the scudding wall of gray clouds. Was she even here in this strange land? Could she find me?

  The Christians believed in a heavenly plane, the Norse their Valhalla. Even the Saxon gods had their ethereal place in the sky. I had always envisioned the Goddess, like the god Woden at his great feast, in her golden castle in the sky. She was the mother of all the gods, ancient and primordial. Surely her castle was grander, her feasts more plentiful, her hall shimmering in gold and finery.

  Muirgen had taught me that the Goddess walked amongst us but remained lost to our perceptions—the worlds divided by time and mystery. Like kings here in the land of men, the Goddess traveled from palace to palace. She roamed from sky to mountain, to mound, to sea. The entrance to one of her palace gates might be under a rock or behind a dense crop of hawthorn bushes. It could be at the crest of a mountain or just beneath the surface of a burbling brook. Here, in this foreign land, the menacing creatures of the Otherworld seemed somehow closer. In the depths beneath my feet lurked subterranean dwarves—fickle and quick to anger. Elves with their arrows of disease and misery poised ready to strike down man and beast alike. Worms and serpents slithered in the shadows, ready to spread plagues and devastation. Even dragons seemed possible here.

  My breath deepened. The clouds shifted and coalesced. Wales slipped away. I stood in darkness. The air was hot. A humid weight descended. I reached out but no walls enclosed me. I tested the ground to find it smooth and stable, so I stepped forward. The room burst into light. Torches flickered like golden jewels. Shadows danced across the surface of the stone walls. Bones dangled from the rafters overhead. A calf’s skull hovered in the middle; its soulless, empty eyes bored into mine. I thought of Muirgen, hanging lifeless from the old oak. A hissing growl seeped from the walls, and I turned to find a hideous, three-headed creature looming over me. Gaping maws salivated. Claws as long as spear points poised curled and ready. I dodged the vicious, snapping teeth and withdrew my sword, slicing a clean arc through the air. The fierce edge severed one long, sinewy neck, but a new head grew in its stead and the creature renewed its attack.

  With each strike, another head fell and another head emerged to take its place. With each manifestation, the faces became uglier and more disfigured. The creature’s deformity reminded me of Demas’s bodyguard, Gil—evil and vicious like his master. The heads morphed, contorting their grotesque faces into one mocking sneer. The ground shook as the beast stomped its feet. I stumbled but held my linden shield, struggling to block the monster’s attack. The creature reared up on its hind legs, a hideous black beast, and then roared as it plunged toward me, its gaping mouths swallowing me whole. Darkness pressed upon me at each side. Dirt filled my nose and choked my mouth. I tried to scream but when I opened my mouth I only coughed dust.

  I came back to myself in an instant, snapping abruptly into the world around me. My heart strained and pounded as if struggling to escape my constricted chest. A tuneless whistle carried on the wind.

  My body trembled, and I didn’t trust myself to stand. What did the vision mean? A bad omen to be sure, unless it was a re
mnant, a memory. Why else would Demas and Muirgen come unbidden to my mind? Was it only a dream? A nightmare? Had I fallen asleep?

  I ducked my head for a moment to swipe the sweat from my brow, only to be startled when the dusty hem of a simple wool robe brushed my leather boots. My gaze darted upward and made eye contact with a priest. His eyebrows furrowed with concern as he spoke a jumble of words I didn’t understand.

  I shook my head. “I do not speak Welsh,” I said in English.

  He tried again, his English true and clear. “Are you all right?”

  I smiled wanly, collecting myself. “I’ve had better days.”

  He extended his hand, helping me to my feet. “My name is Eadfrith.”

  “You’re Saxon.”

  “Yes.” His smile crinkled the edges of his eyes, little creases fanning outward. “As are you.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the hill. “I was coming to sweep the nave. If you would like to join me, I understand good company can be a cure for what ails.” He resumed his purpose, passing the stone and my unladylike state, his sturdy build managing the incline with little effort.

  I looked back the way I had come. That vision, or dream, or whatever it was had shaken me. Perhaps it would be best to get back to Alrik.

  “I have sweet cakes and strong mead.” He called over his shoulder.

  My stomach growled. I had hardly eaten since I’d broken my fast that morning, and it had been little more than dried bread and some wine. That fact alone was enough to make me consider following him. I didn’t normally have much in common with Christian priests, but the longing to share company with another Saxon overwhelmed me, so I ambled after him.

  He was a solid man, his height and carriage belying that of a warrior, possibly even a nobleman. His copper hair, untouched by the typical tonsure, framed the healthy glow of a man who lived well despite the visage of his austere vocation.

  By the time I caught up, my lungs wheezed for air.

  He chuckled. “Not a trifle of a hike, is it.”

  “No,” I managed.