Avelynn Read online

  We arrived a little before noon. That didn’t give us a lot of time—the interval between high and low tide was only six hours.

  Bertram wandered off in search of interesting tidbits of flora and fauna to collect, and I continued on to the heart of the matter. The island was heavily wooded, with a small clearing in the middle, marked by a solitary megalithic stone. That was where I was headed. I needed to speak with my mother.

  For a moment, I stood and stared at the mottled gray surface of the stone, afraid I would glimpse an image of the beautiful woman buried in the dirt beneath my feet. No vision came, and I knelt in the soft grass. Reaching into my satchel, I withdrew my last apple. I placed the offering at the base of the stone to appease any restless members of the Otherworld and waited. The energy of the clearing shifted: a nod in acceptance of my gift. A token given in earnest was rarely rejected, and Avalon—the name itself meaning apple—was rife with apple trees. I felt the offering was fitting.

  I removed my sword and knife and leaned them against a large ash tree. Implements of violence were not permitted within the ritual space.

  I circled the grave, pouring powdered chalk from a small pouch, and then crossed the circle twice, dividing it into four quarters. I sat in the center.

  I rested my forehead on the cold stone and took several deep breaths. I smelled the dampness of the earth, the fetid decay of death, and the sharp resin of rebirth that surrounded me in the swamp. The drizzle had stopped, and hazy rays of sunlight broke through the gray miasma hovering over the land. I could feel the sun’s distant warmth spilling over my cloak.

  With my finger, I traced the Ogham symbols carved into the smooth stone. I missed my mother with an ache that left me feeling segmented. She would have talked reason into my father, would have made him soften with her tenderness.

  Out beyond the dense trees and boundless marsh lay the fury of the ocean that had brought my mother and father together. She had been traveling by ship from Ireland to Wales as a political pawn in an arranged marriage. She never told us the reasons for the arrangement or what benefit this marriage was to bestow upon her people, but in the end that contract was never fulfilled. A ferocious storm ravaged the seas, pitting the small boat against monstrous waves, pelting them with shocking gales and torrential rain. Many on board were lost, dragged down into the ocean’s icy depths. In addition to Bertram and my mother, only a handful of warriors and a few servants survived, and the light of day found them marooned off the coast of England, stuck deep in thick mud when the tide withdrew.

  My father, hunting with several of his men, was also caught off guard by the storm. Rather than return home, they were forced to wait out the storm inland. When morning broke, they rode out to the shore to see what damage the storm had caused. Great was their surprise when they saw a ship stranded without water and a beautiful woman standing on the bow.

  So enamored was my father that he ordered his men to cut down a hundred trees and split them into planks so he could walk across the silt. Once he reached the ship, he dropped to one knee and begged for her hand in marriage. Besotted at once, she didn’t hesitate. They were inseparable until the day she died.

  Was it so hard to see why I wanted that kind of love too? I thought my father understood. Why was he pushing me away from something so wonderful?

  I closed my eyes. “What am I to do, Mama?”

  I listened, waiting for an answer or a sign to appear. I heard the abundant calls of birds, the soft rustling of a small animal rooting through the bushes nearby, but nothing sounded amiss. I felt the warmth of the sun on my head, a cold breeze nipping at my cheeks and nose, but I did not hear or sense any answer.

  I opened my satchel and pulled out an earthen bowl. From a small stoppered urn, I poured in enough water until it quivered on the edge of spilling. I made a tinder nest of dried fungus and grass and struck the flint with the steel fire lighter until a spark teased the kindling and it began to smoke. Cradling the nest, I blew on it softly until the glowing ember surged and caught the grass and a hungry flame emerged. I placed the nest carefully under a handful of small twigs. I reached my arms to the sky and offered a silent invocation to the Goddess and my mother’s spirit. I added an extra appeal to Thunor, the Saxon thunder god, Woden, the Saxon god of knowledge and prophecy, and Jesus, the Christian god, for good measure.

  My mother and Bertram followed the Goddess, but since living in England, they readily adopted the English gods into their pantheon. As warrior and chieftain, my father—while a Christian—still held a soft spot for the powerful sky god, Thunor, so it was not uncommon to find the gods fraternizing with the Goddess in their worship and rituals.

  I appealed to them all now. I needed to know what my future held and if I would be forced to marry Demas. I wanted to know if I would ever fall in love. And for these insights I needed the last item from my satchel—my divining bones. I opened the white silk pouch and tipped the small bleached bones onto the ground before me.

  They fell into almost two distinct piles, with one small fragment traversing the void in between—a choice perhaps between two paths, or two sides. Each bone had an Ogham symbol carved into its surface. Huath/Hawthorn was turned upward—a test ahead, as was Tinne/Holly—attack or defense. Muin/Vine was also prominent—wealth … my inheritance, my legacy might be in jeopardy. I frowned. The most worrisome symbol was Ioho/Yew, for it stood for destruction and transformation.

  I didn’t like the message. A test or challenge ahead—where I was either being attacked or must become defensive. My legacy, my wealth, and my status might be threatened. And before transformation and rebirth, there would be destruction. I leaned over my earthen bowl and looked upon the water’s reflective surface, hoping a clarifying image would appear.

  A ruckus of thrashing and screeching emerged from behind me. I turned. A magnificent raven burst from a large ash tree, its wing injured as it tried to fly overhead. I watched its struggle in fascination, and several large droplets of blood fell onto my face. Startled, I blinked and jerked back as the warm moisture ran down my cheek.

  The ground shook. A loud crash brought my attention back to my mother’s grave. A boar as large as two grown men barreled out of the woods, huge tusks extended from its long snout. I imagined those vicious points goring me through, and my hands grew clammy with sweat.

  I held very still and tried to merge with the inanimate stone that hid most of my body from view. I prayed the beast would not see or hear me. My breath, shallow and quick, sent small puffs of mist billowing into the air above me. I became aware of each sound my body made—the rasping sound of my breaths, my heart hammering in my ears, the thundering of blood rushing through my veins—as my body prepared to either fight or flee. I prayed to the gods neither would be necessary, as the boar could easily outrun me if I tried to flee, and with my sword out of reach, there wasn’t much opportunity to be victorious in a fight, either.

  Cool perspiration prickled along my spine and pooled within my armpits and beneath my breasts. I winced. If the smell of the fire didn’t reveal me, then the smell of my fear would.

  The boar pawed at the ground and snorted as it sensed another presence in the clearing. It turned its beady eyes in my direction. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

  The raven reappeared, careening out of the sky. With its claws exposed, it took a daring swipe at the pig. Distracted from me and infuriated with the raven, the boar gave chase, vaulting back into the woods in pursuit of the great black bird.

  Seeing the angry twitching tail disappear into the undergrowth, I wasted no time and scrambled to my feet. I grabbed my sword and knife, stomped on the few remaining embers of the fire, and threw all my paraphernalia back into my bag, pausing only long enough to register a droplet of blood on the center bone.

  I paced back and forth for what seemed like an eternity before Bertram appeared as if refreshed from a lovely afternoon stroll. He looked at me and at the marks around the clearing, where the boar’s tracks we
re still fresh in the newly turned-up earth, and back as he surveyed the drops of dried blood clinging to my face.

  “It’s time to go,” I said, grabbing his arm.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  I explained the events summarily, my feet keeping their brisk press forward.

  He looked around at the blur of passing reeds and rushes. “You can let go of me now. I think we’re safe.”

  With one final glance back over my shoulder, I released him and slowed my pace. “What do you think?”

  His bushy white eyebrows meshed together in the center of his forehead. “What direction did the bird come from?”

  “East.”

  “And the boar?”

  “West; it came out of the woods in front of me.”

  We walked in pregnant silence for several more yards. Bertram’s eyes focused on something in the distance. His voice startled me when he continued. “War is coming.”

  Sweat slicked my palms. “Why was I marked with blood?”

  “That could be a very bad omen.”

  War, blood, death, and destruction—these were not things to look forward to in my future. I grasped for something—anything else—to take away from the day’s events. Was it possible the vision meant something else? I was, after all, fine. The raven had saved me.

  A familiar of the fourfold Goddess, the raven was a divine messenger. But why had the raven itself challenged the boar, an animal associated with Danu, Earth Mother and governess of fertility and marriage?

  “I had also asked about Demas and love. Perhaps the vignette was to signify that if I give Demas one more chance, he may prove worthy of my heart and offer me security and protection … a way to avoid calamity—the boar—in my future?”

  Bertram rubbed his snowy beard between his fingers. “It is possible, but we must proceed cautiously.”

  I nodded. A vision could have several meanings, but it was ultimately up to a priestess to decipher the signs and omens. I was far too eager to view the vision in a positive light rather than a negative one. Love, safety, protection. These messages were infinitely better than interpreting the situation as an imminent sign of bloodshed.

  FIVE

  DECEMBER 869

  As Ealhswith’s friend, I was expected to attend the Christmas festivities, but Edward was too young to accompany Father and his thegns. With every muscle in my body protesting, I envied him his youth and freedom. The Nativity called for three masses—one at midnight, one in the morning, and still another again late in the afternoon. It was just after dawn, and I had endured one mass already.

  I had been to Winchester several times, but the church itself never ceased to impress me. The building was made of hewn stone recycled from old Roman buildings and stood two stories high, the second story supported by arches and large square columns. The nave was long and narrow, the ceiling of which was painted in brilliant colors. Along the two longest walls, narrow windows sparkled with glass, filtering the weak winter sun. Each column, each polished surface was either etched or painted. Staircases led to private oratories upstairs with altars in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Michael, St. John the Baptist, and other holy apostles and martyrs. The wonderful thing about each of those private altars was the addition of the blessed gift of a bench to sit upon whilst one prayed. In the wide-open nave, not a bench was in sight, and parishioners had to stand throughout each successive mass.

  I yawned, eyes watering, and lolled my neck in an effort to revive my wavering attention. I had thought Demas’s late uncle, Ealhstan, was verbose and rambling, but this perception was thoroughly supplanted upon meeting the Bishop of Winchester, Ealhferth.

  The bishop was a corpulent little man, with piercing eyes far too small for his bulbous face. And since he spent the entire day lecturing on and ranting about humanity’s immorality, he was perpetually red-faced. He reminded me of a crazed boar in rutting season. The short, sparse, and rather prickly shoots of bristles of his tonsure and beard did little to assuage the image.

  I massaged the back of my neck, trying to work the strain out of the tight muscles. My back and legs ached from the interminable standing, and I still had another mass to go. I chanced a discreet look around the nave of the Minster. Everyone was wilted. Even King Aethelred’s shoulders were slumped in defeat. I shifted my weight onto my other leg and tried to stretch, earning a reproving glance from my father. I slumped back into dignified piousness.

  I returned my attention to the pulpit. Ealhferth was having quite a rant. “The Vikings have come as punishment for England’s sins. Repent. Repent, before the plague of heathens descends upon us!” On and on it went, spittle flying in a continuous stream onto the poor parishioners in the front rows. “It’s been four years since the Great Heathen Army descended upon this land. Hundreds of longships turned our horizon black as night, carrying the spawn of Satan forever to our shores. Northumbria has fallen, their lecherous ways leading them into the hands of the Devil. East Anglia has traded their virtuous robes for the cloths of sloth and greed, their saintly king tortured and defiled!”

  I rolled my eyes. All the panic over King Edmund’s death had come to nothing. The Vikings seemed content to settle down in East Anglia, marshaling out farmland and finding wives amongst Saxon women. They hadn’t made any threats toward Wessex, and while spying eyes always kept wary watch, life had slowly returned to normal.

  Ealhferth pointed a stubby, plump finger at his flock. “Wessex, your faith is being tested. Repent your sins, or feel the wrath of God!”

  I groaned, earning glances from a group of ladies in front of me and a murderous scowl from my father. I cast my eyes downward, affecting pious contrition. The Vikings were not God’s punishment for society’s or man’s weak, materialistic, and lascivious constitutions. They were not sent in retribution for not giving enough benefaction to the church, nor did they come as retaliation for celebrating and feasting for twelve nights at Christmastide, though the bishops would like everyone to believe that. The church’s edict was clear—too much of earthly pleasures and God would smite you where you stood. Or better yet, he’d send the Vikings to do it for him.

  The mass finally ended and everyone filed out of the Minster. I breathed in great gulps of cold, crisp air. While beautiful, Christian churches were suffocating. Unlike the Goddess faith—which celebrated the vastness of nature, in the vastness of nature—Christianity threw its followers into small, cramped churches and stuffed them together like rows of gluttonous piglets fighting for a teat. I was grateful to be back out in the open, despite the substantial nip in the air.

  The morning was sullen and gray. A few flurries scurried about in the brisk north wind. November had been just a prelude of what this winter had in store for Wessex. It was, by far, the coldest December I could recall.

  I caught sight of Demas walking out of the nave, and I smoothed down the front of my kirtle. I hadn’t seen him since our first abysmal meeting a month ago, and I wanted to make a good impression.

  I had spent a great deal of time fussing in front of my mirror earlier. I had picked a soft blue kirtle that suited the paleness of my skin and paired it with a deep indigo cloak that set the blue of my eyes sparkling. Near each temple, I had braided a length of hair, tying them together near the nape of my neck with a silk ribbon that matched the pale blue of my dress. Turning and turning, I had tried to gauge the effect from every possible angle. I felt confident that I presented an acceptable image.

  I dropped into a low curtsy. “Good morning, Demas.”

  “Lady.” He waved his hand in dismissal and continued on his way to the stables.

  Taken aback, I stared at his departing form until he disappeared into the throng of men pressed near the king’s stables. Wulfstan, the Earl of Devon’s son, approached me and bowed gracefully.

  “Lady Avelynn, you look enchanting this morning.” Honey-blond hair hung in soft curls to his collarbone, framing high cheekbones and deep brown eyes.

 
“Thank you, sir.”

  “I hear you’re betrothed.” He looked in the direction of my intended.

  “Yes, I hear that too,” I said, following his gaze.

  “I wish it was I who had stolen your heart.”

  I smiled weakly. He had been one of the most charming and handsome suitors to try to win my hand, and I enjoyed his company … but I never felt that spark of wanting, that fire of passion that I so desperately craved.

  Reflecting on that terse exchange with Demas, I looked somberly at Wulfstan and wondered if my passionate longings and stubbornness were not going to be my undoing.

  He extended his arm, and we walked together toward the stables. The air was alive with anticipation. A hunt had been planned for immediately following the mass. The king; his brother, Alfred; my father; Demas; and all of the noblemen of the court were to take part. There was organized chaos all around as men, stable lads, stewards, and pages readied horses, spears, and swords.

  “How goes the news of the hunt this morning?” I asked.

  “Superbly,” Wulfstan replied. “Just before mass, the huntsman was scouting with his lymer, and the dog sniffed out a most noble quarry. A buck has been found, and the huntsman assured the king it was a hart of ten.” He looked south into the wall of trees that bordered the courtyard, as if trying to discern the accuracy of the statement for himself. “A deer at this time of year is a great prize for any hunting party, but a mature one with ten points on his antlers…” He whistled. “That is game they will tell tales about for generations to come.”

  I suppressed a smile. While a hart of ten was magnificent, it wasn’t rare or impossible. My father had caught one just this spring. But given the general buzz of excitement coursing through the crowd, I gathered all the men considered it a worthy challenge.