Avelynn Page 7

  Slightly younger than his brother, Wulfric, Leofric was as solid as a boulder, with the same dark hair and watchful eyes, but Leofric was more boisterous, with a charismatic and endearing nature. Today, however, he affected a severe countenance.

  Sigberht scowled, but remained silent.

  “The boundary lines need measuring. A necessary duty to quell any future land disputes. This task falls under your jurisdiction, does it not?”

  Sigberht grumbled. Leofric nudged him politely with his shoulder. “Aye,” he answered.

  “Good.” I nodded to Leofric, who stepped to the door and let in a small, wiry old man. His face was weathered and wrinkled, like an apple left out in the sun, but his eyes sparkled with intelligence. “You recall Eata, my father’s butler.”

  Eata stepped forward. “I’ve brought the rope, m’lady, and the tablet.”

  “Thank you, Eata.” I turned and smiled at Sigberht. “Before he became butler, Eata used to travel with Wiglaf, your predecessor as reeve. He knows each district better than anyone on the manor. He will accompany you and record each freeman’s holdings on the tablet. You will of course be thorough and walk each and every boundary line, measuring it with the rope.”

  “That will take weeks,” Sigberht hissed.

  “Yes, there is an awful lot of boggy ground to cover.”

  “Your father—”

  “Ah yes, my father. Since he also charged you with collecting the taxes, you can kill two birds with one stone. I’m sure he will be very pleased to hear of your resourcefulness and enterprise.”

  “You can’t make me do anything, girl.” He stalked closer.

  “I believe she can.” Leofric stepped between us. “You’ll do as she says, or the priest here will record in the charter your willful refusal of a direct order by your lord.”

  Sigberht turned and glared at Father Plegmund, sitting piously at the table, recording the proceedings. Bertram stood nearby, leaning against the wall.

  “That would be four witnesses to swear to the neglect of your duties as reeve,” I said, resting my hand on the hilt of my sword. “A grave crime, the least punishment for which is to lose your position; the next penalty, your hand.” I knew I was wading into dangerous territory. Sigberht was not likely to let this public humiliation go unanswered. But what choice did I have? If I could not earn his respect, I could only force his compliance.

  He glared at me for a long moment, the only sound in the hall the crackle of the logs on the hearth. “Very well.” He bowed slightly to me and the men present. “I will leave forthwith.” He spun on his heels and stormed out of the hall, Eata scampering to catch up.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. My palm was sweaty where I held the sword, and my hands trembled slightly.

  With the drama concluded, everyone left but Bertram. He studied me closely. “How do you feel?”

  “Like a bully.” I rose, releasing the cloak from my shoulders.

  He nodded. “I can’t say he didn’t deserve to learn his place. I only worry that coming from you, he will not take the chastisement lightly.”

  “No. I imagine he won’t.” I sighed. “At least we can travel to the coast.”

  “Are you sure you need to do this?”

  “I missed the winter solstice. I cannot let the equinox pass without honoring Her properly.”

  “Then we will leave on the morrow.”

  * * *

  With only two days left before the twenty-fifth of March, I left Milo in charge of the estate, and Bertram and I headed to the coast.

  In winter, the coastal areas of Somerset were sodden with brackish water, and vegetation was sparse, but in the spring, the water receded, and spongy marshland, full of rushes and withies, sprung up. A bit farther inland, heathland abounded with peat, coarse grasses, shrubs, and heather. Dense and sprawling woodlands intermingled with all, carving their way through the landscape. We were headed for a location almost a full day’s ride from Wedmore. Bordered by thick forest, it was one of the few places along the coast that boasted a beautiful sandy beach.

  Like Avalon, the coast was a mystical place. It was the farthest west we could travel before falling into the sea and was therefore the closest we would come to the mystical veil between the worlds of the living and dead. Since this part of Somerset was uninhabited, it was also sufficiently removed from cynical souls who would condemn me for my beliefs.

  To the Christian church, March twenty-fifth was the beginning of the liturgical New Year—the day an angel appeared to a girl named Mary, informing her about an upcoming divine birth. In the pagan faith, it marked the vernal equinox—the juncture when day and night were equal. It was a powerful and auspicious time.

  I had been raised to become a high priestess of the Four Directions. While I hadn’t been able to officially achieve that illustrious status before my mother died, I was nonetheless an anointed priestess of my faith. I believed in one Goddess, She who has no name but has four parts, four personalities or manifestations that I could entreat—four Goddesses who guided us on life’s path. Tomorrow, I would honor Her in a ceremony bound by beliefs and rites thousands of years old.

  The ritual would take place at dawn, but we had to set up camp and gather enough wood for the ceremonial fire. The moment we left Wedmore, the sky clouded over. By the time we reached the coast, a misty drizzle veiled the land. We tethered the horses and assembled our tent on a relatively flat area of ground, just within the thick overgrowth of ancient forest. The canopy was dense. Ferns, their delicate fronds reaching out to capture the fleeting daylight, dominated the ground cover.

  The light rain barely penetrated the trees, and we had little problem finding a large quantity of good, dry timber. We lit a fire to keep the chill at bay and ate a small snack of dried meat, cheese, and bread, treating ourselves to freshly roasted fiddleheads picked from the burgeoning shoots around us.

  If I had been traveling with an entourage, my tent would have been grand. A bed, several chests, tables, and benches would have been brought and assembled inside. But with only Bertram and me, our lodging was primitive. I rolled out the woolen bundle that served as my bed and pulled the hood of my cloak up and over my head to stay warm, nestling between the covers.

  Despite the meager comforts, I reveled in the freedom of being alone with Bertram—a woman in charge of my own destiny, away from the men who threatened to control my life. They were engulfed by ignorance and fear, and it was a blessing to know and experience my own power. And I would embrace that power tomorrow as a daughter of the Goddess.

  I turned to Bertram to thank him for helping me, expecting to find him cocooned in his own bedding, but he was sitting against a log, his back rigid. “What is it?” I asked.

  “I will not help you tomorrow.”

  I sat up. “What do you mean? It’s the equinox!” As druid, his role in our rituals was just as important as mine as priestess.

  “I mean, you will have to do this alone. I’ll not encourage this any longer.”

  “Encourage what?”

  “Following the Goddess is a path fraught with danger. The Christians do not tolerate our faith. I would see you turn your considerable talents and energy to something else.”

  We’d had this argument before, when my father wanted me converted. Bertram had refused my father’s wishes, but only because I had been adamant. I would not be coerced into becoming a Christian. I had thought the matter closed. “You promised my mother to continue my learning.”

  “Yes, I did, and I’ve taught you all I know.”

  I doubted that and glared at him.

  He shrugged. His mouth was set in a thin line. “With my drum, I will keep the rhythm. I will chart the pace, but you will have to do the ceremony alone. You do not need me for this.”

  I had watched my mother dance as Bertram chanted; I had even joined in, dancing as I grew older, but … “I’ve never done this alone.”

  He smiled. “You will know what to do.” He wriggled into
his covers and rolled over, his back to me.

  I grumbled my dissent and begrudgingly settled down to sleep, my mind alternating between fits of confidence and doubt. I frowned, wondering if this was some sort of test. In fairness, I’d have to do this on my own eventually. I just expected more notice, more time to prepare. I had a rough outline of what was expected. The rest I would just have to improvise.

  The drizzle stopped at some point in the night, and as the first hint of morning infused the darkness with the potential of shape and form, it revealed a heavy, impenetrable fog. Tripping over roots, rocks, and a terrain that had somehow sprouted treacherous mounds and divots overnight, we staggered back and forth from the camp to the beach, arms laden with firewood.

  Protected within a small inlet, the air was still. Not a breath of wind stirred the thick wall of gray. Even the sea itself was calm, its soft murmur expanding and fading as the gentle waves ebbed and flowed. We arranged the wood to form a massive cone and lit the kindling at the base. A roar of flame erupted, licking greedily at the dry logs.

  I was grateful for the sudden blast of heat. Prepared for the ritual, I had taken off my cloak and kirtle and wore only a thin, sleeveless white underdress, which I had rucked up above my knees, to allow for ease of movement. I had also braided my hair and tucked the ends under my leather belt to keep it from flying too close to the fire as I danced.

  Bertram nodded, indicating all was ready, and walked away, disappearing into the fog.

  Remaining on the inside, I used a stick to trace a large circle in the sand. “In the name of the one true Goddess, I cast this circle.” Everything within this space was sacred. I walked the periphery, pausing at all four directions, invoking each Goddess.

  “Aine, Maiden of the North, Goddess of the moon and stars, keeper of music, magic, and medicine, governess of the Mental Realms of enlightenment and wisdom, I welcome you. Hear me, beloved Maiden. Fill the body of this your priestess. Grant me your love, gift me your power.

  “Macha, Queen of the East, Goddess of the sun, keeper of love, passion, and the rising of the dawn, governess of the Spiritual Realms of faith and righteousness, I welcome you. Hear me, sovereign Queen. Fill the body of this your priestess. Grant me your love, gift me your power.

  “Danu, Mother of the South, Goddess of hills and plains, keeper of marriage, motherhood, and fertility, governess of the Emotional Realms of morals, virtues, and nurturance. Great Earth Mother who reigns over animals and humans, crops and forest, I welcome you. Hear me, luminous Mother. Fill the body of this your priestess. Grant me your love, gift me your power.

  “Badb, Crone of the West, Goddess of oceans and rivers, keeper of power, courage, and perseverance, governess of the Physical Realms of death and birth, I welcome you. Hear me, great Crone. Fill the body of this your priestess. Grant me your love, gift me your power.”

  By the time I had finished the invocation, the sun had crested the horizon, its light permeating the shifting gray. The slow, steady rhythm of Bertram’s drum filled the air. A haunting tempo echoed the rhythm of the waves, the heartbeat of the earth, and despite my reservations, my body began to move, urged on by the deep, throbbing bass of the drum.

  Cool dampness caressed my bare skin as I danced around the sacred fire. With each pounding beat, I leapt and turned, stepped and dipped, arms reaching above me, honoring the Goddess. All I could hear was the resounding pulse of the drum. All I could see was the blazing fire. The fog engulfed me, cutting me off from the rest of the world. I was on an island as big as the earth itself. I was the earth itself. Beyond this moment, this circle, nothing else existed.

  I sang a short verse of praise, then added a personal plea for my future happiness and the strength to conquer those who would oppose me—I envisioned a divine hand personally wiping the smug faces off both Demas and Sigberht; a prayer for my father and Edward—I would see them home safely; and the knowledge and skills necessary to run the manor in my father’s absence. I also appealed to the Goddess’s mercy and benevolence, imploring her to stave off the war, death, and bloodshed that were portended to enter my life and the lives of those I loved.

  I felt the pull of tranquility. Thoughts and words slipped away, and a blanket of peace settled over me. My body moved as it wished. I was an instrument, the drum my master. Bertram beat louder and faster. It pushed and pulled, and I followed its summons, kicking up soft sand with my bare feet as I danced. I felt freedom, the boundlessness of eternity, and a connection to something greater than myself. I went home to the embrace of the Goddess, and I was rocked and soothed, supported and loved. Was my mother with me too? I wondered suddenly. I reached my arms out to her and danced, remembering when we had danced together, honoring the Goddess, keeping our faith alive.

  A coarse, bloodcurdling shout reverberated through the mist. The drum silenced. I froze. My heart took up a thunderous beat as if a thousand starlings’ wings beat in my chest. Something was terribly wrong. I turned my gaze to the sea, frantically scanning the swirling, ebbing mass of gray, willing the mist to lift.

  Shades and shadows melted away. The outline of a Viking ship materialized before my eyes. A bloodred sail pierced the gloom, a black bird emblazed upon the fabric. A beast of a man ran toward me, a painted shield in one hand, an axe in the other. He stepped over the circle and grabbed my arms. I could smell the fetid reek of his breath, the unwashed sweat and sea spray on his filthy clothes. I screamed. He snarled, covered my mouth, and thrust me to the ground. I kicked and thrashed as he fumbled one-handed with the drawstring on his trousers.

  Then he stopped, a look of surprise etched in his wide eyes. Blood sputtered out of his mouth, and he fell sideways. I scrambled back as his body twitched, my breath ragged. An axe was stuck fast in his spine.

  I screamed again as another Viking appeared before me. Taller than Glastonbury Tor, he wore a silver helmet with nose and cheek guards and full mail. The same black bird as on the ship’s sail stretched its wings across the battered wooden surface of his shield. A sword and a knife, cradled in their scabbards, hung from a leather belt on his waist. He grabbed one of the dead Viking’s feet and hauled him out of the circle. He jerked the axe free of the body and tucked the weapon into a sling that hung on his back.

  I found my feet, spinning to discover the extent of my trouble. Were there more invaders? Did the Viking know I was alone with no chance of aid? Were his men scoping the surrounding area even now? Did they find our campsite with only two horses and two bedrolls? Where was Bertram?

  The Viking looked down at the circle drawn in the sand and bowed. With his body still bent, he raised his head, blue eyes regarding me. “I apologize for the disruption to your ritual, Seiðkana,” he said, speaking in the Norse tongue.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Seiðkana? I wasn’t sure of the translation of the word, but I thought it meant witch.

  “Who are you?” I asked in Norse, earning a look of shock.

  “I am Alrik the Bloodaxe, your servant.”

  Bertram appeared from out of the fog, his hands bound as he was tossed back and forth like a rag poppet between three brutes, each man armed with axe, sword, and shield. They turned their attention to me, leering, and made vile comments, grabbing and rubbing their crotches. Even if I hadn’t understood the language, their sentiments were unmistakable.

  I realized, belatedly, that I was completely exposed. I loosened my belt and the fabric dropped, covering my legs. I couldn’t do anything about my bare arms, so I crossed them in front of my chest.

  Alrik growled, and they stopped. He removed his axe and set it down beside a nearby rock. He then unclasped his cloak and tossed it within the circle.

  I stood taller, lifted my chin, and didn’t budge.

  He grinned at me, revealing brilliant white teeth in a nest of neatly trimmed blond bristles, and then turned to one of the men. “Dispose of this rotting flesh.” He kicked the dead man in the ribs. “And set up camp.”

  “What do you want with the old man?�
�� another asked, and thrust Bertram in front of him.

  “Bind him to a tree, but see that no harm comes to him. He carries the staff of a druid.” He pointed to Bertram’s worn staff, the smooth wood etched with Ogham symbols.

  The Vikings were notorious for their penchant for slaughter, but they were also rumored to be extremely superstitious. The Ogham symbols may have saved Bertram’s life. As for my fate, it seemed we were at an impasse. Alrik made no effort to cross the line, and I had no intention of stepping over it. If he truly thought I was a witch, he would not dare enter the circle, fearing a curse or other such malevolent treatment at my displeasure.

  By late morning, the sun had long burned off the last remnants of fog. The sky was a stunning, clear blue, and the day—thank the gods—was blessedly warm. I sat in the sand between the smoldering fire and the edge of the circle. He sat on a rock.

  After a short while, he had removed his helmet, revealing a mass of shoulder-length blond hair; a tidy braid hung on his right side. He placed his shield and weapons on the ground beside his axe, undid his belt, and pulled his mail coat up and over his head, adding these to the pile. He lifted his hands.

  Since I was clearly unarmed, I emulated his gesture and lifted mine in response.

  He laughed—a surprisingly hearty, warm sound. “Finish your ceremony, Seiðkana,” he insisted, gesturing to the circle. “You would anger your gods.”

  I thought fast. Was there some way to evade him? “This is not a ritual for a man’s eyes. I cannot close the circle with your eyes on me.”

  He stood and turned his back to me. “How is this?”

  I studied his strong, wide shoulders. He looked like one of the fabled giants, a titan born of earth and stone. Could a mere mortal outrun a mythical beast? I doubted it. But maybe if I made it to the forest I could escape. I knew the territory, but he didn’t. I wouldn’t be able to free Bertram, but I could alert the countryside. It would take days on foot, but I could follow the River Avon until I reached Bath, a powerful royal village. There would be men garrisoned there. Perhaps they could prevent the Vikings from marauding farther inland?