Avelynn: The Edge of Faith (13 page)

I lay the sacrifice on the altar and slipped the ring on, fumbling with slick fingers. Once the ceremony ended, I would skin the hare and bring the carcass up to Alrik and Gil. We would break our fast together with the roasted meat, and then I could place the cleaned bones inside one of the catacombs.

The world buzzed, a strange distant humming. I stopped and listened. The steady drip of blood pooled and plopped onto the dirt. Outside the cave, the wind and surf roared, but the sound couldn’t reach the innermost chamber. Yet there was something there, just beyond the reach of understanding. The buzzing continued, growing louder.

The air pulsed with charge. The hairs on my arms stood on end. I looked through the hole in the roof, fearing lightning, but the rumbling didn’t come from the sky. It was deeper, burbling beneath me. It grew sharper, the thunder building and rising. The ground shook. It unleashed a terrible din as if the earth was being rent apart. The cave shifted, and I stumbled backward. A fissure opened beneath my feet. I straddled a crack as long as the chamber itself. I stared at the altar stone cleaved in two. The sacrifice caught, snared in the wedge between the halves. Should I close the circle? Was the Goddess angry? Had I done something wrong?

The earth roared. Rocks pelted the roof of the cave, crashing, their echoes deafening. I closed the circle, thanking each Goddess in turn, and scrambled to the entrance of the chamber. The fire roared; a gush of fresh air fed the flames. The roof ripped asunder. A large portion collapsed. It crushed the altar stone into the dirt.

I ran, stumbling, gasping for breath. Dirt and dust swirled in the air. Another major heave sent me sprawling to the ground. I didn’t think. I clambered to my feet and raced up and out of the cave. When I reached the stairs, the sun shone as if nothing at all were happening to disrupt the peace of the day. Alrik and Gil paced the edge of the cliff. They threw down a rope. I grabbed onto the lifeline as the world roared around me. A terrible wrenching seized the cliff. Rocks smashed and crashed as projectiles broke free. I held onto the rope for my life. The men pulled faster than my legs could climb. Halfway up, I turned and spared a glance downward. The cave was gone, crumbled into itself. The Mother’s womb—the chamber of life and death—lay shattered on the boulders at the base of the cliff. Waves carried the bones of the ancestors to the world of the dead beyond the sea.

Back on level ground, there was no time to take inventory. Alrik’s face was ashen white, a hue I knew mirrored my own, and he clasped my hand, giving it a squeeze. We untethered the spooked horses and galloped at breakneck speed away from the cliff, the beasts as eager as we were to get far away from the edge. The rumbling stopped shortly after we left the sea, but no one slowed the pace. It was as if we ran for our lives.

The earth shaking wasn’t confined to the coast. Each dwelling we passed showed some form of damage. People congregated outside, talking animatedly amongst themselves. A squat stone church had lost its roof. One side of the building lay in ruins, the rocks crumbled, the walls falling in on themselves.

It took several hours to reach Mathri, and by the time we arrived, the day’s feast was almost underway. I ducked into my cottage to rinse the blood off my hands and change. Gil entertained Alrik in his private cottage, giving them both a chance to brush the dirt from their clothes and wash the day’s strain from their minds.

Exhaustion and the stress of my ordeal caught up with me. I looked at the bed longingly. Despite a strong desire to wrap myself in the furs’ embrace, I steeled my resolve to maintain appearances and joined the festivities.

Hyffaid’s hall was near to bursting with gossip and news from the countryside. A man had died, crushed by rock and debris from an old Roman villa, and several people were missing and unaccounted for. Word spread of travelers seen near the old pagan temple at the coast. Christian condemnation and dire warnings abounded. Gil kept his head down, but occasionally I caught an anxious glance tossed my way. I couldn’t tell if he feared for me or was afraid of me.

In truth, I didn’t know how to reconcile what had happened. Every time I performed a ritual, something odd happened: a sudden pelting rainstorm; snow caught in a tumultuous wind funnel; a surge of fire that burned down a weaving shed; and now the earth shaking. Each time it happened, I pushed the connection aside. There was always an explanation. Bertram had once warned me of believing in the power of the gods. He said I would be no better than the Christian priests who claimed their God could smite armies, cause plagues, and release the hounds of hell on our threshold.

But what if Bertram was wrong? I’d felt the Goddess’s presence. I knew She was powerful. What if it wasn’t just coincidence? Was I somehow able to call upon unimaginable power? And if I could call upon it, could I control it? I thought of Marared. Unease crept under my skin. Could she control it?

As if the thought conjured her presence, Marared bustled up to Alrik, her face alight. “Did you feel it?” She looked like a child given a new poppet.

Gil joined our party and clapped Alrik on the shoulder. “Aye, we did. It was unsettling.” Gil’s eyes swept the crowded hall. “Where’s mother?”

“She’s fine.” She pointed to one corner of the hall. “She’s speaking with Gwgon’s chamberlain.”

“From Seisyllwg? What’s he doing here?” Gil asked.

Marared scowled. “Most likely advancing her sinister plots.”

“Was anyone here hurt?” I asked.

She turned, as if noticing me for the first time. “I heard you were near the coast when it happened. They say the ole church in Pencaer has fallen to ruin and that pagans brought this about with their devil worship.” She eyed me critically. “The whole island knows you’re traveling with a boatload of heathens. They’ll be likely to point fingers. Are you heathen too, Avelynn?”

The look in her eyes and menace in her voice raised the hairs on my forearms. “I’m from England, and last I understood, it was a Christian country.” I met her challenging glare.

Alrik cleared his throat. “We have had a long day. Let us all sit.”

Marared returned her gaze to Alrik. “Of course. The feast is about to begin. Please.” She motioned to the head table.

Alrik felt my hesitation and whispered in my ear. “Hyffaid wishes to affirm our alliance to the guests assembled.”

The last thing I wanted was to sit near Marared. Fortunately, our place was to the left of Hyffaid, his wife and sons. Sigy, Marared, and Gil fanned out to his right.

We sidestepped several children engaged in horseplay, but one small body collided with Alrik’s legs. The momentum of her run stopped her dead, and she landed with a soft thump in the rushes at Alrik’s feet. Two golden eyes lifted, taking in the giant in front of her.

“Whoa there, little one.” Alrik looked down at her. “Are you all right?”

She blinked at him.

He leaned down and lifted her as if she were a feather, settling her on his left hip. “And who might you be, I wonder?”

“This is Sigy’s foster child,” I clarified. The last time I’d seen her she was running amok, naked. She looked the dignified little lady in a light yellow kirtle edged with cyan lace.

“My name is Branwen.” She spoke in Norse. “It means raven,” she clarified.

“For your pretty hair,” I said, assuming so, given that her long, black locks were brushed to a brilliant sheen.

She shook her head. “I’m named after the most beautiful ship in the world.”

“Are you, now?” Alrik looked at her closely. “How old are you, child?”

“Branwen. Come,” Sigy’s voice called with authority, and the girl squirmed.

Alrik set her down and watched as she scampered off to Sigy’s side.

“She seems to be a handful.” I watched as Branwen flopped onto the vacant seat beside Sigy and earned a slap on her hand. She straightened her shoulders and pursed her lips, mimicking Sigy’s austere countenance.

Alrik motioned to the head table, and I followed, accepting a fine bone horn of mead from one of the many servants bustling to and fro.

At first, conversation was limited to news of and reaction to the quake, but after the fourth course, Hyffaid stood and addressed the assembled crowd. Given the variety of languages spoken, a man translated Hyffaid’s words into Norse and English. It was a little touch, but it spoke to his thoughtfulness.

“Rhodri is a coward. Word arrived today of an attack on a group of emissaries. They were set upon whilst traveling under the veil of safety in Gwgon’s lands. The dogs sent arrows through the trees, deigned to show their faces. Forty men died. The mice shouted, ‘Long live the one true king of Wales.’ Rhodri hides behind women’s skirts, choosing to stab a man in the back rather than face him in battle.”

I glanced at Alrik. How were we to fight an army we couldn’t see?

“In retaliation of that craven act, I have fortuitous news to share on this day.” Hyffaid motioned to Alrik, who in turn nodded to Cormac. The table of Northmen stood.

“Jarl Alrik and sixty of his bravest men have pledged their allegiance to our cause. Combined with Gwgon’s men, we will return the victors of the field and send Rhodri cowering back to Gwynedd.”

A few claps burbled through the hall. Hyffaid continued. “Join me in welcoming our friends to my table.” He held his horn high, waiting. The pause was palpable. Finally, in fits and spurts, Hyffaid’s men stood.

Alrik affected an air of grace, but his jaw clenched. He offered a toast in Welsh to Hyffaid. “To victory.”

Each man in the hall downed the contents of his horn, and a few cheers rang out for victory, king, and country.

The Vikings didn’t look impressed. A few tossed gimlet stares at the Welshmen.

Hyffaid drained his own cup. “We march north on the morrow!” Hyffaid plopped into his chair. Upon the king’s cue, everyone took their seats. Servants swarmed, serving an endless stream of heaping platters of food.

The meal passed without further incident. Everyone drank heartily while the scop regaled the crowd with tales of valor, love, and loss. When the bard set down his harp, Hyffaid shuffled in our direction and shook Alrik’s hand. He bent in a courtly bow to me and then sat opposite Alrik. “I have a proposition for you, my friend. I have agreed to provide you with a new sail and add ample gold and silver to your coffers, but I would like to offer more. I am willing to pay your weight in silver if you would agree to stay in Wales and fight for me. I am confident that in this campaign to hold Rhodri to his lands in the north, we will be successful, but Rhodri will not give up. As security, I would like to offer you a prestigious position at my court as Commander of the Guard. I would hope your men will agree to fight by your side. I will of course reward them lavishly for their service.”

Alrik leaned back in his chair. “What would your men think of this arrangement? I do not get the impression they are pleased with our involvement.”

“They are slow to trust. Do not blame them. Your brother’s actions have hurt us all.”

Alrik nodded. “I appreciate your honesty, and your offer is good and fair, but I cannot accept.”

“I am willing to negotiate more, if it is wealth you are after.”

Alrik shook his head. “I mean to leave once we settle this conflict with Rhodri. I have promised the lady safe passage to the continent. I mean to keep my word.”

Hyffaid looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “I can provide a ship for her passage. In fact, I will have a shipment of wool ready to leave within a few days. And to sweeten the pot, any payment she has offered, I will double.”

“I thank you for the offer, but the lady and I are betrothed.”

Hyffaid’s jaw tightened. “My niece failed to mention that. No offense, mistress.”

I pursed my lips. “None taken.”

“I am sorry. But my decision is final,” Alrik said.

“Perhaps we can reach a compromise. The offer will remain open, in case you reconsider.” He waited for a nod from Alrik and then rejoined his wife at the head table.

I didn’t know exactly how much Alrik weighed, but it had to be over twenty stone. The sum in Hyffaid’s offer was staggering. Part of me rejoiced at Alrik’s dismissal. The other part, the one that wanted to see him happy, the one that wanted to see him find the validation and renown he so desperately craved, hesitated. Despite Ragnar acknowledging Alrik as his son, his half-brothers—Ivar, Ubbe, and Halfdan—considered him less. By sailing to England without Alrik, they made their opinions obvious and public. Whether he was ridiculed outwardly or just fought with demons within himself, he’d built his own ship and pillaged and fought, determined to prove his worth.

Hyffaid offered an opportunity to have something of his own, to hold power and position. Wasn’t that why he had agreed to this mercenary work in the first place? He could build a home and name for himself here, earn glory in battle, appease his gods. It wasn’t safe for me to stay this close to Osric and England, but I couldn’t be the reason for his refusal. I would never forgive myself.

“Alrik. That is a tremendous opportunity. Your men might wish you to reconsider.”

“Hyffaid wishes to secure his throne and strengthen his family’s position through an alliance with the sons of Ragnar. Ivar is a scourge to this island. From Ireland, he has attacked, raped, and burned. He’s carted away hundreds of Welsh prisoners to sell at the slave markets in Dublin. Once Hyffaid learns one of my brothers wants me dead and the other has cast me into exile, he would not feel the bargain fairly struck. Besides,” his voice dropped, deep and husky. “Now that we are promised and you have refused to leave my side, I have no choice but to depart from Wales. If I linger, Marared will sink her hooks into me further, and there is only one woman I want in my bed.”