Avelynn: The Edge of Faith (23 page)

“The woman’s audacity knows no bounds! We need to speak with my brother immediately.”

Before I could protest, Angharad dragged me toward the hall. Gwgon’s private chamber was sparse but regally appointed. A large bed, the headboard carved with exquisite scrollwork, pressed up against the farthest wall. End tables, scattered about, supported several beeswax candles. Wall hangings covered the walls, and a large painted shield crossed by two spears hung behind Gwgon’s chair. Intricately detailed and heavy of oak, the king’s chair exuded power. Two stools, utilitarian and without ornament, sat opposite, dwarfed by a thick plank table.

“Now.” He interlaced his fingers, setting his hands in front of him. “What is this urgent matter you needed to speak with me about?”

Would Gwgon believe my story? He took his sister’s word for my virtue and innocence on nothing more than faith. He owed me nothing, knew me from nowhere. “Alrik is heathen.”

Gwgon raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“But you do not have any problem associating with him.”

“I respect him as a warrior and am happy to have his allegiance.”

“But the fact he is pagan, this doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“We are devout Christians.” He gestured to himself and Angharad. “But I am not fool enough to believe all those that inhabit this earth follow Christ. I believe, however, in time, even the heathens will see the light. Until then, I do not condone their faith, but I will not persecute them for it.”

I leapt into the fire. “Does your clemency apply also to witchcraft?”

He leaned back in his chair and glanced at his sister. “Are you implying the rumors about you are in fact true?” His hand rose to the gold cross hanging from a beaded thread around his neck.

“I am referring to your future bride.”

“Father Llewelyn has apologized for his outburst.”

Angharad jumped to my aid. “There is more support to the priest’s accusations. Remember when Avelynn fell ill? We thought it was milk from our buttery that had turned sour.”

“Yes.” His eyebrows drew together like bushy caterpillars.

“Later the next day, Avelynn found an effigy with iron nails driven into its chest. It was made from her hair.”

“Jesu.” He made the sign of the cross.

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. “Marared does not share her mother’s desire to see the two of you wed. She wants to marry Alrik, and in her mind, I am”—I thought of Demas’s words—“a considerable louse she can’t seem to shake.” The memory brought back anger, frustration, and a strong desire to put an end to Marared’s games. “She has repeatedly threatened me and wants me to leave Wales. She gifted me with a crude wax effigy and warned that matters would worsen if I did not heed her threat. Unfortunately, despite my suspicions on the matter, the existence of the morð does not implicate Marared by itself, and so far, her animosity has been directed only at me. But I thought you might be interested in a conversation I overheard.”

“Matters of witchcraft are of considerable concern to me. But from your own admission, you have no proof of her involvement in these events.”

“Avelynn gains nothing in the telling. Her only purpose is to protect you from a power-hungry wench,” Angharad pressed.

Gwgon spared his sister a warning scowl and locked his arms across his chest. It would be an uphill battle convincing him of my point of view, but I plodded ahead. “One evening, I left the hall seeking my bed. I spied Marared walking with great purpose to your private chambers. When the door opened, Sigy answered. The two women had a damning conversation.”

“Did anyone else overhear this?” Gwgon’s tone betrayed impatience.

Angharad’s exasperated puff of air caught us both short. “For heaven’s sakes, brother, hear the woman’s story before you dissect and pick it apart. There is more. Please continue, Avelynn.”

“In the course of the conversation, I overheard Marared refuse to marry you.”

“Most women do not take kindly to others meddling in their futures, but that is no ground for your charges. They come around and accept their position in time.”

I shook my head. “It was more the threat to your life that I took notice of.”

That caught his attention.

“Sigy implied that Marared need not worry about sharing your bed for long, since kings often die young. She mentioned the threat of the coming battle, and the possibility of your death.”

“While crass, I can hardly argue with her logic, however insensitive to my well-being.” His lips thinned.

“It was more the suggestion of poison to hasten the process that concerned me.” I set my hands in my lap, letting him absorb my words.

He blinked at my admission. “You have no other witnesses?”

“No.”

“And you believe this?” He turned to Angharad.

“I believe Avelynn was poisoned, and if Marared was responsible, you are in great danger.” She reached out and clasped his hands. “Avelynn has nothing to gain by warning you. The wedding cannot proceed.”

“I thank you for your concern.” He stood.

“Gwgon—”

He held up his hand to his sister. “I have welcomed Avelynn to my court and given her clemency and sanctuary because of your friendship, but this charge stretches my patience. I have worked diligently to create a strong alliance with the house of Dyfed and will not allow conjecture and supposition to undermine it. I demand you put these rumors to rest.” He opened the door, showing us out. Angharad crossed her legs and arms and remained seated. He frowned but turned his attention back to me. “If anyone should be concerned about charges of witchcraft, it is you, lady. I suggest you tread carefully. You would be wise to hold onto the friends you have while you are still in our land.” He shut the door behind me.

The looming darkness closed in. Its slimy tendrils lapped at my heels. I left brother and sister to fight it out amongst themselves.

With the army mobilizing, I tried to keep my mind and body busy. I joined the other women and helped load provisions onto waiting carts, but the distraction proved ineffective. Gwgon’s warning warped and spun in my mind. I had only one friend in Wales, and how long would Angharad be able to support me? Once my identity and the charges against me became common knowledge, she would have to distance herself or risk censure by association. No one wanted to be friends with a suspected witch.

Angharad presented me with a young mare, sprightly and good tempered, and when the order came to march, I rode at Alrik’s side. The Vikings once again split into two groups. Alrik would never leave Raven’s Blood moored in a Welsh bay—Vikings needed their ships nearby. In a hostile land, a secondary plan was essential. Alrik split the men evenly, and Tollak, guided by Gwgon’s chamberlain, sailed the ship back down the River Tywi. They would sail around the coast and meet us in Llanbadarn.

Given the mass of bodies and materials to move, we made progress at a steady but slow pace. The army spent half the morning ferrying their supplies across the river, and the remainder of the day saw us trekking through rolling countryside, forever going up and barely coming down.

For the most part, Gwgon or Hyffaid rode with their men at the head of the pack, the Vikings marching abreast, but as the day grew long, the path grew narrower, and by mid-afternoon much of the army stretched into a long, ambling line. The Vikings remained at the front, alongside Hyffaid’s personal guard. The man, Baroc, led a small band of Welshmen, most likely the same group that had followed Raven’s Blood to Dinefwr.

I hadn’t thought anything of our position until, as the day wore on, it became strikingly clear that Alrik and his men led the march. Baroc hung back, his group several breadths behind. Stillness filled the air. Birds arrested their song. Creatures disappeared into the shadows. A cold chill washed over me. A vision, terrifying in its clarity, descended. A thundering sound, as if a thousand wings beat in time, echoed in my mind. Valkyries soared through the air, ravens at their side. Around me, men lay on the ground. Arrows rained down from the canopy. Blood drew the beasts. Wolves circled.

“Alrik.” My voice croaked, drawing me back to the march. I forced my horse to a stop. “Something’s wrong.”

Alrik surveyed the forest and held up a closed fist. His men halted. He grabbed my reins, and we dismounted.

“Take the beasts.” Alrik motioned to one of his men, who took the leads and disappeared down the trodden path, past Baroc and back toward the main group. All around me, grips on swords tightened.

“Why have you stopped?” Baroc stormed forward. “Keep moving.”

Alrik growled. “I advise you to step back.”

Baroc ignored the barriers of personal space. “Keep moving.”

Animosity drove in waves off of the Vikings.

“Perhaps I misread the situation.” I appealed to Alrik.

“No. I am sure you did not.” He turned to Baroc. “Where is your king? Why does he not travel with us?”

Vikings fanned out, edging closer to the treeline.

Baroc waved at his men. The Welsh marched forward, shields raised. Hostile glances passed between Baroc’s men and the Viking warriors. “The path is narrow. I advised him to stay with Gwgon.”

Alrik unsheathed his sword. All twenty Viking warriors followed suit. “Surely there is room for one more horse. Unless you received word of the gutless dogs who have been launching attacks throughout Seisyllwg. Were you hoping they would bite, and we would be the ones fighting in the face of your cowardice?”

“You have no right to be here, heathen. My uncle may trust your kind, but I do not. No one here would miss a few pagan roaches if Rhodri’s men squashed you one by one.”

An arrow whizzed through the air. It caught one of Baroc’s men clean through the throat. He dropped to his knees and landed face first on the grass. Men scattered. Alrik grabbed my arm and hauled me behind a rock. “Stay here.” Another shot rang through the trees. I heard the grunt before I saw its impact. A Viking slumped to the ground; an arrow embedded in the blue of his eye.

“Stay with her.” Alrik laid a hand on Cormac’s shoulder and then dove into the cover of trees.

Cormac squatted to my right, ensconced behind a fallen oak. He nocked his own arrow and studied the shadows. I held my sword tight to my chest. What good was steel against a bow? Vikings skulked deeper into the woods. Where were Baroc’s men? I dared a glance behind me, catching the tail end of the Welshmen retreating. The bastards left the Vikings to hold the road. Thuds and groans filtered through the woods, chasing the chaos around me. I needed to do something.

“Stay still.” Cormac must have sensed my movement.

“I can help.” I hissed.

“We’ve done this many times. I know where our men are. You would only put yourself in danger.”

I wanted to prove him wrong, but for once, I listened. To act would be reckless. Muirgen’s warning from a lifetime ago came, unbidden. A gentle breeze blew, undeterred by the storm of violence. An indomitable ant continued its Herculean climb on the rock’s broad surface. All around us, life carried on. Nature turned a blind eye to our plight. From dust to dust. The lives of these men fighting around me had no impact on the group assembled in Wales. They were hired hands; they had no value here. Baroc had made that perfectly clear. But to their families and friends, here and back home in Sweden, their death would not go unmourned. To some, we mattered. I searched the trees in vain for Alrik. Sounds of struggle echoed through the clearing, screams of battle frenzy and howls of victory merged with the shrieks and whimpers of dying men.

Cormac shuffled to my side, arrow at the ready. “I admire your bravery. The men think of you as a good luck charm.”

I frowned, taking in the dead.

“It would have been worse if you hadn’t halted our advance. The men will only respect you more after this day.” Cormac cocked his head above the rock and stood.

“What are you doing?” I yanked on his trousers, trying to pull him back down but noticed men returning to the path.

Hushed whispers followed as each man in turn nodded to me. My heart lodged in my throat. Where was Alrik?

I started forward, reaching the edge of the treeline before stopping. A Viking stood impaled before me. An arrow pierced the shield, ripped through the wood, and lanced flesh beyond chainmail and leather. The deadly point came to rest, lodging in the trunk of a tree. I’d never seen an arrow capable of that much force. What had we gotten ourselves into?

Alrik strode into the clearing, his face and chest covered in blood.

I ran to him. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“It is not my blood, hjartað.” He kissed the top of my head.

Cormac and another Viking approached Alrik, a young man supported between them. His feet dragged uselessly through the short grass.

“A scratch,” the injured man said.

Alrik smiled. “You fought well today, Hengest.”

“Thank you, Lord.”

Cormac eased Hengest down, leaning his back against a tree. Several men approached and offered Hengest wine, laughing and toasting his prowess. A grey pallor tinged his face; his breath labored.

“How many were there?” I asked.

Alrik wiped the blade of his axe. “Three archers and a few swordsmen. All dead.”