Avelynn: The Edge of Faith (27 page)

Something Alrik had said pushed to the forefront of my thoughts. “I have seen firsthand what she is capable of.” What did that mean? Had she threatened him, too? Threatened the child? He said he could no longer protect me. I knew he wouldn’t shy away from combat in order to keep me safe, but magic was another matter altogether. If a threat from Marared had caused his sudden change of heart, I could put it to rights by fighting fire with fire. The thought gave me hope and filled me with a restless energy. My eyes lingered as they swept over Seisyllwg and followed what I could see of the road back to Lampeter. Unless I searched too hard for a palpable answer to his bizarre behavior. If his affection and sentiment toward Marared proved true, I had no intention of returning to camp and begging him to stay with me. I missed my mother—I had precious little experience with matters of the heart. I could have really used her counsel. I swatted at a tear. How could he do this?

I gazed back over the endless hills. Clouds, dark and roiling, gathered in the north, and a strong hint of rain hung in the air. The others seemed to sense this too, and after much gesticulating at the sky and wagons, the pace quickened. Eadfrith waved, encouraging me to come down from my lofty perch. I didn’t want to leave just yet. I needed time to think, to sort through my emotions and determine my course, but the weather wouldn’t wait for my troubled spirit to soothe itself. I stood and dragged my body back to the group, an iron anchor weighing down my heart.

We reached St. Dogmael’s before night descended, but we couldn’t outdistance the rain. It drove against us in torrents, and the wind lashed and wailed. The closer we got to the sea, the worse it became. Without the relative shelter of the hills and dales, the last leg of the road was wide open to the driving storm. Icy rain pelted us straight on. I lifted my face to the onslaught, desperate to feel anything but my heart shattering. My hands froze, the fingertips wrinkled and sodden. I welcomed the discomfort.

Monks ushered us inside the main hall. Agnes, the only other woman traveling in the group, trotted alongside Frances, as a nun from St. Dogmael’s showed us to a dormitory. She presented a row of empty beds and bade us change out of our wet garments. We were each given a soft, linen underdress and a habit of coarse wool. I hovered near the central hearth, letting the heat seep into my fingers and toes.

“We have a light meal ready in the main hall,” the nun said.

“Thank you,” Frances answered. “Agnes, you go ahead. Avelynn and I will be along shortly.”

The dormitory door closed behind them.

St. Dogmael’s residents were all about their business. Save the two of us, the room was empty.

Frances sat on one of the beds. My back was toward her. “Avelynn.”

I didn’t turn.

“I’d like to help, if I can.”

I liked her and didn’t want to upset her, but I wasn’t ready to talk. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“You, my dear, are anything but fine.”

My silence answered for me.

“You need to talk about this. Is it your Viking? What has happened?”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“You love him.”

“I did.”

Her tone was soft. “You’re a woman tormented because of love. Denying it doesn’t make the pain any less real.”

I closed my eyes and tried to block out the hurt.

“I’m not here to judge into whose hands you place your heart. We can’t control where our affections land. Your Norseman seemed to return your love in kind. You made a good match.”

My shoulders collapsed in defeat, and I sat beside her on one of the empty pallets. “I thought so too.” I kept my gaze straight ahead. It lit upon the fire, unfocused.

“Well. You are here, and he is not, so something has happened.”

“He sent me away.”

“And you just went?”

That niggled. “It’s complicated.”

“Elucidate me.”

I decided to give her the abridged version. “There’s another woman.”

“Ah. And he loves her?”

“No.”

“Then what is the issue?”

“She has suddenly claimed a child as her own and informed Alrik that he is the father.”

She was silent for a time. “Curious.”

“Yes, I find the timing rather suspicious myself, but I have no proof that she is lying, and Alrik is an honorable man. According to him, he has had a noble upbringing and will acknowledge the child and stay in Wales. Much to the delight of her mother, no doubt.”

“You have no proof of the child’s parentage?”

“Other than the mother’s word. And Eadfrith’s.”

“What has Eadfrith to do with this?” Her body stiffened, like a mother bear ready to protect her cub.

“He was the one who supported Marared’s claim.”

“Marared?”

“Yes, she has claimed Branwen as her own and named Alrik as the father.”

“Really?” She looked to the door.

I raised my eyebrow. “Yes.”

“I see.” She tapped her finger against her thigh and then stood. “Come, let us get something to eat.”

I waved away the suggestion. “I’m not hungry.”

She stood in front of me, all matronly and austere. “You need sustenance. You have not eaten all day, and the road ahead for you will be long and challenging. You cannot do it on an empty stomach.” She stepped away from the bed. “Up you get.”

I didn’t have the energy to fight her, and satisfied, she led me into the hall. We took residence on an empty bench and accepted a plate of soft warm bread and cheese and a round of roasted venison wrapped in the folds of a deep green sea plant. The result was salty and a little bitter, but it was an intriguing combination with the robust flavor of the meat. Despite my initial reluctance, there was nothing left of my meal by the time a monk came to clear our places. The mead flowed liberally, and even with the rain lashing against the planks and the wind whistling through the thatch, the mood danced light and warm. Grateful, I found my own frustration softening. I swirled the golden liquid in my cup. Often the butlers watered down the drink to make it last longer, but the mead flowed sweet and strong, and I took my fill. My cheeks flushed, and I relaxed into a warm, languid glow.

Frances had wandered off after the meal to speak with some of the others, and Father Plegmund sat beside me. The pilgrims traveled in numerous groups. Father Plegmund had arrived a few days prior. En masse, we would leave together on the morrow for St. David’s, and from there, for the continent. The thought stabbed. Resolute, I pushed it away. With the generous cups of mead working their magic, I wasn’t interested in getting drawn back into melancholy. I craved the distraction.

“I was surprised to see you here,” he said. “I’d expected you would have been deep in the heart of the North Country by now.”

“Change of plans.”

He raised both eyebrows, but clearly took my tone as a means of diversion and changed tack. “Have you had a chance to look over the letters?”

Grateful for something other than Alrik to think about, I jumped in. “Yes. I tried one method. It didn’t work, but I thought of another possibility. I just haven’t had time to test my theory.”

“We have time now.”

“Here?” I looked about the room.

“Abbot Rys has a wonderful scriptorium. We can work there.”

I nodded and he led the way, stopping at the nun’s dormitory to retrieve my chest. The scriptorium was a long, narrow building, with several desks and stools arranged back to back. The central hearth divided the two rows. He relit the fire as I removed the letters, keeping the remainder of the box’s contents hidden. I set the stack of parchment on a desk. He grabbed a few tallow candles and pulled up a stool to sit beside me.

I unwrapped the bundle. “I learned of a code. Julius Caesar invented it. He used it to send messages to his army. It involved taking a letter, ‘a’ for example, and shifting it three places in the alphabet. The new letter became the start of the encrypted language. Every ‘a’ would become ‘d,’ ‘b’ became ‘e,’ and so on.” I illustrated the concept on a wax tablet, turning the word ‘dog’ into ‘grj.’

“Fascinating.” He craned his neck to get a better look. “Where did you learn this?”

“From Bertram.” I lied.

“Yes, I see. He was a wealth of knowledge.”

Muirgen had explained that one of my ancestors had fallen in love with a Roman legate. He was stationed in Gaul to push back the Celts. She was a Celtic priestess. I marveled once again at the similarities between Alrik and myself and wondered, not for the first time, if this theme would revisit my own children one day.

In time, the Roman told her many secrets, including the means of deciphering Caesar’s code. She passed that knowledge on to her daughters. It was a privilege known to only a chosen few. Until now. Osric, Demas, and several other men throughout England also held the key to this puzzle. While I might not have figured out the exact combination yet, I knew I was on the right path. I wavered on whether to show Plegmund my approach, but with others already aware of the cypher, his understanding could only help. In order to secure my freedom and a chance to return home, I would need his support.

“Caesar used Greek and Latin to scramble his messages. I assumed Osric used Latin to code his letters. I tried several combinations, working my way through the alphabet, shifting letters from one all the way up to twenty-three places. Nothing worked.”

Plegmund seemed to deflate.

“I was just about to try it again with English.”

“Brilliant.”

I opened one of the letters and pointed at a string of seven letters. “I will start by shifting each letter one through thirteen places. If you can work on the remainder, we can split the work between us and hopefully discover the meaning sooner.”

He leapt off his chair and grabbed another tablet. He stopped only a few times to seek clarification. A monk happened by to collect a satchel from one of the desks and offered to bring us refreshments while we worked. By the time Plegmund and I stopped our calculations, we had finished a small cask between us. My head swam with letters and mead, but I was no closer to figuring out the missive’s damnable secrets.

“Perhaps it is in another language.” Plegmund offered.

I shook my head. “While Osric and Demas may know more than Latin and English, I doubt the other noblemen would. It took a leap of faith assuming they would know the written English.”

“We have tried even shifts, could they be using a different rhythm?”

“If they were, it would be impossible to determine what that rhythm could be.”

His shoulders sagged. Mine drooped along with them.

The candles flickering in the constant draft tweaked my memory. “Unless there was a key to unlocking the rhythm.” I grabbed one of the letters and scanned the margins, holding them up to the light. “Here.”

He squinted, his nose almost touching the paper. “There are holes.”

“Exactly. Two pinpricks then a space, five pinpricks then another space, a grouping of ten, just one by itself, and a grouping of fourteen.” I grabbed the tablet. “If I use the rhythm and repeat the offset over and over again …” Words materialized in front of our eyes:

Meet me at Glastonbury on the ides of June. I have confirmed Halfdan’s support. All is in place.

I leapt off the chair and hugged Plegmund. “We’ve done it!” The stack of parchment shone like a beacon of hope.

“You are a wonder.”

“It was your idea.” Despite the late hour, I didn’t want to stop. “I’ll keep to this, if you wish to make your way to your bed.”

“Nonsense. We are on the verge of a great discovery. I can’t desert the cause now.” His face glowed and his eyes twinkled in the light.

“If we find something to pin to Osric and Demas, can I count on your support at court? Will you stand beside me and bring these letters and their true meanings to the king’s attention?”

“You mean to return to England?”

“One day.”

He shook his head. “Despite what we find, I cannot condone your plan. You would be killed outright or worse. You would not be given an opportunity to state your charges.”

“That’s why I need your help.”

He shook his head. “I can present the letters and speak on your behalf. You have my word, but you cannot accompany me.”

“Would you permit me to keep the letters, then? I have a few more pathways to explore. I want the odds stacked in my favor. I can reach out to you when the time is nigh.”

“I suppose that’s all right. But you must inform me of your intentions. I will be traveling until next spring. My plan is to return to England, but if strife and turmoil are still rampant, I may stay on at St. David’s for a time.”

I squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I will contact you as soon as I have amassed enough proof of Osric and Demas’s deceptions.”

He looked to the letters. “This looks to be a good start.”

Despite Plegmund’s zeal, the mead and late hour caught up to him, and he lay fast asleep on a pallet in the corner. I didn’t have the heart to wake him, knowing he would be called to observe the night vigils. By the time I left the scriptorium, I buzzed with barely held restraint. The letters were damning. They spoke of money changing hands and lands given for support. An alliance with the Vikings weaved through the pages with stark brutality. One such letter even outlined the success of an attack on a Frankish monastery and the capture of Edward Eanwulfson of Wedmore. I had them.