Avelynn: The Edge of Faith (39 page)

Cormac poked his head in the tent. I waited.

“It’s clear,” he said. “Just Alrik.” He nudged his chin, and I walked through beside him.

“Alrik?” Cormac asked.

“Aye.” Alrik sat at a table, his back toward us. The tent was dark. A single candle burned by the bed, silhouetting his body. Rhythmic strokes sharpened the blade of his sword.

Cormac hung back. “I’ve brought someone you might be interested in seeing.”

I stopped directly behind him.

He looked at my profile. “What do you want?”

My locked chest with its gold serpentine lid rested near his feet.

I let my gaze wander to the single flame, watching as it bent and dipped. “We’re always meeting on full moons.”

“Do I know you?”

“I should hope so—I’ve shared your bed on numerous occasions.”

He leapt up. “What is it you are accusing me of?” His sword swept high, whetstone forgotten as it fell to the ground.

I took a step back. “Since when in Gotland is it a crime to sleep with one’s promised?”

He looked to Cormac, a dark shadow by the tent’s entrance.

Cormac drew closer. “Do you not recognize Avelynn? Sigy and Gil have fooled us all.”

Alrik grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me closer to the flame, letting its light bathe my features.

Self-consciously, I fingered the hair on my head. “I had to cut it. It was the only way to get back to you.”

He took a step back, as if stung by a bee, though he continued his death grip on my shoulder. “Avelynn?”

“I’m here.”

“On Odin’s eye. How?” A tear slipped down his cheek, and he pulled me tight. “I thought you were … “

“I know.”

He kissed me long and hard, his strong, unfailing embrace raising me up.

He brushed the short strands of hair from my forehead. “I imagine it is a long story.”

I laughed. Hard. My eyes watered, and I had to hold my sides. I laughed at the ridiculousness of his statement, the incredulity of the past month, the euphoria and release of seeing him—of knowing he was alive. What might have ended in tears of pain erupted in rivulets of joy.

When I could final speak, I answered, “Yes, Alrik. It certainly is.”

We talked the entire night. He poured out his grief and guilt at almost losing me, and we held each other like we never wanted to let go. When dawn crested the horizon, bathing the landscape in her brilliant light, Alrik roused his men.

I stood at his side while he explained my sudden deliverance. The more he spoke, the more I could feel the heat of vengeance, the lust of battle boil hard through his veins. His men sensed it too. The energy in the camp lifted to a frenzy as men rushed for swords and shields, spears and axes.

As was protocol on a soggy Welsh Sunday morning, the Christians held mass, gathering around a wooden cross nailed and staked into the muddy, churned-up battlefield. Llewelyn’s abduction brought that morning’s assemblage to an immediate end.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Gil asked Tollak, who, along with Cormac, stood as sentry to Alrik’s tent. I was ensconced within the fabric walls but could hear everything transpiring outside.

“Alrik wishes to speak to the priest.” Cormac said.

“Why?”

“He’s readying for battle,” Tollak answered.

“Today? Are you certain? Has he spoken with Rhodri’s master of arms? Why was I not informed?”

“He’ll send for you when he’s ready,” Tollak said.

There was a moment of silence. I pictured Tollak and Cormac blocking Gil’s entry into the tent and Gil weighting his options.

Gil pressed. “Why does he need the priest?”

“Not sure,” Cormac said.

“Fine,” Gil answered. “Tell him to find me at once. I will let my men know.”

Several seconds later, Tollak stuck his head in the tent. “He’s gone.”

Alrik nodded.

Llewelyn crouched on his knees, his arms and feet tied behind his back, a gag in his mouth. Alrik removed the fabric and placed the tip of his sword on Llewelyn’s bottom lip. The plump flesh quivered. “So tell me, priest. What did Sigy offer you to charge Avelynn with witchcraft?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Llewelyn mumbled, his conviction muffled by the placement of Alrik’s sword.

“No?” I strode forward. “Remember me?” I crouched down in front of him, my nose an inch from his face. “Sigy told me everything. I know about your Bishopric and your bribe. You accused me of witchcraft to further your own aims. Vikings don’t like liars or cowards.”

He blinked, and his gaze darted back and forth between me and Alrik.

“You’ll remember my promised: Avelynn. It appears she never made it into that grave. Sigy fooled us all.”

“But you’re dead,” Llewelyn stammered.

“No. Sigy buried an innocent maid in my place. She set me up and orchestrated the whole scene. I’m innocent of your charges.”

“You were caught in the throes of devil worship,” he hissed. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

Alrik shoved the point farther into Llewelyn’s mouth. The steel slid between his teeth. Sweat dripped down the priest’s temples. His hair was sodden. “You were mistaken,” Alrik said.

I lifted the cross around Llewelyn’s neck. “You knew Sigy and Marared were evil. You saw what they did to your wife and child, yet you pardoned them of all doubt. You turned your malevolence onto me. Sigy laid a deadly trap. That is what you saw.”

“I will not ask again.” Alrik leaned closer to the priest. “How did the witch Sigy convince you to change your allegiance?”

Llewelyn nodded and Alrik removed the sword, resting the blade on the priest’s shoulder. “I … I … She threatened my family. I have only the one daughter. Through her, I have a grandchild. I would lose them both if I stood against her. I had no choice. I—”

“You will get no sympathy from me, priest.” Alrik’s sword bit into Llewelyn’s neck. Blood pooled around the steel. “Let me tell you how this will proceed. You will tell everyone of Sigy’s bribe. You will show them what a weak and spineless creature you are, and you will lay the charges of witchcraft firmly at her feet. You will absolve Avelynn of all charges and confirm her innocence.”

He whimpered. Alrik slid the sword backward, drawing more blood in the process. The priest’s eyes teared. “Do we have an agreement?” Alrik asked.

Llewelyn nodded.

“Good.” Alrik removed his sword. “I will assure your family’s safety. Once this business is done, Sigy will no longer be in a position to hurt anyone. I will, however, have no qualms about gutting you through if you do not speak the truth. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes. Yes, I will do as you say. You have my word.”

Alrik looked at the tent’s entrance. “We need a parlay with Hyffaid.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Tell Hyffaid your story. Let him know the depths of his sister’s ambitions and the lengths his own nephew would go to to see him dead. Take the priest, let him confirm your story and swear to Sigy’s treachery.” He grabbed the front of Llewelyn’s robes, lifting him off the ground. “Can you do that, priest? A test of your loyalties.”

“I want nothing more than to see that woman suffer for her actions. You can count on my support in this.”

Alrik untied the coarse rope. Llewelyn found his footing.

“Be careful.” Alrik kissed the top of my head.

I hoped the priest’s words would assuage Hyffaid. He’d been convinced of my guilt. His own words condemned me at the trial. This plan of Alrik’s worked only if Hyffaid could be swayed by reason. I hoped, in that regard, he was nothing like his niece.

Llewelyn and I ambled toward Hyffaid’s camp. Since I was going into enemy territory, Cormac was hell bent on accompanying me.

We set off past the muddy field, where countless men had already lost their lives. I waved a white cloth as we approached the gated palisade. Two armed men met us halfway.

“I have a message for Hyffaid from Alrik the Bloodaxe.” I knew my English words would be ineffectual, but I didn’t trust Llewelyn to translate them. Without Alrik’s sword at his throat, the threat might have waned.

The guards looked at one another and conferred amongst themselves in Welsh. One left, returning a good time later with someone in tow. I kept my eyes trained on the arrows nocked and pointed in our direction. Scrawny, with a large scar above his right eye, our translator regarded us and asked in English, “Who are you?”

I repeated my message.

He peered into the distance, perhaps assessing if the Vikings lay in wait. I didn’t feel it pertinent to assure him that they most certainly did and were awaiting only the outcome of my chat with Hyffaid until they closed in.

“Tell me your message. I will relay it to the king.”

“Tell Hyffaid that Alrik the Bloodaxe will not share this message with anyone else. Countless lives depend on your haste and prudence.”

He scowled, his scar resting on his eyelid. “I will tell him.” He turned on his heel and marched through the gate. The doors swung closed.

I frowned. “We may as well rest a spell; I suspect this is going to take a while.” The three of us sat on a grassy knoll on the outskirts of the battlefield, clear of the reach of arrows, and waited. Several hours passed before our friend made his reappearance. We strolled back to the center line.

He waved his hand. “Come with me.”

All three of us stepped forward.

“Not him.” He pointed a bony finger at Cormac.

Cormac didn’t need to know the words. He saw the threat in the man’s eyes and continued to step closer.

“He comes with me.” It was a simple fact, one not worth arguing. He was going to come whether the scrawny runt wanted him to or not.

Our translator looked to the two armed men standing beside him and said something in Welsh. Cormac puffed out his chest and stood taller, his face all hard lines and determination, daring them to try to stop him. The two men seemed to get the idea and shrugged, stepping out of the way.

Our friend muttered under his breath but started walking. Evidently, he realized the futility of the plan as well. We followed our guide inside the compound. The gate locked shut behind us. I ignored the hostility darting our way. Hands sought swords and knives, and whispers circulated like leaves caught in the wind.

We were bade to wait outside the great hall.

Hyffaid clearly wanted it known he was doing us a favor by allowing us the privilege of his audience. I wanted to scream. Men and their foolish, childish games.

With the afternoon waning, our translator ushered us in. Hyffaid sat on the raised dais, flanked by several armed noblemen.

I’d had enough. “How thoughtful of you to keep us waiting all day.”

“I am a busy man.” He shrugged. “What is your message?”

I pointed to his men. “They need to leave.”

Hyffaid furrowed his brows. “Who are you? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

I learned long ago, it was easier to fight in breeches and tunic than a kirtle, so I’d dressed ready for battle. I looked every inch a warrior, albeit a slight and rather petite one. “They leave, or I do.”

He leaned forward. “And why should I listen to you?”

I captured his glare and threw it back. “Because what I have to say might very well save hundreds of lives.”

He sat back as if considering his options.

“Heed my words. Rhodri’s men stand at the ready, and Alrik plans to attack. He is starved for vengeance. I’m offering you an alternative.”

He held my unwavering gaze in silence. “Very well. I will honor your condition.”

When the room cleared, I stepped forward. “We have met before, Hyffaid. Do you not recognize me?”

His face contorted as he tried to put the pieces together. When he seemed to come up empty, I gave him a bit more. “I arrived here last month with Alrik. I’ve had a haircut since then.” I plucked at my tunic. “And a change of attire. But I’m every bit the woman promised to the man set to lay waste to his enemies.”

He studied me.

“I’ve only just made it back from a rather harrowing time in Gwynedd. I thought you might be interested in what I learned.”

“Go on.”

I didn’t think he believed a word I was saying, but the political maneuvering of his sister and nephew might change his mind. I spent the next hour explaining everything, from witchcraft, to treachery, to deceit, and ultimately to truce and vengeance. Llewelyn supported my statements each step of the way, painting a damning picture of Sigy’s ambitions and making sure Hyffaid knew the truth of Marared’s behavior.

I remembered the note Angharad had written for Sister Frances. I’d had no need to give it to her, but the missive would prove invaluable now. “Further proof of my virtue.”

He set the note down, almost reverentially. “I was convinced of your treachery. I am at a loss for words.” He stood and offered me his hand. “I have done you a disservice. You have my apology.”

The sentiment startled me. Touched, I clasped his arm. “Thank you.”

The warmth that had flickered briefly disappeared, and he withdrew his hand. “While the evidence against Alrik as king slayer is convincing, you will pardon my lack of enthusiasm for the man. He attacked my cousin, taking his sword hand, an insult I am not likely to forgive or forget.”