Avelynn: The Edge of Faith (6 page)

“Is that why you left? Is your home no longer safe?”

“Yes.” At least that statement was true.

“Are you from Mercia or East Anglia? Wessex perhaps?”

“I am Saxon.”

“You are positively intriguing. I would very much enjoy getting to know you better.”

His words, dancing with invitation, clashed sharply with his wool habit.

We stopped outside Gil’s hall. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I’m set to leave Wales shortly, once my companion sorts out his business.”

“Companion?” Eadfrith seemed to deflate.

“Yes, my promised, Alrik the Bloodaxe.”

“A Viking?”

“We are to travel to the continent.”

“Were you captured? Have they indentured you?” He grabbed my hands. “Let me help you. I can’t bear to see you harmed in any way.”

I smiled and removed my hands from his grasp. “I assure you, I am with Alrik of my own free will.”

He cleared his throat. “I see. Well, I hope we get the opportunity to meet again in our travels.”

“I’d like that.”

I watched him saunter back the way we’d come and took a solidifying breath, opening the door.

The men were absent, and Marared was busy marshaling her household into preparing dinner. I offered to help, but she ignored any attempt on my part to smooth the thorns between us. I retired to a chair, a cup of wine in hand, and waited, uncertain what else to do.

After an eternity of awkward silence, Gil and Alrik sauntered in, and servants placed the roasted fowl on the table. Gil swung a bench out from the wall and sat at my side, a pitcher poised to top up my goblet. “Have you girls been having fun?” He poured more of the sweet fruit wine into my cup.

“Of course.” Marared’s hand lingered, brushing Alrik’s shoulders as she walked past. Her eyes held mine. I made a concerted effort to focus on drinking the wine, lest my tongue find purchase on the choice words I was thinking. I needed to tell Alrik of my declaration, but propriety demanded that I endure this awkward evening before trying to get him alone.

After dinner, Gil continued to ply me with drink while Marared fawned over Alrik. Alrik laughed, seemingly amused at her antics, and let her perch on his lap for most of the evening. I would never have infringed on a relationship that was bound for marriage, yet Marared blatantly disregarded my statement and seemed determined to undermine it.

Gil tried to engage me in conversation, but as the candles burned lower, my discord grew. Incensed by Marared’s grating laughter and the deep rumble of Alrik’s voice, I broke decorum and stood. I walked over to Alrik, and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Would you please excuse us, I need to speak privately with my promised.”

Alrik gave me a curious look and glanced at Marared, whose face had turned a mottled shade of crimson. She didn’t budge off his lap.

She smiled. “You must be referring to Eadfrith. I saw the two of you holding hands earlier today. You make a lovely couple.”

Alrik glared at me. “What is going on?”

Gil looked between the three of us. “Marared?”

“Alrik, I’d like a moment to speak with you. Alone.” Propriety be damned.

“Excuse us.” Alrik slid Marared from her perch.

“Of course. There’s obviously a great deal you both need to talk about.” Marared flounced with glee.

We walked side by side under the weak light of a waning gibbous moon. The wind was sharp, and the damp chill from the sea sent shivers down my spine.

“Who is Eadfrith?”

“A Saxon priest I met today. He feared for my life upon discovering I traveled with Vikings. He assumed I had been captured and forced into slavery. He offered me his aid.”

“He had to hold your hands to do this?” His tone was flat.

“He only wanted to see me safe. It was a kind, selfless gesture. Nothing more.”

“You are certain.”

I made to grab his hands, but under the circumstances thought better of it. “I love you, Alrik Ragnarson. As far as I’m concerned, nothing can come between us. I do, however, wonder if you feel the same.”

“Where is this coming from?”

I scowled at him, the force of my displeasure obscured by the gloaming light around us. “We are amongst Christians here. Sigy subjected me to three degrees of inquisition as to the specifics of our relationship. It’s clear what Marared’s intent is toward you. The woman can’t keep her hands from you. Today in Sigy’s cottage, in the heat of the moment, I mentioned you and I were promised.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

He roared with laughter. “The vixen is threatened by the mouse!” He reached out and played with a lock of my hair. His fingers brushed the skin above the kirtle’s neckline. “You are mine, Hjartað. My desire for you has not waned.” He lifted my chin. “Passion is a gift from Freya, and we honor her with our joining. You have a hunger in your belly, Seiðkana. I have not had a more lustful woman in my bed. Why would I desire more?”

“You’re not angry?”

“I remember a day on the beach in your England when I asked you to come to Gotland and be my wife. From that moment on, I was yours.”

“Yet you let her pant all over you.”

He chuckled. “I have known Marared for several years, but it has been some time since I took her to my bed. She will attempt to avert my eye, but you have nothing to fear. My heart belongs to you.”

“Why?”

“I do not understand.”

“Why me? When you met me in England, what drew you back? You were unlike any man I’d met before. You were kind, selfless, brave, and gentle. You took my breath away. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” I played with the hem of my sleeve. “Why did you come back for me?”

He kissed the top of my forehead. “Fate has driven me far and wide, and I have had many women in my bed. Not one has made me desire more. When I saw you on the beach, I wanted to make you mine, but when Ingolf attacked, I thought only of protecting you. You intrigued me. Whether your goddess cast a spell on me, I will never know, but when we were alone in the forest, your presence gave me peace. I am not about to throw that away.”

Emboldened by his words and the liberal amounts of wine, I stood on tiptoe and wrapped a hand around his neck. My mouth sought his. I spoke through hungry nips, as my tongue and teeth grazed his lips. “Take me to the ship.” My hand slipped beneath his cloak and wiggled inside his trousers. Finding him hard, I encouraged him to listen.

He groaned and lifted me, his stride powerful and purposeful.

Tucked away on Raven’s Blood, he lifted my kirtle. His fingers drew swirling patterns above my ankle. His touch swept higher, enclosing my knee, following the indent of thigh until his attention centered between my legs. He circled the mass of curls, teasing.

I pulled at his tunic, urging it over his head. He set it to the side of the bed and deprived me of my dress.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

I concurred as I appraised him, drinking in his body. The man filled me with such intense longing it was hard to focus on anything else when he was near. He kissed me hard, and my hand followed the smooth muscle of his chest down to the solid proof of his desire. When I grasped him, he growled into my mouth. Wetness pooled and flowed around his fingers as they weaved their way through the boiling heat between my legs.

He slid down, settling his chest between my thighs until his mouth hovered above me, his breath warm and moist against my skin. A gnawing ache left me shaking, a void only his touch could fill, and I moaned, heedless of volume, despite the men sleeping on bedrolls outside the tent as his kiss burned hot against my swollen lips. His tongue lapped, flicking and teasing, until my hips rose and my back arched.

The fact that I was the one Alrik wanted, not Marared, was vindicating. My cries rose unfettered and brazen, driven with the need to possess him. He was mine.

He stopped and I whimpered, lusty and unapologetic. His moist, full lips cocked in a devilish grin. “Are you hungry, Seiðkana?”

I slid my fingers through his hair, pulling him back to me. “Ravenous.”

Shouts of greeting and boots shuffling along the deck jolted me out of sleep. I buried my head in the pillows, trying to hold out a bit longer. A weight sank into the bed beside me.

“Hjartað?” Strong, persistent fingers drew designs on my back, and goosebumps rippled along my forearms. Languid, eyes closed, I rolled toward him, smiling. Alighting on an eager nipple, he rolled the rigid bud between his fingers. My body, now fully awake, ached for more, and I reached out for his trousers.

Alrik chuckled. “Time to get up, Seiðkana. I would have you meet the king of Dyfed.”

My first impression of Hyfaidd dwelled on his short stature. For a king, I had expected something grander. He was plainly dressed, with a patch of oily brown hair stuck to a broad forehead and a sour mood to match the generally dismal appearance; I found it hard to imagine how he and Gil could be related. Flanked between Gil and Alrik, he looked like a sagging valley between two chiseled and rugged mountains.

“My mother is the king’s sister,” Gil assured me.

As I shook my head in disbelief, Hyfaidd ambled to one of the thickly padded chairs.

When the men settled, as custom dictated, Marared and I served them ale. A servant set a platter of sweet cakes down on a table between the odd triad.

“My niece tells me you are available for hire.” Hyffaid spoke in English as he appraised Alrik.

I glared at Marared, who sported a look of indifference.

Gil also looked at his sister. “Perhaps the women would be better to leave talk of business to the men.” He fixed Marared and me with gimlet intent, waiting for our compliance.

Marared stood. “Avelynn, would you care to join me outside?”

I wanted to hear the remainder of the conversation, but Gil’s hint was anything but subtle. “Of course.”

Marared led me outside the hall and grabbed two wicker frames from a pile of half-finished baskets. She handed me one. We ducked behind a wattle screen and set the frames down on a long narrow table. Once sheltered from the wind, the workspace proved to be a pleasant spot. The sun peeked through the clouds and warmed my shoulders.

“This will give us something to do while the men talk.” She picked a long, thin strip of wicker from a pile beside us and began weaving it through the frame. I wondered if Alrik had spoken with her this morning or if she had resigned herself to the inevitable after we’d left together the night before and hadn’t come back.

She continued to command her household, placating the men with food and drink while we worked. Silence yawned between us. The men talked over several courses and jugs of ale. Once they finished a platter of trout, cooked in a coating of milk, flour, and herbs, Hyfaidd stepped outside. The men shook hands.

With a tight-lipped smile and a curt nod for our benefit, Hyfaidd left.

Alrik pounded Gil on the back, a wolfish grin spreading on his face.

“So what is it, then? Are we to have our sail?” I asked.

“Better.” Alrik stretched, his back cracking. “We are to fight.” He grinned.

I turned to Gil for elucidation.

“My uncle has asked Alrik and his men to help aid his cause against Rhodri of Gwynedd—a shit-eating worm who has taken over much of Wales. Gwgon, king of Seisyllwg, wishes to enter into an alliance with Hyfaidd to push Rhodri and his army out of the south. With Alrik’s assistance, we will send Rhodri and his men back north where they belong.”

“What is left of them.” Alrik beamed. “It is a good day. I will get my sail, we will add gold to our coffers, and the men will have plunder and battle.”

“How long?” I asked.

“The conflict is set to begin within a fortnight,” Gil said.

A fortnight? How long until word of my scurrilous past reached Welsh ears? If Osric sent messengers out to the farthest reaches of the land, I might only have a week until Hyffaid’s court learned I was a wanted traitor. If I was lucky, whispers would travel from lip to salacious lip, and the dissemination of the tale might take two weeks, possibly more. “You’re not worried then?” I asked Alrik.

“Of Welsh rats?” He laughed. “No offense, my friend.” He winked at Gil.

“None taken, Viking dog.”