Avelynn (2 page)

I barely came to the middle of his chest, but that didn't stop me from testing him.

“God help me, Avelynn, you are as stubborn as your mother.” And just like that, with the invocation of her specter into the room, he softened and let go of my arm. “Every day you look more like her.”

I didn't think so. Where her hair had been dark and curly, mine resembled my father's locks, though mine trailed to the backs of my knees. I did have her icy-blue eyes and full lips, which were obstinately set at the moment.

“It is for her sake that I do not blister your ass.” He dropped his hand from his leather belt.

“But I only want what she had. I want love and a man who will respect and honor me. Why is that not good enough for me? Why do you want me to be unhappy?”

“I do not want you to be unhappy.”

“Then why do you insist on pushing me into the arms of a stranger?”

“I have given you leave for more than four years to make a choice. You have refused every suitor's attention. What father has given a daughter so much? You have been greatly spoilt, and I have been interminably patient. But your time is up.”

“I will marry only when I'm in love. You cannot tell me who to love.”

“You are right, Avelynn. I cannot tell you who to love, but on the other matter you are gravely mistaken, for I can tell you who and when you will marry. And I have decided to accept Demas's suit.” He opened the door and stepped outside. “Demas will call later this afternoon. And you, my daughter, will be agreeable and charming.”

I stood there frozen, rooted to the ground.

“Next fall, whether you like it or not, you will be married.”

The door slammed shut. The veil of bravado drained from my body, and my legs became two limp strands of seaweed. I staggered backward and collapsed onto the nearest bench.

Dear gods, how had this happened? One moment I had proven myself equal to the men at council, even swaying my father's vote. The next, I was as insignificant as an ant underfoot. I stared at the door's weathered planks. Demas wasn't even a Saxon name.

There was a soft rap at the door. I sat up straight and wiped away all evidence of tears with the backs of my hands.

As old and wizened as the wrinkled oak trees he so admired, Bertram was my father's chamberlain, and my most noble tutor. He took one look at my face and nodded, as if affirming something, and then sat on the bench beside me.

“How?” I asked, looking up into his gentle blue eyes. “How could he do this to me?”

“His actions are not meant to be cruel. The Vikings have marched into East Anglia. He only wants you safe.”

“Safe.” I huffed. England was divided into several powerful kingdoms, each land ruled by its own king, governed by its own laws. Our village, Wedmore, was nestled deep in the heart of the Somerset Levels, on the western coast of Wessex—seven days' ride from East Anglia. “I'm protected here, now. He would never let anyone harm me. Who else could offer me such security?”

“Your father lost your mother, Avelynn, and there was nothing he could do—he couldn't save her, couldn't protect her, and he cannot bear to lose you, too. Your father would see you safely away from Somerset.”

“So he wishes to see me shipped off to be someone else's responsibility, someone else's problem?” I started pacing the floor but stopped and stared at the bread. Forgotten, the bottoms had turned to charcoal. I grabbed my iron tongs and retrieved them from further destruction. “My mother died in childbirth. No man can protect against that.”

“As far as your father is concerned, it was his seed that made the stillborn child grow in her belly. And therefore, in his mind, it was his fault—he was the cause of her death.”

I gaped at him.

He nodded. “A man's pride is a haughty and pretentious thing. While only the gods and Goddess know each man, woman, and child's time and circumstances of death, when it comes to someone he loves, a man will inevitably blame himself for not being able to prevent it.”

“But that makes absolutely no sense.”

“When it comes to love, pet, very little makes sense.”

I sat down and leaned against the wall. My head hit the wooden post with a soft thump. The smoke from the fire swirled and threaded up through the small hole in the roof until it escaped into the ether beyond.

Was the Goddess watching me? “What am I to do, then?” I said, looking beyond the rising smoke. I wasn't sure who I was asking, the Goddess or Bertram.

“Your only choice is to give Demas a chance. Perhaps he will ignite something within you that you have been searching for.”

“Perhaps he will ignite a child inside me and kill me, too. Did my father ever think of that?” I knew Bertram had more sense than to answer my challenge. And in the end, what good would it have accomplished? Bertram wasn't the one I was angry at. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right, pet. These things have a way of working themselves out. You'll see.” He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze and left.

I prayed Bertram was right, but what if he wasn't? I consoled myself with the knowledge that, at the very least, I had until the end of summer to try to change my circumstances. A marriage feast lasted several days. Despite my father's apparent urgency to see me married, he would never hold a wedding feast now, especially with the memory of last year's scarcity still fresh in everyone's mind. A week of feasting for hundreds of people would completely deplete our winter stores. He would wait until the crops and game were plentiful and the weather fine for travel before shuffling me off to Demas. I had time.

I turned to the small window. There was a lot of shouting outside, and the sound of approaching horses thundered through the courtyard. I leaned over the table and opened the shutters. People streamed through the gate. My brother, Edward, ran toward my cottage, his young face flushed.

He burst through the door. “Avelynn, Avelynn, the Vikings are coming!” He ran to me and pulled on my dress.

The last time Vikings had been seen in Somerset was more than twenty years ago, well before we were born. I looked at him for a moment. He was only nine and had a vivid imagination, but as I turned and watched everyone rushing for the hall, my heart quickened. I grabbed my cloak and let him lead me into the throngs of villagers.

 

TWO

My father and the king's brother, Alfred, walked toward the great fire in the center of the hall and stopped. The light from the blaze cast their shadows back to the door, where they were followed directly by their greatest warriors, leaving a trail of reverence and dominion in their wake. Behind the men, several young women entered. I caught sight of Ealhswith's brilliant smile and coppery hair and waved. She weaved her way through the press of people.

I embraced her. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” She looked around. “Your father was receiving us at the stables when the sentry at the gate told us the whole town was buzzing like a hagridden hornet's nest. What's going on?”

I made to reply, but my father's voice filled the hall.

“What's amiss here?” He spoke to no one in particular but to all assembled.

A man stepped forward. He was covered in dried mud and dust, his cloak frayed and his tunic torn. “I have come with news, my lords,” he replied, looking at both my father and Alfred.

“And who are you, friend?” my father asked.

“My name is Aelfgar. I was the armor-bearer for King Edmund, of East Anglia. I have come to spread news of his recent murder at the hands of the pagans.” A communal gasp of shock echoed throughout the building. I looked anxiously at my father.

My father lifted his hand for silence, and the room hushed. He walked to the dais at the far end of the hall and took his place at the head table, inviting Alfred to sit beside him. He motioned to my brother and me.

Our position as his children granted us the right to sit on a bench just beneath and off to the right of the dais. We made our way through the crowd and sat down.

My father nodded to Aelfgar. “Pray, continue.”

Aelfgar straightened his shoulders and projected his voice loud enough to be heard throughout the entire hall. “Almost a fortnight ago, Ivar Ragnarsson marched with his army into East Anglia. King Edmund offered terms, but when word came that Ubbe Ragnarsson had also come with a fleet to attack by sea, there was little reason for the Viking to negotiate.”

Like lightning crackling across the sky, a sense of unease buzzed through the crowd. Ubbe and Ivar were two of the most feared Viking kings. I looked at the smoke rising from the hearth. If I tried hard enough, could I scry in the haze a vision of the entire Heathen Army lying in wait in East Anglia?

Aelfgar cleared his throat and spoke louder. “Our king was seized from his hall and dragged behind the pagan's horse to the forest's edge. He was tied to a tree, stripped, beaten, and whipped until his back was flayed open.”

Whispers of outrage quivered through the room.

“Ivar then brought forth his best archers. He told them to make their mark anywhere as long as they did not inflict a fatal wound. Our goodly king was entirely covered with arrows, like the bristles of a hedgehog, yet he still lived.”

The chorus of discontent grew louder. My father raised his hand in warning. The grumbling subsided.

“And what of King Edmund?” Alfred asked.

The strength of Aelfgar's voice wavered. “He was at length beheaded. Ivar left the body to rot against the tree and rode off with the king's saintly head.”

I cringed. To a warrior, to be buried without one's head was to suffer the worst insult.

“Our country is now in the hands of pirates, our farmland seized, our women raped, our children sold into slavery. Our precious monasteries and churches have been burned—all the monks and nuns brutally killed.”

A great uproar swept through the hall.

I chanced a look at Edward, whose blue eyes were as round as trenchers. I told myself firmly, this was naught but a tale of a distant king in another land. Surely we would be safe here. Wessex was the most powerful country in all of England, my father one of the most powerful men.

The Great Heathen Army led by the Ragnarsson brothers Ivar, Ubbe, and Halfdan had been in England for more than four years, but not once had they attempted to overthrow Wessex. Our country was stable, King Aethelred in firm control, our people strong and unified. Wessex presented formidable opposition, which gave me hope, for the Vikings were notorious opportunists. They preyed upon the weak.

When a hoard of Vikings had landed in East Anglia last spring, King Edmund had turned a blind eye, and the Vikings had grown fat and wealthy off his land. It was hardly surprising they came back to take what was clearly already theirs. And Northumbria was just as easy a target. The Vikings simply exploited the fact that Northumbria had been divided by political unrest for years and sallied in without so much as a fistfight—though they were fastidious in their murder of King Aelle. He was blood-eagled, a brutal form of torture in which they cut his back open, took an axe to his ribs, and threw his lungs over his shoulders to mimic the folded wings of an eagle. I shuddered. Perhaps they reserved their harshest cruelty for kings.

The outcry from the villagers rose to a heightened pitch. My father stood. “Silence!”

All fell quickly into acquiescence.

“Does my brother know of this news yet?” Alfred asked.

“Yes, my lord. I passed through Winchester and told the King of Wessex everything. He wishes to see you presently.”

“Yes, I imagine.”

“Avelynn.” My father's eyes lighted on mine. “See that all the women and children in Alfred's retinue are properly housed. We must hold council on this news.”

“Surely you'll want me to record the proceedings—”

“Father Plegmund has returned and will see to the documents.”

“But—” His expression brooked no compromise. “Of course.” I curtsied and made my way around the hall, ushering all the women and children to the door.

I ensured that Ealhswith and my brother, Edward, were in tow and headed outdoors to battle the unseasonably chilly November wind. Those who lived in town drifted back to their homes, while the members of Alfred's household were suitably lodged with families that would show them warmth and hospitality. When there were only the three of us left, we walked along the muddy road back to my cottage. It stood in a cluster of several outbuildings across the courtyard from the great hall.

Despite Bertram's age he belied all appearances and effortlessly caught up with us. Edward, seeing him approach, tried to look as inconspicuous as one of the many fence posts we had just passed.

“Young Edward, I am to take you back to finish your studies,” Bertram said.

Edward turned in our direction, looking for some means of rescue. “I don't want to look at books. I want to fight Vikings.”

Despite myself, I smiled. Visions of far-off battles and victories played across his innocent face.

Encouraged by my expression, he picked up a stick lying on the ground and, with a flourish, swept it through the air. “I'll slay them all with the point of my sword.”

Bertram gave him a sharp rap to his head. “Foolish child. And how, at nine years of age, are you to take on a Viking? They would eat you for breakfast and pick their teeth with your skinny bones. Now, enough dawdling. Say good day to your sister and the lady Ealhswith.

Edward's shoulders drooped, but he gave a noble bow. “Good day, Avelynn. Good day, Lady Ealhswith.”

We both dropped into low curtsies. “Good day, Master Edward,” we replied in unison.

“Poor lad,” Ealhswith remarked, watching Edward get hauled away. “Bertram is a tough teacher.”

“He's not so bad. He's just teaching Edward some humility and giving him a healthy dose of common sense.”