Avelynn (20 page)

The men disentangled themselves, the other extricating himself up off the log and hastily pulling up his trousers. Demas just stared, his eyebrows creasing. “I was on my way to see you.” He stroked the man's cheek. “But I became rather distracted with my handsome friend here.”

“I didn't mean to interrupt.” The blade still pressed firmly into my back, discouraging any attempts at turning tail and fleeing, and a hand squeezed my arm until I relinquished my sword. A moment later, a hard tug pulled at my waist, and my knife followed.

Demas shrugged. “It is nothing that cannot be finished later.” He pulled up his pants and righted his tunic.

The man laid a hand gently on Demas's shoulder, his face turned away. “I should leave.” He spoke in French.

Demas leaned his cheek into the man's arm. “Wait by the horse.”

The man nodded and kept his head down as he slid past me. I studied him carefully. Warm black hair, bound by a thong, hung past his shoulders, and like Demas, his skin was darker. His clothes were made of fine material, and a gold brooch crafted in the likeness of a stag clasped a soft wool cloak.

A shove from a large hand pushed me deeper into the clearing.

Demas stumbled to a flask and swilled the contents. He wiped his mouth and regarded me. “You shouldn't have seen that.”

I didn't care about his proclivities, it mattered not a whit to me whom he slept with as long as it wasn't me. What shocked me most was seeing him here, in Somerset, when last I heard he was stricken ill in Francia.

“How did you get here? Where's Edward?”

Demas retrieved his belt and sword. “On Edward, I cannot say. I left him in Francia with the monks. As for my part, I was just visiting our fine king in Bath, delivering a message from your father.” He swayed violently.

“What message from my father?”

“That he has been delayed. Something about Vikings.”

“Is he well?” My heart was pounding in my chest. I could hear its echoes booming in my ears.

“Better than you.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Gil, my bodyguard.” He swept his hand, and I turned slightly to regard the man behind me. Gil cracked a toothless smile; drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth. One side of his face was badly disfigured; his forehead, eyelid, and cheekbone all dripped and oozed together, collecting in a sagging jowl.

Demas took another swig from the flask and belched. “Where are my manners? Please, have a seat.” He motioned to the log that had only a moment before been used for matters other than sitting.

Not wanting to give Demas any further ideas, I moved to a small boulder instead.

“I am suddenly thinking that your presence today was divinely inspired, and I can use this occasion to my advantage, taking the opportunity to solidify our pending nuptials. While he may not look the distinguished gentleman, I assure you Gil is quite literate, reading and writing Latin with ease. As our witness, he can testify to the consummation of our marriage. Our arrangement will then be quite binding. A convenient happenstance to tie up loose ends.”

I stood, my breath coming heavy. “You're drunk and a fool if you think I'm consummating anything with you.”

“Choice.” He scoffed. “You seem to think you are in possession of this illusive creature, but tell me, how has that worked out for you?”

“I've always had choices. I could have run away, left England at any turn.”

“Ah, but you didn't. Could you really have chosen that, or was fate just toying with you, giving you the illusion of choice?” He sat on the log and upended his flask, tossing it with disdain when it emptied. “In Rome, I had no choices. Instead, I came here to this wretched hole looking for opportunity. Yet I find myself in no better position.”

“You have wealth; you have enviable position. How is that not better than being a scribe?” I chanced a discreet look at Gil, whose attention seemed to be wavering as he leaned his bulk against a tree. Was it possible to keep Demas talking and distracted long enough to catch Gil off guard? “Why does this marriage matter so much to you? You could have any woman in Wessex. Why me?”

Demas's eyes hardened. “If it were solely up to me, puppet, I would have never pursued you to begin with. We are both pawns in a greater game, and since I have no choice in the matter, neither do you.” He stalked closer.

I crouched low, ready. I may not have had my weapons, but I'd be damned if I let him touch me.

“Tsk tsk. Two against one.” The edge of Demas's lip curled upward.

“One of you is drunk.”

“Yes, but one of us is a giant with a slingshot. Gil, try not to kill her, please.”

I spun toward the troll of a bodyguard in time to see his hand release.

A blow glanced off my forehead, just above my temple, and I stumbled backward. My legs crumpled and curled, dropping me like a stone into the coarse grass at my feet. Warm rivulets ran down my cheek and neck. Arrows of silver flashed before my eyes. The forest blurred.

“Nicely shot, Gil.” Demas's voice was low and garbled.

Something grappled with my wrists. I fought the rising panic and squirmed away, shuffling on my knees until I fell on my side, my face pressed into the ground, my hands tightly bound. One well-polished leather shoe stopped in front of my face.

“Oh, look, Gil, my wife has finally learned her place.”

“I am not your wife. I never will be.” I struggled to bring my knees underneath me and pressed my shoulder into the ground, desperate to right myself. I pushed through the throbbing in my head, kneeling before I found my footing and stood on shaking legs. Nausea pitched and heaved, tossing me in its swells.

Gil lumbered over and placed a knife in Demas's hand.

“Why must you make everything so difficult?” He ran the back of the blade along my cheek and left the point hovering over my throat.

I swallowed hard, my face flushed with sweat. “I'll tell everyone you raped me. That you held me against my will.” I had a hard time keeping my focus on Demas's face. His features pulsed and ebbed.

“And who will believe you?” He trailed the blade between my breasts and down to my navel. A rough tug cut through the simple fabric belt around my waist, and the yellow silk floated to the ground.

I was dangerously close to fainting. “You're drunk. Please…” I lurched sideways, leaning into a large tree. Pinpricks of light danced through my vision. The world spun away from me. I fell to my knees and threw up.

He recoiled away from me. “If your father had agreed to my insistence that we be married immediately, instead of waiting until the fall, we could have avoided these unpleasantries. But you would have fought the matter even then, isn't that right?” His face turned a motley shade of red. “No matter what I do, you manage to foul everything. You're the only thing standing in my way.”

“I don't understand. I don't know what you want,” I sputtered. My head felt like it was going to be sliced in two.

He stormed over, fisted a handful of my hair, and yanked me to my feet, his hazel eyes filled with hatred. “I don't need you to understand. I need you to shut up and do as you're told.”

I spat at him.

“You spoiled little whore.”

I closed my eyes and waited for the blow. But it didn't come. Instead he released me. I opened my eyes, dazed.

He slunk backward, creeping to the opposite end of the clearing; the blood had drained from his face. Gil appeared beside him and the two men stood stock-still, staring into the trees behind me. Fear spread its icy tendrils throughout the clearing. My heart strained against my chest, my palms slick. Another wave of nausea crested. I used the tree to hold myself upright. The world tilted and twirled. Something very large moved through the trees. I could hear the heavy breathing as it snorted and sniffed the air. Something massive and black lumbered forward, its shaggy body inches away from me. It stood on two massive legs, or maybe it was four. I blinked hard. It lifted itself as high as a tree and roared. It pounced, and something powerful swiped sideways, catching me in the ribs, hurtling me back against the tree. Everything went black.

 

THIRTEEN

I looked into the boughs of a flowering crab apple tree. Delicate white petals fell softly on my cheek. The shadow of a woman's head blocked the blossoms from view. “You've broken some ribs, I imagine. And that lump on your forehead's going to need tending.”

The shadow receded. I could hear the woman rummaging in the foliage around me. A hand gently turned my chin. She clicked her teeth and went back to her ministrations. I lifted myself up on my side and winced while the world spun. I leaned back against the tree. My head pounded, the left side of my ribs burned, and pain stabbed with each heartbeat. A wave of nausea rose, the heat filling my cheeks. Oh, dear gods, please no. I breathed slowly through my nose. In, out, in, out. The thought of vomiting with the pain in my ribs … in, out, in, out. I focused on my breath, full of relief as the nausea receded. I scanned my surroundings. I was in a clearing. How did I get here? Who was the woman?

A long braid of snow-white hair fell to just above her waist. Her face was pale, etched with years of living. Wrinkles upon wrinkles settled deeply around her eyes and across her forehead. She wore a pale green kirtle and a faded brown cloak. If she pulled the hood over her hair, she would disappear into the woods around us.

“Leaves of common plantain.” She picked at a squat green plant. “For the cuts on your face.” She looked off into the distance. “And some calendula, yes.” She bent back over, studying the flora. “Did I not say your recklessness would get you into trouble?” She shook her head. “They never listen.”

Recklessness? Trouble? The witch! I stared at her white head in amazement. The only part I'd seen in the cottage was her long, thin hand. And the images my mind created for the rest of her were certainly not favorable, nor did they remotely resemble the woman standing in front of me. While thin and elderly, her face had a regal, almost delicate quality to it—she might even have been beautiful when she was younger. I had been on my way to see her. But where was I? Where was her cottage?

My memory snapped back like a bent sapling let go. Demas. Gil. The beast. Gods, it was her bear!

I closed my eyes. I was reckless, but being called upon it left a bitter taste in my mouth. I had stepped into that clearing with Demas, thinking only to help whoever was in trouble. While noble, it was foolish. I had seen only the one horse and drawn the conclusion there was only one miscreant. It didn't occur to me there might be more, or that I could possibly become disarmed or overpowered. I'd been arrogant and naive.

“Can you walk?” Her face hovered inches from mine.

“No.” I didn't think I could ever move.

“Why? Forgot how?”

“Yes.”

“Time to get up.”

“Leave me be, witch.” I wanted to sit and wallow in self-pity.

“Witch? Is that what you call me? Name's Muirgen. I'd prefer you use that.” She stood, placing her hands on her hips. “You can come, or you can take your chances alone.”

“Come where?”

“You need care, and I can't help you here.” She waved her hand, indicating the wilderness around us.

The thought of entering her cabin made me remember my earlier strategies. “My horse … my sword.”

“I imagine they're either in the possession of your attacker or remain where you left them. You can look to them after I've treated you. Until then, you're coming with me.” She grabbed my arm and looped it over her shoulders. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Good. Here we go.” She pulled me upright with considerable strength, my legs doing only half the work, and I almost buckled under the pain.

She waited a moment. “Ready?”

I shook my head no.

“Good.” She stepped forward, dragging me with her. The pace she set was slow, but my body reeled from the impact of each and every step.

By the time we reached her cottage, I was covered in sweat and shaking with the effort. She led me inside. My first impression was that it smelled fresh, like linens washed in lavender and dried in the sun. Not the oppressive stench of unwashed bodies or wet bear that had impregnated the cottage when I was here last.

Leaving the front door wide open to the hazy late-afternoon sunlight, she sat me on a bed thick and soft with a feather mattress. Near the door, she pushed aside a heavy tapestry, tucking it behind a hook on the wall, revealing a large window. She opened the shutters. I stared at the scene before me. Along the farthest wall, opposite the door, a long, wide table stretched from one side to the other. It was cluttered with jars, bottles, boxes, knives, candles, and plant odds and ends. The central hearth, glowing a warm red, was raised on a large stone slab. A huge iron cauldron hung from a tripod above it. Several boxes and baskets lined rows of shelves opposite the bed.

“Thank you for coming to my aid today,” I said.

“I don't care for men who abuse women. He's lucky there were two of them. Coward ran off like the filthy rat he is.” She poured the contents of several bottles into a large bowl. “Do you know him?”

“He's to be my husband.”

She stopped what she was doing. “Not a happy marriage, I fear.”

“No.”

“Well, let's get this dress off. I need to wrap your ribs.”

After much struggle, starting, and stopping, we were both left sweating, my face covered in tears.

She clicked her tongue. “Only one rib is broken, the rest are bruised.”

“That was from your bear.”

“Well, he wasn't perfect.” She grabbed some cooled fat and scooped it into a bowl with the liquid, mixing it thoroughly with a knife. “He gave his life to save you from a terrible fate.”

Chastened, my tone softened. “What happened?”