Avelynn (23 page)

He held the hilt of his sword. The garnets on the cross guard, dark as blood, gleamed scarlet whenever a flash of sunlight caught their angled surfaces.

“Can you tell me about your mother?” I asked.

“She lives in Gotland with my grandfather, but owns a prosperous trading center in Denmark—a gift from my father.”

“Was your father cruel?”

“My father was a warrior, a king. His life was battle. My brothers have carried on in his image. I had envisioned a quieter life for myself, but…” He shrugged. He lifted a hazel branch out of my way. “My mother was his mistress, but she wished to be more. He always promised she would, but he came around only when he wanted her, and like an obedient, submissive dog, she rolled over and begged.” He almost spat the last words. “He was king. Whatever he wanted he got. She had no say in the matter. She meant nothing to him. She was merely a pretty little diversion, and everyone in Denmark and Gotland knew it.”

I reached out, turning him toward me. “I don't care about the past.”

He held my gaze, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Nor do I.” His voice was husky. “I have no right to ask, no claim on you, but I have only the one night. And by Odin's eye, woman, I cannot bear to leave without having you.”

Muirgen had said to follow my heart, and it had led me here, to this moment, to this man. I refused to let anyone or anything take this away from me. If I couldn't go with him, I had him still. As to my future, I would chart my course. I would figure out a way to rid my life of Demas forever, and I wouldn't do it by running away.

I lifted my hand to his face and guided his lips to mine. This was the man who loved me, the man who had saved my life, who asked for my permission, who waited on my answer. And I gave my heart to him completely.

He stepped away, removed his tunic, and laid it across the ferns. He lay down and rolled onto his back. I knelt beside him.

I ran my finger from his temple to his jaw. He closed his eyes, and I kissed the soft lids. My lips skimmed and my teeth grazed his neck, my body responding to the change in his breathing. It was restrained, shorter, faster. The tip of my nose brushed his ear, and a shiver passed through him. I kissed the tiny lobe, nibbling it with my teeth. He inhaled sharply. I alternated between his ears and his neck while he kept a firm hold on the moss growing along the ground. I took my time, enjoying the gooseflesh that erupted on his arms, his quickened breath.

His nipples were erect and hard. I brushed my finger over one and he jolted, his eyes flying open in surprise. I flicked my tongue around the small nubs and sucked gently. His body went rigid; his trousers bulged, tenting high in the middle. I hesitated. Demas's ghost hovered close—a reminder of my weakness, of what had almost happened.

He sensed my trepidation. “I will not demand anything of you, ever. You have my word. It might kill me to stop”—his mouth curled into a half grin—“but the choice is yours, Avelynn, always.”

I stood and removed my linen kirtle, dropping it on the ground beside me. The cool ocean breeze tightened my nipples, and my body erupted in gooseflesh. I lay down beside him. “I won't have you die on my account.”

*   *   *

Sometime later, drowsy and content in his arms, I asked, “What's Gotland like? Is it very different from England?”

He stretched his arms and clasped his hands behind his head. He was naked, sprawled out on the forest floor, his legs twined with mine. “It is beautiful. Towering cliffs rise above rocky shorelines, windswept grasslands roll into neatly tended farmland, and forests of ancient oak are blanketed with orchids and wildflowers in the spring.”

“Were you born there?”

“Yes. I was born near Visby, on my grandfather's manor. My grandfather, Herraud, controls most of northern Gotland. He was furious with my mother's treatment, but my father always placated him with gifts of livestock, ale, and slaves. He quickly stopped complaining.”

I chased away an inquisitive fly from his chest and let my fingertips brush the toned ridges of his belly. I smiled as his muscles tensed and flexed. “Did you spend much time with your father growing up?”

“As king, he spent most of his time in Lejre, and when he was not in his hall there, he was busy invading and conquering other countries. For the most part I was left to my own devices. Though my mother was implacable when it came to my learning, she called my father an ignorant heathen and demanded the opposite of me.”

My fingers stopped their explorations. “You're not pagan?”

“I was reared by my mother and a Christian priest who taught me Latin and English, astronomy, mathematics, spiritual morality, and jurisprudence. My father discovered my learning and fell into a rage. He beat my mother for making me soft and killed the priest. I was twelve.”

Several birds hopped from branch to branch above us, happily chirping amongst themselves. “From that point forward, my father ensured I was raised properly. He dragged me to his hall to learn a real man's education of fighting, drinking, and cruelty. He also insisted I embrace the faith of my forefathers. I am as pagan as any other heathen barbarian you are likely to meet.” He smiled broadly.

I laughed. “Good.”

He kissed my neck and blew softly into my ear. I shivered. I could feel my body awakening again. “So, that was it? You went to Lejre and became a ruthless warrior?”

“I wanted to be a shipbuilder.” He rolled onto his side and looked at me sheepishly. He caressed my arm, running his finger slowly up and down. The soft, delicate, downy hairs stood on end with each pass.

“I made my ship.”

“Why did you stop? It's beautiful.”

“A ship is an extension of a man's soul.
Raven's Blood
is my most valued possession. I would die before I let another man sail her. But owning a ship is different from building one. Shipbuilding is an honorable craft in most men's eyes, but not in my father's or my brothers'. It was a warrior's life or no life at all. When my father was killed, my brothers swore vengeance. To them, a shipbuilder was weak and useless. They left me behind, unable to avenge his death.” A shadow passed over his eyes.

“Their intent was to dishonor me. But their cruelty made me stronger, and their impressions of my weakness were gravely mistaken. I have since proved them wrong.”

I wasn't sure I wanted him to elucidate that, and he didn't. Instead, he shook his head, as if emerging from under water, and brought his attention back to my naked flesh. A twinkle once again sparked in his eyes.

“Tell me about England.” His finger resumed its course, moving up my arm, over my collarbone, and down between my breasts. He traced the outline of one breast, circles moving higher and higher, closer to my nipple.

An orange-tipped butterfly flitted overhead.

“I was born in a manor called—” His finger reached the nipple and he tugged gently on the tip. His finger brushed back and forth. “—Wedmore,” I managed to push out.

“What was it like growing up in Wedmore?”

I inhaled deeply as his mouth replaced his finger. He had disentangled his legs from mine and climbed on top of me, his legs straddling my thighs.

“I'm the daughter of a powerful … earl.” His teeth grazed the tightened skin, and he pulled gently, taking my nipple into his mouth. Wetness surged between my legs, and I shifted my body as tension mounted.

“I have a younger brother. Both my father and brother left some time ago for Rome.” “Rome” came out as a squeak. I didn't want to think about where they were or what might have happened to them, for I'd still heard nothing of Edward's health or received any missives corroborating Demas's claim that my father had encountered Vikings. Fortunately, Alrik's tactics were very distracting, and I pushed the uncertainties from my mind.

“Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled, his tongue charting a path lower until he was lying between my legs.

“I just found out I have a grandmother, and maybe even a cou—sin.” His tongue probed between my legs.

He lifted my leg onto his shoulder. His fingers slid through the moist heat and his tongue worked furiously. My body arched. My hips rose.

His fingers slipped inside, stroking, pushing deeper. He lifted his head. “You were saying?” His pace quickened.

“Oh, gods,” I cried out but then was unable to utter one coherent word more.

*   *   *

Just before dusk, we made our way back to the beach. Alrik had asked me to intercede with the gods and bestow a blessing upon his crew, granting them success in battle. I stood, a roaring fire at my back, and had each man line up and kneel before me. I whispered a charm over every sharpened blade they presented to me. Axes, spears, swords, knives, and arrows each received their own blessing. Then I laid a hand on each bowed head and called on Macha and Badb to bring swiftness to their blades and fearlessness to their hearts. I added an appeal to Odin and the Valkyries, Odin's maidens of death, to take the fallen to Valhalla so that they might dine amongst the valiant warriors at his high table.

The entire crew came forward, save one. He loomed near the ship, a hulking shadow outlined against a darkening sky. Alrik, having caught the man's absence, stormed toward him. I couldn't hear what was said, but it wasn't long before the man stalked over, his face hard, his body tense. He knelt at my feet and thrust out his sword. I looked down at a crop of wayward brown hair tamed only marginally by a ragged middle part. I drew my eyebrows together.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Ingvar.”

My next words caught in my throat. It was the dead man's brother, the man who had met his death by Alrik's axe when we first met.

“Get done with it,
wyrt-gaelstre
.”

Witch! He had called me a witch, and in my own tongue. “Who are you?”

He looked up, cold hatred in his wide-set eyes. “You killed my brother,
wyrt-gaelstre
. Do you know what we do with your kind? We break their legs and tie their hands. Then, one shovelful at a time, we bury them alive, gritty earth filling and choking their open mouths as they scream.”

I knew only too well what the Saxons did with a woman they suspected of witchcraft. Alrik saw I was shaken.

“What has he said?”

“He's Saxon.”

Alrik nodded. “He was a slave and should have been killed, but he surrendered to my brother and swore allegiance.” There was a hint of disgust in Alrik's tone. “He has fought well for us and has not caused any trouble until recently.”

“You may trust this
wyrt-gaelstre
, but I do not.” He made to rise, but Alrik put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back down.

“She has assured us victory and safe passage. You will not jeopardize that. Kneel and accept her blessing.” He gripped the handle of his axe, cutting short any further objections from Ingvar.

Ingvar knelt, and I invoked the Goddess. A deep unsettling crept through my veins. I couldn't explain it, but at that moment, I wished Alrik's brother had killed Ingvar when he'd had the chance.

After the ritual, they invited me to dine with them. We sat on logs around a roaring fire, sharing mead and rabbit stew. Nervous after all they had seen me say and do, the men relaxed as the consumption of drink increased. By the time the moon descended in the sky, they had regaled me with stories of valor and mishap from their travels, the laughter and ribald comments growing more boisterous as the hour increased.

At length, Alrik and I left the beach and sought the privacy and solitude of the clearing. We dozed off now and then, slipping nocturnal sojourns in between fervent and desperate lovemaking. Knowing that this might be the last time we were together, we clung to each other, imprinting each moment, savoring each sensation, each touch, each kiss, each word.

He would try to come back at the full moon in September, but couldn't promise. His brother's struggles in Ireland would keep him occupied for quite some time. And then, after September, the seas would start to get rough and the window for sailing would soon close. And in the undercurrent of silence and desperation that swirled around us lurked four words that were never spoken. I would be married.

Come morning, dark clouds threatened on the horizon, black against the brighter sky before it. Standing on the prow of his boat, Alrik waved, his blond hair lifting in the rising wind. The bloodred sail, the raven's wings outstretched, its claws hooked, ready to snare the souls of the dead, billowed as it caught the lusty gales. I watched long after the boat had sailed out of sight.

Behind me, the forest danced in anticipation of a coming storm. The leaves quivered in the moisture-laden breeze. The parched landscape rejoiced as the rain came. It lashed and it wailed, but I stood there, a wall against its torrent, dry and barren as a desert, with no hope of relief. Thunder clapped. Lightning flashed and a blazing fork landed nearby. My heart pounded, beating out the thunder in its clamor. The sea turned a dark, angry gray. The waves frothed and crashed to the shore.

Be safe, Alrik
, I pleaded into the fury.
Please come back to me
.

 

FIFTEEN

August and September came and went without incident. The harvest was plentiful; grain was collected, threshed, and winnowed. The granaries were bursting, the inventory balanced. Orchards abounded with ripe, juicy fruit, their succulent yields overflowing in baskets and crates; nuts were collected, larders were filled. Abundance swarmed around me. Everyone smiled, their mood joyous and thankful. I searched but could find nothing to smile about—the full moon waxed and waned, but Alrik did not return.

There was one flicker of light, however. I had not seen Demas since the confrontation in the forest, and Sigberht had also remained absent, keeping to his estate in Kent. While I was not one to overlook my blessings, when autumn passed without any word from my father or news of Edward's well-being, anxiety mingled daily with my already dark and melancholy mood. Any crossing of the channel now meant the men would be taking great risks. Winter storms were savage and swift, coming out of nowhere to drag a ship down to an icy grave.