Avelynn: The Edge of Faith is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
www.marissacampbell.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
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Represented by: Margaret Bail, Inklings Literary Agency
Cover by: Jenny Q with Historical Editorial
Edited by: Sherry Hinman with The Write Angle
Formatting by: Deena Rae with E-BookBuilders
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Other Books
About Marissa
For The Reader
Layout & Design
To anyone who’s ever had a dream. Never give up.
What you are holding in your hands is more than the wandering of words, the spattering of sentences, the placement of paragraphs. What you are reading is a labor of love—the embodiment of passion and determination. I love these characters. I love their world and enjoy every moment I spend creating the fascinating twists and turns they get themselves embroiled in, but their path to publication was an adventure in and of itself.
I made the bold decision to self-publish Avelynn: The Edge of Faith, forging into the murky depths of the unknown. It was not the easiest path, but fortunately I had a lot of help along the way.
To my agent extraordinaire, Margaret Bail, who stuck with me through thick and thin, and to Inklings Literary Agency and its tireless captain, Michelle Johnson, thank you for standing by me and supporting me through this interesting plot twist in my author career.
To my editor, Sherry Hinman, thank you for once again cleaning, purging, and polishing a rough jumble of words into a polished manuscript.
To my cover designer, Jenny Q, at Historical Editorial, thank you for producing a stunning work of art.
To my content formatter, Deena Rae, at E-BookBuilders, thank you for whipping into shape a lowly Word document and turning it into a real book.
Great big hugs to my handsome Vikings, who posed tirelessly with fans and made each book signing an event to behold. What a blast.
A huge shout-out to my writing group, the B7, who continued to rally, never wavering in their support. Also a big thank you to The Writers’ Community of Durham Region, who continued to provide the camaraderie and kinship I’d come to depend on.
To my beautiful friend, Melissa Robertson, thank you for always making me laugh and never failing to pull me away from downtrodden days.
To my husband, David, and my beautiful boys, Lochlin, Aidan, and Brendan, I love you all so very much. You are my ground, my rock, and my heart. Thank you for sharing this journey with me. I couldn’t do it without you.
Last, but certainly not least, thank you to everyone who read and loved Avelynn. You’ve made my dreams come true. This book is for you.
No matter the obstacles in your path, if you want something badly enough, never give up until you achieve it. A dream is a wondrous thing. Never lose sight of it. Always follow your heart.
In gratitude,
Marissa xo
Somerset, England
March 21, 871
I was not a traitor, and I didn’t mean to run. The crux of the problem, however, would be swaying Alrik to my point of view—a task that would be rendered easier once he woke up.
It was just after dawn, and I lay nestled in the crook of his arm, my head rested upon his chest. His heart beat a slow, steady rhythm, a pulse echoed in my own. The wood of the long, shallow-hulled boat creaked as we rocked and the tidal flow of the River Parret ebbed beneath us. Near our feet, the cauldron hung from a post attached to the mast, jostling from its chains. The fire inside its belly filled the boat’s tent with warmth. I’d not slept all night as the vision of my mother warning me of my Uncle Osric’s treachery played over and over in my mind. If I wanted to stay and fight, I needed to find a way to convince Alrik to remain in England.
He stirred, and his hand searched until it cupped my buttocks. He pulled me closer. I lifted my head and kissed him on his chin, inviting a raised eyebrow as his two bright blue eyes opened. A luscious grin tempted my resolve. His lips sought mine, while fingertips, light as a quiver of wind, traced the indent of my thigh, the swell of my hip, and the valley of my waist, stoking embers of desire. My skin caught fire.
“Avelynn.” His voice was a low growl.
“Good morning.” I played with the soft waves of hair that curled over his shoulder. I couldn’t believe, after all we’d been through, that I lay here safe at his side. For now. I pushed the foreboding away.
His languid lips traveled to the side of my neck, just beneath my ear. “I like waking up to you in my arms.” He nuzzled his chin against me, his trimmed beard tickling, and I scrunched my neck in an effort to block his attack. He pressed his advantage, and I squealed as gooseflesh rippled along my back and arms. “And I like the spots that turn you to butter.” His teeth grazed, and he pulled the flesh of my neck deep into his mouth.
I pushed at his shoulders, desperate to get away, while my hips pressed tight against his, desperate to get closer.
A low chuckle escaped his throat. “Vixen.”
“Tease.” I wriggled free.
He laughed as he rolled onto his back, and I climbed on top of him. My legs straddled his waist. I positioned his erection behind me. “I want to stay here.”
His hands held my hips. “Stay all you want, hjartað, dear heart, but move a bit lower.” He tried to wiggle me down, but I tightened my grip on his waist.
“I mean in England.”
His eyebrows creased together.
“Yesterday, in the clearing, my mother appeared to me. She told me my uncle would cast out my people, labeling them as traitors for their connections with me. They will flee here, to Avalon. This is the only place safe from persecution. No one but Bertram and I know the secret pathways through the swamps. I have to stay and fight. I have to find a way to bring my uncle to his knees. I need to take back what is mine.”
“And how might you do that?” He propped himself up on his elbows. “You have run away with the enemy—set sail with Norsemen. Your people saw you. The king’s brother saw you leave of your own free will.”
I climbed off Alrik and wa
lked to the chest where I’d thrown my shift the night before. After pulling the soft linen over my head, I sat down, corralling my coarse blond hair and weaved it into a long braid. I tied the end with a leather thong and straightened my spine. Squaring my shoulders, I readied the argument I had thought out as I’d lain awake.
“I need an opportunity to prove my innocence. When the people of Wedmore come, I will talk with them—make them see I was wronged. Bertram will help me. He will support my claim. I’ve known these people all my life. I have to believe they will see reason.”
“And if they do not?”
I refused to think otherwise. “There will be plenty of women for your men to take as wives, and Avalon has game and fish in abundance to sustain us. The forest is ample in wood for housing. We could carve out a settlement here, just long enough for me to find some way to prove Osric’s deceptions. I ask only for sufficient time.”
“My men are warriors. They joined me for gold and fame. My banishment has been hardship enough. They will not be content to sit about and play house.”
“Alrik!” A voice boomed from outside the tent.
“Aye,” Alrik answered.
Tollak, Alrik’s second in command, entered. Almost as tall as Alrik, his bearded face a shade of gold darker than his captain’s, he was fetching in a tunic of azure blue. A dark wool cloak hung off his shoulder, clasped with a silver broach. “The druid is here—the one who was with Avelynn when we first arrived in England.”
“Bertram?” My heart raced. “Where?”
“We caught him at the gravesite.”
I grabbed my kirtle, dressing hastily, and affixed my sword to my belt before Alrik had managed to put on his trousers.
“Avelynn, wait,” Alrik called, but I was already clambering over the side of the boat and splashing to shore.
I hiked my dress to my knees and waded through the cold water. My bare feet sank into the river’s frigid silt as I trudged across and pushed through the last few feet of trembling reeds. A mild morning for the waning days of March—the forest danced with brilliant sunlight, the trees beginning to bud.
I ran along the freshly trampled path. Six years ago, at the end of this trail, my father had men erect a towering boulder to mark my mother’s grave. Two days past, in that same clearing, I had experienced my first visitation from the dead. I had known it was possible, that our ancestors lived amongst us and guided us from beyond the veil of time, but until I’d been ordained a high priestess the experience had seemed unattainable.
I stopped at the edge of the clearing to catch my breath. My chest froze as I beheld Bertram sitting with his back against my mother’s stone. Gone was the long, white hair—in its place was a trimmed tonsure. His staff, the mark of his office as druid with its Ogham symbols, lay beside him, resting against the course spun wool of a monk’s habit. When I remembered to exhale, his name came out as a strangled cry. “Bertram?”
He looked at me, and my heart ached. Dark circles sagged under mournful eyes, and his sunken face was gaunt and narrow.
He looked at the two Vikings lounging in the shadow of a beech tree.
“Please, leave us,” I said in Norse to the hulking sentries.
They didn’t budge.
“Go back to the ship.” Alrik stepped into the clearing.
As the two sentries disappeared into the trees, I ran into Bertram’s arms. “What have you done? What’s happened?”
He pulled away. Loathing etched his face as he appraised Alrik.
“Alrik is not the enemy, Bertram. If he hadn’t arrived when he did, Demas would have raped me, or worse.” I thought of Edward. “Bertram, Edward’s alive! At the battle of Reading, after Demas killed Father, he kidnapped Edward. He kept him alive to make me biddable. I had to rewrite my will, granting Demas control of Wedmore. Osric and Demas will stop at nothing until they control Somerset and Dorset.”
“Edward is alive?” His eyes lightened.
“Yes!” I reached out and clasped his hands in mine. “We escaped. Alrik and his men, they took us both on board—they saved us. Edward is with Ealhswith. She has promised to send him away to Mercia. He will be safe there.”
A mask of hardness replaced the warmth, and he tugged his hands free. “All that has befallen you and your family.” He shook his head. “I blame myself. I should have let the priests guide you. I have done you a great disservice, and for that I am truly sorry.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m telling you—”
“But I have. By letting you continue to pray to the pagan gods, I have led you to the Devil himself. Dearest Jesu, your mother would never forgive me. This is not what she wanted for you. Your father, rest his soul, will never find peace in his grave.”
“Bertram, you’re speaking nonsense.” I studied his face, searching for any sign of a jest. A druid turned Christian was not out of the realm of possibility. All of England had been heathen until a few centuries ago, but Bertram, my teacher and grandfather, turning his back on the Goddess?
“No, Avelynn. I have finally seen the light. I have cast the heathen gods into the fire of hell where they belong. All that has happened—the ruin of your name, the loss of your family—has come about by your refusal to acknowledge the one true God. I have come to offer you salvation before you leave.” He reached behind him and set my locked chest on the ground between us.
I stared at him in disbelief. “I’ll not follow the Christian God, nor renounce my faith. The ancient Goddess, the mother of all, is not some demon.” I picked up the box and held it tight to my chest.
“Wyrt-gaelstre!” He pulled a wooden cross from beneath his robe and held it in front of my face, his thin, wrinkled hand shaking.
I stumbled back, and Alrik stepped to my side. “I’m no witch. You know this,” I said.
“I call upon the one glorious God to cast the devil from Avelynn, daughter of Eanwulf, the late lord of Wedmore, most humble earl of Somerset. I ask you, lord Jesu, to bring her to your light, rid her of her sickness, cleanse her of all evil—”
“Put your Christian magic away, Priest.” Alrik unsheathed his sword.
I laid a hand on Alrik’s arm to stay him. “His cross can’t hurt me. Though his words sting.”
I addressed the stranger in front of me. “I don’t know what has happened to you, but you must believe me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I had hoped to count on you. You of all people should have supported me.” My chest burned. “But with or without you, I am not leaving. Osric and Demas have betrayed my people, and I mean to be here when they arrive. I will protect the families of Wedmore any way I can.”
Bertram stood taller. His face contorted, and a purple vein bulged along his forehead. “Demas is fighting for his life; he is as good as dead. Because of your unconscionable actions, you’re wanted on charges of murder, treason, and witchcraft. You cannot protect your people. It is because of you they are homeless. There is nothing in their hearts but hatred toward you.” He shot Alrik a vicious look and then turned his attention back to me. “The men who survived the shield wall against the Vikings, the men who fought loyally under your banner, were hunted down and executed as traitors. Their widows and fatherless children blame you and your treachery for their plight. They do not want you here. They want you dead.”
A strangled cry escaped my lips, and I looked at him in horror. “Bertram, please.”
“You are not welcome here, Avelynn. You have lain with the devil and only God can save you now.” He tossed his staff, the wood rolling to a stop at my feet. “I suggest you leave before the people get here. They will arrive on the morrow.” He walked away and did not look back.
I should have cried, but shock kept me from reacting. Empty hollowness set my legs shaking and took away any solid ground beneath my feet. Back on Raven’s Blood, the tide swelled around us, and the boat bucked as she pulled against the anchor tethering her to England.
“We need to leave.” Alrik stood beside me, hands on the smooth wood railing.
“I can’t.” I was so sure of my path. Why had my mother appeared to me? What was the point if I couldn’t stay in England?
Several hours had passed since my altercation with Bertram. Men ran back and forth from shore, amassing the supplies we needed to see us provisioned at sea.
“One day, perhaps you can return, but right now, you do not have a choice.” The tenderness in his voice did nothing to lessen the sting of his statement. Bertram’s words had cleaved my heart as brutally as any sword.
Alrik drew me into an embrace. “I have friends in Wales. They will provide us with safe harbor while we wait out the storm caused by your escape and my exile. Our enemies will expect us to flee to the continent. This will give us time. We are vulnerable and recognizable. We need a new sail, which we can get while in Wales.”
The ship with its blood-red sail—emblazoned with the image of a raven—was too conspicuous. Alrik had ordered it furled.
He gestured to the contraband lying strewn about the deck. “This will see us rewarded with gold once we barter and trade. Wales is a good fit. After a time, we can head to the land of the Rus. My uncle is jarl of Novgorod. Rurik will give us welcome in his hall.”
The Rus—a people so different from my own, so far away.
“From there, my men can return to their homes in Sweden and Gotland. I have nothing to offer them now.”
The pain in his voice made me pause. I’d been so wrapped up in my own plight that I’d lost sight of his. “I’m sorry. If you hadn’t met me, none of this would have happened. I’ve lost everything, and I’ve dragged you down with me.”
He threaded his fingers through mine and brought my hand to his lips. “To a Northman, adversity is merely an invitation to battle. We welcome it.” He winked.
I managed a smile.
He kissed the top of my head. “We will triumph. I will see to it.”
Incapable of an answer, I nodded and he left my side. None of this made sense—Bertram’s transformation, my mother’s warning. Visions were not finite manifestations. There wasn’t a timeline laid out before me. Perhaps Alrik was right—maybe I would return to England one day and put an end to Osric’s tyranny. But how would I accomplish such a feat? Other than a boatload of Vikings, I had no means of protection or force. How was I to gain the backing of an entire country that loathed me and wanted me dead? How would I do it without Bertram’s support? My stomach dropped along with my hope, and I searched the taciturn water for answers. No matter how long I stood there, trying to grasp at the threads of fate that had led me to that point, a solution never materialized from those murky depths.
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