He held the door open for me to enter and tucked the key to the lock in the satchel at his waist.
“What brings you to Wales?” he asked.
“I’ve only recently landed, but I mean to leave as soon as possible.”
“Heading back home, then?”
“No.”
He stopped to study me. “Care to talk about it? Unburden your soul?”
“I’m not sure you have enough mead.”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “Sounds like a long story.”
My silence spoke for me.
His lips tightened into a thin line. “You are far too young for such melancholy. Come.”
He entered a narrow door off to the side of the nave. Inside looked more like an afterthought than a room with purpose, but Eadfrith had managed to eke out space for himself amidst the clutter. A small cauldron hung over a raised hearth, and a bench sat beneath a large wooden cross. Crates, boxes, urns, and parchment were crammed against the walls. The room made me think of Father Plegmund back in Wedmore. I missed home.
With a seasoned flourish, Eadfrith set a cloth on the bench and retrieved two wooden mugs from atop a small cask. He ladled out the golden syrup until both mugs nearly spilled and then placed them on the thick-grained wood. He pulled a bundle from his satchel, his brown eyes alight.
“Put my best honey into these.” He placed one of the cakes on the cloth in front of me. “Please.” He motioned to the rushes underfoot, and I sat, crossing my legs. He joined me with an audible crack of his knees and a delighted groan. “It’s nice to be off my feet.”
He lifted one of the cakes, inhaling deeply before taking a large bite. Half the cake disappeared into his mouth. I watched as he chewed, his eyes closed in repletion.
I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from lifting.
The little lump in his throat bobbed as he finally swallowed. He flashed me an impish smile, all the more fetching for dimples. “Ambrosia.” He finished the halves in rapid succession.
I laughed, despite myself.
He pointed at the bench. “Please. Enjoy.”
He swilled the mug full of mead. Clearly, his appreciation also applied to drink.
I picked up the cake and, like Eadfrith, devoured it in short order. Caramelized honey, sticky and sweet, stuck to my teeth as the moist loaf dissolved on my tongue. “That was incredible.” I looked upon the monk with renewed respect.
“A man can have many talents. Beekeeping and baking are only a few of mine.” He refilled his mug, topping off mine in the process. “Now tell me, what has caused your downcast mood on such a fine day?”
Outside, clouds sailed by, the wind a constant whistle through the cracks in the stone walls. But the rain held off, so I took him at his word that this embodied a fine day for Wales.
How should I begin? “A series of difficult events has arisen, the outcome of which has landed me here, surrounded by strangers, and I’ve yet to determine whether they are friend or foe.” I thought of the dream, and a nagging sense of uncertainty made the hair on my arms bristle. Perhaps it was more than just memories.
He rubbed the week-old stubble on his chin. “Unfortunate.”
I pushed the sense of unease from my mind and tipped my cup in his direction. “How did you arrive in Wales?”
He settled back, leaning against the wall. “Sixth son to a Northumbrian earl, I had little recourse but to find my path paved to the church. I could have stayed in England, but my soul was restless. I met a bishop of the Church of St. David and followed him to Wales.” He shrugged. “I’ve been the only priest in Milford Haven for the last few years.”
“What happened to your predecessor?”
“Father Llewelyn left—a rather nasty altercation with the house of Hyffaid. Fortunately, I am on much better terms with the gentry. Despite my devotion to this thriving community, my service is coming to an end. In fact, I am set to leave my bees and the care of the parish church to a young cleric in a few days’ time. A group of brethren from the Mother Church of St. David are embarking on a pilgrimage to Rome. The journey starts on a circuitous route, as we collect travelers from across southern Wales. We will then set sail from St. Dogmael’s bound for Francia. From there it is a simple matter of crossing the treacherous passes of the Alps and marching onward to the Holy City.”
“Sounds positively uneventful.”
He laughed. “Well, if it helps to portray a dashing image of me, I hope to encounter a band of Saracens. Perhaps I will battle a Bulgar or two. But what of you? Where will your journey take you?”
How I wished to unburden my soul and reveal my secrets, but I couldn’t let anyone know who I was or where I headed. If Osric or Demas were to find out, I would never again feel safe when I closed my eyes. “I am also bound overseas.”
“Do you wish to elaborate?”
“No.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Indeed.”
We sat in silence for some time. First Marared and her family; now Eadfrith. The more I interacted with people, the more opportunity I gave Demas to find me. If he was still alive. Based on Bertram’s assessment of his ailing health, it was possible, even probable, that Demas would die of his injuries—if he hadn’t succumbed already. Yet no matter how much I tried to convince myself of the possibility, anxiety reared its menacing talons. The points pressed into the flesh of my neck. I rubbed at the spot and set my cup on the bench and rose. “It was wonderful to meet you, Eadfrith. I wish you a safe and thrilling voyage.”
He trotted to the door beside me. “Perhaps I can join you for a stroll.”
“What of the nave?” I looked around at the worn and moldy rushes underfoot.
He waved his hand. “I can lay fresh rushes anytime. We don’t often get travelers from England. It’s a joy to speak my native tongue, and the opportunity to do so in the company of such a lovely lady is hard to dismiss.” He swept my hand to his lips and bowed in a courtly flourish.
I blushed. Judging by the little lines fanning from the corners of his eyes, he may have been ten years my senior, but the dimples, strong jaw, and cheekbones held up his youth admirably. “How can I refuse an offer such as that?”
He locked the door behind us, and we strolled into town.
We rounded a bend in the trail and Sigy’s cottage came into view. The chickens pecked and flounced in the toft. Milford Haven faced southeast to the sea. To the north, the village looked inland to fields ready for the spring planting of wheat, flax, barley, and corn. To the east, far off in the distance, forests, dense and dark, snaked away from the coast. The undulating green rose to the uplands, where summer pastures lay for cattle, sheep, and goats. Despite Eadfrith’s warm and friendly company, under Wales’s stunning visage, the country remained alien and hostile.
“What news of my home?” he asked.
“Northumbria?”
“Last I heard there had been great battles waged with the Vikings.”
“They have taken over York and placed an English puppet on the throne. He is Saxon by birth, but the Vikings control his every move.”
Eadfrith nodded. “I’d heard as much. I had hoped someone would have challenged them by now.”
“There is no one left to intervene. East Anglia has fallen. Mercia is struggling to protect its own—London has been won, and swarms with Vikings. The only country showing any kind of resistance is Wessex, but battles wage endlessly. Their king was wounded in battle.” I had no idea if Aethelred still lived. I hoped he’d recovered, but I’d seen too many sword wounds to know his odds. In the battle of Basing, wearing my father’s helmet and carrying his shield, I had led Somerset into battle. I fought valiantly and held my ground all morning. We were making good progress and had gained solid advances before the breach, but once the shield wall buckled farther down the line, it turned into a massacre. Saxons fled and Vikings chased them down. Axes and swords ran through defenseless backs.
“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 gr
in. “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.”
March 23
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.
Avelynn: The Edge of Faith Page 4
