He grunted and lifted his chin. I walked beside him. When we stuck our head in, Sigy looked up and assessed us both. “You there.” She dismissed Cormac to sit on a rough bench beside a few other men, all with different injuries, wearing similar frowns on their faces. “Avelynn, you can help clean up this lout.” She handed me a damp cloth and shoved me in the direction of a Welshman. The tip of his finger dangled, the end cut clean through to the bone. I swallowed hard and looked at him apologetically. He shrugged and held out his hand. I wasn’t certain what to do.
“Squeeze the damn thing and stop the bleeding,” Sigy said without bothering to look up from her ministrations.
I applied pressure, expecting the man to jump or wince, but he looked almost bored.
Given Sigy’s renown for healing, she was clearly the matron in charge. I wondered where Marared was, but Sigy answered my unspoken question as if reading my mind. “My daughter has no patience for such things.”
A shiver ran up my spine. The woman’s acuity was frightening. At first, it unnerved me to work in such close quarters with her. I didn’t trust her, or her daughter, but I became engrossed in her ability, marveling at her knowledge. There was not an ailment for which she didn’t present a cure, nor a wound she couldn’t plaster and heal. I didn’t know if she shared her daughter’s inclination to remove me from Alrik’s side, but I figured if I kept her in plain sight, she would be less likely to attempt anything in front of so many witnesses.
By the time the candles burned low, the oil lamps flickering in spent puddles of fat, Sigy and I were the last of the women to remain. The others had long since shuffled off to find succor in the arms of their beloved men. Cormac was the last hapless victim, and as soon as we tended to his wounds, I would leave and find Alrik. We’d spent far too much time bickering and being short tempered with one another, and after the day’s violence, I longed for his embrace.
Sigy wiped the sweat from her brow. “Hold still,” she barked at Cormac. She threaded lengths of thorn between two overlapping pieces of skin to hold the wound closed. I watched with interest as she applied a poultice of bugle and calendula to the jagged seam.
“It will stop the bleeding, and the wound will not fester,” Sigy said, catching me spying.
I nodded, trying to take it all in. As much as I wished to learn the healing arts, I had a hard time remembering the plants and their uses. There were too many of them. Muirgen had tried to teach me leech craft as well. Her continued patience with my relentless confusion had been admirable.
The thought of my grandmother reminded me of what I’d lost. I looked eastward. Somewhere over the waves of endless Welsh hills and valleys lay Mercia, and south of that, Somerset. Wedmore. Home. I wondered if I would ever see it again.
Sigy held her hand above the wound and whispered a charm.
“Away with you.” She shooed Cormac off the chair. He smiled sheepishly at me and left the tent. The man had gone as white as bleached wool, muttering with each pass of the thorn through his skin.
Sigy walked to the wash bowl and scrubbed the blood from her fingers. “You wish to say something?” She had her back to me, but it still felt like she watched me.
“The words you chanted over Cormac’s wound spoke of Woden and the Lord.” The Norse called the God Frey, “Lord.” “A convenient happenstance in case a Christian should overhear.”
I caught the edges of her lip curling into a small smile as she turned in profile to dry her hands. “Cormac is a Viking. I catered to the crowd, but how is it you know such distinctions? Is what they say about you true? Are you indeed a witch?”
I flinched and tried to mask my fear. “I am betrothed to a Norseman. I am well acquainted with the Norse gods.”
She shook her head. “There is little point denying the charge, my dear.” She sat on the chair, her eyes slanted, studying me. “Who taught you?”
“I am not a witch.”
“No? Gil told me of your little trip to the coast. Hard to dismiss those events. But even still, you’re wanted on charges of treason, murder, and witchcraft. Are all the claims false, then?”
I gripped the hilt of my sax. How long had she known?
“What are you afraid of? That I would call in the English, demand the price on your head?” She tidied up the tent, discarding the mess left after sewing up Cormac. “While it may yet come to that, I had hoped we could reach a compromise. You see, whether you realize it or not, you and I are on the same side.”
“And what side is that?”
“You wish to leave Wales in the arms of your lover, and I want you both to leave. I care little for your past, only your present and how it affects my plans. My daughter has made no secret of her desire for Alrik, and I’ve made no secret of my intent to see her married to a king.”
“An intention that includes poisoning him?”
She stopped what she was doing and studied me. “Why should any of our dealings here in Wales affect you? You are not of this place. You don’t have any stakes in the outcome of our affairs.”
“I have friends here now.”
“Ah, yes, and when word of your history reaches the populace, do you think your friends will be able to protect you? Hyffaid, Gwgon, and his sister will need to distance themselves from you if they wish to remain in control. They already walk a tightrope by inviting the Norsemen into our midst—an unpopular decision, I might add. The day’s events stand testament to that. They will have no choice but to leave you to the fickle mercies of the mob.”
Her words smacked at my growing unease. “What of your daughter and her practices? If anyone is guilty of witchcraft and devilry, it’s Marared. How did she learn her craft, if not from her mother?”
She filled two cups, handing one to me. It smelled like mulled wine, the notes heavy with spices, but I waited until she took a drink before sipping my own.
Her lip twitched in amusement, and she sat on a small bench. “My mother was a powerful völva. Fresh from Jutland, she carried her faith and her customs with her when she joined my father here. At home, she was revered and sought by all members in the community for her knowledge and her prophecies. Kings deferred to her wisdom, men bent a knee for her blessings. In time, the priests here grew suspicious and fearful of her power and influence. Eventually, my father tossed her aside and married a Christian.”
Had my mother and Muirgen faced the same hostility in Ireland? Was that why they’d crossed the ocean?
“Despite all the good deeds and healing my mother had affected since arriving in Wales, they called her a witch and cast arrows of aversion and distrust into the community. She became a recluse, shunned and feared by those she had once advised. She grew bitter, and her divine gifts turned into powers of manipulation. She could force others to bend to her will and orchestrate accidents and tragedies. Marared would visit her often, and the girl seemed to cheer her, so I let the relationship flourish. I realized too late that my mother had become unstable. She filled Marared with dark thoughts, teaching her secret knowledge and granting her the power to hurt others.”
I sipped the wine, my eyes never straying from Sigy. “Do you share in this secret knowledge? Do you have the power to hurt others?”
“Words and actions have the power to hurt others, but if you mean to call that magic, then yes, I suppose I possess some ability to affect the will of others.”
“How?”
“Magic is merely coincidence, a feint and sleight of hand—the genesis of suggestion. The victim believes what he is seeing is real, even seeing things that are not there at all. Suggestion plants the seed; fear allows it to grow.”
“Your daughter threatened me. Three days later, I fell ill. I found an effigy with iron nails driven into its stomach, half its face and arm burned off. The pain I experienced was real. I saw the flames.” A shudder passed through me. I could smell the stench of my hair burning. “That was no power of suggestion.”
“Are you certain?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“I’m not saying magic does not exist, for it does. Perhaps my daughter is in possession of that knowledge, but in my experience, most things we view as extraordinary are rarely that. If Marared threatened you, perhaps she suggested how she might do it, what you might experience. Then given the right encouragement—”
“The milk.”
“Once the seed is planted, a powerful herb or two can help it flourish. Perhaps Marared saw the effects of her efforts and mirrored them onto the effigy.”
I tried to remember back to when Marared threatened me. She had placed a wax figure on the table, but had she mentioned pain or burning? “The window! There was someone at the window, watching.” Could that really be all it was? A cruel trick? “And if your experience is wrong and your daughter is using dark arts to affect her desires?”
She shrugged. “There is much in this world that is unexplainable. Magic has been here since time immemorial. I cannot refute its existence or its use. What I can be certain of is that dabbling in its mysteries carries a great cost. It involves detailed ceremonies and human sacrifice. It always ends with a personal toll taken on the practitioner. It cost my mother her sanity.”
“Human sacrifice?”
“At very least, blood, but yes, human.”
“Is this what your daughter has been doing in her attempts to rid me from Alrik’s life? Her mind is twisted.”
“Disillusioned, irresponsible, and rash, perhaps, but her mind is quite lucid. I wish I could stop her and turn her thoughts from Alrik, but I cannot. The two of you need to leave, immediately.”
She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, but getting Alrik to believe it was another matter altogether. “He won’t leave. He’s convinced reason will prevail where it comes to your daughter. He’s too wrapped up in male notions of honor and loyalty to break his oath. He will not leave until he sees this business through.”
Sigy nodded, setting her cup down. “That is unfortunate.”
A chill crept up my back. “What do you mean?”
“Marared’s hostilities will only increase the longer you stay. You are not safe here.”
“Is there nothing you can do to stop her?”
“Perhaps.”
“I guess the better question, then, is will you?”
“Every rash action Marared makes where this nonsense with Alrik is concerned threatens her position at Gwgon’s side. It is in my best interest to stop her, and I will do whatever is necessary to achieve my aims. I do have a few tricks of my own.” She sorted through a couple of boxes, settling on a small one, no bigger than a loaf of bread. She unlocked the clasp and pulled out a small pouch. She reached in, fished out and then discarded several items, letting them drop back into the bag before finally withdrawing her hand. “I can offer you protection.” In my outstretched palm, she placed a smooth and sanded oval round of wood and a small black stone, polished to a brilliant shine. Jet.
“If you think magic has been cast against you, you must light a sacred fire. Add to the flames herbs of frankincense and myrrh. Place the jet and wood in the middle along with a personal possession of Marared’s. If she has been using dark magic, you will need to counteract that with blood. Yours.”
I gaped at her.
She waved away my concern. “A drop or two will suffice.”
I thought back to when I’d first met Muirgen. She had cut my hand, and used my own blood in the making of a despicable drink. Had she used magic?
Sigy placed her hand over mine and closed my fist around the two small objects. “Stand beneath the linden wood and hold fast under a black shield so that they may block the spears of spite and hate.” She smiled sardonically. “May the Lord protect you.”
March 31
On the last day of March, dawn spread golden tendrils across a blazing horizon. Mist hovered over the valleys, the hills rising like islands in a sea of fog. A temperate ocean breeze teased the hair about my temples. The promise of spring rode on its crest. Despite the grim prospect of battle looming, everyone’s spirits lifted with the sun’s ascent.
Sigy’s frank conversation had replayed in my mind throughout a restless night. I rubbed a hand over my face and blinked hard, trying to dislodge the desire to crawl back into bed and sleep. All around me idle men had set up ways to keep busy. They’d cleared a wide swath of field and turned it into an impromptu exercise field, with sword battles, axe throwing, and sparring areas. The healing tent would swarm with the fatuous oafs. Sore losers and swaggering, bloated winners alike would congest the small space.
When I found Alrik, he was playing dice with one of his men. I smiled and waved. He caught my eye and stood. His opponent’s smile faded and turned into a frown as Alrik held out his hand. He grumbled his displeasure but dropped some coins into Alrik’s outstretched palm. Alrik pounded him on the back. “You can win it back later, Knut.”
Knut nodded and bowed to me before taking his leave.
Alrik set his shoulders and motioned for me to step in time beside him.
“We need to talk.” I wanted to tell him of the conversation I’d had with Sigy, and while not pressing, I wanted to share the conference Angharad and I had had with Gwgon. I missed our intimate moments together. It had been too long.
“Yes, we do. There is much we need to discuss.”
His tone was short and clipped. I stopped to regard him. Cormac called him over.
“Aye?” Alrik answered.
“A moment?” Cormac called.
I could sense Alrik’s hesitation.
I laid a hand on his arm. “Whatever we have to say can wait a few moments longer.” Given his mood, I didn’t mind the delay.
He nodded, and we made our way to Cormac. The two men clasped arms.
Cormac flashed a robust smile. “I’ve been training this lout. See if he’s ready to fight.”
The lout in question was Knut’s son, Svein. Fourteen summers this July, he was old enough to fight in the coming battle against Rhodri if Alrik deemed him ready. It would be a great honor, and Knut stood off to the side, pretending to look dispassionate as he sharpened the vicious edge of his axe.
Alrik gestured to a nearby rock, and I settled in beside him to watch.
Svein acknowledged Alrik’s scrutiny with a nod and turned his attention back to Cormac. The two combatants faced one another and for a moment seemed to size up the other’s weaknesses.
Svein lunged. Cormac dodged the attempt and aimed his sword at Svein’s right side. The blow would have connected if the boy hadn’t been anticipating the attack. He blocked the affront with his shield, which earned a considerable smack from the broad side of Cormac’s wooden sword.
Svein grunted with the impact but recovered with admirable fortitude. He struck out, twisting around Cormac’s shield arm in an attempt to make contact with the mountain’s ribs. Cormac raised his elbow, blocking the blow, but didn’t have time to turn before Svein closed in on his back. With a loud curse of displeasure, Cormac stumbled to the side to avoid the hit. He had just enough time to raise a sword to block a strike that would have torn into his shoulder.
The boy was good. I chanced a look at Alrik. Despite his normally impassive countenance, a slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
Watching Svein reminded me of Edward. What was life like for him in Mercia? Had Ealhswith been able to soften his heart? Turn suspicion and fear into acceptance and understanding?
Gods, I missed them all. My mother, my father, Edward, Muirgen. The swordplay between Cormac and Svein faded, and I remembered a similar time when I had stood in front of Wulfric, my father’s greatest friend and fiercest warrior. To me, Wulfric was a tough but fair teacher, whose soft spot for me distracted him.
I waited in a low crouch, watching for his attack. I was fifteen, but my instruction had begun as soon as I was old enough to hold a stick. My mother had encouraged the training, insisting a woman must be able to protect herself. I pressed Wulfric to teach me more, to make me strong,
agile, and fierce. I wanted to make my father proud. Edward was too young to fight at my father’s side. I wanted him to know that I could, if he ever needed me to, and I desperately wanted him to need me. On this day, my father, the Earl of Somerset, had come out to the field where Wulfric and I practiced. He’d never watched me train before, and I was nervous. All the years of advice Wulfric had given me, all the techniques, the form, the instruction battled for my attention. My memory strained to recall a single word of it.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. The lessons were grueling, but the sword was no longer heavy. My muscles had long ago adapted to its weight. I could wield it with precision and deadly purpose, though I’d never had to use it. My life was too sheltered. Only men traveled to faraway places and fought in unimaginable wars with strange and fierce people. I didn’t know then that all that training would serve me in my position as leader of my people. The test came when I stood front and center in the shield wall, staring down an army of Vikings.
On that day, with my father watching, it was just me and Wulfric. I wouldn’t be caught weak or deficient in my father’s eyes. I would prove myself worthy of the responsibility I wished he would bestow upon me. I wanted his admiration and respect. I wanted him to be proud of me. Even more, I wanted him to see me for who I was—not a daughter, or a girl, shackled by society’s laws and judgements, but as an intelligent, capable heir to his legacy. I didn’t want to be an obligation or an afterthought.
Wulfric charged at me. Two hands and his full weight bore down on me. I spun out of the way and let him stumble. His momentum took him careening off balance. I lifted my leg and pushed his rump forward with my foot, smirking.
He turned back to face me, his grin hidden in his scruff beard. “Like that, is it, then?”
I bowed, giving him an “at your leave,” and he righted himself. His eyebrows scrunched, eyes slanted, assessing me for a weakness. He knew all of them, but there were fewer and fewer as the years went on. And in return, I knew his.
Avelynn: The Edge of Faith Page 18
