Avelynn: The Edge of Faith

by Marissa Campbell

  We circled one another.

  He lunged forward, careful to keep his balance, and our swords met in a clash of steel. The edge of his blade slid down, only stopping when my cross guard impeded its progress. I dropped the point, letting his sword slip altogether off mine and dipped low for a two-handed swing. I cut at his thighs. He blocked the blow and swung, hoping to catch me off balance as I lifted out of my crouch, but my footwork rarely let me down. Each step planted was firmly grounded. We created a dance, stepping, turning, and gliding past one another. Each meeting of the swords made a sharp staccato beat that echoed in my heart. The music of steel pinging and twanging rang in my ears. The metallic taste of sweat dripped from my upper lip.

  “Stop.” My father’s voice rose above the clash and clatter of wills, and both Wulfric and I withdrew from the circle, panting.

  He stepped forward and held out his hand. Wulfric relinquished his sword, and my father gripped the handle tight.

  “She is tired,” Wulfric added as I stared, terrified, at the man looming before me.

  “If she is to fight in battle, she will be tired. A warrior is not given leave to rest.” My father leaned back in a wide stance, his sword held high in front of him.

  Wulfric gave me an encouraging lift of his eyebrows and a slight nod and then scuttled out of the way.

  I dropped low, distributing my weight equally. My father swung first, wide of his mark. It was a test, and I didn’t nibble. I batted away the final sweep of the blade as it sallied by my shoulder. He walked around me, and I followed his course, turning, careful to keep my feet rooted. I wanted to strike but, gripped with fear, I could not. What if I misjudged my attack? What if he exposed my weak side and finished the play? I didn’t want to fail.

  He brought the sword high, and it came down from the roof. I deflected the blow, leaning to the side. It bit too close for comfort. He seemed twice my height, towering over me as I stood quaking in my dusty leather shoes.

  His strokes were calculated, gauging my agility, coordination, balance, and speed, but no matter his approach, whether he swung from the left or right, from high or low, I couldn’t determine a weakness. I tried a lunge, failed, and had to correct my error swiftly or find myself head first in the dirt. He pushed and shoved at me with the strength of a mountain. In retrospect, I’m sure he had been taking it easy on me, but at the time, it took every ounce of strength I had to keep up with him.

  Before my father’s challenge, I’d been at my lesson for hours. All my resources pooled to keep my muscles from collapsing under the strain. I wanted to stop. I wanted to yell, “Enough,” but he kept pushing me, and I kept meeting his demands, until a miracle happened.

  He cut down from high once again, a move I recognized from the position and set-up of his stance. I waited until the strike came, and rather than cut under defensively, I twisted out of the way. As the swing followed its downward trajectory, I came down over top and locked his sword arm against my ribcage. I tugged hard and used the momentum of his attack to my advantage. It was a risky move, but his faltered step brought his unprotected stomach in line with my sword. I dropped the sword fast enough so that it wouldn’t hurt him. It clattered to the ground, but I wasn’t fast enough to avoid a small rent in his mail coat. Had we been in battle, the sword would have plunged straight through and out his back.

  Even now, to this day, I’m unsure whether he did indeed falter and leave himself exposed, or if he acted brilliantly. At the time, I was certain I had bested him, his tight-lipped mouth a sure sign of his displeasure. It was only in his eyes that I saw his approval, his pride in my abilities, his respect for the win.

  Gods, I had wanted him to be proud of me. He was a warrior. He didn’t run away from situations; he marched into the fray with a bold determination that made his enemies quake with fear.

  I thought of my situation here in Wales. Either I stayed and fought back against Marared’s threats—I peered at Alrik out of the corner of my eye—or I listened to the warnings, bellowing for me to leave. I wished I knew where the darkness would come from. Was staying here hastening my capture? Would leaving Wales precipitate it? I could be captured at sea or without Alrik by my side on the continent. I had run away from England, and here I was, still contemplating fleeing. What would my father think of the woman I’d become? When had I become so feeble and weak?

  I sighed and stood, letting my fingertips trail across Alrik’s shoulders. I would face whatever threats came my way head on, and I would find a way to stop Marared. I still had a great deal of work to do to make my father and Wulfric proud, and I couldn’t do it by running away.

  With Svein’s test done, Alrik and I walked past the main body of the camp. We skirted the teeming mass of bodies dismantling tents, securing bedrolls, repacking carts, yoking oxen, fitting horses, and sharpening swords. We dodged children running amok and snarling, yapping dogs as they fought over scraps of food left near cooling campfires. We followed part of the road and then veered off, taking a small footpath that ran along the bank of the river. I wondered where Cormac had caught the salmon, as we passed into the deeper quiet of the countryside.

  We stopped at a soft, grassy knoll with only red kites and kingfishers to overhear our conversation.

  “What did you wish to speak with me about?” Alrik asked.

  “I’m more interested in what you needed to discuss with me.” Anxiety yawned, gripping me in its maw.

  “It can wait until you are done.”

  I frowned but knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere by pressing him. “I had a delightful chat with Sigy last night. She confirmed her daughter’s threats and warned that Marared’s hostilities would only get worse. Sigy wants us both to leave so that Marared will stop wringing her hands over you and focus her attention on Gwgon.”

  “Sigy accused her own daughter of witchcraft?”

  “Not of magic per se, but she confirmed her use of herbs and poison, yes. Apparently, Sigy’s mother was a völva, and Marared learned from the best.”

  Alrik’s jaw clenched.

  “I know at one time she meant something to you, and you want to believe the best in her. Maybe in other areas of her life, she is altruistic and benevolent.” This I doubted, but I added it for his benefit. “But where you are concerned, she is single-minded and dangerous. If I mean anything to you, you will accept that she is behind the plot to hurt me and help me stop her.”

  “You are right about Marared. You must leave Wales.”

  “What?” I gapped at his abrupt change of course.

  “I have seen firsthand what she is capable of. I can no longer protect you.”

  “I’m not running anymore, Alrik.”

  “Come.” He tugged me along the path.

  “Alrik, I mean to stay.”

  “I cannot fight magic.”

  “I know. But I can.” At least I hoped I could.

  “This is bigger than that now.”

  “What are you talking about?” He practically dragged me along the trail.

  “If you won’t listen to me, perhaps your new English friend can persuade you.”

  “What has Eadfrith to do with this? I thought we settled all that. The man means nothing to me. I told you.”

  He continued his march.

  “Alrik, listen to me.”

  We turned a bend in the narrow path and caught up with the road leading from Lampeter. A group of monks and nuns loitered around several wagons. I caught sight of Eadfrith and a cart loaded with my possessions.

  “Alrik.” I pulled hard, leading him to a dead stop. “What’s going on?”

  “The child. Branwen. Is mine.”

  When he’d said we had matters to discuss, I’d been expecting any number of a handful of objections or transgressions he might have brought forward. This shocked me into silence.

  “I thought Marared had lost the child, but evidently she had not.” He looked down at me. “I am sorry.”

  “How.” The word came out as a strangled
cry.

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “On one of my first circuits, I raided Dyfed with my brother. We killed many and captured several. Marared was amongst those sent to Dublin to the slave markets. I paid her slave price and took her to my bed. In time, I brought her home. She was ripe with child. Sigy led me to believe Marared had lost the child and that Branwen was a fosterling.”

  None of this made sense.

  “I have spoken with your English priest. I have given my blessing that the two of you should depart for the continent together.”

  A thousand thoughts clambered in my mind. I grasped at the threads, but they evaded my attempts like leaves caught in a gale-force wind. I fixed on the one thing I knew. “This is madness.”

  “I will stay on in Wales and accept Hyffaid’s offer.”

  “You can’t.” Fury burned my throat.

  “Despite my brother’s words to the contrary, I am an honorable man. I will acknowledge the child as mine.”

  “Has she poisoned your mind, too? How long have you known?”

  “I have only just found out.”

  “And you believe her? Why is it you are just learning of this now? Is it because all her other attempts to separate us have failed?”

  In my distress, I’d not noticed Eadfrith approach, and his voice made me jump. “I witnessed Branwen’s birth. Sigy paid me handsomely for my silence. I’m sorry.”

  I tried to make sense of the situation, ignoring Eadfrith. “Even if the child is yours, you don’t have to stay. As her father, you have the right to bring her with us when you leave Wales.”

  “I will not remove the child from her mother.”

  “What Viking has ever stayed around and played house for a woman and child?” I had the sudden urge to throw something.

  “If you and I had a daughter, would you have me desert her, too?”

  “That’s different,” I stammered. “You and I care for one another. I wouldn’t keep your child a secret for seven years.” While Alrik may have had feelings at one time for Marared, it couldn’t have been akin to what we shared. Could it? I tamped that line of questioning down. Alrik himself told me he hadn’t met anyone like me, hadn’t felt anything like what we shared. Why would he tell me false? Insecurity chafed. I didn’t like it. And to hide a child’s identity for so long? Nagging doubt clawed at my skin. Would my parents have fought to keep an indiscretion quiet? I couldn’t believe my mother would, but my father? I refused to acknowledge it.

  “I am a bastard. I would not do the same to my child. I will stay in Wales and face any repercussions from my brothers.” He brushed the back of his hand along my cheek and then let it fall, his shoulders rigid. “Go, Avelynn.”

  “Alrik, I don’t believe any of this. It’s too convenient.”

  He stood taller. “Then believe this. Word of your charges has reached the camp. There is a bounty on your head. Many here will be eager to claim you as their prize. With the escalating hostility from the Welshmen, many will look for ways to provoke us. I cannot abide your presence here any longer.”

  “So that’s it? Your manhood is in question? This has nothing to do with the girl.”

  “I am done with this discussion. May the gods watch over you.” He turned his back and walked away.

  The entire situation reminded me of the circumstances surrounding Bertram’s letter. It felt as if Alrik threw stones at a faithful dog to get it to leave. My stomach twisted. Could he really dismiss me so easily?

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, against the screams of incredulity, a small voice cracked. Muirgen was right. The darkness had slithered forward and swallowed me whole. Marared had won.

  I watched until Alrik disappeared around the bend in the trail. Eadfrith had moved off, back to the wagons. The pilgrims stared, waiting.

  I didn’t think about what had happened. My feet followed the road while my mind hovered far above me, searching for answers. By the time we stopped for something to eat, I still hadn’t found any elucidation. None of this made any sense.

  Furious with Alrik for sending me away, and furious with myself for going, I spent the morning trying to figure out why I had agreed to leave. I had just finished convincing myself I should stay and fight, but, like a fickle fish trying to determine which weed to hide under, I had turned my tail and moved on. Out of all that had happened, I was most at a loss as to what to do about Alrik. I didn’t believe his reasons for sending me away, and yet he forced me to leave. If it was true, and he had chosen the child and Marared over me, there was little I could do. I found myself numb to the realization. I should be angry, or vengeful; instead, emptiness crushed my heart, leaving me cold and bereft.

  Eadfrith seemed to sense my desire for solitude and had steered clear of me all morning, but like a moth to a flame, he hovered around me now.

  “What is it, Eadfrith?”

  “I’ve brought one of my honey cakes.” He held it out like a peace offering.

  When I didn’t object, he sat beside me.

  We had stopped on a rugged hill overlooking a small brook that weaved its way through the verdant hills. I could see the promise of the endless sea on the horizon. The view twisted and pulled like a ruthless tug of war. What was I going to do?

  “I’m sorry.” He handed me the sticky treat.

  I shrugged. “What’s done is done.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. His hands rested in his lap. The cake rested uneaten in mine. “You’ll like it in Francia. I went once with my father. I was young, but I still remember it. Paris is a marvel—a city in the middle of a river. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen. I’d like to take you there. If you would go with me.”

  Our “relationship” started and ended with this passage across the sea. “That’s very kind. But I have matters I must attend to once I arrive. I’m sorry.”

  He looked like he wanted to object and say more. He stood in awkward silence before returning to the others.

  I caught Sister Frances regarding me and tried a half-smile for her benefit. Her lips pursed, but she set about yoking the horses with the others. How in the name of the gods had this happened? My instincts told me the child was not Alrik’s, but I had no proof and no way of convincing him otherwise. I narrowed my eyes at Eadfrith. He had his own motives for seeing me leave Wales. Could he have lied to get the outcome he wanted?

  Something Alrik had said pushed to the forefront of my thoughts. “I have seen firsthand what she is capable of.” What did that mean? Had she threatened him, too? Threatened the child? He said he could no longer protect me. I knew he wouldn’t shy away from combat in order to keep me safe, but magic was another matter altogether. If a threat from Marared had caused his sudden change of heart, I could put it to rights by fighting fire with fire. The thought gave me hope and filled me with a restless energy. My eyes lingered as they swept over Seisyllwg and followed what I could see of the road back to Lampeter. Unless I searched too hard for a palpable answer to his bizarre behavior. If his affection and sentiment toward Marared proved true, I had no intention of returning to camp and begging him to stay with me. I missed my mother—I had precious little experience with matters of the heart. I could have really used her counsel. I swatted at a tear. How could he do this?

  I gazed back over the endless hills. Clouds, dark and roiling, gathered in the north, and a strong hint of rain hung in the air. The others seemed to sense this too, and after much gesticulating at the sky and wagons, the pace quickened. Eadfrith waved, encouraging me to come down from my lofty perch. I didn’t want to leave just yet. I needed time to think, to sort through my emotions and determine my course, but the weather wouldn’t wait for my troubled spirit to soothe itself. I stood and dragged my body back to the group, an iron anchor weighing down my heart.

  We reached St. Dogmael’s before night descended, but we couldn’t outdistance the rain. It drove against us in torrents, and the wind lashed and wailed.
The closer we got to the sea, the worse it became. Without the relative shelter of the hills and dales, the last leg of the road was wide open to the driving storm. Icy rain pelted us straight on. I lifted my face to the onslaught, desperate to feel anything but my heart shattering. My hands froze, the fingertips wrinkled and sodden. I welcomed the discomfort.

  Monks ushered us inside the main hall. Agnes, the only other woman traveling in the group, trotted alongside Frances, as a nun from St. Dogmael’s showed us to a dormitory. She presented a row of empty beds and bade us change out of our wet garments. We were each given a soft, linen underdress and a habit of coarse wool. I hovered near the central hearth, letting the heat seep into my fingers and toes.

  “We have a light meal ready in the main hall,” the nun said.

  “Thank you,” Frances answered. “Agnes, you go ahead. Avelynn and I will be along shortly.”

  The dormitory door closed behind them.

  St. Dogmael’s residents were all about their business. Save the two of us, the room was empty.

  Frances sat on one of the beds. My back was toward her. “Avelynn.”

  I didn’t turn.

  “I’d like to help, if I can.”

  I liked her and didn’t want to upset her, but I wasn’t ready to talk. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

  “You, my dear, are anything but fine.”

  My silence answered for me.

  “You need to talk about this. Is it your Viking? What has happened?”

  I laughed. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “You love him.”

  “I did.”

  Her tone was soft. “You’re a woman tormented because of love. Denying it doesn’t make the pain any less real.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to block out the hurt.

  “I’m not here to judge into whose hands you place your heart. We can’t control where our affections land. Your Norseman seemed to return your love in kind. You made a good match.”

  My shoulders collapsed in defeat, and I sat beside her on one of the empty pallets. “I thought so too.” I kept my gaze straight ahead. It lit upon the fire, unfocused.