Avelynn: The Edge of Faith

by Marissa Campbell

  He rolled me onto my back and drove into me, each stroke a mixture of pleasure tinged with pain. I reached under his tunic and clawed at his back. He pressed harder, and I met each strike, each beat an echo in my healing heart. I couldn’t get close enough, deep enough. I clung to him as if I were stranded at sea and he was the only land for miles.

  When I finally crested the wave of desperation, I felt him ride with me. One final press, one final push, and we both crashed and roiled with the foaming surf. He collapsed at my side, panting. I rested my head on his arm as he drew me closer, holding me tight.

  “I am sor—”

  I held a finger to his lips and closed my eyes. “I know.”

  We lay there in silence, each absorbed in our own thoughts. The rift between us was mending, but it was time to put an end to Marared’s schemes once and for all. I needed to speak with Angharad.

  Alrik returned to the hall but agreed to revisit our conversation after I settled a few matters. I wasn’t remotely finished with him. A maid ushered me into Angharad’s chambers.

  “What are you doing here?” Angharad’s tone was cool and distant. “Alrik said you’d decided to sail to the continent. With not so much as an at your leave, I might add.”

  I hadn’t considered what Alrik might have told her. “I need to speak with you. Privately.”

  She gave me a once over and then bustled and shooed her maids out of the room. After locking the door, she poured us each a cup of wine and sat on her couch. I noted that much of her furnishings traveled with her, though there were definite additions to the space, including several statues of naked men and voluptuous women.

  Her tone was perfunctory, polite at best. “What can I do for you?” She leaned back, her legs tucked beneath her.

  I hoped her anger was due to my hasty departure, not her further discussions with Gwgon. Perhaps he had convinced her that her loyalties were displaced. By befriending me, she opened herself to danger and public scrutiny. I prayed that wasn’t the case. Her rejection and displeasure would be devastating.

  I caught her up on the events leading to my departure and handed her Sister Frances’s letter. I waited with bated breath for her reaction.

  “Why that conniving little draggle-tailed bicche.” She stood and clasped my hands. “I’m sorry I misjudged you. I should have known better.” She pulled me into an embrace, and I let go of the breath I’d been holding. “Your Viking is very convincing.”

  “Yes, he is,” I noted dryly.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  I walked to the hearth. “I’m going to try a ritual. Fight fire with fire.”

  “What can I do to help?” She sat back down, perching on the edge of her chair.

  “I only need help gathering a few items. Beyond that, there is no we. This is not your battle. I won’t let you put yourself in further danger. You are a Christian—”

  “Since when has my faith ever interfered with our friendship?”

  “It’s one thing to understand—quite another to see.”

  “Who’s to say I’m not open to seeing things differently? I’m far too curious and open-minded to be boxed into one set of ideas of how the world works. I know the stories the ancient ones tell. My own grandmother regaled us with tales of mystical creatures and timeless worlds inhabited by gods and goddesses. Why is only the Christian God real? Because his voice has been the loudest, relegating the mysteries to secrecy and shadows. I’m not convinced the old gods are any less real.”

  “That is a blasphemous statement.”

  “Are you going to turn me in?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then it is a statement made between friends of like mind. Now enough stalling.”

  “There’s no stopping you …?”

  “Not even a remote possibility.” She leaned back in her chair, satisfied. “So what are you going to do? How is the ritual preformed?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have any point of reference for something like this. Normally, I’d travel to the coast or someplace far out of reach of Christian censure. With the battle in two days, I don’t have time, and anywhere close by would be crawling with witnesses. I’ll have to perform it here, in the middle of the wolves’ den.”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  A million scenarios flashed through my mind: a plague of locusts, a firestorm of biblical proportions, another earthquake. “Finding myself buried alive. Drowned. A witch’s death is a cruel and frightening one in these lands.”

  “Then we must make sure no one finds out what we’re up to.” As if clapping her hands would negate the risks and that’s all there was to it, she stood. “Now, what would you suggest we do first?”

  I had the amulets from Angharad and Sigy’s linden and jet. Once Muirgen’s book arrived with my belongings, I felt confident I could find a way to counteract Marared’s magic. Whether I trusted Sigy or not, her warning rang true. Practicing magic had a cost, but I had hoped there was a way to use the power for good. I didn’t want to cause harm. Alrik was right—that type of behavior was beneath me—but I did want to render Marared’s dark magic innocuous. Another thing Sigy had said resonated and held a powerful sense of truth—”We must obtain something of Marared’s.”

  Angharad downed the contents of her cup and grabbed a locked chest. She withdrew a ring of keys and removed one with a yellow piece of silk wrapped around its shank. “This is the key to the cottage Marared is staying in. I’m not sure which bed is hers, but it can’t be that hard to discover. I can inspect the cottage under the guise of ensuring the maids are doing an adequate job and relieve Marared of a possession while I’m at it. Do you know anything she wears or has worn that we could use?”

  “I’ve seen her wear a boar’s clasp to hold her cloak. It’s made of silver. I noticed it at Hyffaid’s court in Dyfed, but I haven’t seen her wear it since.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  “Yes, but it’s likely kept under lock and key in one of her chests.”

  She sat down. “If she’s being sent to the monastery, all of her possessions will be loaded onto wagons. It will be a rather simple matter for one of those chests to disappear. We can send it on once it has been ‘found.’”

  “But you will need to tamper with the lock.”

  She shrugged. “She will get it all back, nothing missing. The least she can suffer is to acquire a new lock.”

  It seemed an easy enough endeavor.

  “Once we obtain the object, then what?” Angharad asked.

  “Then, I perform the ceremony.”

  “How?”

  “I’m still working on that part. I need to consult Muirgen’s book, but my belongings won’t arrive until the morrow.”

  “That will give us a day to put things in order.” She clasped my hand. “I’m sorry for my bristled attitude earlier. I thought you’d just left.”

  “No, I’m sorry. For all of this.”

  She twirled a lock of my hair around her finger, and her eyes sought mine. “Promise me you will never leave without saying good-bye.”

  “I won’t.”

  She tugged on my hair, drawing me forward, and kissed me. Blood boiled in my veins, awakening an ache for her touch. I hooked my finger through her belt and pulled her close, deepening the kiss. Her sharp intake of breath sent shivers down my spine. She purred against my lips. “I could kiss you all night.” She straightened and ran the pad of her thumb over my bottom lip. “But I suspect I’m not the only one.”

  I blushed.

  “Go to your man; mend your bridges. I will obtain the object, and together we’ll put an end to this woman’s devilry once and for all.”

  Angharad sent several maids to prepare a luxurious cottage for my use. Once it was ready, I sent a messenger to retrieve Alrik from the hall. I couldn’t imagine what the lad would think, summoning a man to my chambers at this late hour, or maybe I could. I chose to ignore it. We were promised. I was wanted on charges
of treason, murder, and witchcraft. I realized I no longer cared a whit what people thought.

  My chambermaid hung my cloak by the door while I stared at the sight before me. The room was opulent, clearly intended for esteemed visitors to court.

  My fingers brushed along marble statues, admiring the contour and shape of the human body so expertly rendered. Padded benches and chairs stood on turned legs. Exquisite pottery and sections of tiled mosaics perched atop tables, displayed with care.

  I stopped in front of one of the statues. Taller than me by half, a man sat in repose, swathed in flowing robes. He was striking. Who were these Romans to create such wondrous works of art?

  In all my worries of Marared and her evil designs, I’d completely forgotten about Plegmund’s letters. While they were incriminating, I wanted further proof of Osric and Demas’s deceit. After my last attempt at laying charges at the Witan, I didn’t want any holes or weaknesses in my claims. I admired the exquisite statues. Would my quest to return home bring me to Rome?

  No one knew Demas was Osric’s bastard. The world believed Demas was the Lord of Wareham, Lady Mildrith’s son, but I knew otherwise. The difficulty would be in proving it. The confirmation of that deception lay with Demas himself—a birthmark stretching from nipple to umbilicus, deep and wine red. The lady Judith of Flanders, former queen of Wessex, had held Mildrith’s boy in her arms. Had she known the child well enough to see an unmarred chest? It was the only place I could think of to start. My mother had been friends with Judith. I hoped that connection would yield me an audience and the possible answers to my questions. The alternative would be to visit monasteries along the road to Rome, inquiring about patrons and pilgrims that had stayed there. Someone must have seen or recorded something, either a boy with a scar, or a child gone missing. I was convinced Osric had at some point murdered Mildrith’s child and planted Demas in his place.

  With Edward’s disappearance and the changes to my will, Demas held a considerable amount of land and wealth in Somerset. If their blood ties were revealed, through Demas, Osric would control more land than the king of Wessex himself. If I could somehow prove Demas was Osric’s son and that they had been jockeying for power and position, maybe I could form a strong enough case against them to go home. The fact that I was in bed with Vikings was an obstacle I hoped King Aethelred would overlook once he learned the truth.

  The smell of meat and broth filled the cottage with a warm, robust scent, and my stomach growled. Over the hearth, a heavy iron cauldron rested on its tripod, a brew of thick bubbling stew simmering within. A platter of bread trenchers sat on the table. A jug of wine and two fine glass cups had been set beside them. I smiled at Angharad’s thoughtfulness. I’d eaten little since I’d broken my fast this morning at St. Dogmael’s.

  A knock on the door interrupted my vociferous stomach. “Mistress? Jarl Alrik is here to see you.”

  Alrik shooed the maid from the room and slid the bolt home. He stalked closer. Thoughts disintegrated, and my focus turned to the lecherous and freshly dishevelled Viking before me. I grabbed him by the belt and led him to bed, my hunger for food forgotten.

  I rolled over, content and languid in Alrik’s embrace.

  “What has come over you, Seiðkana?”

  Weak, diffused light filtered in through small wind vents in the walls. We had spent the entire night mending our bridges. “What do you mean?”

  “I have never seen you act like that in our bed before.”

  I wasn’t certain if I should feel self-conscious, but his voice didn’t sound concerned or angry—it appeared to be filled with respect and awe. “I missed you terribly.”

  “As have I.” His fingers brushed the length of my arm. “But something has you fired up like a stallion itching to run.”

  “Oh.” I thought of how long we’d been apart, how much I’d missed his touch, and how someone else had helped stoke the fire within me. I cringed. “I blame Angharad.”

  “Angharad? What has she to do with this?”

  After keeping this hidden for so long, I wasn’t sure how to broach it. He’d flown into a rage with Eadfrith’s advances, and Angharad and I had done much more. I so desperately wanted to mend things between us. I was loath to ruin the gains we had made, but at this point, perhaps keeping my involvement with Angharad a secret was worse than confronting it.

  “We have been intimate with one another.” I wanted to keep my face buried in his chest, but he pulled me away and forced me to look at him. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t meant for it to happen, but I didn’t stop it either, and before I knew it, I got swept up in her embrace.”

  I felt him twitch and harden inside me. The sensation was disorienting.

  He smiled broadly, a cocky lift to one side of his mouth. He rolled onto his back, drawing me on top of him. “What have you two been up to?”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Do I feel angry?” He moved his hips, his arousal churning my insides to butter.

  “No,” I said a little breathlessly.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “She kissed me.”

  He gripped my hips tight, urging me to ride him. “Go on.”

  I savored the sensation of him sliding in and out, our joining slick with our combined passion. “She pleasured herself in front of me.”

  He grunted, his jaw tight. Amused, I rocked faster. “She tasted me with her mouth.”

  He let out a strangled moan.

  I grabbed his tunic and braced my feet on the bed, riding him hard. “I liked it.”

  His face contorted with tension, and he growled like a caged bear. The power of his climax shuddered through his body. He collapsed back onto the bed.

  “Enjoy yourself?” I smirked.

  “Dear gods. You are the most exciting woman I have ever known.”

  “After everything that had happened with Eadfrith, I thought you’d be furious.” I remembered Angharad telling me that men enjoyed it when women pleasured one another. I wondered if he’d like to watch. My body roused at the thought.

  “How could I be?” He looked at me and then shook his head. “She had you bound tighter than a cranked spring. Play with your friend as often as you like. I will be ready whenever you are done.”

  I marveled at the man before me. We’d been angry, both of us. We’d yelled—well, I had yelled; he had brooded in quiet consternation. But now, safe and enveloped in each other’s arms, it seemed there was nothing we could not accomplish, nothing we could not overcome as long as we were together. I thought of Muirgen’s prophecy. Had I somehow circumvented the darkness? Averted the wedge driving Alrik and me apart? I could have left Wales at any point. I could have departed with the priests for Francia. But instead, I had chosen Alrik and had come back to stand by his side. I felt vindicated, as if I’d somehow outrun or outsmarted my fate.

  My stomach growled, interrupting my introspection.

  Alrik sat up and stretched overhead, grabbing his satchel. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I had a small dinner of cheese and bread when we stopped near Lampeter.” I looked at the cauldron on the hearth. “There’s potage.”

  He lifted the leather flap, producing with a flourish a package wrapped in linen. “I have something better.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dessert.”

  He unraveled the fabric, presenting a honeyed cake, dripping with divine sweetness. He tore off a piece and held it up. I leaned forward, expecting him to pop the morsel in my mouth, but he stroked it along my bottom lip. My tongue darted out to lick the sticky sugar.

  Apparently, he was hungry too, for he absconded with the morsel and ate it. He tore off another piece.

  He brushed my top lip with the cake and pulled it back when I tried to snare a bite. “You must learn to be patient. Some things get better with the waiting.” He leaned back against the headboard and tossed the second piece in his mouth.

  I raised an eyebrow. “I
thought your concern for my welfare meant you were going to share.”

  He put a finger against my lips. “Close your eyes.”

  Little ripples of anticipation burbled along my skin. The hair on my arms rose like long grass in a cool lusty wind. I did as bid and waited, hands clasped demurely in my lap. A moment later, I could smell the honey and sense his hand close, but he waited. When the bread finally touched, it was so light and unexpected that I jumped. I had no idea my lips were so ticklish, but his feather touch set them on fire.

  I heard his gentle chuckle.

  “Something amusing?” I asked, still eyes closed.

  “I like watching you.” He teased, brushing the cake back and forth. “I like tasting you.” His tongue swept over my lips.

  I inhaled sharply and leaned closer, eager to skip dessert and sink my teeth back into the main course.

  He pulled back, and I opened my eyes. He flicked the other piece of bread into the air, and caught it in his mouth. He smirked as he chewed.

  “That one should have been mine.”

  “Since you were such a good girl.” He held out another crumb, keeping it an inch away from my lips.

  Was he going to let me have this one or was it another trick?

  “Go on.”

  I attempted to grab it, but he dashed it away and was chewing before I could form a protest. I leapt forward, snatching at the cake, but he held it high above his head. “Hungry?”

  “You know I am.” I climbed on top of his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Though no longer for cake.” I rubbed my pelvis against him until he was hard. The blue in his eyes deepened.

  He lowered his arms and broke off another piece. “Not hungry for cake? Pity.” He placed half in his teeth. I took the other half in mine. The moment we both swallowed, my lips were on his, devouring him.