Avelynn: The Edge of Faith

by Marissa Campbell

  The fire gave me courage. I cried out, beyond caring what he would do to me, and borrowed Alrik’s oath. “I swear on Odin’s eye and Thor his son, I will bring about your ruin, Halfdan Ragnarson.” Using the last ounce of strength I had, I pulled myself up on trembling legs. My hair, drenched and matted, framed wild, crazed eyes as they locked with Halfdan’s. “The more pain you inflict on me, the more I curse you in this life,” I spat. “You will die a weak and useless man, Halfdan. You will never see Valhalla.”

  I snapped back to the present to find Angharad’s eyes wide with wonder. I could still smell the acrid stench of burnt hair and the thick, black smoke as the wattle and thatch burned around me. The reek coated my nostrils.

  In the moment with Halfdan, I’d cursed him. It hadn’t registered at the time. I was in pain, dizzy, and on the verge of succumbing to the darkness. I didn’t remember much of the experience. I recalled waking up sometime later. Demas had dragged me behind his cart, but even that memory was fuzzy.

  I wasn’t as righteous as I thought. Muirgen had once told me my responsibility as high priestess was to use my divinely inspired gifts for good, never to cause harm. That day with Halfdan in the weaving shed, I had invoked the Goddess with ill intent—and meant every word of it—but nothing came of the curse. It had no effect on the bastard. He sold me back to Demas and managed to exile Alrik. Yet something extraordinary had happened. Fire had consumed the cottage. Was that magic?

  I gazed at the ritual space I’d eked out in Angharad’s guest cottage. I recalled Muirgen’s book and the image of the witch consumed by darkness. I didn’t want that to be my fate. I took a fortifying moment and reiterated my intentions. Despite her cruelty and malevolence, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to Marared. I wanted her dark magic to stop. I wanted it to become innocuous, not only to myself, but to Alrik, Gwgon, Angharad, and anyone else who stood in the way of her ambitions. I wanted to see an end to her hostilities. Perhaps the Goddess could turn her heart from hatred—a prayer worth evoking.

  I made my way in turn around the circle.

  I lifted the bundle of mace and lavender. “Aine, ethereal Maiden, guardian of the heavens, hear my plea.” I touched the herbs against the glowing embers of the hearth until they smoldered. Waving them over the northern quadrant, I encouraged the wisps of smoke to snake into the air before setting them back down.

  “Macha, righteous Queen, fair and noble chieftain, keeper of our days and nights, hear my plea.” I knelt down at the eastern aspect of the circle and blew on the little pile of embers, coaxing them to a brilliant red. The fungus and kindling caught. I continued to blow until flames leapt and danced.

  Gooseflesh raised along my arms. The Goddess was coming.

  “Danu, resilient Mother, protector, sustainer, governess of hills and plains, hear my plea.” I held up the bread in supplication and then tore off a small piece, adding it to the brass cauldron.

  “Badb, fearless Raven, fearsome Crone, keeper of oceans and sacred wells, hear my plea.” I dipped my fingers into the cup of water and flicked them onto the hot rocks. The droplets sizzled and popped. I moved to the center of the circle.

  I held my knife up to the sky. “Goddess, bless this blade, so that its sacrifice might carry my intentions to your ears.”

  I held out my left hand in supplication and then drew the iron edge deeply through the flesh of my palm. I hissed at the sting and turned my hand sideways. Blood dripped, pooling in the cauldron, coating our prayers with slick hope.

  I shook my wrist. A crimson shower sprayed the talismans in the center of the circle. A loud tapping stopped me dead in my tracks. I turned to the door, my heart in my throat, but the latch was locked. I glanced at the walls. The noise came from all around us—a staccato beat without rhythm or locus. Something pelted the cottage, like a storm of hail. Angharad moved to the door and unlatched it, opening it a crack to peer outside.

  Her sharp inhale made my heart race faster. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Flies. The sky is black. They’re falling and hitting everything.”

  Someone screamed. Angharad’s eyes grew wide with terror. She retreated from the door. “What have we done?” She looked from me to the walls.

  I had no answer, but I knew one thing for certain. I needed to close the circle and fast. “Goddess, thank you for hearing our pleas and honoring us with your presence.” I made my way around the circle counter-clockwise, extending my gratitude to each goddess by name.

  Angharad pulled the shutters open and peered through the screen of writhing and flapping masses. Several sleek black bodies fell to the rushes at her feet. She shook her head, trying to dislodge several large flies that had tangled in her hair. I stepped out of the circle. I wrapped a linen band around my hand and looked down at the ritual space. “I don’t understand. Surely we had nothing to do with the insects. I—”

  “My plea.” Angharad closed the shutters and pressed herself into the wall, a look of panic on her face. “I didn’t ask for protection. I cursed Marared to hell.”

  “That’s not possible.” Foreboding crept under my skin. “We need to dismantle the circle. We need to hide what we’ve done. Quickly, Angharad.” I grabbed the rake and pulled some of the rushes closer. I brushed my foot over the dirt, trying to scatter the chalk.

  “Help me.” I handed her the rake and went back to trying to scuff up the chalk outline. “We didn’t cause this, but no one will believe us, if they were to find—”

  A loud bang shook the building. The door to the cottage crashed open. Gwgon’s foot withdrew, and he stormed in. Hyffaid, Gil, several armed men and Father Llewelyn followed. A frightened and angry mob crushed and pushed, trying to get inside. Gwgon’s men held them at bay. Llewelyn pointed at me. “Seize her on charges of witchcraft.” Two men grabbed my arms and locked my neck in the process.

  Alrik muscled past them all. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Stand down, Alrik,” Gwgon warned.

  The tight space and press of people that gathered didn’t allow Alrik to remove his sword, but I saw him reach for his knife, only to turn and look strangely at his belt. Empty-handed, he resorted to fists. The full force of his fury hit one of the guards holding me, square in the nose. The man fell, coughing and sputtering blood into the dirt.

  All matter of chaos broke loose. Pushing, shoving, yelling, and grunting stopped only when Gwgon fell face first into the hearth, Alrik’s knife, evident by the garnets glistening in its handle, plunged deep into Gwgon’s kidney.

  Angharad screamed, and for a moment everyone’s attention focused on the king. I tried to wriggle free, but my captor’s vice-like grip tightened until my eyes watered. I pulled for breath.

  Alrik took no quarter. Despite the confined space, he withdrew his sword and used it to good effect. He appeared to be gaining ground, but I lost sight of him. The guards yanked me outside to face the wrath of the crowd. I passed a body, shrouded in an indigo cloak, lying prone on the ground. Strands of dark raven hair crawled with insects. A circle of armed men kept everyone at a distance. Sigy stood over the lifeless form. Blood pooled dark and thick in the dirt.

  The hailstorm of insects relented, though they crunched underfoot. My captors shoved and dragged me to the square in front of the great hall.

  A wooden box had been erected in the middle of the courtyard, and Llewelyn stood tall and menacing over me. “This woman has come from England, charges of murder, treason, and witchcraft cast upon her.” He held up what looked like an official document, though the script was too small to read from where I stood. “Now in our land, a snake in our midst, she has conjured the devil and sent a swarm of insects upon us. She has, in cold blood, killed Marared of Dyfed, betrothed to Gwgon, King of Seisyllwg. Fooling us all with her trickery, this whore of Beelzebub cast eyes of suspicion elsewhere and called upon her demons to drain the life from Marared’s innocent body. I say unto you, the woman Marared and her family are innocent of all charges. This witch blinded me and
led me astray. Let her answer to God’s judgement.”

  Dear gods, I needed to escape. That was Marared, prone on the ground. I eyed the crowd, desperate to find an ally. “Lies.” I tried to scream the word, but my captor tightened his hold, and the last sounds escaped in a wheeze. A circle of guards surrounded me. The frenzied crowd pressed closer. I crouched and batted at wayward arms and fingernails. What had happened to Alrik? If ever I needed him to protect me … Fear lanced like spear points through my hope. Where was he? I glared at Llewelyn. How had his tune changed so dramatically? Marared was now an innocent, when earlier he had sworn up and down she was the devil incarnate.

  The priest held up the crystals and linden wood, christened with droplets of my blood. “Heathen practices.” He tossed the detritus on the ground. “In her own wretched words, she has cursed us.” He read aloud from the small sections of parchment. “Satan, smite my enemies. Send a plague upon this land. Strike fear into Christian hearts. Let the king fall, let Marared fall. Let them all turn to dust.”

  Fury gripped the crowd.

  “I didn’t say that. It doesn’t say that,” I yelled to no effect, the arm around my neck once again closing like a vice.

  A warrior approached Llewelyn and whispered something in his ear. The priest held up his hand. The crowd, though restless with nervous energy, hushed in anticipation. Llewelyn nodded to the messenger and returned his attention to his captive audience. He pointed to a spectacle a little farther away. I caught Alrik’s blond hair, matted with blood. His head hung, his body limp. His feet made two swaths through the accumulated insects as men hauled him into the hall. Was he alive? Unconscious? How badly was he hurt? He disappeared behind oak doors.

  “Gwgon is dead. The heathen Alrik Ragnarson and his concubine are hereby both charged with treason and murder.”

  The mob turned hysterical. The armed guards pushed back until I was pressed tightly between them. People grabbed and yanked at my hair and clawed at my face. I could do no more than squirm and writhe away from their hostile aggression.

  By the time Llewelyn got his flock under control, I sat huddled on the ground, shaking. Blood streaked down my cheeks from a few deep gashes.

  “We will have a formal trial.” The priest’s declaration seemed to appease the crowd.

  A stake was erected in the square. Amidst garbage and rocks hurled my way, the guards tied me to the wood. They lashed my hands and feet and gagged my mouth. When I was sufficiently displayed, they fanned out, forming a loose circle around me.

  The formal trial was little more than a lynching session. Llewelyn allowed me no defense, nor did anyone come to my aid. Angharad was nowhere to be found. I hoped she had slipped away unnoticed, her connection to me obscured by the melee. My heart ached. This was all my fault. I shouldn’t have let her stay. I should have left Marared alone. We would have been gone on the morrow. Was this punishment for seeking revenge? I pushed doubt aside. I had done nothing wrong.

  I appealed for love and compassion, but Angharad’s words rang in my ear: “I cursed her to hell.” The ritual was a terrible mistake, but surely it had nothing to do with Marared’s death. I thought of all the strange otherworldly events that had happened in the past when I’d called upon the Goddess. Could I really have done this? My body trembled. That wasn’t me. I didn’t want to hurt her. And what of Gwgon’s life? Would Angharad believe Alrik murdered him? Who wanted him dead, and why? I needed to see Alrik, desperate to know of his welfare. Surely Tollak or Cormac would learn of the conflict and fight to free him. I prayed he would get away from this madness. My fate seemed assured, as witness after witness confirmed my guilt.

  Sigy stood next to Llewelyn, a look of smug satisfaction etched on her face. How was that possible? Gwgon, the man she wanted to secure her family’s position, had been murdered. The man who threatened her family’s position stood in solidarity beside her. She caught my eye and adjusted the broach on her cloak. It was Marared’s silver boar’s head clasp. None of this made any sense. I felt as though I’d been set up. But why?

  “Step forward.” Llewelyn commanded.

  Two young men approached the impromptu pulpit.

  “State your charge.”

  “We saw the heathen, the king killer, Alrik the Bloodaxe, with the witch. They set an evil spirit to possess a dog. We watched it foam and writhe before our eyes.”

  A young page burst onto the scene. “My lords. We removed a cauldron of pottage from the witch’s cottage. I told the lads not to touch it, seeing it came from the devil’s clutches, but they were hungry, missing their dinners. They helped themselves to a large serving. Spittle flew from their mouths and they clawed at their throats. They dropped dead. Right at my feet.”

  Sigy’s voice rose about the crowd. “The witch threatened my daughter and sent her ill wishes. She hid this under her pillow.” She produced an effigy similar to the one I’d buried. She waved it to good effect. The head lolled back and forth, attached by a few shafts of hay. “Now my daughter is dead.”

  A body was carried on a pallet and laid at Llewelyn’s feet.

  “Kill the bicche,” someone yelled.

  “Burn her,” screeched another.

  The crowd’s furor rose, near mad for blood.

  Hyffaid strode forward. “My niece was a good and godly woman. She told me of her fears. Of the evil words and deeds cast upon her by the devil’s whore. Send the English witch back to Satan.”

  “Avelynn of Wedmore, you have been found guilty of murder, treason, and witchcraft. The law is clear. Bury her alive!” Llewelyn spat.

  The crowd cheered.

  The dream of the three-headed beast returned to me. I coughed, choking, suffocating—trapped in a wooden box. Dirt filled my nose and mouth. My eyes darted, surveying the crowd around me, and panic took on fresh agency. Goddess help me.

  Men cut me down from the stake, and I bolted, writhing from their grasp. I kicked and punched several stomachs and faces, clawing my way through the press of hands and bodies. A blow knocked me sprawling to the ground, dazed, and my captors set upon me. They bound my hands and feet and dragged me away. They tossed me into Gwgon’s private chambers to wait while my grave was dug. Still dazed from the blow to my head, I presented the guards with little problem clamping iron fetters around my ankles and neck. They threaded an iron bolt through the chains and hammered it into the ground. Assured of their handiwork, they left.

  It took far too long for me to regain my wits. I pushed and pulled against the restraints, but it was useless.

  “Quite the day you’re having.” Sigy stepped through the back entrance and closed the door behind her. She sat in Gwgon’s chair. “I applaud your performance. Very damning.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” She waggled her fingers at me. “The deluge of flies was a nice touch. It, more than my daughter’s death, sealed your fate.”

  “How did Marared die?”

  “Her neck was slit.”

  “How?”

  “She became a liability.”

  For a moment, words wouldn’t come. When I found my voice, it was a hoarse whisper. “You killed your own daughter.”

  “Her behavior undermined years of effort.” Sigy laced her fingers together and rested them on the desk. “But her blood is on your hands. Had you just left when I asked, or when her maligned acts threatened your safety, none of this would have happened. I warned you matters would get worse if you didn’t leave.”

  “Once Alrik’s men learn what has happened, you will rue the day you tried to cross him.”

  “You are such a sprightly little thing, even in the face of your impending death. Your Vikings are rowing out to sea as we speak. A hearty attempt at setting fire to their vessel sent them scurrying to protect it. When they realized they were being set upon, they hightailed it away from Wales without so much as a backward glance.”

  “You’re wrong. They won’t leave Alrik.”

  “It matters not one ounce t
o me what you believe; I am merely informing you of the events to date.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to know the full consequences of your actions. You are responsible for Gwgon’s death and Marared’s—possibly even that of your beloved Norseman. Though if he does survive, you will still be responsible for his charges of treason and murder.”

  I didn’t want to think of Alrik’s injuries or his subsequent trial should he survive them. “Why kill Gwgon if Marared’s behavior already cost the match?”

  “Because I’d made my pact with Rhodri. This just expedited a few things.”

  “What has Rhodri to do with all this?”

  “I simply agreed to hand Rhodri the keys to Seisyllwg if he would help me wrestle the kingship from Hyffaid and place my son on the throne.”

  I could do no more than gape at her. The symbolism of the prophetic nightmare all made sense now. The calf’s skull, the linden shield. Sigy.

  “My son is the rightful heir to Dyfed. If your Viking survives, he will help me accomplish that.”

  “Never.”

  “It’s a simple matter, really. Alrik will learn of your death, and Gil will be there to inform him of all manner of transgressions on Hyffaid’s part.”

  “Like what?”

  “Gil has a wonderful tale to tell of Hyffaid’s treachery. How he murdered Gwgon to seize control of both countries. How he turned you over to the priests in retaliation for the mutilation of Baroc, his dearest cousin. Alrik will burn for revenge. When Gil offers him a means of escape to accomplish that, Alrik will send for his men, and they will take care of Hyffaid promptly. Gil has the support of many powerful men in Dyfed. Once they see Hyffaid fall, they will switch allegiances without further bloodshed.”

  A tap at the door interrupted Sigy’s confessional. A young girl leaned heavily against two men. “Wonderful.” Sigy beamed. “Bring her inside.”

  The girl’s body bent limp as the men dragged her to the center of the room. Sigy nodded, and the men stripped the young woman, gagged her, and threw a leather sack over her head.