I frowned. Even if the gods were kind and I managed to elude the Viking, how could I avoid getting caught by one of his henchmen? They had scattered into the wood heading south, probably in search of game. Perhaps if I stayed to the north. I eyed the line of trees. I certainly couldn’t stay in this circle. If he didn’t fear me, I was his prisoner, and I had no interest in finding out what he planned to do with me. I might be ransomed, raped, tortured, or sold—Saxon women were known to fetch a high price at the slave markets. I looked at the line drawn in the sand. Without the proper rites to close the ceremony, I couldn’t voluntarily leave the sanctity of the circle either. If I did nothing, I was as good as trapped.
I judged the distance between the forest and my towering sentry. “Fine,” I replied. “Stay there.”
I made my way around the circle, stopping at each of the Four Directions, and thanked the Goddesses for their presence at the ceremony. Out of the corner of my eye, I never lost sight of the Viking, who, true to his word, remained turned. When I reached the most northern part of the circle, directly opposite where he stood, I murmured a hasty thank-you to Aine, the Goddess of the North, grabbed the Viking’s cloak, and dashed for the edge of the forest.
SEVEN
Once embraced by the cool shadows of the forest, the sharp dampness of early spring seeped into my bones. It only worsened when the Viking’s cloak snagged on a hawthorn branch. Rather than stop and wrestle the cloak free, I left it hanging, the branch bending under the weight.
In preparation for the ritual, I had left my sword and knife beneath my shoes and set them both beside my kirtle, all of which sat in a neat pile on my bedroll back in the clearing where Bertram and I had set up camp. A knot formed in my stomach when I thought of Bertram. I prayed his status as druid would keep him safe, but I had no way of knowing how he would be treated or if I would ever see him again.
I looked over my shoulder to gauge if anyone was chasing me and stubbed my toe hard on a rock. I yelped and hobbled awkwardly, limping until the pain subsided, cursing my lack of shoes. A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and I tried to see past the thick canopy of shifting greenery. “Goddess, help me,” I whispered.
For the next few hours, I continued to make progress, but much slower, navigating every carefully placed step. Part of my brain kept a vigilant focus on the sights and sounds around me. If the Vikings pursued me, I couldn’t hear them.
In retrospect, while I realized it would take days for me to reach Bath, I hadn’t considered that the Vikings could have burned and pillaged half the coast by then. My efforts to get help were most likely in vain. It seemed I’d only been successful at saving my own skin. I thought of Bertram again and swallowed the bitter taste of guilt that rose in the back of my throat.
The loud snap of a breaking twig sliced through the silence. I stopped and crouched in the ferns, my heart pounding. Cold perspiration pricked the back of my neck, and the hair on my arms stood on end. I felt the ground at my feet for anything I could use as a weapon. A heavy, jagged rock fit smartly into my searching palm, and I clutched it.
Running for help had been a terrible idea. Escaping, wandering off alone without food, water, shoes, a cloak, or weapons had been foolish; in fact, downright reckless. My eyes welled. Gods, what was I thinking?
A wolf’s high-pitched howl echoed around me. It couldn’t be more than a few yards away. I turned my head slightly, terrified to move or make a sound for fear of drawing further attention. Where was it? I scanned the clearing and locked onto two fierce yellow eyes glowing in the underbrush. My breath froze in my lungs. I stood and searched the wood. The nearest tree was a silver birch about five yards behind me. Even if I could make it, I wasn’t sure I could climb it. It was tall and thin without so much as a lower branch to use as a foot- or handhold, and the only way to manage it would be to shimmy up the trunk. For the first time since I’d entered the forest, I was grateful for bare feet. At least they would give me better traction on the papery bark.
The wolf stared, assessing me, its massive tensile body waiting.
I didn’t have a great deal of experience dealing with hungry wolves. I tried distraction.
“Bet you think you can just walk in here and eat me.” I took a few slow, steady steps backward.
“I’ve been told I’m just skin and bones.” I took another step toward the tree. “Not worth the effort.”
I was only a yard away from it. Another step and I could start climbing.
The wolf growled a deep, menacing warning. Rusty-red and burnt-orange highlights flecked its thick brown coat. The hackles rose on the back of its neck. I searched for some other means of escape and panicked. If Wulfric or my father had been here, they would have wrestled the beast to the ground with their bare hands. I lacked their size and strength, and the odds were not stacked in my favor. I adjusted the rock in my hand, turning the sharp, jagged edge outward.
Another wailing howl in the distance snapped my head in the opposite direction—reinforcements. I pictured myself high in the birch tree, a pack of wolves circling hungrily below. Trapped in a horrific standoff until exhausted, I would fall asleep and drop like a juicy apple to their waiting teeth and claws.
The wolf pounced. A shadow of fur and vicious teeth flew through the air. I clutched the rock, aimed for the spot between its eyes, and swung my arm with everything I had. A blur of movement caught my attention, and I was knocked sprawling to the ground, the rock flying from my hand, the breath forced out of me. I rolled onto my side and gasped for air. My hands searched blindly for the rock.
Time slowed. Sounds amplified within the cavern of trees—a piercing yelp, a heavy thump, silence.
The soft, rich mulch of the forest bed cushioned my fall, its fresh, earthy scent clashing with the sharp tang of blood. My eyes watered but my breath had settled.
The wolf, very much dead, lay beside me, its glassy eyes staring empty and cold. I recoiled and scrabbled desperately away from it. Standing next to the wolf was Alrik, his sword stuck fast in the wolf’s heart, the cross guard gleaming with inlaid garnets.
“You are strong for such a small thing.” He presented his arm. It was bleeding and swelling rapidly. “If I had known you were going to hit me with a rock, I might have thought better of saving your life.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, uncertain what else to say.
He leaned over the wolf. “Loyal protector, he who sits at the right hand of your master, Odin, go forth in spirit, my brother. His faithful servant Alrik the Bloodaxe sends you.” He reached down and stroked the beast’s fur tenderly, murmuring in soft, soothing tones before wrenching his sword from its body. He wiped the sword’s surface with a cloth and slid the long blade back into its scabbard.
He removed his cloak and handed it to me. “You dropped this.”
It was only then I realized I was shivering. Whether it was from cold or my ordeal I didn’t know, but my entire body shook in earnest and my teeth clattered painfully together. I took the cloak without hesitation.
Another howl, this time closer, interrupted the fragile feeling of security.
“It is time to go.” He looked down at me, crumpled as I was in a heap on the cold, moist forest floor. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
He took the edge of the cloak and wiped my cheek. “Blood.”
I reached up and felt my cheek. “I don’t think it’s mine.”
“No, it is mine.” He pointed to his arm.
“Sorry,” I grumbled again.
“Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk. There’s nothing wrong with my legs.”
He bowed, granting me leave to get myself up, and leaned against the birch tree, crossing his ankles and arms.
I pushed myself up and promptly fell back down as my gelatinous legs gave out from underneath me.
He laughed and unceremoniously lifted me up and over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“Put me down!”
He
stopped. “Are you prepared to fight a pack of wolves, Seiðkana?” Several howls echoed in the woods around us.
“No.”
He resumed his pace.
Resigned, I propped my elbow against his shoulder, rested my chin in my hand, and watched the world retreat away from me.
After a great deal of traipsing, he set me down in a small clearing.
“Do not move. I will gather wood for a fire and want you here when I return.”
I nodded and watched his powerful body march back into the woods.
The clearing was bright. I lowered the cloak and let the late afternoon sun’s warmth kiss the top of my head and shoulders. It looked much safer in the brilliant sunlight than under the dark canopy of trees, but I knew better. Suddenly leery, I told myself he wouldn’t go far. A yell of distress would bring him quickly back.
I kicked myself for my helplessness. I had managed to ruin this day entirely. I tilted my head back. “Are you laughing at me?” I asked the sky, picturing the Goddesses upon their golden thrones, thoroughly entertained by my paltry human troubles.
I spread the cloak out underneath me and lay down on the soft grass. The day had started out so well but had deteriorated quickly. I had deserted Bertram in a vain attempt to save my own skin, I hadn’t been able to alert anyone except hungry wolves, and now, not only was I still in the presence of a Viking, but I was also utterly lost in my own forests, defenseless and at his complete mercy. I buried my head in my arms at the humiliation of it all.
Sometime later I awoke. The sun had set, and Alrik was leaning against a rock, his long legs straight out in front of him. There was a warm, tidy fire burning between us, a hare roasted on a spit. I marveled that I hadn’t woken, hadn’t heard his comings or goings.
“Good evening, Seiðkana.”
I sat up. “Good evening, Viking.”
Succulent juices dripped and sizzled into the fire when he turned the spit, filling the clearing with the heavenly scent of roasted meat.
“Why did you not turn the wolf into a bird or a frog?” he asked.
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to determine if he was serious. “Were you testing me?”
“I was trying to determine if you were a völva—a witch—or a Seiðkana—a priestess. You practice magic, but I do not think it is very powerful.”
“Are you willing to take that risk?” Where my hair had come loose from its braid, it was disheveled, sticking out at odd angles, and my underdress was torn and ragged, my face filthy. I hoped I looked formidable.
He smiled. “Not just yet.”
I watched him prepare his supper, powerful arms barely contained beneath his linen tunic. “Why didn’t you attack me, on the beach?”
“I respect those touched by the hands of the gods.” He turned the spit, and the fire sputtered as more fat dripped from the crispy carcass. My mouth watered.
“We heard the drum, and when I saw you dancing around a sacred fire, I knew you to be one of the chosen ones. Ingolf was an ignorant fool for defiling your circle. I am sorry for his actions.”
I nodded.
“It is a sacred time of year for our gods also. Though, our priestesses dance nude. A sight I would have been pleased to observe.”
Heat rose in my cheeks.
He pulled the hare from the spit. “Come. You will be hungry.”
I picked up the cloak, wrapped it tightly around my shoulders, and sat close to the fire’s heat, opposite to where he sat. I eyed him curiously. He had saved my life, and now he shared his meal with me. He was the least threatening Viking I could ever have imagined. Yet I saw the long knife he wore on the right side of his belt and the sword that hung from the left. Both were innocuous, protected in their scabbards, but a mere flick of the wrist or sweep of the hand would produce their ruthless edges all too readily. I remembered his axe and the way the blade had stuck fast in the dead man’s spine.
He cut the hare into smaller wedges, offering it to me first.
“Thank you,” I said, surprised.
The heady scent of the crackled skin reached my nostrils, and my stomach growled noisily. I flushed in embarrassment.
He handed me another piece. “I cannot have you starving to death.”
Watching him devour his food, I figured the chances of him starving to death were remote. He was the epitome of health, in peak physical condition. He must have weighed over fifteen stone and stood over twelve hands tall, with a broad chest and shoulders, and legs as thick as tree trunks.
“How’s your arm?” I asked.
“Fine.” He flapped it experimentally.
“May I see it?”
He proffered it without hesitation. It was swollen and bruising, the surface coarsely abraded, dried blood and dirt filling three deep gouges.
“Do you have any wine?” I asked.
He rummaged through a satchel and produced a leather flask.
“I want to use it to wash out your wound.”
“Seems an awful waste of good wine,” he said, watching me rip a length of linen from the bottom of my underdress. I poured the wine onto the cloth until it was soaked through and dabbed at the raw skin.
He jumped, caught off guard by the alcohol’s sting.
I laughed. “I find it hard to believe a little wine could hurt someone as tough as you.”
He smiled back, and I found myself growing very warm. Disconcerted, I concentrated on tying the linen around his arm and then shuffled back closer to the fire.
The air seemed charged as if it pulsed around me, and I became very aware of his presence.
“How is your arm?” He stood and closed the gap between us.
“My arm?” I asked, bewildered, conscious only of his intimate closeness, his thigh a mere hairsbreadth from my own.
“Yes.” He lifted the limb in question.
Using the back of his palm, he brushed aside the cloak. Sparks shot along my skin from the center of his touch. I sat up very straight. My heart beat faster.
“You scraped it when I pushed you aside.” His grip loosened until his hand slid down onto mine. He held it tightly. “I am sorry for that.” He traced the outline of the scrape with the finger from his other hand.
I looked down and followed his finger with my eyes. I hadn’t even been aware of hurting myself, but I was vividly aware of my arm now. In fact it had become the only thing I was conscious of—that, and his featherlight caress.
“It’s fine,” I heard myself say, as if from a distance. His touch moved in larger and larger circles, getting higher and higher toward my shoulder. My skin caught fire. My stomach cramped. Then something else, something much more powerful awakened. A deep, low tension, a stirring ember, hot and white, burned between my legs.
Startled, I pulled my hand and arm away and wrapped the cloak securely back around myself. “I’m fine.”
He nodded and moved back to the other side of the fire. He had two bedrolls laid out as far away from each other as they could get. The fire would be closest to our feet, to prevent any accidental hair searing.
“Get some rest, Seiðkana.”
“Avelynn,” I answered quietly. “My name is Avelynn.”
“Avelynn,” he echoed, his voice deep, his accent foreign yet soft.
“I wanted to thank you, today … for the wolf … for saving my life.”
“It was my pleasure.”
We sat there silent, watching, waiting, neither one of us moving. The air was oppressive. Fear, uncertainty, confusion, hope, excitement, and arousal hovered like smoke from a peat fire, heavy and thick, choking my words.
“I will not hurt you,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.
“What about my friend?” I wanted to hear impunity for the both of us.
“You are both safe. I give you my word.”
Relief washed over me. I wasn’t sure I could trust him, but I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.
“Why are you here, in England?”
He leaned
back on his forearms, stretching out his legs. “We stopped to rest and replenish our supplies. We are on our way to Ireland. I was surprised to find you. I had thought this part of the coast uninhabited.”
He’d said he respected those touched by the gods, and that at least explained his actions when he first saw me, but what of afterward when he followed me into the forest and killed the wolf? “Why did you save me?” I didn’t think fear of being cursed could account for all of his actions.
“I like you,” was all he said.
A tempest of butterflies took flight in my stomach, and any other questions I might have had evaporated on my tongue. My pulse charged forward, like a stallion given leave to run.
Was this how it was when my parents had met? Did my mother feel this kind of connection too, this bewildering tension between her and my father? Could it really happen like this—two people from disparate worlds colliding by chance in a moment that should never have happened? She had been shipwrecked, and I had picked this time to travel to the coast, to appeal to the Goddess. Was it fated?
I searched his eyes in the firelight. Guileless and infinite. “Good night, Alrik.”
An enchanting grin lit up his handsome face. “Good night, Avelynn.”
I lay down onto my back and gazed at the sky. The full moon was glorious. A pale orange light illuminated its mottled surface as it hovered in the sky. The night was clear and crisp. A few brilliant stars were visible, despite the moon’s impressive glow. Tiny pinholes in a black blanket, each star flickered and shimmered in the translucent darkness, its silvery light reaching out to me. I closed my eyes and sighed in ludicrous contentment. He liked me.
“Having trouble sleeping?” He appeared above me, blocking the stars from view.
Avelynn Page 8
