Avelynn (28 page)

The wind was howling from the west, bringing icy fingers to bear on exposed flesh. I drew my cloak tighter. The sky was dark and foreboding, and white flakes swirled through the air. My father had to muster the men of Somerset to action. Wulfric, Leofric, and his household warriors rode at his side. All around me, women stood in clusters to keep warm from the wind, clutching crosses, tears falling. All the freemen of Wedmore would march to Reading, save Bertram and a small contingent of slaves who would stay behind to help maintain the efficiency of the manor. I was pleased Sigberht would be joining the cause after he delivered my father's decree to Winchester. Wedmore would be left undisputedly to me.

Edward gave me a brisk hug. He had the promise of our father's height, and with a sword by his side he looked every bit the warrior he was destined to become. “I'm sorry for my outburst.”

I pulled him to me and hugged him proper, hard enough to make him groan. “I'll miss you.”

“I'll miss you too,” he said. He shuffled his feet, the toe of his leather boot disturbing a few drifting snowflakes.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I hate Demas.”

Startled, I stared at him.

“I hate what he tried to do to you. He's a monster. He's worse than the Vikings. I'll kill him one day if I get the chance.”

His desire to protect me filled me with love, and my heart ached. I had two champions this day.

“I love you, sister.” He kissed my cheek.

“I love you too, Edward.”

As he mounted his horse, a cold chill crept up my spine. I turned to find Demas standing at my side. The blood boiled in my veins and my face flushed red. “Get away from me, you rutting bastard.”

“I love it when you're angry. Such passion, such fire. Makes it all the more enjoyable to snuff it out.”

I refused to give him what he wanted.

He straightened. “A storm is coming. Terrible day to ride. A bad omen, I think.”

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek and ignored him.

“If you believe in such things, which I think you do, don't you, Avelynn. Omens and other forms of witchcraft.”

I turned.

“What do you want, Demas?”

“I was merely wondering what you foresaw for me?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Your friend, what was her name, Muirgen? She seemed to know an awful lot about what was going to happen. She was after all a witch … and so are you.”

I glanced around to see if anyone had overheard his statement. We were alone.

He leaned down, his cheek resting near my ear. “No simple trial by water for you, witch. They will bury you alive.”

I stiffened.

He pulled away. “I have a gift for you.”

“I don't want anything from you.”

“You wouldn't want to disappoint your husband.”

“You are not my husband, nor will you ever be. My father has called off the betrothal. His decree will be in Winchester by the morrow. You can't touch me.”

“Much can happen in war.” He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “So much confusion.” His voice grew cold and low. “People are lost. Some are never found, just like pieces of parchment. I hope for your sake that your father returns unharmed to your side.” He started walking away.

I grabbed his arm. “And just what do you mean to insinuate with that threat?”

He brushed off my hold as if swatting a fly. “I was merely pointing out the risks of war. If your father does not come back, Avelynn, I will have my way. Nothing will stop me, and you will rue the day you tried to cross me.”

He tossed a leather pouch in my direction. It fell onto the ground. “A lesson,” he said, and slinked away, disappearing into the throng of warriors ready for battle.

The men spurred their horses onward. Both my brother and father turned back and waved. My heart swelled. No matter what happened next or what had come before, in this moment I was loved.

They bounded out of sight, the thunder of hooves fading into the howling wind. I looked down at my feet and picked up the leather pouch Demas had thrown at me. I pulled open the drawstring and peered inside. It appeared to be strands of fine wool. I drew them out. The smell of rotten flesh assaulted my nostrils. I threw the pouch and its contents onto the ground and backed up. My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a scream.

It was Muirgen's silken white hair, scalped right off her head.

 

EIGHTEEN

Bertram and I pushed onward, heads bent to the wind. The horses' breath raised plumes of shadowy mist into the swirling white air, their hooves pounding through the accumulating snow.

It was only the day before that I had watched the men depart from Wedmore. I would have left for Congresbury immediately if I thought I could reach it before nightfall.

As soon as dawn broke, so did the storm. We hunched into tightly wrapped cloaks and raced headlong into the worst of it. Despite nature's fury, I was determined to reach Muirgen's cottage. I had to honor her last wishes.

By noon, our pace had slowed almost to a crawl. The going had become treacherous, the trail lined in places with ice hidden beneath the snow.

When we finally reached the village, nightfall was approaching, and we sought hospitality in one of the more prosperous churl's wattle-and-daub cottage. The farmer tended to our horses in one half of the home, while his wife, a small, thin woman with missing teeth and wiry, russet hair, offered us bread and pottage.

“What brings m'lady out in this terrible storm?” she asked as she stoked the fire hotter. A long rectangle, their cottage was a meager one. The shallow central hearth dug into the dirt floor divided the byre from the living space, a wattle fence the only thing standing between us and the cow, the pig, a few chickens, and our two horses. On this side of the fence there was a raised platform built into one of the longer walls closest to the hearth. It held a thin straw mattress and a few linens folded neatly on top. The only other furniture in the room was a table and the two stools we sat upon. Our hostess stood and smiled as we ate her humble offering gratefully.

“Have you any word of Muirgen, the healer?” I said.

“The witch?”

I nodded.

“Last I saw her she was headin' into town for some big trial.”

“Has your husband had word of anyone coming to visit her lately?” Bertram said.

“Not that I know.” She called across the fence, “Wolfstan, you know somethin' about the witch these last few days?”

He came to the fence, a sallow stick of a man, and brushed his hands against his worn trousers. A cloud of dust mixed with the heavy smoke in the air. The couple burned peat, which was wonderfully warm, but terribly smoky. Their cottage had a miasma of gray so thick that if you stood up, your eyes watered and your chest tightened.

“No one's come by here savin' yourself, m'lady.” He inclined his head slightly.

I frowned. Did Demas catch her on the road? Did she even make it home? Was she left at the edge of the road, her frail body a feast for wolves? I pressed my thumb and forefinger above my closed eyelids. I didn't want to think about it.

The next morning, Wolfstan accompanied us to Muirgen's cottage. Her home was surrounded by dense woodland, and since I was not sure who or what might greet us when we arrived, I welcomed the extra company.

The storm had stopped overnight, and weak sunlight struggled to break through the thinning clouds. The world was blanketed in white. A hand's depth of snow had fallen since the previous morning, and trees and bushes hung heavy with their accumulated burdens.

As we neared the cottage, the acrid stench of burnt and wet timber began to grow stronger. I spurred Marma forward. An image flashed into my mind. Thickly corded rope looped around the central beam in the roof, the ends binding Muirgen's wrists, her arms stretched above her, her head bent. Blood dripped from her mouth. She had been tortured.

I shook my head, determined to clear the image that blazed in front of my closed eyes. I prayed to the Goddess that she hadn't suffered long.

At the footpath leading to Muirgen's cottage, we tethered the horses and walked the remaining way, our footprints marring the virgin white landscape. Streaks of pale sunlight filtered through the skeletal branches of the large oak tree, illuminating the disembodied bones that shivered with the weight of newly fallen snow. In the middle of the boughs, hanging from a noose tied around her neck, swayed Muirgen, her naked body defiled and ravaged by carrion. She was frozen and stiff; her blue-gray skin, ripped and torn in places, hung loosely in thin shreds. Both her feet had been chewed off. I didn't know what I had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

“Blessed Goddess,” Bertram whispered beside me.

Wolfstan crossed himself. “Mistress, I think it best if I wait by the horses.”

“Of course.” I watched him retreat, practically tripping over his feet in his haste.

Behind Muirgen, the scene was just as bleak. The cottage itself was burned to the ground, a blackened scab in the middle of the pristine forest. Her book—the rituals, the incantations—all lost.
Oh, Muirgen, I'm so sorry.

I surveyed the wreckage. The fire hadn't been hot enough to melt the cauldron, which still hung suspended over what was once the hearth. I riffled through the soot and ash, looking for anything I could use for her burial. I found an iron mortar unscathed and tucked it into my satchel. Everything else was destroyed.

“There is little we can do here.” Bertram placed his hand on my shoulder.

“We have to bury her. We can't leave her.…” My throat tightened.

“Then we must gather supplies.” He shrugged deeper into his cloak. I looked into his face. Muirgen and Bertram had known each other in another life—in a time before England. They had conceived a child together, but I knew nothing about their relationship. Did he care for her?

He sighed. “Her death is a great loss.”

“Were you close?”

“I respected her as a healer, as a priestess, and as a woman. Your mother had a trace of Muirgen's spirit, but you possess the full measure of her strength, her tenacity, and her power. You are very much alike. Goddess keep her.”

I looked back at her body. It was impossible to imagine this decayed vessel as the woman I had come to know. Anger swelled within me. I felt helpless. I wanted Demas to pay for what he had done, but, again, I was left without any proof. I had her scalp, but no one had seen Demas give it to me. I could insist he felt threatened because of her testimony against him at the trial, but the charges had been thrown out—there was no reason for him to hurt her, except to hurt me.

Jostled by a frigid northern gust, Muirgen's body swung slightly. Something flashed as it caught the sunlight. I moved closer, peering upward. The sun glinted off a brooch that had been stabbed into her shoulder. The silver was intricately forged in the shape of a stag. A sharp breath ripped through me. The Frenchman.

A vision blazed. A young man, his throat slit. A man standing behind, his knife slick with blood. Demas prostrate beside the dead body. I shook my head. “No.”

Bertram moved to my side. “What is it?”

“I saw him.” My breath was shallow and rapid, my chest heaving as my hands shook. “The man in the forest with Demas. He's dead. Osric killed him.” There had been love in Demas's eyes, and pain, tremendous pain, as he lay at his lover's side. I looked at Muirgen. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and my gut wrenched as I thought of the way Demas had tortured her. “My actions have killed them both.”

“You could not have known it would come to this.”

“But I should have. I should have looked beyond my own selfish ends. I should have contemplated the consequences.”

“When a rock is thrown into a lake, the ripples cast a wide net, each wave affecting new and smaller ripples until even the memory of the rock disappears. The events leading to this moment were set in motion long before you made the decision to stand before the Witan. Demas knew his actions were wrong in the eyes of the Church. That is why he hid in the forest. He made a choice and in doing so accepted the risks. The weight of those consequences lay squarely on his shoulders. Muirgen knew what would happen when she stood for you at the Witan, yet she insisted on going.”

“Why didn't she tell me? I would have stopped her. I would have found another way.”

He shook his head. “Even when you can see what lies ahead, there is often little that can be done to change it, and perhaps we are not meant to.”

“Is everything fated, then? Is choice only an illusion?” Demas's words to the same came poignantly to mind. I refused to believe it.

Bertram shrugged. “I am an old man. I have pondered these questions for a lifetime. Would Muirgen have averted her fate by staying at the Christmas feast and returning to Wedmore with you? Or would she still have met her death? What I can tell you is that she chose to ride home alone, knowing she would be overtaken.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Perhaps there was a higher purpose to her sacrifice.”

I waited.

“The vision you just received was powerful, the images clear, were they not?”

“Yes.”

“There will be great trials ahead. You have both foreseen that. I suspect Muirgen has passed her strength on to you so that you might be ready.”

“But I'm not ready. There was still so much for her to teach me.” I sank against the oak. “I've lost everything.”

“No. Not everything. You have her book. It has been tucked safely away with your divining bones.”

I gaped at him. All that time. They both knew she was going to die and still they remained silent. I glanced at Muirgen's lifeless body. I could have averted this. If they'd just told me, if I'd known the consequences, I could have found another way. Instead, together, they cast their rocks at fate, setting the future.