Avelynn (29 page)

“You chose this path, Avelynn, despite my warnings and encouragement to the contrary. You are high priestess now. The desires of one must never outweigh the needs of many. The ripples have already been set in motion. Ready or not, there is no turning back.”

*   *   *

Guilt and uncertainty plagued me as the three of us headed back to Congresbury, but no matter my internal struggle, I needed to lay Muirgen to rest, and for that I needed supplies to tend her body. In addition to Wolfstan's home, there were several other cottages scattered along a worn dirt path, and I paid handsomely for a small wooden cup, a linen winding sheet, two shovels, and a pickaxe.

By the time Bertram and I had returned to Muirgen's cottage, it was almost noon. The forest blocked the worst of the wind, but when it gusted, it cut through me, leaving a persistent shiver in its wake.

We lit a fire on the cold hearth. When the water in the cauldron had heated sufficiently that my hands would not freeze to work with it, we cut down her body and laid her on the ground. I washed her frail, brittle skin, drifting to thoughts of my mother. I hadn't washed or prepared her body. She had been laid out in her finest gown. A rich gold-and-amber brooch fastened a fur cloak, and her fingers were heavy with gold rings. Long dark hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders. My newborn brother, swaddled in furs, lay gently on her stomach. At the time, I had no idea how much her death would affect my life, how large a hole would be left. No one could replace my mother—that cavern would never be filled—but somehow Muirgen had softened the jagged edges, and now she was lost to me too.

When her body was ready, I reached into the pouch Demas had thrown at me and removed her scalp. Before we left Wedmore, I had washed the blood from her hair and brushed the strands until they shone. I set it back onto its rightful place.

With her body as whole as I could make it, we wrapped her in the winding sheet.

I handed Bertram a shovel, and we started digging beneath the large oak tree, choosing a spot far enough from the trunk to avoid the thick, fibrous roots. Protected by several inches of leaf mold, the ground was hard but not impossible. It was nonetheless backbreaking work. After several hours of hacking in the dirt with the pickaxe, we managed to dig a respectable grave—deep enough to dissuade any hungry wolves from disturbing it.

Oak was a magical tree, its properties revered and respected by my grandmother's people. I couldn't take her home to Ireland, but I could at least give her a proper burial here beneath her tree.

We placed her into the ground, feet facing west, and I tucked several amulets of amber around her body to ward off any evil spirits that might take advantage of a newly departed soul. We filled the grave back in, mounding the earth above it.

The wind had picked up, the gusts furious and unrelenting. Blowing snow from the trees and ground whipped my face and hands, leaving them chapped and frozen. At Wedmore, I had asked Bertram to perform the burial ritual. I had never done one, nor had I ever seen one performed. I had only a cursory understanding, a lesson in theory. But since I was ordained, he insisted it was now my duty. He would merely accompany me, and offered to bring his drum.

My chest was still tight with reservations as I looked at the freshly mounded earth. I didn't want to let Muirgen down.

“You are ready,” Bertram said, his hand on my shoulder offering comfort.

I nodded, unable to find words.

Bertram found a sheltered spot in front of some low-growing hazel and began to beat his drum. I took a deep breath, centering myself.

“Aine, Goddess of the North, of the deep snows and the long nights of the northern lands, Goddess of Winter, wisdom, magic, and medicine, I ask you to bless this rite.” From my satchel, I removed a bundle of feathers tied with a strip of leather, an offering representing air, and set them onto the ground, placing Alrik's knife on top so the offering wouldn't fly off in the bitter wind. I moved to the next aspect of the circle.

“Macha, Goddess of the East, of the rising dawn, the fire of the sun, Goddess of Spring, desire, love, and passion, I ask you to bless this rite.” I lit a small fire of kindling, waiting until the smoke began to rise before adding a few small twigs.

“Danu, Goddess of the South, the Earth Mother, the keeper of virtue, the judge of vice, Goddess of summer fields in bloom, the harvest of plenty, I ask you to bless this rite.” I placed the small iron mortar at the southernmost aspect of the circle and filled it with a handful of herbs, representing earth.

“Badb, Goddess of the West, guide to the dead, champion of the newly born, Goddess of Autumn, courage, and strength, I ask you to bless this rite.” I placed the wooden cup on the ground and filled it with water from my leather flask.

I couldn't form a funeral procession. There would be no drinking, feasting, or wailing lament over her body, but there would be a blood sacrifice. I had bought one of Wolfstan's chickens. It was pecking and clucking nervously beside me inside a wooden crate.

I reached inside and pulled the chicken, squawking, from within. I grabbed its legs with one hand, with the other I pushed down on its neck, and in one swift motion, I pulled hard, twisting upward until I heard the snap. Its wings flapped wildly, though it was dead instantly. When the death throes subsided, I grabbed Alrik's knife and slit its throat, letting the blood soak into the mounded grave.

“Blessed be the sacred blood, the channel of spirit. As this precious river ebbs from life, so it ferries the promise of life in the hereafter. Spirits of the Otherworld, accept this offering and grant protection to this soul as she walks the plane between life and death.” I placed the carcass at Muirgen's feet to the west, an offering for Badb.

The wind swirled around my legs. The snow, drifting lazily into piles, was caught in the movement and began to circle in a funnel upward. The drum's mournful pulse grew quicker, louder.

“Goddess, blessed on your golden throne, all powerful in your caer in the sky, mother of all, giver of life, bringer of death, destroyer, welcome your daughter Muirgen. Deliver her safely to the underworld.”

The wind ripped through the clearing, and any hair exposed and unbound whipped my face, the icy ends like razors on my chapped cheeks. The boughs on the trees leaned heavily in the gusts, the snow billowing off the branches as it caught in the wind's embrace, pelting me as if formed of sand. I shielded my eyes with one arm and staggered backward in the strength of the gale pressing against me. Fear leapt to the surface. What was happening? I could no longer see the cauldron that stood only a few feet away. The wind, gusting and blowing, drowned out any sound of Bertram's drums, and I fell to my knees. “Goddess, I beseech you. Muirgen is come home. Welcome her, your noble priestess and valiant keeper of our faith, welcome her at your table. Ease your grief, hold your anger, I beg of you.”

The winds stopped. The snow settled and fell.

Bertram appeared at my side. “Muirgen taught you well.”

I stood on trembling legs. “What in the Goddess's name just happened, Bertram? That is twice I have witnessed such an event.” My hands shook as I glanced around me. Not a breath of breeze stirred.

“It was merely a blustery wind, from the icy mountains far in the northlands beyond the seas.”

“But to have stopped so suddenly?” I had never seen anything like it. “Surely the Goddess caused this.”

His voice was stern. “In my long life, I have seen many things, Avelynn, but to think a Goddess or a god causes events to happen, whether for good or ill, is foolish and ignorant. You would be no better than the Christian priests and their damnable rhetoric to believe so. Instead put your faith in what you can see, hear, taste, smell, and touch. That is real. There is little that cannot be explained.”

I would have pressed him further, for I was certain more was at work here than could be so easily explained away, but the wind picked up again, tossing the snow about in circles, sending it chasing its tail, the gusts catching me off balance, forcing me backward. While it would have been nice to know the Goddess was here for Muirgen, to mourn for her, to grieve for her, I conceded that perhaps I had looked for something that wasn't there.

There was nothing left to do here, and against the lashing winds, we gathered our supplies and mounted the horses. I turned Marma to leave but the frozen, desolate landscape held my gaze.

Beyond the gray smudge of Muirgen's cottage lay a garden hidden beneath the snow. I sighed, remembering the months I had spent weeding beside her while she taught me about the plants she grew. I tried my best to remember all their medicinal and magical properties and the phases of the moon in which to plant and pick them, but knew I had only a fraction of her vast knowledge.

“It's not fair.”

“Life rarely is,” was Bertram's sage answer.

Nudging Marma over to the sentinel oak, I pulled down one of the small, bleached bones that danced amongst its branches, and rubbed the smooth surface between thumb and finger. I tucked it into my satchel and laid my palm against the deeply grooved bark, bowing my head.
Good-bye, Muirgen
.

We headed back to Congresbury; the bones raised a chorus of lament over her grave as they tinkled softly against one another in the wind.

*   *   *

Dawn broke crisp and clear. We thanked our hosts for their kind hospitality, leaving them with several coins for their trouble, and raced back to Wedmore. When I arrived at the manor, I invited several ladies from the village to join me in my father's hall. While awaiting word of the war, it was easier to pass the anxious hours in company than be left to my own thoughts, alone in my cottage. Most brought some project to work on: basket making, embroidery, or single-needle knitting.

I had tried idling away the time by taking up a strip of purple silk and envisioning a twining design of ivy in gold thread for the neck of my newest kirtle, a dress of soft lavender. But domestic pursuits were not my skill, and despite my halfhearted efforts, I couldn't force my mind to focus on the mind-numbing repetition.

Aluson burst into the hall. “M'lady.”

I placed the cloth across my lap and waited, heart pounding in my ears.

“The Saxons have been routed. King Aethelred has fled. Each man left for himself.”

The ladies jittered.

“My father? Edward?”

“No word, m'lady. I'm sorry.”

“What happened?”

“The king besieged the town. The Vikings appeared weakened and began to retreat behind their walls. Our men gave a great cry of victory and rallied after them. But it was a trap.”

One of the ladies swooned. I turned to help but saw she was well attended by the other women.

“Aluson, pray continue.”

He looked to the stricken woman but then pulled his attention back to me. “The Viking numbers were larger than we thought, and they swooped down upon us like demons, screaming and yelling. 'Twould've made your hair curl, m'lady.” He shuddered. “They slaughtered anyone who stood in their way. We ran, but they chased us down. One by one, men fell—a sword or axe thrust through his back. I lost your father and brother in the melee. I'm sorry.”

“It's all right, Aluson. I'm glad you're safe. Get yourself to the kitchen, take what you need, and rest. Tomorrow you can head out again, but return at once, as soon as you hear any word about my father, or Edward, or the men from Somerset.”

I watched him leave. The women clutched their crosses and began to rock back and forth, chanting to their God for protection of their loved ones. I envied their ability to profess their faith in public. I sank into the chair. Would I know if something happened to them? Would I feel it? Would a vision come?
They're well
, I told myself firmly. My father knew the lands of Wessex better than anyone. He would have found a way to evade the Vikings and bring our men to safety.

The women were almost hysterical. What would happen if their men didn't come home? If my father didn't come home? How could I protect Wedmore and its people? What would become of us if the Vikings prevailed and laid waste to Wessex?

I looked across at Dearwyne, Aluson's twin sister. After Nelda, my previous chambermaid, had stood against me at the tribunal, siding with Osric and Demas, helping them paint a picture of my recklessness and disregard for authority, I had relieved her of her position and offered the prestigious post to Dearwyne. The twins were fiercely loyal, and I needed those near me to be people I could trust.

Long dark curls flowed over her lap as she worked on a wall-clothing for my cottage. She was quiet and reserved, with thick eyelashes demurely set above limpid brown eyes, her face as delicate and pale as a snowflake.

“Dearwyne, fetch Bertram. Tell him to meet me presently in my cottage.”

“Of course, m'lady.” She curtsied and left.

I turned my attention back to the frightened women. “Ladies, keep to your sewing. My father will bring your men home. Be patient. Word will come of their well-being.”

“What'll we do, m'lady, if our husbands don't return?” one of the merchants' wives asked. Her knuckles were white from clutching her cross.

“I'll make sure you're provided for. You'll not go without.”

“Bless you, m'lady,” the tanner's wife said.

“How does your son fare?” I hadn't seen him since council, the day I saved his hand.

“He's well, m'lady. Thanks to you.” She hung her head. “My husband was right sore after. I'd never say so in front of him, but I can't thank you enough for your mercy.”

There was a mutual murmur of consent from the mothers present.

I laid my hand on her shoulder. “I'm glad he's well.”

Excusing myself from the hand-wringing, I returned to my cottage and started pacing.

Bertram knocked and let himself in.