Avelynn (3 page)

We turned and walked the last few yards to my cottage. The buildings scattered about the manor were all framed with large timber beams, but the walls varied between vertical planking and wattle-and-daub panels. Wheat thatch covered every roof.

“After you.” I held the door open for Ealhswith to enter.

My chambermaid, Nelda, tended the fire. Squat and round with beady eyes and a long nose, she had the unfortunate luck of resembling a shrew. But despite her mousy looks, her smile was always welcoming and sincere. “M'lady.” She curtsied.

I returned her smile. “Thank you, Nelda, that will be all for now.”

She nodded, dropped her eyes to the floor, and scampered out.

Catching a glimpse of my windblown hair in the polished silver mirror, I tried to smooth the long strands into some semblance of order but gave up and hung our cloaks on hooks by the door.

“What do you think will happen with the Vikings?” I brought down an earthenware jug filled with mead and two fine silver cups from a nearby shelf.

“Honestly, Avelynn, I've heard enough talk of Vikings and their brutality to last me a lifetime. That's all anyone ever talks about.” I passed her a full cup, and she took a hearty swig. “But I didn't come all this way to speak of Vikings. Let the men work that out. I came to see my dearest friend.”

Ealhswith was always quick to brush off anything serious. And despite my longing to know what was being discussed in council, I had been dismissed from the hall, and there was nothing I could do about it. I tightened the grip on my cup. She was right—the men would handle it.

“Now, how are you?” She rested her cup on her lap.

“Don't ask.”

“Whyever not?”

I slumped down beside her. “According to my father, I'm to be married.”

For a moment she just stared at me, brown eyes wide. “To whom?”

“His name is Demas. He's Ealhstan's nephew.”

“Well, you are seventeen, Avelynn.”

If she was trying to make me feel better, she was failing miserably. Only a year older than me, Ealhswith had been married last autumn, a scant few days before her seventeenth birth day. “Maybe so, but I want to choose the man I marry, not be forced into a loveless contract like I see so many women at court endure.” I wrapped both hands around the cup, the silver cool against my palms. “My mother knew the moment she saw my father that he was the one for her. I want nothing less.”

“I understand your longing, Avelynn. The Lord knows you are stubborn in your convictions. But you will be an old mare and completely unmarriageable if you continue to insist on this fantasy.”

I could feel myself growing hot with indignation. I got up and went to the hearth. Nelda had set up a small iron cauldron on a tripod, and I ladled out two steaming helpings of pottage. I offered Ealhswith a loaf of bread, the blackened bottom cut away and discarded.

When we were younger, marriage had had a luster of promise and excitement about it. Getting married was what all respectable ladies did, and it was something we looked forward to. Ealhswith and I had spent so many days daydreaming and discussing the various details of marriage—what it would be like, what our husbands would be like, what the marriage bed would be like—that we anticipated the event with innocent enthusiasm. Of course, I had my parents to provide daily examples of what a loving marriage looked like. But one day, while accompanying my father on a visit to the smith's cottage, I witnessed the man beating his wife with an iron pan. When she could no longer raise a hand to try to stop him, he dropped the frying pan in the dirt. It landed with a hollow thud. He gestured to my father to step outside to finish their business and left her in a pool of blood—all because she burned his bread.

I looked down at the half-eaten loaf in my hand. A few smudges of black were still evident along the sides. A lump hardened in my throat, and I coughed hard, trying to swallow it.

Ealhswith rose to help me, but I raised my hand. “I'm fine,” I said between breaths, my eyes watering fiercely. I had lost my appetite, and set the bread down on the table.

The worst part of that visit was that my father was powerless to stop it. The smith was entitled to beat her, for she was negligent in her duties. And when it was clear that she would never recover from her injuries, he tossed her like refuse and married another.

That was what marriage could look like when it was a match brokered by disinterested parties, and it was not to be my fate.

Despite being arranged, Ealhswith's marriage was a happy one. “You're lucky,” I said, and tilted my cup in a toast. “Alfred adores you.”

“Yes, he does.” She smiled broadly and raised her cup in answer.

“What's it like being married to the king's brother?”

“Well, there are definite advantages. I have an entire household at my command, I'm privy to council secrets, and best of all, I get to tell my dearest friend that I am with child.”

“How?!”

Ealhswith laughed so hard pottage came out her nose. She dabbed her face with the sleeve of her gown. “Avelynn, don't you know where babies come from?”

My face flushed in embarrassment. “No. I mean, yes. I know where babies come from.”

I knew what went on behind the bed curtain. I had seen plenty of couplings amongst the animals scattered about the village, though I was thoroughly horrified at the notion of a man doing that to me. “I meant, how did this happen? You've only just been married. When is the baby due?”

“My sweet, virtuous friend, I've been married a full year.” She set the bowl of pottage down. “But as to how—I can't wait till we can discuss in more graphic detail what the man does with his—”

“Ealhswith, you are positively lewd. I assure you, I have no interest in hearing the finer details, really.”

“Oh, Avelynn, how I miss you.” She wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes. “To answer your real question, then, the baby is due next spring.”

I leapt up and embraced her. “I'm so happy for you. Alfred must be overjoyed.”

“Yes, he is, though I told him he was sworn to secrecy until I spoke with you; then he may tell the whole world there will be a new addition to the royal house of Ecgberht!”

A rap at the door interrupted our celebration. “Come in,” I answered.

The door opened and Bertram escorted Edward in. “Avelynn, Lady Ealhswith.” He nodded in deference. “I'm sorry, Avelynn, but I must leave this willful scamp here with you.” He ruffled Edward's sandy mop. “Your father requests my presence in council.”

“Of course, Bertram, we'll take good care of him.” The “him” in question was already helping himself to a bowl full of pottage and a cake of bread.

“Mind your manners, lad,” Bertram reproved.

“Sorry,” Edward replied, his mouth full of bread.

“Incorrigible.” He closed the door behind him.

“How were your studies, Edward?” Ealhswith asked.

“Boring. I am made to sit down and read the dreadfully dull lives of saints and martyrs over and over again until I can't see straight.”

“I suppose what you really want to learn about is Vikings and battle, then?” I asked.

Edward grumbled into his bowl. “I could beat Ivar, you know.” He looked up. “One day I will be a great warrior and fight by Father's side, cutting down every Viking that crosses my path.”

I walked to the far corner of the room and picked up a practice shield and sword. “Care to back up that claim?” I swept my sword in front of him.

Edward spent a great deal of time in my cottage. Before our mother's death, we had shared it with her. It was only recently that he had started sleeping in the hall with my father's thegns.

He jumped off the bench and grabbed his sword and shield.

“Ealhswith will be the maiden who has been taken captive by the Viking king Ivar,” I said.

“Oh, help me. I need someone who is strong and brave to rescue me.” Ealhswith swooned into a heap on the bench.

“But they must get past me first,” I countered. “For I am Ivar Ragnarsson, and anyone who dares to face me will meet their end at the point of my sword.”

“Fear not, fair maiden, I will vanquish Ivar and rescue you.”

Edward moved fast and attacked, but I was ready and blocked the blow with my shield. Despite being thin and lanky, he was nonetheless quite strong. We were only playing with practice swords, but a solid whack from the wooden blade would leave quite a bruise if I wasn't careful.

I watched his efforts, genuinely impressed. He lunged and parried, turned and dodged, evading my attacks skillfully, and used his shield when necessary to press forward or block my blows. I smiled sweetly. While he had improved, I could still easily best him, but I was trying to be gracious. I was even giving him a sporting chance by fighting with my left hand. Truth be told, I had many years of battle training on him.

Wulfric, my father's greatest warrior and closest friend, had been my teacher ever since I learned to stand. He impressed upon me to use my natural talents to the utmost advantage. While petite in stature, what I lacked in height, I made up for in speed and agility. However, he was not above telling me to use my feminine curves as a thorough distraction—anything to exploit a man's weakness, he would say. But he also pushed me hard to develop strength, balance, skill, and cunning.

The battle was fierce. Red-faced, Edward's breath came in ragged spurts, and sweat wet his temples. His sodden hair stuck fast to his forehead. It was time for Ivar to be defeated. I waited for the next blow. Spinning on my heels, I pretended to lose my balance and gave Edward just enough time to thrust his sword toward my exposed stomach.

“Surrender!” he yelled in triumph. “One more move and I'll gore you through.”

“Never. I will never surrender to a filthy Saxon.”

“Then you will die.”

He lunged, and I took the blade by locking it against my waist with my elbow. “Oh, great Saxon warrior, you alone have vanquished me.” Coughing and sputtering for good effect, I fell dramatically to the ground.

Edward sauntered to Ealhswith. “I have rescued you, lady.”

“My hero.” She bent over and kissed his cheek.

From my vantage point on the ground, I watched as a crimson flush rose up Edward's neck to his cheeks, painted his nose with a vibrant swath of red, and then traveled outward in earnest, turning the tips of his ears a bright pink.

I stood, wiping all amusement from my face, and extended a strong hand to Edward. “Good battle, sir.”

Edward beamed.

The door to my cottage opened suddenly. On impulse, I swung around, holding the point of my wooden sword directly at the Adam's apple of a stranger. I watched in amusement as the little lump bobbed up and down as its owner swallowed hard.

My father stood behind, gripping the door's iron handle like steel, his knuckles turning white. I withdrew my sword and set it against the wall beside me.

“Avelynn, you will remember Demas of Wareham. He has come to call.”

 

THREE

I eyed Demas warily, prepared to make a considerable objection, but the look on my father's face made it clear any attempt would be unwise, so I curtsied with all due ceremony instead.

My father turned to Edward. “Bertram is ready to continue with your studies.” He bowed to Ealhswith. “Lady, your husband awaits your company; he wishes to return to Winchester immediately.”

I pleaded with my eyes, imploring Ealhswith to tarry, but she stepped to the door and grabbed her cloak. “I'll speak with you soon, Avelynn,” she said, looking over Demas. She smiled brilliantly behind his back and retreated out of the cottage.

Wulfric stepped inside, ducking under the lintel, and leaned against the wall, arms and ankles crossed, hungry, predatory eyes fixed on the stranger. With a nod to his master of arms, my father ushered Edward out.

I rushed forward. “Wait. What news of the Vikings?”

“Wessex is safe. For now.” My father's eyes held reassurance and trust, and a warning securing the abrupt end to any more discussion.

I nodded and stepped back. He shut the door behind him.

My heart hammered in my chest. Demas and I stared at each other. Beads of sweat glistened on his broad forehead, threatening to drip into his hazel eyes.

“Would you walk with me, lady?” he asked.

The wind hissed through the thatch. It was cold, and I really had no interest in stepping outside. I pouted a plea to Wulfric, who merely shrugged and stood ready by the door.

“Of course. Let me get my cloak.”

It was early evening, and Wedmore was lit softly by the pale autumn sun. There was one main road that flowed from north to south. At the north end was my father's manor, set high atop a hill. The manor, with all its yards and outbuildings, was surrounded by a wooden palisade, and there was only one way in or out—a guarded gate—which we passed through in silence. I waved limply to Leofric, the lone guard on duty.

Wedmore was one of the richest villages in the area. It boasted a tavern, blacksmith, glassmaker, metalworker, potter, and—rather astonishingly—a personable priest. The tavern demarcated the southern end of town, and in between the manor and the tavern, bordering the road on the west and east sides, were two neat rows of houses and merchant cottages. From the central hub of the village, precious hides of farmland stretched out like spokes in a wheel. Surrounding all of that was a wide, deep ditch and a great mound of heaped earth that encircled the ditch like a coiled serpent. Beyond the ditch, my father had also erected a wooden palisade.

I shook my head. My father never did anything in degrees—it was all or nothing with him—which brought my silent musings back to the man beside me.

Demas walked at a brisk pace, his head down, shoulders hunched. The wind whipped up from behind and sent a chill of gooseflesh up my back. I flipped my hood up and over my head and drew the cloak tighter.