Avelynn (32 page)

I caught a smirk on Wulfric's face, but he covered it quickly in his cup.

“I'll not fight you.” Alfred looked at me aghast.

“I will.” Demas stepped forward. “Allow me to be your deputy in this challenge, my lord.”

All eyes waited on Alfred, who in turn looked to his brother, the king, for guidance.

“Very well.” Aethelred sighed and stood up. “The first to fall, be rendered unarmed, draw blood, or step out of the circle loses. If you fail, Avelynn, you will return to Wedmore and give up any claims to this cause in the future. Demas, if you fail, Avelynn maintains her right to avenge her father and earns a place in the Wessex fyrd. Are you agreed?”

“Yes,” we both answered.

“Osric, make the circle.” Aethelred waved his hand limply and then sat down.

At the far end of the hall, benches were pushed aside and the rushes swept away from the dirt floor. Osric grumbled but did as ordered, fetching some chalk and marking out a circle.

I stepped into Wulfrida's chambers and pulled on a pair of brown trousers and a yellow tunic, marveling at the unfamiliarity of wearing a man's garments. Borrowing a leather thong from Wulfric, I braided my hair, tucked the long tail under the tunic, cinched it in place with a belt, and then slipped on a leather helmet, graciously provided by Aethelred. My father's head was much larger than mine and his helmet would slide down my face without the extra padding.

By the time I returned to the hall, we had amassed a rather large crowd of spectators. At least forty of my men and twice as many of Osric and Demas's numbers were present for the show. Everyone was in a festive spirit, and mead flowed liberally. With all the benches pressed and stacked against the walls of the hall, people crammed shoulder to shoulder, the toes of their boots nudging the white chalk outline. Additional oil lamps had been lit, and they hung from the rafters above, illuminating the battlefield.

“Now, remember what I've taught ye,” Wulfric said, putting on my helmet. The contest was to be fought with full mail and regalia. “Stay low 'n' watch for any opportunity to knock him off balance. He has a wide swing. That'll come in handy if ye watch him carefully.”

“Thanks.”

“You're a bloody-minded daft woman, but your father would be proud.”

I would have hugged him if Alfred hadn't spoken.

“Avelynn, Demas, step forward.”

Alfred waited until Demas and I stood nose to nose. “This is a friendly contest. The first to draw blood will automatically forfeit his—or her—cause and the opponent will win the field. Are you both clear on the rules?”

We nodded.

Aethelred stood. “Begin!” He raised a cup of ale and drank heartily as everyone cheered.

I took a step back, crouched low, and watched, waited. Demas crossed his feet one over the other as he walked the periphery of the circle. I matched his progress step for step. He leaned in with a slow drunken swing and smiled. Everyone laughed. He hopped from foot to foot and then poked his sword at me and smirked. I hit it hard to the ground.

I slashed at his waist. He backed up and scowled. I smiled charmingly at him. My men hooted and hollered, heckling Demas on my behalf.

With two hands, he brought his sword down toward my waist. I swerved from the blow and aimed high. My sword grazed the mail on his shoulder, earning approval from my men, as Demas received more jeers. The humor left his face.

His next blow glanced off my helmet with a loud twang and sent me staggering backward. My ears buzzed. A hush descended on the room. The fight was on.

“You continue to overstep your place.” He circled around me.

“And you're a weak fool, controlled by Osric's strings.”

Our swords met in a clash of steel that sent shock waves up my forearms. He swung again, the point just missing my chest as I leaned backward. I lunged and aimed low, slicing at his shins with the flat edge of the sword. He saw the volley, blocked the strike, and then cut toward my helmet.

I lifted my sword, blocking the blow, but he barreled into me, knocking me off balance, forcing me to take a few steps backward, my heel just a hairbreadth from the line.

“You will learn to be properly submissive,” he said.

“Like you were in the weaving shed at the Witan? You're just Osric's little bicche.”

His wide hazel eyes focused in realization.

“Yes, I saw. I saw you grovel and fall under my uncle's yoke.”

He lunged, swinging in a blind rage. Any impression of this being a friendly contest vanished. Spittle flew from his lips. “How is Muirgen?”

“Bastard.” I rushed forward, my sword's deadly precision aimed at his neck. He ducked and thrust at my stomach. I turned away from the swing and connected with his mail coat near his kidney. He growled and dove. I leapt aside, and he staggered back, his sword swinging. I dodged the blow and stayed low, using my weight to ram into his side.

Several vats of ice water were thrown at us. Aethelred stood before us. “Hold!”

We both froze, panting.

I ripped off both my helmets and knelt before Aethelred. Demas dropped to his knee.

“I'm not sure what we have all just witnessed. But by God, it stops here.”

“I'm sorry, my lord,” we both mumbled.

“Stand and shake hands. I will have no animosity in my fyrd,” he said.

We did as ordered, and I resisted the urge to wipe my hand against my sleeve. “The fyrd? Does that mean I can fight?”

“A shieldmaiden is welcome in my army.”

“This is madness,” Osric spat.

“The matter is settled,” Aethelred warned.

“Then promise me, my liege, that should Avelynn fall, her lands, her title will be awarded to me as her closest kin.”

“I'm afraid that can't happen,” I said, looking at Aethelred. “I've already written my will. Aethelflaed, my goddaughter, has been named as my heiress. The charter lies at Glastonbury.”

“Is this so?” Alfred asked, his eyebrows raised in shock.

“Yes, my lord. All that I have will be hers.”

“A most noble and charitable gift,” Aethelred said.

Osric's gaze pierced my mail. “A most noble gift indeed. May God keep you safe, niece,” he said in a voice as controlled as a coal maker's fire.

*   *   *

Within a few hours of my arrival, word came that the Vikings marched to Basing, another prosperous royal village. If the Vikings were able to seize control of the center, they would be a direct threat to topple Wessex's capital of Winchester.

By the time the fyrd had arrived, Basing was deserted. No smoke rose from cooking fires, each hearth empty as families packed up what possessions they could carry and headed for the forests or to nearby churches to await the battle's outcome. The weatherworn and sun-bleached planked buildings, dark and brooding in the surrounding snow and sleet, looked like the charred remains of a once fat and cheerful body. We had drawn our line just south of the village in a wide, empty field. No side had the advantage of hill, valley, river, or crag to aid their fight. The blood from the battle would nourish the soil underfoot, and the grain would prosper when planted in the spring. If there were still men to tend it.

Wulfric helped me into my father's mail, and I secured my sword to my waist. I called upon the Goddess in a silent plea, praying for strength and protection, and then fastened my helmet, grabbed my spear and shield, and led Somerset into what I thought would be the hardest battle of my life.

My first impression, after staring into the crazed eyes of a Viking berserker, was that a shield wall was no place for a woman. I was terrified. Wulfric had been right. None of my training had prepared me for this. But fear was a luxury I could ill afford. My men looked to me to lead, and my father's shadow cast a wide net. I would not let him down. I swallowed and took my place in the line.

That was in the morning. By noon the toll to both sides had been great. This was the third wave of attack in a battle that had started just after dawn.

“Stand!” I yelled for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

Everyone leaned their weight forward and waited. Wulfric was to my right, Leofric to my left. Two hundred men made up the front row of the shield wall. We stood side by side, everyone crushed together, shoulder to shoulder. Hundreds more filled the rows behind. Saxon shields pressed tightly against my back. My contingent comprised the farthest right-hand side of the wall. The two brothers had once again split their defenses in answer to the Vikings' charge, and Somerset was under Alfred's command.

The weather was suitably miserable for early February. All night it had drizzled—a cold, wet sleet—and dawn brought more of the same. I had spent the night in a tent, tossing and turning, with only a few blankets and my cloak. The tightly woven fabric walls kept the water out, but did nothing to block the dampness and chill in the air. Standing outside all morning long in the freezing onslaught ensured I was soaked through. A constant wave of shivering threatened to knock the spear from my hand. My feet had been numb since we left Windsor.

I wiped the moisture from my face. The Vikings hurled endless threats and jeers, and we answered back with insults and goading of our own. There was no open hand-to-hand combat. The two sides stood apart from each other as in a childhood game, each taunting the other, but slowly the forces—the entire wall—advanced until they crashed shield to shield.

Despite our bravado on the surface, everyone was exhausted. The Vikings were slower in their attack, and we were less anxious to press ours. It was now a waiting game to see who would crack first.

“Stand!” I yelled to steady my men.

Pride flared with each taunt. It was getting harder to keep the men in check.

“Shields at the ready,” I ordered as I noticed the Viking line take a step closer.

They tightened their overlapping shields.

“Spears ready.” A line of steel points thrust through the wall of bodies.

“Hold!” I ordered as the lines of men behind me pressed forward. The recent snowfall had turned to slush, and the ground was a field of slippery mud. Maintaining footing was becoming harder and harder as the morning wore on.

The Vikings moved close enough for us to smell their sweat. They were ferocious, their beards unkempt, their hair and eyes wild. They smeared the blood of the dead on their faces and advanced with a fearlessness born out of a religion that honored bravery and shunned weakness. They welcomed a warrior's death. To them, death was a reward. The bravest men would feast at Odin's table.

I studied my men. Hair cut just below the shoulders, beards and mustaches trimmed. No god would toast their bravery if they fell. And worse, unlike the Vikings, who had nothing to lose but their lives, these men would leave their farms and families unprotected, with no one to provide for them.

A Viking shield crashed into mine as their wall closed the gap. The impact shot deep and thrummed in my bones. My father's shield, which I held in my left hand, covered me from shoulders to knees, while the spear in my right hand jabbed furiously at any exposed flesh. I glanced at the overlapping shields of the enemy. The tight wall of shields made a direct strike difficult, but a spear could gore above the shoulders and a sword could hack away below the knees, and that is where everyone's ministrations were aimed.

It was a vicious and bloody pushing-and-shoving match as shields rammed against shields, and axes, swords, and spears maneuvered around their heaving neighbors to swing, jab, and thrust toward the enemy at will. Wulfric lifted his shield to block a blow from a sword that was aimed at my skull, and I drove my spear into the groin of my attacker, pulling it back sharply. He fell and was trampled, his face pressed into the squelching muck, as another Viking took his place at the front of the line.

A large weight fell against my right side as Leofric collapsed into me. Another blow from a Viking axe came down, cleaving his helmet in two. Half of his good-natured face stayed momentarily on my shoulder while the rest of Leofric slumped to the ground. Blood pooled around him, turning the muddy slush a rusty shade of red. For a second, I stared, stunned that such a great man could fall. Demas appeared at my side and raised his shield to block the axe from inflicting the same mortal wound on me.

“Watch what you're doing,” he hissed.

I blinked at the apparition. “Kind of you to be concerned with my welfare.” I grunted, thrusting my spear forward, looking for a soft spot to impale.

“Personally, I'd rather see you dead,” he yelled over the battle cries. “But your little ploy with the will has caused me to reevaluate things.” He shoved against a Viking shield.

I clenched my teeth, wishing I had enough room to turn my spear sideways. Demas's waist was wide open. “You'll never have Wedmore or Somerset,” I spat. I wondered if Wulfric had seen his brother fall. My heart ached for them both.

“You're a considerable hindrance,” he grunted, thrusting his sword into the man pressed up against him. “Like a louse I can't crush.” He pulled his sword back, the blade thick with blood.

There was a loud commotion coming from the wall farther to the left. I chanced a quick glance. The Saxon wall had been breached in the middle, our straight line buckled, like the V in a formation of geese, and the Vikings pressed their advantage, concentrating their efforts on the fracture. We were losing ground rapidly.

Taking advantage of the Vikings' momentary diversion, Demas turned slightly to face me. “You're the last of the vermin to affect our plans. Your brother was easy prey. And your father?” He laughed. “He screamed like a suckling maid when I gutted him through.”

“My father, Eanwulf, the Earl of Somerset, the king's most trusted and revered warrior, was not brought down by a flaccid little sack of grain.” I refused to believe it. His words were meant only to hurt me. He was playing me. My father died honorably in battle, and my brother would be found safe and sound.