Avelynn (4 page)

Still bathed in thorny silence, we moved deeper into the village. The press of houses increased, and the air grew thicker with the reek of habitation—running the gamut from the earthy smells of mud, straw, and cooking fires to the more noxious aroma of animal dung. In the spring, the refuse would be transformed into a commodity as valuable as gold, as its nutrients enriched the farmers' fields. Now, however, it sat fermenting in each yard. I could hear the occasional soft bleating of a goat or sheep and the staccato clucks of hungry chickens milling about within the fenced-in yards of each house we passed.

We continued to follow the road through the village, without speaking, our bodies braced against the lashing wind. The tavern appeared up ahead, and I spun around to look back at my father's manor in the distance. We had traversed the entire length of the village. I glared at Demas. He was the one who had come to call, the one asking for my hand in marriage. It was his responsibility to forge the conversation.

He cleared his throat.

Hoarse from inactivity
, I thought tartly.

“Things are very primitive in England compared to Francia or Rome,” Demas said, surveying the village.

“You've been across to the Continent?” For the first time, I realized he spoke with a considerable accent.

“I was born in England, but grew up in Rome. I was six when I was sent abroad to commence my education. I later became a scribe and worked under the recommendation of Pope Nicholas.” The wind gusted, whipping his hair across his face, and he tried to smooth it back behind his ear. “When I received word of my uncle's death, and the large amount of land and holdings I inherited, I returned to claim my birthright.”

If he thought wealth impressed me, he would be sorely mistaken. “What was it like in Rome?”

“Buildings tower above the streets. Tile and stone mosaics adorn walls and floors. Stately homes are furnished with the most opulent fabrics; their owners collect luxuries and oddities from around the known world.” He shrugged. “It is rich beyond your imaginings—very different from here.”

His tone was as cold and callous as the weather, and I sank deeper into my cloak.

“I lived in a small quarter of the papal suburb known as the Schola Saxonum, or Saxon village. It was not luxurious—the buildings were simple structures—but the roads were all lined with stone, unlike the perpetual mud here.” He sidestepped a particularly deep and murky puddle. I squelched through it. He looked at me with an air of displeasure but continued.

“When I passed through Francia, I stayed at the king's palace at Verberie-sur-Oise. It was a magnificent stone building with terraced gardens, marble floors, and gilded furniture. Unlike petty kings here, King Charles does not debase himself and sleep on a wooden bench in a meager hall with his men, but sleeps in lavish splendor, in a luxurious chamber.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. While I couldn't profess to know about King Charles's relationship with his men, I knew that the “petty king” Aethelred of Wessex slept in his hall with his closest warriors—as did most of the noble lords throughout England. But far from this practice debasing them, it fostered a sense of community and loyalty amongst the men in their household. I knew with absolute certainty that my father's men would die serving him.

“If Rome and Francia were so wonderful, why come back?”

“In Rome, I was a tool under my teacher's scrutiny and control. In England, I am no man's servant.”

This definitely didn't warm me to him. I turned to look back at Wulfric, who followed at a respectable distance. The sun was setting, the rooftops behind us edged in fiery red. I should just say good night and be done with this.

“When did your mother die?”

“I beg your pardon?” Not only was the question itself and the careless way in which he stated it the very height of ill manners, but my mother was the last person I wished to discuss with the likes of him.

“I was young when I was sent away. I can't remember my mother. I thought perhaps you might have known her—or maybe your mother did?”

My pique softened a bit. “Who was your mother?”

“The Lady Mildrith of Wareham.”

I thought for a moment and smiled. “Yes, I remember her, though I met her only the once.” I had been sitting in my mother's cottage, pretending to be interested in a rather boring bit of embroidery while my mother, Lady Mildrith, and the queen shared a cordial cup of wine.

I struggled to bring his mother's image into focus from out of the hazy mists of memory. “She was very beautiful.” I stopped for a moment and scrutinized Demas's features, searching for similarity between the two. “She had long brown hair, much lighter and curlier than yours, and beautiful eyes; I remember how they lit up when she laughed.” I held his unwavering gaze. “Her cheekbones were high like yours, but her face was rounder, her skin like the inside of an almond: a creamy, milky white.”

“How is it you remember her so well having met her only once?”

I resumed our walk. “I remember the scene vividly because it was also the first time I met the queen.”

At the age of eight, meeting the queen was akin to encountering a Goddess. I had sat speechless as she bent down to say good-bye to me. My mother chastised me later for my discourteous behavior, but I was so enthralled that I couldn't manage a squeak in response. Time had done nothing to diminish my opinion of her, either—in fact, my respect and admiration grew even more reverential once I learned the whole inspiring story of Queen Judith's life. It was Judith's and my mother's passionate stories that fed my dreams about the future and its wondrous possibilities. I didn't want to settle, and frankly, standing here in the cold talking with Demas reeked of doing just that.

“What Saxon queen was this?” he asked.

“Queen Judith, the daughter of your illustrious King Charles of Francia.”

“I've heard of her.”

“Then you know the scandal her elopement caused?”

“I know she was once an English queen, and now she is not. My time in Francia didn't involve idle matters of gossip.”

“Judith was England's
first
queen,” I corrected him. “She was thirteen when she was given to King Aethelwulf of Wessex. But he died two years later, and she was forced to marry his son Aethelbald.”

“Blasphemy!”

I glared at him. “It wasn't her choice. Aethelbald wished to possess her, and he did—despite the Church's and country's outcries.” I didn't expect a man to understand. “Regardless, the offense lasted only two years and was remedied with Aethelbald's death. Judith was then free to return to Francia, where shortly upon her arrival she met the love of her life, Count Baldwin of Flanders.”

I knew my eyes were glazing over. “A chance meeting sparked a love so profound that they professed their undying love right then and there. But when Baldwin asked permission to marry Judith, Charles refused, insisting Baldwin was beneath her station. So she took matters into her own hands, and in an act of great courage, she disobeyed her father's wishes and eloped.”

I watched Demas for any betrayal of emotion. Judith's defiance set a bad example for womenkind everywhere. “After having to put up with pretense and propriety, her entire life arranged and bargained, she risked it all and chose love.”

“Quite a risk. Not many women have such an opportunity.” His gaze sent shivers up my spine. It was not a warm feeling. “Do you think you have a choice, Avelynn?”

“There are always choices.”

“I wonder. Does your father share your conviction?”

If it were summer, I would have swallowed a handful of midges, my mouth hung so far open. It was time to leave.

I spied Wulfric and nodded. The sky was darkening. The last vestiges of sunlight quivered above the horizon.

“I'm sorry. That was callous of me.” He hung his head in apology.

“This is where I bid you good night, Demas.”

“Of course.” He bowed. “Good night, Avelynn.”

I watched in consternation as he turned, heading farther south along the path.

*   *   *

I lay back onto the down-filled mattress, furs and linen enveloping me, and watched as Nelda raked and banked the fire for the night before climbing into bed. She slept on a raised shelf along the back wall.

“What did you think of Demas?” I asked as she huddled under the furs for warmth.

“He's handsome…”

Under my administration for only a year, she was still reluctant to speak her mind. I put a lot of effort into making her feel at ease in my presence. “Yes, he is that.” I flopped onto my stomach. “But what was your impression of him—the man, not his appearance?”

“He seemed nice.”

“I don't know; I don't trust him.”

She giggled. “You do not trust many suitors.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I'm sorry, m'lady. Please forgive me.”

“It's all right, Nelda. Don't be afraid to speak your mind. I honor your opinion.”

“You are most gracious, m'lady,” she replied, her head duly bowed.

I sighed. So much for putting her at ease. “Sleep well, Nelda.”

“Good night, m'lady.” She blew out the large beeswax candle beside her bed.

I rolled onto my back and gazed at the ceiling. With only the dim light from the raked coals illuminating the room, deep shadows played across the uneven thatch.

I frowned and ran a tired hand over my face. Demas had seemed aloof and arrogant, bordering on hostile, but perhaps I was reading too much into his responses. After all, I had baited him with Judith's story. No man was going to approve of her actions or my fondness for the controversial tale. There were also the circumstances of his reintroduction into Wessex to consider. He was newly landed, his entire life altered, without any family to return to. I might grant him a little leniency. I could hear my father's booming voice accusing me of not giving suitors a chance. I groaned. While my parents had the good fortune of knowing nothing about each other when they met, I had to be guarded.

My father believed in sharing his wealth equally between his children—despite the abysmal failure of that same strategy carried out by his own father before him. Upon his death, my grandfather had entrusted the earldom to be divided equally between his two sons. But this act of good faith resulted in bloodshed and civil war throughout Dorset and Somerset, as jealousy, greed, and distrust raged between my father and his brother, Osric.

The conflict happened before I was born, and King Aethelbald had forced a peace between my father and uncle, insisting the terms of my grandfather's will and testament be upheld. I had never met Osric. He was not welcome in our home, and my father never spoke of him. Other than that he was the Earl of Dorset, I knew nothing about him.

But rather than deter my father, the conflict left him intent on overcoming the specter of the past. He was firm on his decision—Edward and I would both inherit an impressive amount of land and holdings upon his death. As part of this legacy, I was to receive Wedmore, and many suitors were eager to snatch a piece of the pie. I was merely a means to an end in their eyes.

I burrowed deeper into my cocoon of covers and closed my eyes, brushing my foot back and forth, a balm to my busy mind. What was Demas after? My father mentioned a generous bride-price. If Demas had wealth and status, he would make an attractive groom to any eager bride. Why pick me? There were plenty of unmarried women in England.

My thoughts reached out to one of my locked chests, and the silk pouch containing my divining bones concealed within. I wondered what the Goddess thought of all this.

 

FOUR

“Will you be long away, m'lady?”

At the stables, Marma waited for me, saddled and ready. A young page held her reins.

I smiled, taking the lead from his competent hands. “No, Bertram and I will be back by nightfall.”

He nodded and walked back inside. The sounds of a rake grating against the hard-packed earth floor drifted toward the door along with clouds of hay and dust.

An impatient nose nudged my satchel. “Good morning, beautiful.” I stroked Marma's strong, smooth neck. “Looking for a treat, are you?”

She snorted and I laughed, taking out one of the apples I had tucked away in my bag. I held it in my palm. Her soft lips parted and the juicy treat disappeared. I had been delighted when my father presented her to me on my seventeenth birth day. She was all white, with veins and flecks of gray, and I had called her Marma because she reminded me of the marbling in stone.

I checked the saddle's bindings, tightened the breast girth, and secured my sword to the side of the worn leather. I usually wore my hair braided when I rode, and I made sure its length was secured within the wolf-pelt cloak so it wouldn't get drenched. The morning had started dry, but dark shadows rolled overhead, buoyed by a sharp, damp wind. By the time Bertram arrived, a cold sleet had started to fall.

Enveloped in a mantle of white ermine, he stood out in stark contrast to the black gelding he rode.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” I said.

“And miss the opportunity to ride in such fine weather? Perish the thought.” He drew his hood lower over his forehead.

I nudged Marma ahead. There wasn't a lot of room to ride two abreast along the narrow dirt pathways that snaked through the manor, and Bertram settled comfortably behind. The damp weather would no doubt slow our course as dusty roads turned into troughs of mud, but it was only a two-hour ride to the edge of the swamps, and I was confident we would make Avalon in fair time.

Avalon was an enigmatic place, an island suspended between the lands of the living and the dead. King Arthur had spent his last few days on Earth there, shrouded in the shadowy mists of time and legend, hidden for centuries in the secret fae worlds of the Somerset Levels. From this strange, ethereal place, he would emerge triumphant once again to lead the people to victory and peace. At least, that is what the common folk believed—tenaciously. On some official map somewhere, my grandfather had labeled the island Athelney, but I preferred the mystery that surrounded the name and concept of Avalon better.