Avelynn (8 page)

The twitch of the first genuine smile to cross my lips in months lifted the corners of my mouth. Their journey would last well into the fall. Which meant there was not going to be a wedding, at least not until they got back. My chest felt a little lighter.

Bertram stood, his old knees creaking, and sat on a bench, patting the wood beside him. I sat down.

“Your father wants to know if you will manage the affairs of the manor and oversee the village's administration while he is gone.”

“He wants me left in charge?” I narrowed my eyes at Bertram. It didn't seem possible.

“Sigberht's father died two days past, and he returned to Kent to settle his estate. Your father could have picked any number of men, but he chose you. Perhaps you will see this for what it is.”

“And what is that?”

He rose to leave. “An olive branch.”

I was silent a moment. “What of Edward?”

“He's to travel to Rome with your father.”

I felt a fleeting pang of jealousy. My younger brother would see the world and travel in companionship with my father, a privilege I'd hoped to earn as his eldest child. But mostly, I felt loss. After Mother's passing, Edward came to me for comfort, and I welcomed his attentions and the chance to provide the reassurance and love he needed without restraint. I would miss him.

I went to the window where the shutters had been thrown back to let in the warm March sun and considered the offer. I suspected my father's decision to leave me in charge was heavily influenced by Bertram. He alone never doubted my abilities.

Outside, the manor was bustling with activity. Men carried barrels and crates filled with goods imported from overseas, women worked on vertical looms, bringing their craft outside to take advantage of the milder temperatures and longer daylight. Two old men sat on stumps, engrossed in thought, a wooden game table between them. Pages scurried and maids rushed back and forth between supply sheds and the kitchens, always prepping, always preparing meals for the manor and its wards. This was supposed to be my legacy, these people my responsibility. I wouldn't give it up so easily. I turned back to Bertram. This was the chance I'd been waiting for, the opportunity to finally prove myself as a competent leader—a leader who didn't need a husband to make decisions for her. “Tell him I will ensure everything is managed proficiently. He leaves Wedmore in good hands.”

“Excellent.”

The door opened, and Edward flew in.

“Avelynn, Avelynn, I'm to go to Rome with Father!”

“Yes, I hear.”

“I'm to go on a boat, and climb over mountains, and see the pope.”

“Minding your manners the entire time,” Bertram said, looking down his austere nose at the jubilant sprite.

“Of course.” Edward straightened.

“You represent the noble Saxons. You are our spokesman, our example. You must behave accordingly.”

Edward puffed his chest and stood taller.

“Good day, Avelynn, Edward.” Bertram nodded and left.

I turned my attention back to the beaming face in front of me. He would learn much on this trip and return a worldly young man. I would miss his tenth birth day.

“Father said we might even encounter pirates or Vikings on the trip.”

“Well, you must be careful then. I want you to return in one piece.”

He rooted through a cold pot of stew, turned his nose up at the congealed contents, and reached into the breadbasket, grabbing a small loaf. He poked the coarse crust with his finger and wormed his way to the soft center.

“Father is bringing lots of men to accompany us,” he mumbled through a mouthful of bread. “We will be very safe.”

Crumbs collected on the front of his cloak. I brushed them away. “I'll miss you.”

“I know.” He looked down at his feet.

I opened my arms, and he leaned into me.

“We shall have a fabulous feast upon your return,” I promised, letting him pull away. Empty hands dropped to my sides.

“I will bring you back something from Rome.”

“I'd like that.”

He paused at the door, his hand resting on the iron handle. “I love you.” His face flushed.

“I love you too,” I said, letting him go.

*   *   *

My father was pacing, ticking off responsibilities with each finger as I made a list. “Council will be held when I return. Sigberht will collect the taxes from the shire when he gets back. You will oversee the household guard—Leofric will be left in charge. He will report directly to you. You will be judge in all disputes and must ensure all the manor's records are up to date. You will need to keep careful watch on our inventory and—”

“I know, Father, we've been through this.” I read back part of the list. “Bertram, as chamberlain, oversees the treasury, is in charge of ensuring the manor has all the supplies that we need, and manages the servants. Father Plegmund will serve as scribe and record the day's transactions. Milo the seneschal and Walther his steward maintain the lord's table and keep a record of each individual grain of wheat, barley, oats, and rye that grows in Somerset.” I put my quill down. “I understand.” He had sat me down just after cock crow, and it was now early evening.

He stopped pacing. “I don't want any mistakes.”

“I can do this.”

He stared at me a moment, the stern lines of his face softening. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

Wind rustled the thatch. Logs crackled on the hearth. The sound of my heartbeat echoed in my ears.

“Do well, and we will discuss your future when I return.”

“And the betrothal?” I held my breath.

“We shall see.”

Was it possible he was reconsidering? I ran to him and crushed myself against his chest. His arms closed around me. He smelled of woodsmoke and fresh air, the fine woolen tunic soft beneath my cheek.

“I miss her,” he said softly.

My mother had died seven years before, on a cold March night just like this.

“I miss her too.”

*   *   *

They left without fanfare. My father, flanked by Wulfric and Demas, inclined his head in my direction as he rode away. Edward waved animatedly, and I returned the gesture, waving until they rounded a bend in the road, disappearing from sight.

Early spring could be a dangerous time to cross the channel, but the weather was fine, and I prayed their journey across the ocean to Francia would be a safe one. Accidents happened all the time—a freak storm, a sailor's fateful mistake, a flaw in the vessel itself—but I chose not to dwell on misfortune. Instead, I visualized a successful journey.

A warm, luscious breeze blew from the south and brought a renewal of spirit and life back into the earth. My heart lightened, and I exhaled in relief. While my apprehension still lingered, my father's words had eased some of my fear, and the oppressive weight of the last two months flitted away on the balmy breeze.

Determined to prove my mettle to the people of Somerset, I spent two weeks traveling throughout the district with Milo and Walther, pulling up my dress sleeves whenever necessary and pitching in. I had spent the last few days alternating between encouraging the oxen to pull the single-bladed plow through the stubborn soil and trying to steer the heavy, cumbersome contraption. I was sweaty and filthy. I loved every moment of it.

I often helped in the large garden behind the hall, but apart from mixing manure into the soil with a small spade and rake and the constant weeding, there was little manual labor involved. Tackling acres of land with oxen and plow was quite another matter.

“You need to scatter the seeds like so.” Milo gesticulated, swinging his hand back and forth, a steady stream of seeds flying into the newly dug furrow.

We were sowing barley. The stalks would be used for straw and bedding for the horses, the grain for bread and brewing.

“No, no, 'tis like this, m'lady,” Walther countered, sweeping his hand as he walked beside the trench, each seed landing in the groove.

They argued amiably about proper technique. Though, in truth, I couldn't tell the difference. They were genial men, well into their mid-forties, and though distant cousins, the familial resemblance was striking. They could easily pass for brothers. Tall and lean, their necks and arms dark and sinewy from years of hard physical labor, they had worked for my grandfather before swearing oaths to my father.

As seneschal, or master of the feast, part of Milo's responsibilities involved determining which plants to sow, where, and when, so that the manor was never left wanting. Walther was his assistant. Walther could always be found carrying a tally stick, on which he kept careful account of the grain supply for the manor. A meticulous notch or slash, carved into each stick, kept his records up to date.

I grabbed another handful of grain from the pouch I'd made by folding up the hem of my apron and continued forward, emulating their steady swing. They nodded in encouragement and smiled at my technique.

Spring was a grueling time. The instant the ground became workable, every slave, freeman, woman, and child was set to task, toiling from sunup to sundown. It was unprecedented for a noblewoman to labor in menial work, and many of the townsfolk came out to offer suggestions, not passing on the opportunity to poke and jeer. I endured their lighthearted comments graciously, and at the end of each day sent for mead to be shared amongst my spectators and patient tutors.

With the barley laid and the furrows covered loosely with soil, I wiped the sweat from my brow and sat, eager to quench my thirst and wash the day's dust from my throat. The villagers had built a roaring fire to keep the chill of dusk at bay, and each person found a comfortable seat close to the warm glow. Mead was passed around to all. I raised my cup in a toast, acknowledging a hard day's work done well, but stopped midway, my lips set in a grim line. A horse and rider blazed toward the fields. It was Sigberht.

He dismounted and whistled for a lad to take his horse. “Let him graze while I speak with the lady.” He handed the boy the reins.

“Sigberht,” I said.

“I've returned from settling my father's accounts. You can return to your cottage. I'll finish things here.”

“Finish what exactly?”

“The administration of the estate.”

I left the fire and headed for a stand of hawthorn bushes, away from the curious ears and gossiping tongues of the villagers. Sigberht followed.

“You will do no such thing. My father gave me explicit instructions to see to the care of the estate in his absence.”

“Only because I was indisposed. I am back.”

“And what is that supposed to mean to me?”

“It means that you can finish playing at house. The men of Wedmore are warriors, not chambermaids. They need a man to advise and lead them.”

“I am quite capable of running my estate.”

The sun was setting, and a pale pink glow tinted the land, but Sigberht's color blazed red.

“For your mother's sake, your father has coddled you—letting you sit in council, giving you a taste of power. But he was wrong to do so. The administration of Wedmore will never be your job. Your new husband will see to that, and I for one look forward to the day when you are properly submissive.”

My hands curled into fists in the folds of my dress. “I suggest you leave. And don't come back until my father sends for you. You're not welcome here while I'm in charge.”

He laughed. “I am still reeve of this estate, lady. No one but your father can strip me of my title. I will not be going anywhere.” He stormed back to his horse. As he tore off down the path to the manor, Milo approached me tentatively.

“Is everything all right, my lady?” he asked, watching clouds of dust billow behind the departing horse.

My mind was spinning. The equinox was in a few days, my course set. But how could I leave the estate with a viper circling, his fangs straining for my throat? I didn't know what was worse, missing another sacred day of the Goddess or leaving myself open for the beast's strike.

I smiled weakly at Milo. “Seems someone isn't happy with my current position.”

“He'll come around, my lady.”

“Are you not threatened by the prospect of me becoming lord of the manor?”

He chuckled. “My lady, your people love you. I've seen firsthand the good you do, how you help those less fortunate than yourself. Your father is fair and just, but in his stead, there are many here who would be honored to have you as their liege lord. I for one would lay down my life for yours.”

The sincerity in his voice made my throat tighten. “Thank you.”

He nodded and turned to leave, but I laid a hand on his arm. “Milo, can I trust the administration of Wedmore to your shoulders? I have a matter to attend to. It will take only a few days.”

“I would be honored, my lady, of course. But what of Lord Sigberht?”

I followed his gaze. “I'll find something suitable for him to do.”

*   *   *

As reeve, Sigberht's responsibilities included collecting taxes, exacting justice, and handling disputes throughout Somerset on my father's behalf. It was a position of influence and envy, and it was clearly time to deflate Sigberht's bloated head. While I couldn't overstep my father and cast Sigberht out outright, I could certainly make his quarrel with me a bitter tonic.

“Good afternoon, Sigberht. Please step forward.” I had taken great pains to wear my richest kirtle of soft red linen, its embroidered bands of gold silk edging my sleeves, hem, and neckline, my wolf-pelt cloak, held at my shoulder by a heavy gold brooch inlaid with lapis lazuli and garnets, and my sword, the hilt and cross guard stamped with gold. Yesterday he had seen me in a simple frock, tending the fields like a peasant. Today he would know me for the authority of the manor. I sat in the lord's chair and looked down on Sigberht as Leofric escorted him into the hall.