Avelynn

by Marissa Campbell

  Bertram nodded. “Very well.”

  I sat down.

  “Avelynn,” Wulfric said, bending on one knee. “The funeral must proceed today. We can’t wait on word of Edward. My men and I have to return to the king.”

  “But you have no one to lead you.”

  “We’ll fight under the banner of Dorset and Wareham.”

  “Osric and Demas?” Fire sparked from my eyes.

  The giant man recoiled and stood up hastily.

  “You’ll not fight under them, ever.” I’d die before I saw my father’s men, my men, led by those usurpers. “You’ll stay here until my father is buried. Then … then, I will lead you.”

  “My lady, please.” Leofric appealed to Bertram.

  Bertram moved to my side. “You’re ill with grief. Let me fix a tonic to calm you.”

  “I’m not ill, nor do I need a tonic. Like all the great shieldmaidens who have fought and led men in ages past, it’s my right to avenge my father and take his place.” I turned to Wulfric and Leofric. “Hasten to the church and prepare my father’s grave. Then bring Father Plegmund to the hall so that he may oversee the procession.”

  I grabbed my cloak and stepped outside, heading to the hall where my father’s body lay upon a pallet. It was near noon, but the world was shrouded in a veil of darkness as clouds, heavy and black, menaced the sky above.

  “Avelynn.” Wulfric caught up with me. “War is no place for a woman. Stay here and mind the manor—”

  I spun around on him. “How dare you question me. I’m the Earl of Somerset now. Through my father you are sworn to serve me.”

  “I only meant—”

  “Are you not sworn to serve me?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Are you not sworn to obey me?”

  “Yes,” he growled.

  “Are you not sworn to protect me?”

  “Aye, and that’s precisely what I’m trying to do. The shield wall is no place for a woman.” He had risen to his full height and loomed over me.

  Wulfric had always been like an uncle to me. All through my youth, he was as constant as a rock and fiercely loyal to my father. Despite my surge of anger, I was fond of the old churl. He had taught me how to fight, and until this moment, had treated me no differently from the scores of young men he’d helped train for my father’s household.

  “You’ve taught me as well as any of your warriors, and despite your well-intentioned concern for my welfare, you cannot deny my skills.” I crossed my arms. “Will you not stand beside me and protect me with your very life, Wulfric, as you would my father?”

  “Aye, of course I would, but this is folly—nay, ’tis madness. You’ve no experience in battle.”

  “And how much experience does a young boy of twelve have when he is given a sword and thrust into a shield wall for the first time?”

  “That’s not the same—”

  “You’re right—it’s not. I’ve been trained for this since I was small. The poor farmer’s son has never held more than a wooden hoe.” I glared at him. “My mind is set. Bring me the priest.” I walked into the hall, shutting the door behind me, leaving a dazed and belligerent Wulfric to cool his heels in the snow.

  The hall was empty save for Dearwyne, who sat near the light of the central hearth, scrubbing and polishing my father’s helmet and mail to a brilliant sheen. Glistening new links hid the fatal rent in the otherwise innocuous mail coat.

  “Leave me,” I said.

  She placed my father’s belongings on the table beside the pallet, nodded, and left.

  I leaned against the wall and let my head thump softly against the wood. I closed my eyes. Wulfric was right. I could fight, but leading men in a shield wall was madness. What was I thinking? And yet, it was as clear as a cloudless sky after a summer’s storm. No matter how much Demas or my uncle Osric wanted my father’s lands and title, as long as I still had breath within me they would never have it. Entreating my father’s warriors to fight under their banner was a backhanded, devious way of getting them to pledge allegiance to a new lord. That would leave Wedmore and Somerset with nothing—no warriors of our own, no form of protection. I would have to beseech Demas or my uncle for aid. I shuddered, imagining the price I would have to pay for such consideration.

  And what if I didn’t survive the fight? With my father gone and my brother presumed dead, I was Earl of Somerset, Lady of Wedmore. Who would lead in the case of my death? As our closest living kin, would my uncle be granted my father’s estate by the king? I wasn’t willing to take the chance.

  I would ensure that Osric and Demas never saw a piece of my father’s legacy. Upon my death, I would give everything to my goddaughter, Aethelflaed.

  I dragged my steps forward and gazed down at my father’s exanimate, vacant face. The leech at the battlefield had washed and prepared my father’s body, sewing up the gaping wound, and Wulfric had dressed him in his finest clothes—an azure blue tunic, light gray trousers that were cross-gartered to his knee, and his bear-pelt cloak. The cloak was clasped on his shoulder by a heavy gold brooch, and the long fingers of his strong hands were heavy with rings. A brilliant gold buckle cinched tight his waist. His hair shone like gold thread, while his gray-blue eyes lay closed forever.

  At some point in the fighting, the leather thong that held the amulet my mother had given him must have loosened, for it was gone. I wondered if this ill luck had hastened his death, and I quickly tucked other small amber talismans around him. I pried the fingers of one of his hands loose enough to enclose within his palm a small stone carving of Thunor’s hammer, a token of his favorite deity.

  I ran the backs of my fingers along his cheek and smoothed his hair over his shoulders. Hot tears blazed down my face.

  “Why?” I asked the Goddess in a choked whisper. “I just got him back. Why have you taken away everyone I love?” I thought of my mother, Muirgen, even Alrik—all lost to me forever. And Edward. My heart ached. Had he been taken from me too?

  “What have I done to deserve this?” I slammed my fist down on the table and collapsed onto the bench. I clung to my father’s body, my head resting against his chest. I missed the way my life had once been—when I wasn’t worried about betrothals, or leading men into battle.

  “It’s not fair,” I yelled to the unseen world above me.

  “It only seems that way,” Bertram said. I hadn’t heard him enter. “No one knows the will of the gods, Avelynn. Not you nor I. But they do not act out of spite or vengeance. Every man, woman, and child has his or her destiny. Your father has fulfilled his. Now it is your turn to embrace yours.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “Come,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Everyone is waiting. It is time your father was laid to rest.”

  I sat up and wiped the tears with the backs of my hands.

  Bertram opened the door to admit Wulfric, Leofric, and two other men.

  They picked up the pallet and laid my father inside the coffin. A warrior must always be buried with his sword, but I stopped them from placing his helmet and shield beside him. I wanted to honor him by wearing his armor into battle.

  Most of the Somerset levies were still with the king in Windsor, but everyone remaining in the village and surrounding countryside attended my father’s wake. As they entered the hall, I received their condolences as stoically as I could. Twenty of my father’s closest warriors each knelt before me, swearing their fealty, and kissed the ring on my finger.

  Wulfric’s great black mane bent forward at the last. “I swear to our lord God and His son, our savior Jesus Christ, to serve and protect ye till the day I die—even if ye are a right stubborn maid.” He kissed my ring.

  “I accept your pledge. Now go eat, you old bear, and honor my father with tales of victory and daring.”

  A feast had been prepared, and when all had eaten and drunk their fill, each of my father’s thegns passed the harp, singing songs to celebrate my father’s valor. Then they regaled
us with capers and stories from his youth. I had never seen this side of my father and laughed along with the others as they shared tales of innocent pranks and boyhood antics.

  Plegmund said a prayer and mass over the body and then placed a small chalice of holy water inside the coffin to protect the newly departed soul from evil. I watched as the lid was lowered and felt each strike of the hammer, each driven nail, as an assault on my heart.

  Plegmund led the procession, and we made our way through the blowing snow to the small churchyard. It was fully dark now, and we moved slowly down the main road, carrying torches, the flames slapping and twisting in the bitter January wind. The coffin was placed into the ground, and after Father Plegmund said a final prayer entrusting my father’s soul to God, everyone departed. I stood there frozen, shivering, until the last spadeful of dirt was mounded above the grave and a small stone marker placed on top.

  “Come inside,” Plegmund offered. “There is warmth by the fire.”

  I let him lead me into the small nave of the chapel. Barely able to hold more than fifty people, it served for small masses. On special feast days, services were always held in my father’s hall, where there was room for hundreds. I stopped. My hall. My throat constricted, as the weight of those two words rested on my shoulders. The church’s doorkeeper nodded as we passed and went back to laying fresh rushes. The room smelled of dried grass and hay.

  Plegmund led me through a vestibule into the cramped church office.

  “Please, sit and rest a moment.” He gestured to a low stool nestled up to a small trestle table and then shuffled over to the hearth, adding another log to heat the room.

  Along the farthest wall was a pallet for his bed and several locked chests piled high with sheets of parchment. A large wooden cross hung on the wall.

  “How are you, Avelynn?” he asked, sitting across from me and resting his hands on the table. The worn wooden surface was scarred with ink stains and globs of wax from two rancid-smelling tallow candles.

  “It hasn’t been the easiest of days. Or months, for that matter.”

  “No, I imagine not. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  He picked at a mound of cooled wax. “I understand you wish to take vengeance into your own hands.”

  “I do.”

  “I cannot blame you for wanting justice, but it’s dangerous for a woman to tread into men’s waters.”

  “I’m quite capable of leading the cause.” I felt like my brother having to defend his desire to fight Vikings. The thought of him brought a quiver of pain as sorrow shot through me.

  “I’m not questioning your abilities or your rights. I’m merely pointing out that you will not make any friends with this venture.”

  I eyed him curiously and waited.

  “There are factions at work in Wessex, and I fear you may be baiting lions with this action.”

  “I don’t understand. What have you heard?”

  “Just whispers, rumors, of powerful men making pacts with the Devil. There are no names of course, but perhaps you should remain here and see to your people. What will happen to Wedmore if you are lost?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you could help me with. I wish to make my will.”

  “I cannot sway you from your course?” He looked at my unmoving face. “Very well.”

  He selected two pieces of parchment and waited.

  “In the event of my death, I wish to give everything—Somerset, Wedmore, all my chattels—over to my goddaughter, Aethelflaed. She is to be named earl in my stead. My keys and locked chests are to be given only to Ealhswith. And Ealhswith, as Aethelflaed’s guardian, is given control of running the estate until Aethelflaed comes of age.”

  He nodded and drew up the document on one piece of parchment, copying it on the other. The doorkeeper was called in to witness my signature.

  “On the morrow, I will send one copy to join Wedmore’s official records in Glastonbury. The other will abide here.” He nodded to one of the large chests in the corner of the room.

  “Thank you.” I rose to leave.

  “God keep you, Avelynn, and pray be careful.”

  I stepped out into the night’s blackness, buffeted on all sides by the cold, merciless winds of fate and snow.

  * * *

  By the time I reached Windsor, messengers had already informed the entire Saxon army of my intent to fight. Along with Aethelred and Alfred, both Osric and Demas were waiting in Windsor’s grand hall for my arrival.

  “Avelynn, go home,” Alfred insisted.

  “I will not.”

  King Aethelred eyed me curiously. “Wulfric tells me you are well trained with sword and shield.”

  Wulfric was leaning against the thick planked wall, scowling into his cup of ale.

  “I’ve been trained as well as any of my father’s thegns.”

  “Sire, she makes asses of us all,” Osric spat. “A woman on the battlefield! She’ll curse us with her very presence.”

  The idea of being cursed clearly didn’t sit well with Aethelred, and he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat on the raised dais.

  “I invoke the blood feud,” I said, glaring at my uncle. The blood feud was an ancient rite of revenge, allowing a family member to avenge any wrong done to their kin. This was a sacred tenet of our society, and by invoking it first, I’d hoped it would give weight to my cause.

  “As Eanwulf’s brother, it is my place to exact retribution from the Viking bastards.” Osric stormed over to me. “You will turn about and go home.”

  “Since when have you spared one thought for my father? I’m his rightful heir. The feud is mine. I’m not leaving.”

  Osric’s face turned crimson. A vein bulged along his forehead.

  “Avelynn,” Alfred said, stepping between us. “Osric will provide justice in the name of your father. Leave vengeance in his capable hands. The shield wall is no place for a woman.”

  I was getting tired of hearing that. “Draw your sword, Alfred. The first to yield or fall wins.”

  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’v
e 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.