Avelynn: The Edge of Faith (38 page)

I arrived at the strait by noon, a surprisingly short trek, and found a man willing to ferry me across the temperamental water. An Amazon of a woman hopped on the large, flat-bottomed boat, skeins, cart, oxen and all. After setting us on the opposite shore, I gave the ferryman a silver coin and followed the woman and her wares into the heart of Bangor. I tamped down the burgeoning sense of anticipation. I prayed Frances would aid my cause, but she owed me nothing. I hoped Ealhswith’s letter and Rhodri’s promise of gold would provide some security, if needed, though I had no intention of boarding a ship unless it was bound south for Seisyllwg.

The town surrounding the church was small, but the monastic center was diverse and thriving. Buildings fanned outward, arranged symmetrically to the central cathedral. The construction materials ran the gamut of wattle and daub to horizontal planking to stone. Each structure was capped with either a wood or rush roof. The buildings themselves varied. Stables, dormitories, cattle sheds, goat sheds, kitchens, an infirmary, and hospice all fought for space between wooden pathways. Head bent to the rain, I followed a cluster of nuns scuttling to a long, narrow building. The stale, dank air inside told me I’d found the infirmary. I stepped back outside. Where there was an infirmary, the nuns’ quarters would be nearby.

I knocked on one of the larger cottages. A young woman in wimple and veil opened the door. She asked me something. I responded in English. She shook her head.

I tried the one thing I hoped she would understand. “Sister Frances?”

She pointed to herself and shook her head, but held up a finger asking me to wait. She hung my sodden cloak by the fire and motioned to one of the chairs in the room. I nodded and sat.

When Frances floated into the room, I almost cried in gratitude and disbelief. Part of me had doubted I would ever make it this far. I didn’t know how or if she would help me, but in that moment, everything seemed possible.

“I ask that I might speak with you in private. It is of the utmost sensitivity and urgency.”

She raised an eyebrow but dismissed the nun from the room. “How can I help you, brother?”

I removed my hood. “It’s me, Avelynn. We parted company at St. Dogmael’s. I left with your letter in hand to prove Branwen’s parentage. I ran afoul of some trouble. I’ve barely escaped with my life.”

She sat. “Your hair. Your eye. You’re … dressed as a monk.”

“I need your help.”

“I imagine.”

I told her of the treachery behind Gwgon’s death, my capture and subsequent escape, and my plan to get back to Seisyllwg to stop the massacre of innocent people. I left out the minor details like the witch trial.

She absorbed it all in silence, only now and then interrupting to ask questions. When I finished, she stood. Afraid she was going to turn me in, or run for help, I stood also.

Frances waved away my concern. “You have nothing to fear from me. How can I help?”

My nerves teetered on edge. “I need access to a ship bound for Seisyllwg.”

She nodded. “In two days’ time, the logboat docked at port will leave Bangor to travel to St. David’s. Filled with wool, wine, and timber from our own resources, it will stop at Towyn, Llanbadarn Fawr, and Nevern before it reaches St. David’s.”

I clung to the one town I knew. “Llanbadarn. That’s where I was taken.”

“Allowing for loading and unloading at each port, you would reach it by late evening.”

It had been three days since Sigy set me aboard Rhodri’s ship. Could I wait another two? Alrik and his crew could already be dead. I nodded. There was no other way.

I don’t know what story Frances told the crew to explain the addition of a traveling monk, but two days later, at the crack of dawn, I settled aboard a massive logboat en route to Llanbadarn. By noon, we docked at Towyn, the last sizable cluster of cottages in Gwynedd. I took the opportunity to find someone who spoke English, French, or Norse. I needed to know what was happening in Seisyllwg.

The harbor was busy with several ships of various sizes and shapes cramming its shores. Men and monks alike relieved the ships of their disparate cargo. I stumbled upon a wool merchant from Francia who, after several cups of mead purchased from one of the many peasants hocking their wares, became rather loquacious.

“Terrible business, that,” he said and belched into his hand.

“What have you heard?” I asked, careful to keep the tone of my voice deep and low and my head bent. The swelling around my eye had eased, but I imagined it was still quite colorful.

“There’s been a Viking attack on Llanbadarn. Loss of life on both sides. Heathen bastards.”

Dread curdled in my stomach. Sigy’s plan was obviously working. Raven’s Blood and its crew must have rejoined Alrik. Who lay amongst the dead? My chest tightened. I couldn’t think on it. I needed to stop the struggle before it worsened. There was no way the logboat from Bangor would stop at Llanbadarn now. They would have to steer clear of the conflict. I was running out of time and options.

“Where are you headed next?” If he was traveling south, perhaps he would allow me to accompany him. Sigberht wouldn’t be looking for two people.

“I’m away to Ireland to try my luck there.”

I frowned. I’d have to find another way.

With the merchant’s superior Welsh language skills and kind assistance, I procured a sword and clothes, the first from a fine ironworker, the second from a fishmonger who literally gave me the clothes off his back for the silver I offered him. If the merchant wondered as to my purpose in acquiring lay clothes, he didn’t seem to care. He wished me well as he stumbled sideways off to his boat.

I returned to the harbor wearing a cloak, trousers, and tunic, wishing I’d had the opportunity to wash the clothes first. Aside from the dirt and grime, the stench of sweat and dead fish permeated each and every fiber. I scanned the dock, trying to determine my next course of action.

A great assembly pushed through the masses at the docks. I couldn’t make out everything they were saying, but I did make out a few stray words. Those alone made my skin crawl with fear. They were shouting. In English. I surveyed the crowd, dread confirmed.

Sigberht marched with bloody purpose through the throng. His men forced their way onto each ship, checking holds and cargo bays for stowaways. They searched for a woman, possibly dressed as a monk. There was a generous reward of gold offered for her capture.

I spun around, trying to determine a means of escape. If I ran, someone would take notice. Instead, I shuffled closer to a merchant selling bone combs and antler pieces, feigning interest in the intricate work.

Sigberht continued to plow his way through the harbor, manhandling anyone with a cloak, ripping it off their heads. His sword, held firm in his grasp and raised in front of his body, kept any disgruntled comments free from his ears.

I flipped the hood of my cloak down, exposing my shorn hair, which was slick with sweat and dirt. He stopped not five feet from where I stood. “You there, priest.” He removed the man’s hood. A bald head gleamed back at him. He growled, but spoke through gritted teeth. “Have you seen a woman traveling alone?” When the priest declined to answer, most likely due to a lack of knowledge of the language, Sigberht shoved him hard, sending him sprawling to the dirt. “Useless Welsh toad.” He shuffled off, continuing to issue his appeal of a woman for gold.

My legs trembled as he passed. With the spectacle gone, the merchant, a plump woman with a protruding chin and a shrewd commercial acuity, turned her attention back to me. Afraid she would draw attention to the fact that I would not be able to converse with her, I pointed to the bone comb and produced a silver coin. She yammered on, shaking her head. I brought out another one. She pursed her lips. I followed suit, but added another pence to the pile. She smiled and held out her hand. Business done, I tucked the comb into my satchel and threaded my way through the crowd. I moved swiftly, ensuring I stayed opposite the direction in which Sigberht and his henchmen headed.

Resisting the urge to glance behind me, I kept my pace brisk and followed a well-traveled road leading away from the village and heading east. With such a busy trade port, there had to be a way across the wide tidal river that cut Gwynedd off from Seisyllwg. I sent a prayer upward when I spied several crafts ferrying people and goods across the channel’s wide berth.

After crossing the River Dyfi, I kept to the main road. With a strong sword once again strapped to my side and a tattered hood pulled over my head, I marched along the road unnoticed and unmolested. There were definite advantages to the world believing you were a man.

I reached Llanbadarn by dusk. It had been five days since my capture. The manor looked like I’d last seen it, except lines had been drawn. The gates to the wooden palisade were closed. Men watched from platforms overlooking the upright spires, their bows ready.

The Vikings and those who supported them camped beyond the reach of arrows in a sprawling mass of bodies and tents. With so many people milling about, my presence wasn’t questioned. I garnered little more than the occasional nod as I passed. My eyes swept the crowd, looking for Alrik, or anyone I recognized, praying to avoid Gil or Sigy at all costs.

I noticed Cormac first, his tawny head towering over the native Welsh around him. At the moment, he was gesticulating madly and getting nowhere fast, thanks to a lack of understanding of the language.

By the time I reached where he had stood, he had moved on, but I followed him through the crowd, not daring to call out. I caught up to him when he veered off the main road toward the river, fishing pole in hand. The trail wasn’t much wider than a deer path, and had probably only recently been created by the treading feet of the army seeking water and fish.

I made it to a bend in the trail and stopped. A suspicious Viking brandished a broad sword, blocking my progress.

I held up my hands. “It’s good to see you too, Cormac.”

His face contorted. I figured he was trying to match the image to the voice. “Who are you?”

“It’s me, Avelynn. I escaped from—”

He clutched the talisman around his neck and stepped backward. “Be gone, phantom.”

“Cormac, look at me. I know what you think you saw at the witch trial, but that wasn’t me.”

He took a step back. He resembled a fawn staring into the eyes of pursuing hounds.

“Sigy tricked everyone into thinking I was dead, but I wasn’t the one buried alive.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Sigy buried an innocent maid in my stead. Did you see the girl’s face? Can you swear on Odin’s eye that it was me placed in that grave?”

He stalked closer, giving me a thorough once over. “Avelynn?”

In a flurry of movement, he crushed me in a bear hug. I patted his back, as much in reassurance as in the need for him to let me go so I could breathe.

He set me down. “I can’t believe it’s you. I thought we’d lost you for certain.” He looked to the treeline. “Alrik. He needs to see you.”

“How is he?” I held my deepest fears at bay; my heart lodged in my throat.

“The man’s gone and lost his head. He’s mad with grief. When Gil sent word for our return, we tried to convince Alrik to leave, to let the bastards fight it out amongst themselves, but he refused to go. He won’t quit until every one of Hyffaid’s supporters lie dead at his hand.”

“I heard there were battles—loss of life on both sides.”

He nodded. “Knut and Sven fell. May they feast at Odin’s table.”

My heart ached with the senselessness of it all. All this death and loss due to Sigy’s vile ambitions.

“I’ll take you to him.” Without waiting for my response, he clasped my wrist and set off.

“I’m not going anywhere; you can leave go my arm.” I watched people pass by in a blur.

He regarded my wrist, but wouldn’t release his hold. “I’d just as soon not let you out of my grasp.” He shook his head, eyeing me again over his shoulder. “What happened to your hair?”

In what was becoming a tale worthy of a scop’s retelling, I told him everything—from Sigy’s plans, her aims for Dyfed, her betrayal of Gwgon. Her elaborate set-up of my death, my sale, capture, and subsequent escape. All the way down to the fishmonger who provided my present garb.

He listened in stoic silence throughout the entire story, but his body seemed to ratchet higher, like a spring winding tighter as my tale drew closer to the end.

We weaved through crowds mulling about campfires, laughing over drink, and sharing stories around sparse rations. A child ambled across our path and giggled as she watched me canter behind Cormac. Seeing the girl made me think of Branwen. I prayed for her welfare. I hoped she’d reached England safely.

We wandered down the road, the sun setting behind the mountains to the north. The last rays of orange and gold lighted the sky. The full moon rose triumphantly to the east. Fitting, I thought, as we reached Alrik’s tent. We always met under the full moon.