Pressed Violet Ch. 01

Author's Note: This is a sequel to "Lover's Glade", set many years after, and that one is not required reading to enjoy this one. Do note that there is some strong violence in this story, and the smut doesn't begin until Chapter 2. I hope you enjoy my tale of Historical Fantasy set in the isles of Britannia during the Dark Ages.

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Pressed Violet

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1

Washed Ashore

The breeze was soft against her skin as Aedwen walked along the well worn path through the forest. The grass stained hem of her skirt brushed against the few flowers poking richly coloured petals out from the undergrowth as she hummed quietly to herself. A soft bark from the side caught her attention and Aedwen turned, wincing slightly when the back of her dress brushed over too familiar itches.

Lips curled into a smile, Aedwen watched a young fox leaping up onto a log to study her. It cocked its head, its brilliant fur stood out against the soft green and brown of the forest. She found herself waving at it, before it let out a playful bark and leapt off the log. Aedwen smiled for a minute, puzzled, and stepped down the path when she noticed the fox had paused and was looking at her.

With another bark, it took a few steps then stopped, and sat there in the underbrush and stared.

"Want me to follow?" she asked, and the fox barked again. Aedwen laughed to herself and stepped off the path and moved into the forest. Her eyes strayed along the woodland floor, checking for any of the plants she had come out here to gather to begin with.

The fox led her deeper, until sunlight became but beams that pierced through the canopy. She didn't see any of the plants she needed, but ahead the trees opened into a broad clearing, with a pile of moss covered boulders on one edge. Brilliant bright orange flowers with a bright white centre had sprung up among the grass, and Aedwen couldn't help but smile. She'd been looking for fox foot for months now; amusing who had led her to it.

The fox leapt up onto one of the boulders and poked its head down on the other side. It was enough to make Aedwen pause and tilt her head, and curious enough to cross the meadow and move around the rock. She let her fingers run over the moss until she found what the fox was looking at.

Carved into one side of the boulder was a small shrine, discoloured and worn at the edges by age. The small statue in the centre displayed one the ancient Goddesses of the Isles. She ran her fingers along the iron base of the shrine, feeling the pits from corrosion in the metal. Aedwen's eyes grew wide with wonder.

"I may not worship you. But thank you," she said to the icon of the Goddess Mori... something. She wished she could recall. She did remember old tales speaking of offerings though. So, reaching in the pouch hanging from her shoulder, she pulled out a carefully pressed flower of violet petals. A gift once given to her, now to something higher.

Mildreth would have been happy Aedwen liked to think, and felt tears welling in her eyes as she put the flower on the shrine. Hands clasped together, she bowed her head, and tried not to think of the sensation of Mildreth's lips on her shoulder. Of those last lingering touches to her cheek.

Through the wet glide of tears, Aedwen lifted her head to see the flower was gone. She blinked, looking around in case the wind had blown it, but felt her attention pulled upwards to the call of a raven. It was perched atop the pile of boulders, its black eyes stared at her.

The flower clutched in its beak.

It let out its call again, the flower fluttering down before the bird caught it. It tilted its head once more before its wings snapped out and it took off into the sky. Aedwen watched it until it disappeared, wiping her palms across her face. Until a bump against her leg had her eyes turning downwards.

The fox let out a small chitter, and bumped its head against her leg again. Aedwen laughed and knelt, before she ran her fingers through the fur between its ears.

"And thank you too," Aedwen said, and the fox let out a happy sounding chitter as Aedwen rose to her feet.

The fox took a few steps before it jumped up into the air, and bounced off the ground, making the woman laugh as she watched. Soon though, the fox ran off into the forest, its orange coat vanishing amid the rays of sun streaming through the trees.

Wiping at her cheeks again and lips still curled into a smile, Aedwen moved into the centre of the meadow and pulled her small knife from its sheath at her hip. Kneeling, she began to carefully dig the fox foot flowers from the ground, ensuring she got the roots as intact as she could. She shook off the excess dirt, and put each one carefully inside her satchel.

After she'd pulled six from the ground she took out her map to mark the meadow upon it. She'd have to come back in a few weeks time in case Beyhild hadn't recovered. She glanced up to the sky, and took note that the sun hadn't quite reached its zenith. Aedwen got to her feet and brushed off her dress. She made her way back to the path; she still had some way to go to get some nettles.

And lavender for Sibert's insomnia, she reminded herself.

When she reached the path again she wasn't humming. Instead her mind was back in the meadow. Back where that raven had carried away Mildreth's flower.

When she found the patch of lavender she often frequented by the lake side, Aedwen set about her task with silence. The sun warmed her back, and the breeze carrying the lavender's scent caressed her skin.

After she pushed a bushel of the purple flowers into her satchel, she turned to stare out across the lake, and watched the gentle ripples from the breeze and the glinting sunlight upon its surface. It stretched out for at least a league, with the forest ending half way around its shores, turning to rolling hills and swaying grass.

Taking a seat on the side of the hill the lavender grew upon, Aedwen hugged her knees to her chest as the flowers' scent wafted over her. Mildreth had shown her this place. It had been here they'd shared their first kiss. The first time they'd made love. Aedwen didn't cry this time, but only smiled as she remembered playing silly games fit for children on this lake's shores. They had been fully grown women, and had often ended their silly play naked and in each other's arms.

Running her eyes along the shoreline, she remembered chasing Mildreth along its length, her gaze settled upon a figure laying face down upon the rocky shore, legs still in the waters, covered in a dark green cloak.

"Oh God," Aedwen called out, her memories burst like smoke as she got to her feet and ran down to the stranger. As she got closer, she saw crimson washed away by the lapping waters.

The figure was a woman, tall, with a warrior's build.

Strands of dark red hair had slipped from the hood of the cloak. She was clad in riding boots, trousers, and what looked to be a short sleeved tunic of mail covered in a wolf pelt on the back. Bracers of near black steel covered her forearms, but Aedwen's eyes couldn't help but trace the hard ridges of her biceps. The sword sheathed at her hip certainly led to the belief that she was a warrior.

Aedwen rolled the woman over, and took a brief look at her sharp and striking face. The woman's eyes were closed, and her lips starting to turn blue. Cursing, Aedwen knelt down, cheek next to the woman's cool lips and nose. She felt warm breath on her skin and let out a sigh of relief before she began checking the body.

She found broken links of mail along the side of the woman's chest, where blood seeped through the metal. Carefully reaching through the break, Aedwen pushed through a layer of leather and soaked quilted padding before they found a nasty gash. Hot blood washed over her exploring fingers, and Aedwen cursed. She looked around desperately, even shouted out for help, but of course no one replied.

Cursing to herself, she pulled the larger woman into a sit, grunting with effort as she did so. The woman let out a groan, her fingers twitched.

"Come on, wake up. This'll be much easier," Aedwen said, one hand on the woman's shoulder to try and keep her in place. The other went low to try and lift that mail tunic by feel, she took note of the pair of roses tattooed on her neck, with thorny vines crawling up to her ear.

A twig snapped somewhere behind her and Aedwen turned her head to see movement in the forest.

"Help. I need help over here," she called, before her eyes widened as six men in white robes emerged from the forest, their heads shaved clean though one or two had long beards. In their hands were an array of axes and clubs, but they bore nothing else. Brothers of the Fish; zealots, murderers, spouting the name of God without understanding his teachings.

"Get away from her girl," the one in the front said, his beard mostly grey, his voice harsh as he pointed his axe towards her.

"She needs help. Not an execution," Aedwen called.

"She's a witch, she deserves to be burned. But I'll do with taking her head," the lead brother said as the other five fanned out behind him. They moved slowly, cutting off any escape, and Aedwen watched them.

Carefully she laid the stranger back down, and heard a low groan of pain from her. As Aedwen stood she pulled out her knife, not sure exactly what she was planning on doing. But she couldn't live with herself if these bastards killed someone under her care.

Not again.

"You would throw your lot in with her? She's a whore of the Devil," the lead brother said, as he pulled his axe into a two-handed grip, and flexed his knuckles around the haft.

"I can't let you do this," Aedwen said, her hands shook at her sides while her heart pounded in her chest as she stared at their leader.

"Have it your way. If you have sympathy for the devil, your soul belongs in Hell," he said, and started running towards her, lifting the axe above his head.

A scream tore from her throat, as she realized she was about to die. Aedwent lifted her knife and clenched her eyes shut. A shiver coursed down her back as she waited for the bite of the axe in her skull. Until a woman's voice reached her ears and a choked sound came from just in front of her.

Daring to open her eyes again, Aedwen saw the lead brother standing there, axe above his head, eyes wide with pain. Dark bruises had formed on his neck, and bone poked against the skin. He made another choked sound, and blood sprayed from his lips, before his fingers twisted with brittle snaps. The axe fell from his ruined grip, and landed at the edge of the rocks with a crack. Then the man's hip popped, his knee twisted and he fell to a wretched ball on the ground.

"Foul witch," one of the others shouted and rushed forward, and that cloaked figure of the stranger moved past Aedwen. Her hood had fallen back, long red tresses plastered to her skull as she met the charge of this second zealot monk.

The man's club swung for the stranger's head, but her sword sliced upwards. A scream tore from the man as his arm was sheared at the elbow, the sword's downward swing caught his other wrist and severed his hand. Both the club and the man fell to the ground to join his limbs. He tried to crawl away, while blood gushed from the stumps, but the woman took a step forward and planted her foot in the small of his back. The man cried out, and the others charged in.

The woman spoke, but not in Anglo-Saxon. Her words carried on the wind, as her hand waved behind her. Her brilliant green eyes flared before the scream of crows caught Aedwen's attention. She looked up in time to see a flock of crows descending upon the other monks. Black beaks and talons tore at their faces, ripped into their flesh as they waved their weapons frantically.

One of the monks was felled by a brother's axe that struck him across the jaw. Blood and teeth sprayed as he fell to the crimson slick rocks, clutching at the ruins of his face. Another of them fell back, his weapon dropped as his eye was pulled from its socket.

Aedwen turned and retched. Bile and the remains of her breakfast spilled across the rocks as the stranger plunged her sword downwards. The steel sank into the back of the man under her foot. Cleaved between ribs and into his heart. As his struggles stilled, the woman lunged at the others. The crows flew from her, and the next monk had the tip of her blade rip upwards from his hip to his rib cage. Entrails spilled outwards and he desperately tried to pack them back in as blood flowed over his fingers.

The woman moved to another man as Aedwen leaned against her own thighs. She looked upwards in time to see the stranger's blade crash down into a man's shoulder. Aeadwen heard the crack of the bones snapping, before the blade broke through more ribs and into the zealot's chest. With a swift kick to the monk's gut, the stranger pushed the corpse off her blade to crash hard on the rocks.

The woman stood in the wake of her violence, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, one hand upon the break in her armour. The wind seemed to howl in the descended quiet. She glanced to where the man whose eye had been pulled free was trying to crawl back to the woods, mewling to himself.

She barked something in her language again, either Pictish or Gaelic; Aedwen couldn't be sure. She stepped behind the man on his knees, who desperately tried to push his guts back in. A single swing of her sword took his head off. It fell forward into the greasy pile of his intestines. His white robes stained crimson.

Aedwen couldn't help but watch with morbid fascination as the stranger moved to the man on the ground still clutching at his jaw. His tongue flapped against the side of his neck as he tried to re-arrange his own face. The stranger made his death come quicker by plunging her sword into his side, and stilling his struggles.

Silent, Aedwen's eyes turned to the man crawling away. She tried to find sympathy for them, for once she believed that no person ever deserved the ruthlessness that had been visited upon these brothers.

She saw Mildreth's eyes then, heard her screams, as her flesh peeled away from the flames. Aedwen could find no sympathy for these monsters.

"One's getting away," she told the stranger, wiping bile from her lips.

The woman shook her head, before her lips moved as words from that foreign language of hers spilled out. Her hand waved towards the forest as the man crawled into the undergrowth.

The sound of creaking wood was soon drowned out by desperate screams which cut off violently, leaving only the wet rending of flesh.

Breathing heavily, the stranger's hand fell back to clutch her wound as she stared at the forest. Aedwen spat on the ground, clearing out the last few bits of vomit and wiped her hands on her sleeves. She needed a drink.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," the woman said, her Anglo-Saxon heavily accented.

Aedwen spat again. The stranger's accent was Irish, so she could guess that's where the woman was from. What in God's name brought her here?

"Those bastards deserved what you gave them," Aedwen said, and the woman turned to her fully. The beauty of her almost elfin features and rich green eyes off-put by the blood spattered across her skin.

"Perhaps I should take solace then, in that you didn't enjoy the sight," the stranger said, and Aedwen glanced down at her vomit among the rocks, slowly lapped away by the lake's gentle waves.

"Why are the Brotherhood after you? They called you a witch, and while that is a common accusation I just watched you call in spells," Aedwen asked, and the woman shrugged, which made her stumble slightly. Aedwen hurried to prevent her from falling, grunting at the weight of the armored warrior in her arms. Carefully she helped the stranger to her knees.

"I think you just answered your own question. You can trust your eyes," The woman said with a wince as she pulled her hand from her side and looked at her own blood glistening upon her fingers.

"Let's discuss this later. Right now I need to get you to my village. I'm a healer. I can help you," Aedwen said. The stranger let out a bitter laugh as she sat back on her heels, and reached to one of the pouches on her belt.

"Better you don't. There will be more of the bastards, and I'd rather not have you burned at the stake alongside me," the stranger said as she pulled a cloth from the pouch. Carefully she ran it along her blade, and Aedwen couldn't help but watch. Only Maetheld had a sword in their village and it was very plain. This one was forged of some darkened steel, with Celtic runes engraved along the edges of the blade. The woman had to dip her fingers into the fuller to get out all the blood, but soon it was clean and she carefully put it away.

"At least if you come with me, you'll have a chance not to burn at the stake. And kill more of them," Aedwen said, and the woman let out a small humourless laugh.

"A lot of rage for a good Christian woman."

"I've seen what can be described as a good Christian. My rage doesn't come close. Now, lift your tunic. Let me see that wound," Aedwen said., The woman glanced at her sidelong, before sighing. She untied the cord of her cloak first and set it aside before she bent down to slip out of her armour. Aedwen watched with fascination, noting the grey wolf pelt stitched through the mail and into a layer of leather on the underside of the metal links.

Of course, the witch was getting stuck; she struggled with her wound, so Aedwen helped pull off the garment of steel, leather, and fur. Then helped with the short sleeved black gambeson as well, short work with the ties down the front of the padding. Beneath that was a simple grey tunic that showed the softer curves of her form. It was soaked red around the gash, and clinging to the woman's skin.

Aedwen, blew out a breath and loosened the cords at the woman's chest in order to easily lift it up.

"We don't have time for this, we need to move," the witch said, even as she raised her arms above her head.

"If we don't bind that wound, you won't be going anywhere, so let me ply my trade," Aedwen admonished, as she lifted the garb upwards. She set the tunic aside and turned her eyes upon the witch. Top half only clad in simple wraps for her bust, her body rippled with the hard ridges of muscle; this woman seemed to be forged for battle. No wonder she had made such brutal work of the zealots.

Her eyes found their way to the Celtic swirls and knots tattooed from the witch's elbows to her shoulders, inching over to her shoulder blades. Aedwen had to resist reaching out to touch them.

Reaching into her satchel instead, Aedwen dug around the bundles of collected plants to find the bandages she always kept at the bottom.

"What happened here anyway?" Aedwen asked as she pulled out the strips of linen.

The stranger turned her head slightly. Those dark red locks slid over her shoulders, spilled down her back to the base of her shoulder blades.

"I was... hunting, when those Brothers found me. They had been tipped off by a priest at a nearby village. They ambushed me, I killed most of them," the woman said. Aedwen could guess whatever this woman was hunting, it was not boar or deer, but she did not press. "That was last night. Got into a boat and tried to paddle across the lake, but they had archers and slingers. Had to tip over the boat for cover. At some point, I must have passed out."

Aedwen started wrapping the strips of linen around her. She could smell the lake in the woman's hair, the blood on her skin, while she got the bandages tight. She heard the close lipped grunt of pain as the woman clutched at the hilt of her sword.

"That'll help. For now. But we need to get you back to my home. I can stitch it there, make sure it doesn't get infected," Aedwen said, and the woman glanced at her.