by Jayne Castel
“Farewell, mōder,” Beorn said hoarsely, struggling to hold back tears of his own. He had never seen his mother so upset. “Don’t worry – you will see me again.”
His assurances only made his mother sob even louder. Turning away from his parents, Beorn mounted his pony and quickly adjusted the stirrups. He rode away feeling wretched; his mother’s heart-rending wailing was almost more than he could bear.
It was a relief when he could no longer hear her.
Beorn joined the throng of men leaving Weyham, glad to be finally on his way. His hamlet sat on the heavily wooded western fringes of the Kingdom of Mercia. It was nestled at the end of a long valley, in the shadow of dark hills that rose to meet the sky. Beorn rode through his village, passing the ealdorman’s timbered hall along the way. He listened to the crunch of frozen leaves underfoot, the creaking of leather and jangling of horses’ bridles, and felt his skin prickle with excitement.
A warrior had to be able to say goodbye without shedding tears. He had done well this morning, yet it was nothing compared to what lay ahead. He rode toward battle and glory – toward his future.
BOOK ONE
Mercia
Chapter One
Battle Lords
Maes Cogwy – in the territory of north-eastern Powys – Britannia
Three months later…
The young man lay on his back, an axe buried in his gut.
Prince Cynddylan ap Cyndrwyn of Powys stared down at the corpse. The dead man’s face was a grimace, his blue eyes staring up at the heavens. He looked disbelieving, angry even, that his end had come.
“Did you know him?” Gwyn, captain of Cynddylan’s army, stopped next to his prince and glanced down at the warrior.
Cynddylan – ‘Dylan’ as he was known to those closest to him – nodded. “Mercian lad. Followed Penda around like a puppy and begged him to let him fight in the shield wall,” he replied. “Hard to forget a man who does that.”
Gwyn snorted. “Fools always die young.”
Dylan gave a grim smile in response, his gaze remaining upon the dead warrior. “Yes, they do.”
Dylan had spoken to the young man a few times on the journey north-west from Tamworth. Yet now, he struggled to remember his name. Beorn – that was it. Not that his name mattered now.
He was carrion for crows, nothing else.
Beorn’s corpse was just one of hundreds that littered the battlefield. Dylan and Gwyn stood at the center of a wide, marshy field fringed by forest on all sides. Dusk was settling, creating a haze over the surrounding woodland. They were in Powys, Dylan’s domain, where Northumbria had met Mercia and Powys in battle.
The Northumbrians had lost.
The victors combed the battlefield, killing any of the enemy who had not died from their wounds, and stripping them of their weapons and arm-rings – the spoils of war.
Dylan straightened up. His shoulders and arms burned from exertion, and the mail shirt he wore felt as if it was filled with rocks. His fine purple cloak was ripped and stained with blood. Yet, apart from a few bruises and superficial cuts, he was unhurt.
The thrill of victory made Dylan cast aside his battle-weariness. This was a great moment for his people. He had done his father proud; if only the old king had been alive to see it. He had now earned the crown his father had worn.
Upon his return to Pengwern, he too would be king.
The prince glanced over at Gwyn. His captain’s thick dark hair had come loose from its leather thong at his nape, and was now a tangled halo around his heavy-featured face. He was covered in thick leather armor, making his tall, muscular form look even more intimidating than usual. However, Gwyn’s left thigh was slick with dark blood.
“You’re injured,” Dylan frowned.
The warrior grunted in response, brushing his concern aside. “Just a nick – those northerners are skilled with a spear.”
Dylan nodded. Gwyn’s observation was an understatement; it had been the hardest battle he had ever fought. They had sacrificed a lot of men in order to bring the Northumbrians to their knees. He had come here with over seven-hundred men, but he would leave Maes Cogwy with less than half that number.
“Get that leg seen to,” he told Gwyn. “I’ve got a king to find.”
“Which one?” the warrior raised a dark eyebrow.
“The one who still has his head attached to his shoulders.”
Gwyn gave another snort, turned and limped off, leaving the Prince of Powys alone.
Dylan turned his attention to the other side of the battlefield – where his and Penda’s men were dismembering the Northumbrian king.
Fortunately, for Oswald, Penda had killed him first.
He had delivered a fatal blow to the neck with his legendary sword – Aethelfrith’s Bane. The sword had once belonged to another Northumbrian king; Aethelfrith – slain by King Raedwald of the East Angles many years earlier.
The King of Mercia stood now watching his men at work on King Oswald. Penda was an imposing figure, clad in mail and leather, an iron helm obscuring his face. He looked on while his men hacked at the Northumbrian king’s corpse with axes.
One of the Mercian warriors hauled Oswald’s severed head up by the hair and impaled it upon a pike. Then, with a victory roar, the warrior strode through the battlefield, brandishing his grisly prize.
Dylan halted a few yards from Penda, and waited for the Mercian to acknowledge him. However, the Prince of Powys did not sheath his sword. Instead, he wisely kept hold of it in his right hand. Its blade was dark with Northumbrian blood; he would not put it away until he was sure that Penda would not betray him.
“Prince of Powys,” Penda rumbled, tearing his gaze from Oswald’s final humiliation. He looked then, upon the man he had allied himself with. “Well fought, Cynddylan son of Cyndrwyn.”
Dylan nodded curtly. “And you, Lord Penda.”
The Mercian King reached up and removed his helm, revealing an austere face that had once been handsome. He had pale blue eyes and a mane of white-blond hair. Penda was in his early forties but appeared to have the strength of a man half his age. Dylan’s impression of the man before him was of coldness, and of calculation. He had never liked Penda – few did – but he had a grudging respect for him nonetheless.
“That is a fine sword,” Penda nodded at the weapon that Dylan still held. “And you know how to wield it.”
Dylan nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “It was my father’s.”
Penda’s cool gaze shifted from Dylan then and swept over the battlefield behind him. “A great triumph for Mercia. Long has Oswald been a thorn in my side.” His gaze settled upon the head of the Northumbrian king that was making its way around the field. “But no more.”
Coarse laughter reached them. Dylan glanced across the battlefield at where the warriors had removed Oswald’s head from the pike. He and Penda looked on as the men hung the Northumbrian king’s head and hands, in a tree; a gnarled elm on the edge of the marshy field.
It was done. The enemy was defeated, they had won. The Prince of Powys shifted his gaze from Oswald’s remains, instead taking in the wide field, the surrounding trees, and the darkening sky. Maes Cogwy would forever be a sacred spot for his people. Mercia and Powys were now allies. Songs would be sung around the fire for generations about their victory here.
But now, it was time to go home.
***
The village of Weyham – the Kingdom of Mercia
“Hurry, Merwenna. If we are going, it must be now!”
“I am hurrying!” Merwenna gasped, hiking her skirts and clambering up the mossy bank after her brother. “Wait for me!”
The sun was rising over the edge of the trees to the east, and the sky was a pale, chalky blue, promising a warm day ahead. Brother and sister had been sent out to Weyham’s market to buy two milking goats. Little Aeaba had wanted to join them, but Merwenna had insisted she stay behind – much to her younger sister’s upset.
Merwenna and S
eward had crossed the village, nearly running in their haste to leave Weyham without being waylaid. Seward carried a leather pouch containing a few thrymsas – the money they had been given for the goats. Merwenna carried a jute sack, slung across her front, containing some provisions she had taken from the family store. Their parents were busy with their morning chores but would expect Merwenna and Seward back shortly.
It was late summer, and the first day of the harvest. Many days of hard work lay ahead while food was collected, preserved and stored for the coming winter. It was the most crucial time of year; a family could starve on account of a failed harvest.
It was the worst time of year to run away.
Merwenna broke into a sweat thinking about her parents’ reaction. Even so, she quickened her pace and followed Seward into the trees. It was selfish of them both, to leave right when they were needed most, but Merwenna had thought long and hard before making her decision.
She had not been able to wait in Weyham any longer.
Three long months had passed since Beorn’s departure, and since then no word had been heard. She did not even know if Mercia had been victorious against Northumbria.
She had to know if Beorn lived – every waking moment was spent worrying about his fate. With each passing day, she grew increasingly agitated. Her mother had told her to wait, and she had tried, but now with the end of summer approaching, she could bide her time no longer.
When she had asked Seward to accompany her to Tamworth, she had expected him to refuse. Even worse, she had feared he would go to their parents about it.
She need not have worried.
Seward was restless, with a longing to visit new places and meet new people. At eighteen winters, he was old enough to go to battle but his father had forbade it. Seward was needed at home, to help farm the fields and feed the family. Her brother had chafed at his father’s decision. He was eager to know of the world beyond Weyham, and he had jumped at the chance of a journey to the King’s Hall.
He strode off ahead, not bothering to check if his sister was keeping up. Like his father, he was not overly tall, but strongly built, with short brown hair and hazel eyes. Despite that Seward was ignoring her now, Merwenna felt safe and protected in his presence. She would never have embarked on this journey alone. The road was good, but it was at least five days to Tamworth from Weyham. Seward would make sure they reached their destination safely.
Then, I will know of Beorn’s fate, Merwenna thought, her belly twisting with worry. I will bring him home.
Life had been colorless and joyless for Merwenna since Beorn’s departure. Now, for the first time in weeks, there was a lightness in her stride. The cool morning breeze on her skin sharpened her senses and she breathed in the scent of wild-flowers, damp earth and grass.
Finally, she was doing something. With every step she drew closer to Beorn. The lump of dread that had settled in her belly the day he had left, began to ease.
Once they left Weyham behind, Seward broke into a slow jog, covering the ground quickly. They kept out of sight of the road, although Seward made sure they followed its course south-east. Merwenna ran behind him, the sack containing their supplies banging against her hip as she did so. It was not long before a stitch in her side caused her to call out to her brother.
“Slow down,” she gasped. “I can’t keep running like this.”
Seward slowed and looked back over his shoulder, his exasperation evident.
“I’m just trying to make sure we distance ourselves from home,” he called back. “The faster we do that, the better.”
“I know, but I’m not used to running long distances. Can we walk for a bit?”
Seward sighed and slowed to a walk, allowing his sister to catch up.
Above, the sun had cleared the treetops and warmed their faces.
“They will know we’ve gone by now,” Merwenna said eventually.
Seward nodded, but did not reply.
“Are you sure fæder won’t come after us?”
“As sure as I can be – he can’t leave mōder and Aeaba alone with the harvest.”
“He will be furious.”
Seward shrugged, as if he had already considered and dismissed the notion. “You knew that when you made the decision to leave. However, we are both grown and must make our own decisions. If we had asked, fæder would only have denied us. You saw how he was when I asked to go to battle?”
‘He was only trying to protect you.”
“And he’d only be trying to protect us now. No, Merwenna. You wanted to know Beorn’s fate – this is the only way. Unless you’d prefer to return to Weyham and wait till the king sends word?”
Merwenna shook her head, setting her jaw into a stubborn line.
“I thought not,” Seward laughed, throwing his arm around her shoulders. “Come – the road is long and we’ve barely started along it. Catch me if you can!”
And with that, Seward released her and sprang forward. He sprinted through the trees like a deer.
With a groan, her legs still protesting from her earlier run, Merwenna took off after him.
Chapter Two
A Meeting at Market
Tamworth, Kingdom of Mercia – Britannia
Merwenna’s first glimpse of Tamworth was of the great tower, rising against a windswept sky.
She had never seen a dwelling made of stone before, nor had she ever seen such a tall structure. She literally gaped before reaching for her brother, plucking at his tunic to get his attention.
“Seward – look!”
Seward twisted and gazed up at the massive tower thrusting into the heavens above the tree tops. Like his sister, he had never seen anything like it. The tower was made of a dull-grey rock, and even from this distance, Merwenna could make out the patches of lichen that encrusted it.
The Great Tower of Tamworth, Merwenna gazed at it, excitement leaping in her breast. We’ve made it.
The five days, most of it on foot, it had taken them to reach Mercia’s capital, had been exciting for them both. As Seward had predicted, their father had not come after them. Two days out from Weyham they had decided to risk traveling on the road, and those they had met on the way had been friendly. At dawn this morning, they had met a cloth merchant on his way to Tamworth – and they had spent the last stretch, perching on the back of his wagon, amongst bolts of linen.
The wagon bounced along the rutted track, between rows of magnificent horse chestnuts, before emerging into the gentle hills around the base of Tamworth. Merwenna watched, with interest, the folk laboring in the fields around the town. They were geburs – peasants bonded to the Mercian king – giving their labor in return for his complete protection. The geburs were gathering a bountiful harvest of cabbages, turnips, carrots and onions, which would see Tamworth through the long winter to come.
The sight of the folk working the fields reminded Merwenna that her parents and Aeaba would be working alone this year, and much harder than usual – all because of her and Seward’s departure. Still, upon finally reaching their destination, Merwenna’s guilt was short-lived.
As the wagon trundled toward Tamworth’s gates, Merwenna stared up at the stone walls of the Great Tower of Tamworth and took a deep breath. Perhaps Beorn was already here – waiting for her. The thought made her pulse quicken.
The cloth merchant – a stout, balding man of around forty winters – flicked the reins. He urged the two heavy-set ponies that pulled his wagon, through the gates and into the town itself.
Merwenna perched upon a bolt of linen and gazed at her surroundings. Thoughts of Beorn were momentarily cast aside as a wall of noise and smells assaulted her senses. She saw street vendors hawking hot pies and freshly roasted rabbit; the aroma of their wares made her stomach rumble. She heard the wailing of a babe somewhere in the crowd, and the excited shouts of children who ran amongst the throng of folk going about their daily business.
The wagon trundled along dirt-packed streets, in-between tightly p
acked wattle and daub houses and workshops. They passed an iron-monger’s, and breathed in the tang of hot iron as the smith beat out a blade on his anvil. They passed the baker’s, and caught the aroma of hot oat-cakes, fresh out of the oven.
Farther on, they rumbled by the town’s mead hall; a long, low-slung, and windowless, structure. Here, Merwenna caught the unmistakable whiff of fermentation. She made a note of the hall’s position, for they would need to retrace their steps back to it; hopefully, it would be able to accommodate them for a few days. They would sleep on the floor with others visiting Tamworth.
Eventually, the cloth merchant brought his wagon to a halt in the middle of a crowded market place. It lay not far from the wooden perimeter that divided the Great Tower from the rest of Tamworth. Here, Merwenna and Seward clambered down from the wagon, their limbs stiff and aching. Despite the discomfort, the ride had saved them over half a day’s journey, and Merwenna had been grateful to rest her blistered feet.
“Thank you,” Seward shook the cloth merchant’s hand. “We are grateful for the ride.”
“I’m sure you are,” the man gave Seward a sly look before casting a glance in Merwenna’s direction. “You didn’t think I’d let you travel for free, do you?”
Seward released the merchant’s hand and stepped back, his smile fading. His hazel-eyes narrowed as he took the measure of the cloth merchant for the first time.
“We have no gold,” he said finally.
This was not strictly true. They carried the leather purse with them – although they only had enough for food and lodgings to sustain them for the few days they would stay in Tamworth – nothing more.
“How unfortunate for you,” the merchant’s gaze gleamed as he spoke. “Yet, I expect payment all the same.”
“But we have nothing to pay you with,” Merwenna spoke up, only to receive a quelling look from Seward. He was in charge here.
“Really?” the merchant grinned, enjoying himself now. Around them, the crowd jostled; merchants, farmers and traders were all vying for the townsfolk’s attention. Merwenna was not used to being surrounded by so many people – and she felt her chest constrict.