by Jayne Castel
Penda gave a humorless laugh. “You did not fight alongside them at Maes Cogwy, Rodor. They are formidable allies, and I am not done fighting. Northumbria might have been beaten to submission but I still have enemies to face. Annan of the East Angles has long been a thorn in my side. I will not rest till I gut that whoreson on my blade.”
Rodor did not reply to that. He knew that the rancor between Penda and Annan ran deep. Mercia had beaten the East Angles at Barrow Fields, years earlier, and killed their king. The successor to the East Angle throne, Annan, was allowed to live only if he agreed to ‘bend the knee’ to Mercia. Penda had attempted to seal the agreement with an arranged marriage between his sister, Saewara, and Annan. Unfortunately, his plan had turned against him when Saewara fell in love with her new husband, and betrayed her brother.
These days, it was forbidden to mention Saewara’s name in Penda’s presence. The king’s hatred for his sister ran deep.
“Cynddylan of Powys will also become your bane,” Rodor told Penda, his dislike for the prince overriding prudence. “Mark my words, he will be laughing at you right this moment – gloating over his good fortune.”
Silence stretched between them then. When Penda replied, his voice was low, dangerous. “What would you counsel me to do?”
Rodor hesitated. He knew that tone well, and it warned him to proceed carefully. His king was on the verge of losing his temper. Rodor was close to bearing the brunt of the Mercian king’s wintry rage.
“Send a war party after Cynddylan,” Rodor told Penda firmly. “Kill him before he reaches Powys.”
“What? And turn Powys against us? Have you not been listening to me – we need their alliance.”
“Make his death look like the work of outlaws,” Rodor continued. “No one has to know it was you.”
The king did not reply for a moment. His gaze moved away from his thegn, to where Paeda was still clutching his ear and wailing curses at his smug younger brother.
“Finally,” Penda drawled, “a suggestion that doesn’t make you sound like a dolt. I was wondering if the trust I have placed in you all these years had been misguided.”
Rodor stared back at Penda and felt his face flush hot at the insult. The king’s response was offensive. Yet, he could see that Penda was starting to come round to his idea.
“It must be an assassination,” Penda continued. “Swift and silent. The killers must move like shadows. Cynddylan’s throat must be cut while he sleeps – and no one must ever suspect that I was behind it.”
Rodor nodded, holding his breath.
Penda’s gaze swiveled back to the warrior before him, and Rodor saw the calculating gleam in the king’s gaze. “Who will carry out this task?” Penda asked.
Rodor smiled. They both knew the answer.
“I will, Milord.”
“You, Rodor? Yet, I see that you hate the Prince of Powys. Hate makes a man rash, foolish. I’ve lost many a good warrior to it.”
“I’m one of your best. I do not succumb to the same mistakes as others,” Rodor replied without a trace of arrogance. It was a simple fact. Penda knew it – that was why the king had left him behind to protect Queen Cyneswide while Penda marched his fyrd to war. He would only leave her in the hands of a warrior he knew to be his own rival.
Penda nodded. “You are – but this task requires more than skill with a blade. You will not be fighting Cynddylan on the battlefield. You must catch him unawares. Can you be as silent as a shadow?”
“I can,” Rodor assured him. “I will gather a group of warriors – the best you have. We will track down the Cymry army, and penetrate their camp at night. We shall make sure their prince never reaches home.”
Penda sank back into his chair, his gaze hooded. “Very well,” he finally acquiesced. “I give you leave to do so.”
Victory surged through Rodor, sweet and heady as strong mead. With a nod he turned to leave.
“Rodor.”
“Yes, Milord,” Rodor swiveled back to face his king. Penda’s pale gaze snared his, and held him fast.
“There can be no mistakes. None. If you fail, none of you must return here. You will die rather than reveal the truth – is that clear?”
Rodor nodded.
“Heed me well,” Penda leaned forward in his seat, the intensity of his gaze making Rodor draw back slightly. “If you, or any of your men, return to me with tales of woe, I will show no mercy. Cynddylan must die quietly, and you must do it unseen.”
Chapter Eleven
The Journey West
Grey mist clung to the trees like porridge.
Merwenna struggled through the undergrowth. She cursed at the blackthorn that tore at her skirts and cloak, and at the rain that slashed across the woodland. She had no idea if she was even going in the right direction. Without the sun to guide her, she was traveling blind.
She was soaked through and chilled. It had been a long, miserable night, huddled under the trees while the tempest spent itself. Yet, the breaking dawn had not brought any solace. The storm moved on but the rain remained. It was hard to believe that the kingdom had been enjoying the balmiest summer in years. All at once, autumn had arrived.
Merwenna’s stomach growled as she walked; a constant reminder that she had eaten little since leaving Tamworth. She carried little money with her, for Seward had been looking after the pouch containing their precious gold. She had used her last thrymsa to buy bread and cheese before slipping out of the gates into the dusk, but that was nearly gone. What little she had left needed to be rationed. She had found some raspberries that morning and taken the edge off her hunger – yet it returned now, sharp and demanding.
Ignoring her empty belly, as best she could, Merwenna pressed on. More than her hunger, it was a growing sense of panic that bothered her. She had been so sure of her direction last night, before the storm broke. Now, she had the chilling sensation she was traveling off-course.
Still, she would find out soon enough – once the mist cleared – whether she was journeying toward home.
Eventually, the trees began to the thin, and the going grew easier. The ground squelched underfoot as the rain continued to fall, in a thick, heavy mist now. Time lost any meaning.
Merwenna took a brief rest, under the sheltering boughs of a great oak, and chewed at a piece of bread. The rain had soaked it, making the staleness more palatable. She ate it slowly, forcing herself not to stuff the rest into her mouth.
She still had a long way to travel before reaching home.
Merwenna continued her journey west, eager to distance herself from Tamworth. The day drew out. Gradually the mist lifted, and the rain ceased. When the sun set in the west, Merwenna was relieved to see that she had not traveled as far off course as she had feared. Still, she altered her direction slightly – cutting right, across a shallow, wooded valley.
Warmed by the rays of the setting sun, Merwenna’s spirits lifted for the first time all day. And when she discovered a patch of mushrooms growing in a shadowy dell at the bottom of the valley, she almost felt cheerful.
The mushrooms were small and earthy, and they took the edge off her hunger. Her clothes had started to dry out, although the damp homespun itched against her clammy skin. She found a stream in the valley, but it was too shallow to bathe in. She did manage to slake her thirst from it, and wash her face.
Night eventually settled over the softly wooded hills of Mercia, bringing with it, a chorus of bird-calls. Merwenna would have liked to build a fire, but there was no dry wood about to make one with. Instead, she sat, under the canopy of twin beeches and leaned her back up against the rough bark, watching as darkness swallowed the world.
As a child she had been terrified of the dark, especially in the winter. She had been convinced a demon would creep out of the trees and carry her off. Her fears had been so real that she had kept both her parents awake for many a night.
Yet, tonight it was not demons but thoughts of Beorn that kept her from sleeping.
; It was easier to keep thoughts of her betrothed at bay during the day, when she was focused upon her destination. However, now that she had curled up amongst the trees, she could no longer outrun her worries.
Why did you have to go to war? Merwenna’s chest constricted painfully. You could have been happy farming the land in Weyham, building a life there with me. We could have had children. We could have grown old together.
She brushed aside the tears that trickled down her cheeks and chided herself for railing against fate. It was futile to dwell on such things. Beorn was gone, and with him, the focus that had given Merwenna her strength, her purpose.
What will become of me when I return to Weyham? I’ll have to face Seward and my parents – who will be furious with me. But, after that?
The future was open, unwritten – empty. She did not like to dwell upon it. Instead, she drew her damp cloak close around her and shut her eyes against the encroaching darkness.
***
The scent of wood-smoke made her halt mid-stride.
Was she near a village? It was nearing dusk, on the second day of her journey west from Tamworth. Despite that she had stumbled upon the road west this morning, and followed it ever since, she had not yet set eyes upon a soul. She hoped it was a village nearby, for she felt light headed with hunger and her limbs ached with weariness.
Mingled with the wood-smoke was the aroma of roasting mutton. Her mouth filled with saliva and she took another step forward. Then, she hesitated.
It might not be a village. There could be a group of men camped ahead. They might be hunters, outlaws – or the king’s men. The thought frightened her. She was wary of rushing forward to greet strangers without first knowing what lay ahead.
Out here in the woods, there was no one to protect her. If she ran into trouble, no one would hear her scream.
Merwenna took a slow, deep breath and stepped backward. On second thoughts, it was better to avoid company altogether. She was safer on her own.
“Wes hāl wench – so we meet again.”
Her heart leaped in her breast, and she swiveled around. Her gaze shifted to the cloaked figure, carrying an armload of fire wood. He was a stocky man of middle age, balding, with a pugnacious face she would never forget.
Drefan of Chester – the cloth merchant.
Merwenna’s heart started hammering against her ribs like a caged thing. Of all the individuals in the kingdom, this man was the last one she wanted to meet in the middle of the silent woods.
Drefan must have seen the terror on her face, for he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, but one full of vindictive pleasure.
“We have a debt to settle,” he said, throwing aside the twigs he had been carrying and dusting his hands off. “Do you remember?”
Merwenna swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “The queen paid you,” she gasped. “Two thrymsas. I saw her man give them to you.”
Drefan’s smile faded and he shook his head, mockingly. “I’m not speaking of that debt, but of another. You insulted me, you dishonored me before the Queen of Mercia. You turned her against me. She will never buy cloth from me again – because of you.”
Merwenna’s eyes widened, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might explode from her chest. She backed away from him, every nerve stretched taut like a hemp bowstring.
“I owe you nothing,” she whispered. “Leave me be.”
“Slut,” Drefan growled, looking around as he took a step toward her, his gaze narrowing in suspicion. “Where’s your brother, eh? Aren’t you going to shout for him?”
She backed farther away, her gaze never leaving him.
The cloth merchant’s smile returned, as realization dawned upon him.
“Wyrd shines upon me indeed,” he grinned. “You’re alone out here. Your brother has abandoned you. I don’t believe my good fortune.”
She shook her head, too terrified to speak.
“Come here, you little bitch.”
He lunged at her, moving swiftly for a heavy-set man. Yet, Merwenna moved just as quickly. A moment earlier, she had been frozen in terror, but his lunge caused her to spring away, toward the trees.
Unfortunately, her pursuer was fast, and Merwenna’s limbs were clumsy with fear. After just a couple of strides, he barreled into Merwenna, pinning her to the damp ground under his weight. Winded, she gasped for breath as he climbed off her and pulled her to her feet by the hair. Agony burned across her scalp but she struggled nonetheless – earning a hard slap across the face from a calloused hand.
The pain did something then. Instead of subduing her, it chased away the paralyzing terror. It was like being woken from a deep, numbing sleep. Suddenly, she remembered the things her father had told her; methods of defending herself should a man ever try to force himself upon her.
Merwenna balled her hand into a fist and punched her attacker, hard, in the throat. She caught him, just under the chin.
Drefan’s eyes bulged in shock. He had not expected her to retaliate. He choked and staggered back, grasping his injured windpipe. Seizing her chance, for she would not get another, Merwenna twisted away – and ran.
Chapter Twelve
Travelers in the Woods
Dylan was about to call his men to a halt, and command them to make camp, when he saw a young woman burst from the trees up ahead.
They were riding on the edge of a shallow wooded valley, upon the road west as it followed the course of a gently meandering stream. His men had journeyed hard since leaving Tamworth, despite the bad weather. His instincts told him it was best to get as far away from Penda as possible – as quickly as possible.
Dylan had been brooding, mulling over the last words he had exchanged with the King of Mercia, and their significance, when he saw the girl.
She was wearing a thick brown cloak, made of coarse wool, and boots fashioned from rabbit skin and laced tightly around her feet and ankles. Her mane of brown hair flew behind her like a flag as she raced across his path, causing his stallion to start.
Cursing under his breath, Dylan sought to calm the beast, but a moment later, he was nearly thrown off the saddle when a heavy-set man of middling years, crashed through the trees in pursuit of the girl.
He saw the black rage that twisted the man’s features, and knew that if someone did not intervene, it boded ill for her.
“That’s the lass from Tamworth – the one who pestered Penda about her lover,” Gwyn rode up to Dylan’s side and pointed to where the female raced up the bank toward a copse of trees.
Dylan tore his attention from yanking up his stallion’s head – the horse had just tried to throw him – and stared after the girl. “What is she doing out here alone?”
“About to get herself raped.”
They could see the girl’s pursuer was gaining on her. She may have been younger, but the man who chased her was surprisingly swift on his feet.
Dylan left his men and spurred his stallion up the bank, after the pair. Ahead, he saw the man catch the girl by the hood of her cloak, and yank her backward.
Her strangled scream echoed down the valley.
“Bitch!” the man shoved his quarry to the ground, and kicked her viciously in the side. “I’ll teach you to fight back!”
Dylan reached them and struck out with his fist, catching the man on the side of the head as he was about to kick the young woman once more. Dazed, the man staggered back, clutching his head.
Dylan swung down from the saddle and stepped in between the girl and her assailant. She gazed up at him, her blue eyes huge on her pale, frightened face. She had been in such a panic, she had not even noticed Dylan and his men. Likewise, her pursuer had been oblivious to the fact he had an audience.
“Who are you?” he bellowed, still clutching his head. “Clear off, this isn’t your business!”
“I’m making it mine,” Dylan replied. He helped the trembling young woman to her feet, but kept his gaze riveted on the man before her. “Leave her.”
“I’l
l do as I please – she’s my woman and I’m teaching her some manners,” the man spat at his feet.
“I know this woman, so don’t bother with your lies,” Dylan countered.
The man’s gaze widened at that. Dylan could see that he did not believe him. However, faced with an armed man, and suddenly surrounded by leather-clad, glowering Cymry warriors, the girl’s molester lost a little of his courage.
“Whoreson,” he growled, glancing over at where Gwyn swung down from his horse and unsheathed his sword. “You’ll pay for interfering.”
“Men who hunt women like deer should be given the same treatment,” Dylan growled.
“Oh, and you’re a man of honor?”
“Compared to you, most men are. Speak your name?”
The man glared back at him sullenly, considering whether to answer. “Drefan of Chester. What’s yours?”
“Cynddylan ap Cyndrwyn of Powys.”
“The Prince of Powys himself,” Drefan of Chester’s mouth twisted, although Dylan could see the fear in his eyes.
“That’s right. Now that we’ve made our introductions, it’s time you were on your way.”
“I’m my own man; a jumped up Cymry princeling doesn’t command me.”
“Princeling?” Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Move on, Drefan of Chester, and I’ll forget your face – otherwise things are about to go downhill for you.”
“I won’t be forgetting your face,” Drefan of Chester glowered at Dylan before his gaze swiveled to where the young woman stood, silent and ashen, a few steps behind the prince. “Or yours, you little hōre.”
Dylan drew his sword and took a step toward Drefan. “One more word, and you’ll taste my blade.”
Panic flashed across the man’s face, momentarily replacing the defiance and anger. Something in Dylan’s tone warned him that the Prince of Powys would make good on his threat. Reluctantly obeying, he turned, drawing his cloak about him. He staggered off back the way he had come, disappearing into the gathering dusk.
Dylan watched him go, waiting until Drefan of Chester had indeed gone, before he sheathed his sword and turned to the young woman. She had drawn his gaze in Tamworth, but it was a surprise to see her again.