by Jayne Castel
“Seward, I need to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to say.” Seward moved to step around her, but Merwenna jumped to her feet and blocked his path.
“Please, Seward.”
“Get out of my way, Merwenna.”
“No,” Merwenna stared him down, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had rarely seen Seward this angry. “You’re my brother, and there are things that need to be said. Mōder and fæder don’t know what really happened in Tamworth, do they?”
Seward grew still. “Are you planning to tell them?”
Merwenna flinched at the harshness of his tone. “No, not unless you want me to.”
Silence stretched between brother and sister. Merwenna stared up into Seward’s face, trying to gauge his expression in the moonlight.
“You think fæder was angry today,” he said finally, “but you didn’t see him when I arrived back a couple of days ago. He was livid. He nearly cast me out; if it had not been for mōder, he would have. He said that once the harvest was over, we were traveling back to Tamworth to find you. He told me that if any harm had befallen you – I would no longer be his son.”
Harsh words, and yet they would have not been spoken lightly.
“I’m sorry, Seward,” Merwenna breathed. “This was all my doing.”
Seward gave a deep sigh, and Merwenna sensed his turmoil. “No,” he replied quietly. “It was not.”
“How is your back?” she asked.
“Healing,” he replied. “Although I haven’t been able to take my shirt off since I returned.”
“Will it scar?”
“I expect so.”
Merwenna lapsed into awkward silence. There was so much she wanted to say, but she did not know where to begin.
“Don’t worry,” she told her brother, “I will say nothing about what happened. I only have one question.”
“What?” he asked warily.
“Why did you do it?”
Seward’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. Then, he shook his head and gave a humorless laugh.
“I wanted her,” he said finally, “and I took her. I can honestly say that I gave no thought to the consequences.”
Merwenna stared back at him, unsettled by the baldness of his answer. A few days earlier, she may not have understood his meaning, yet now she did. She had recently learned just how powerful lust could be; had Cynddylan not ended the kiss, she would have been his. The realization that she could be grieving for one man and display passion for another disturbed and upset her.
“But, it’s so dangerous,” she murmured. “To give in to something that takes you over so completely.”
“It is,” Seward replied with another wry laugh, “and I have the scars to prove it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Alone in the Woods
“This is a good brew.”
Gwyn raised his cup, filled to the brim with frothy honeyed mead. He then toasted the Prince of Powys, for the tenth time since they had taken a seat at one of the long tables inside the mead hall, and took a deep draught.
Dylan suppressed a grin before sipping from his own cup. Gwyn was, indeed, in high spirits this eve. His captain was always his happiest in a mead hall.
They had visited the ealdorman at dusk, and had shared some of the ealdorman’s supper, only to find themselves invited to Weyham’s mead hall afterwards. After a long day in the saddle, Dylan had wanted to return to camp and stretch out in his tent. He felt weary this evening. Still, it would have been rude not to accept the ealdorman’s invitation.
The ealdorman’s name was Godwine. Seated opposite Dylan at the table, Godwine of Weyham was starting on what must have been his eighth cup of mead. He was a huge man, with shaggy, grey-streaked blond hair and beard. Dylan had recognized him from Penda’s campaign against the Northumbrians; the ealdorman had fought alongside Dylan, and had been formidable on the battlefield. Off it, he was amiable and hospitable.
Unlike, many of the other men seated around the room, who watched the Prince of Powys and his companions with veiled hostility, there was no such undercurrent in Godwine.
“You and your men fought well at Maes Cogwy,” Godwine bellowed across the table.
“I thank you, Godwine,” Dylan raised his cup to the ealdorman. “It’s good to be appreciated.”
“All of us do, it’s just that no Mercian likes to admit he can’t take on all of Britannia’s armies without a little help.”
Dylan laughed, his fatigue lifting slightly. Still, the mead tasted cloying in his mouth, and he had been nursing one cup – in contrast to Gwyn’s four – since their arrival.
‘Drink up, Lord Cynddylan,” Godwine motioned to a lad, who was circling the table with a jug of mead, to refill Dylan’s cup. “You’re sipping that like a wench!”
This comment drew a roar of laughter from the table, Gwyn included.
Dylan gave a lazy smile, and waved the lad away. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow,” he replied. “And if Gwyn keeps trying to keep up with you, he’ll be hanging over his horse in the morning, not riding it.”
Gwyn swore at him in Cymraeg. The tone of his voice needed no translation, and another boom of laughter rippled down the table. Dylan felt the tension inside the mead hall lessen somewhat.
“Come, Gwyn,” Dylan stretched, rose from the table and nodded to the ealdorman. “I thank you for your fine hospitality Godwine, but my men and I had best retire for the night.”
“What?” Gwyn glowered at him, flushed in the face. “But I’m not finished.”
“Drink up,” Dylan slapped his captain on the shoulder before turning his attention back to the ealdorman. “May we meet again, Godwine of Weyham.”
“Aye,” the ealdorman raised his cup to Dylan. “And may it be, once again, shoulder to shoulder, not on the opposite sides of a shield wall.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Dylan replied, before raising his cup and draining the last of his mead.
***
Merwenna walked slowly through the woods, along the moonlit path, deep in thought.
She knew she should retire for the night, for her eyes burned with fatigue and her limbs felt leaden. Yet, after her conversation with Seward, she had needed to walk a while.
Her mind was churning, and she knew that sleep would not come easily this night.
Without even realizing it, she found herself walking into the woods behind Weyham and toward the clearing where Beorn had proposed to her.
Moonlight filtered through the tall trees, caressing Merwenna’s face as she walked. It was quiet in the woods and the peace soothed Merwenna’s anxiety. She arrived in the clearing and sat down in the center of it, upon the stump of an old oak.
The woods had always been her refuge, a magical place where she could be alone with her thoughts. She had often walked here with Beorn; the clearing brought back memories of stolen moments together.
Seated upon the stump, Merwenna thought back to the morning of the proposal; of the joy she had felt when he had asked her to be his wife, and of the anguish that swiftly followed when he announced he would be marching off to war.
I tried to tell him, she thought sadly. If a woman knows that battle is not like the songs, why doesn’t a man?
She had no idea what had become of his corpse; she imagined it had been burned upon a pyre, with the rest of the Mercian dead. This clearing was the only remnant of Beorn she had left. She had expected to feel his presence here, but she was only aware of the empty quiet. Beorn’s spirit had left this world and closed the door behind him.
Merwenna was so immersed in her own thoughts, lost in the fog of past words and deeds that could never been changed, that the glow of torchlight up ahead did not intrude at first. Then, the sound of men’s voices reached her.
Merwenna froze upon the tree stump, momentarily stunned by the light.
She was not alone in the woods.
It was late – she had not thought anyone would be about at this hour. By the time,
she had gathered her wits enough to think about diving for cover, the men were just a few yards from her.
“Helo!” one of them called out in Cymraeg.
Merwenna went cold. It was Cynddylan and his men. She cursed her stupidity, suddenly remembering that Seward had mentioned that Cynddylan and his men had gone to Weyham’s mead hall. It was too late to run, and moments later, she was surrounded.
“Merwenna?” the Prince of Powys stepped forward beside Gwyn, who held a torch aloft. “What are you doing out here?”
Cynddylan was plainly surprised to see her.
Merwenna rose to her feet, gathering her cloak tightly about her. “I was taking a walk,” she said hurriedly. “I must have lost track of the time.”
“A walk?” the incredulity in the prince’s voice was mirrored in the faces of his men. “At this hour?”
“Yes,” Merwenna took a step back from them, her pulse starting to quicken. Cynddylan and his men had kept her safe on the journey back to Weyham, but suddenly they appeared threatening, their gazes wolfish in the torchlight.
“I think she was waiting for you, Cynddylan,” Gwyn grinned. “Hoping to catch one last glimpse of the great battle lord.”
His comment drew laughter from some of the men. The prince, however, did not join them.
“No, I wasn’t!” Merwenna choked, anger at Gwyn’s lewd expression curling like a serpent in her belly. “These woods are my home. I have more right than you to be here.”
That wiped the smirk of Gwyn’s face. He glowered at her but did not reply. She watched the prince exchange a glance with his captain.
“Go on ahead,” Cynddylan commanded him. “I want to speak to Merwenna alone.”
Gwyn grunted, and with a speculative glance in Merwenna’s direction moved off. The others followed him along the woodland path, bringing their torches with them.
Merwenna and Cynddylan were left, facing each other, illuminated only by the moonlight that filtered through the trees.
“You should go with them,” Merwenna told him, her voice flat with simmering anger. “Gwyn is wrong. I have no wish to see you.”
“I will go soon enough,” he replied with a half-smile. “After we have spoken.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
The prince gave a soft laugh, and Merwenna was aware of how close he stood to her. She could feel the heat of his body. His nearness was making her light-headed and she struggled to focus.
“So you make a habit of waiting on woodland paths at night, do you?”
“No,” Merwenna glared at him, “but tonight is different. I’ve just returned home – and I’ve realized what awaits me.”
“And what’s that?”
Emptiness. Loneliness. Sadness.
“A life without Beorn.”
The humor faded from Cynddylan’s face at the mention of her betrothed. His eyes gleamed as he gazed down at her.
“Ah, him again,” there was a hardness to his voice that had not been there earlier. If she had not known better, she would have thought him jealous.
“Yes, him,” Merwenna straightened her spine and returned his stare. “I loved him.”
“I’m sure you did,” the prince drawled, “but pining here, alone in the woods won’t bring him back. Contrary to what you believe, love doesn’t rule the world. The lust for power and dominance over others is what drives men – always has, always will.”
“Are all high born men so callous and cruel?” Merwenna countered, anger making her reckless. “You’re no better than Penda, incapable of caring for anything beyond your boundaries. You love nothing but your throne.”
With that, Merwenna stepped back from him and turned on her heel. Enough. Her nerves were frayed raw; she had no wish to tarry here a moment longer.
Cynddylan’s hand on her arm stopped her, and he pulled her round, none to gently, to face him.
“I didn’t give you leave to go,” he ground out. Merwenna saw that she had succeeded in angering him. The air suddenly crackled with danger, but her own rage made her disregard it.
“I’m not your subject,” Merwenna snarled back, struggling to free her arm. However, his grip was like iron. “You don’t command me!”
Cynddylan gave a muffled curse and pulled her into his arms, his mouth slanting over hers. His kiss was rough, possessive.
Merwenna pushed against his chest to no avail; he was as immovable as one of the oaks surrounding them. She opened her mouth to protest, which was a mistake, for his tongue plunged between her lips and tangled with hers.
Despite her anger, Merwenna’s body betrayed her, as it had the evening she had been collecting firewood. Suddenly, her skin felt bathed in fire. The feel of his hard body, and of his mouth devouring hers, turned her body molten.
“No,” she gasped, as his mouth left her lips and grazed the column of her neck. He ignored her protest, and continued his sensual torture. The sensation of his tongue on her skin turned Merwenna’s limbs boneless. A deep ache pulsed between her thighs, melting her lower belly.
The prince’s mouth claimed hers once more, and this time his kiss was deeper and more yielding. He tangled his hands in her hair, his fingers gently massaging her scalp. The roaring in her ears made Merwenna feel as if she were standing beneath a waterfall.
The hunger he unlocked inside her made Merwenna shudder with need. When Cynddylan kissed her, she no longer knew her own name.
Yet, now that she had told him ‘no’, the spell had been broken. Like a swimmer kicking toward the surface of a deep pool, she tore her mouth from his and took a deep breath.
“Stop,” she sobbed, pushing at Cynddylan’s chest with all her might. Anguish bubbled up inside her, and she began to cry. “Please, just stop!”
Chapter Twenty
Unsaid
Dylan looked down at Merwenna’s tear-streaked face and realized he had taken things too far.
He had not meant to kiss her. It was not his fault she was out here alone in the woods. He had never thought to set eyes on her again; and here she was sitting on a tree stump looking like a fairy maid sent to trap mortal men with her beauty.
Indeed she had – for he had been ready to strip her of her clothes and take her on the acorn-strewn ground. Had she not started to weep, he would have.
Merwenna may have been a sheltered young virgin from a Mercian backwater, but she had the capability to make him forget who he was.
Dylan took a deep, shuddering breath and released her. She stumbled back from him, and her legs gave way. She would have fallen, if he had not caught her.
“Leave me be!” she cried out, cringing away from him as if he were a leper.
Dylan’s lust drained from him. He had never seen a woman shrink from his touch; it shocked him as if she had struck him.
“Merwenna,” he rasped, guiding her to the tree stump. “Calm yourself – I won’t hurt you.”
“You were about to rape me!” she replied, the words coming out in gasping sobs. “I told you to stop, but you wouldn’t.”
“I’ve stopped now,” he hunkered down before her, so their gazes were level, and placed his hands on her trembling shoulders. “Listen to me, Merwenna. I’m sorry I lost control, but believe me, I would never take you against your will.”
She stared at him, her eyes huge on her pale, wet face. Seeing the depth of her anguish, Dylan silently cursed himself.
He was the Prince of Powys; a leader of men. What was he doing terrifying young virgins? Back in Pengwern, there were plenty of women willing to share his bed. He had no need to force himself on girls who wanted to be left alone.
“I know you’re grieving,” he finally ground out.
“Then why did you do it?” she wiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Because, like a lot of men, I want what I can’t have,” Dylan replied with a frankness that caught him by surprise. He had not realized he felt that way until he uttered the words. “Your Beorn was a fortunate man indeed.”
<
br /> Merwenna gazed at him, clearly confused by his admission. He could see that she was struggling to believe him.
Dylan gave a lopsided smile and, reaching out, brushed away the last of Merwenna’s tears. Something twisted inside him as he did so and he suddenly wished he was a better man than he was.
“I never thought to see you again,” he murmured. “You are sweet and tender, an entrancing beauty. Without realizing it, you left your mark upon me, Merwenna of Weyham. It took me till now to realize it.”
“But you could have anyone,” she replied, a crease forming between her eyebrows. “Don’t you have a betrothed back in Powys?”
He smiled at that, relieved that she was no longer hysterical. “No, although my father pressured me to take a wife for years.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I had an army to manage, wars to fight. A wife was not my priority. Now that my father is dead, I will be crowned upon my return to Pengwern. Only then, will I think about finding myself a wife.”
“You make it sound as if you were selecting a cow at market,” she replied, lifting her chin, some of her fire returning.
“That’s what high born marriage is,” he replied with a shrug. “You marry to strengthen your bloodline, to build alliances, make pacts. You marry a woman who will breed strong sons – for no other reason.”
“Makes me glad I am not high born,” she replied, and their gazes met once more.
“Life isn’t easy, whichever rank you’re born to,” he replied before taking a seat on the ground next to her. “Our women are pawns in a man’s world, but low born women face cold, hunger and back breaking work that ages them before their time.”
He looked away then, thinking of his mother, who had died giving birth to his sister, Heledd. She had been much like Penda’s wife, Cyneswide. A beautiful but submissive woman living in the shadow of a hard, uncompromising man.
When he looked up, he saw that Merwenna was studying him, her face serious.
“You are far more complex than you seem, Milord.”
The prince gave a soft laugh. “You give me too much credit, cariad. And, please, call me Dylan.”