by Jayne Castel
Blood gushed from his neck and soaked into the rushes, flowering into a crimson lake around them.
Chapter Forty-four
Truths
Dylan pushed himself up off Caedmon. His gaze fastened upon the warrior’s face, watching as he choked to death. When Caedmon finally lay still, his pale eyes gazing sightlessly at the rafters, the king rose to his feet.
For the first time since he had been attacked, Dylan became aware of his surroundings.
All feasting and merriment had ceased. His brother, uncles and warriors surrounded him, their gazes baleful. Caedmon had done the unthinkable.
“Filthy betrayer,” Morfael’s expression was murderous. He spat on the Mercian’s corpse, glaring down at him as if he wished to tear him apart with his bare hands.
“No good telling him that now,” Dylan gasped, still breathless from the brief struggle. The skin of his throat still tingled from anticipating the bite of Caedmon’s blade, and he rubbed at it. “He can’t hear you.”
Morfael knelt beside Caedmon and pulled down the dead man’s blood-soaked collar.
“The villain wears a mail shirt,” he muttered. “He planned this.”
A shocked hush reverberated around them.
No man wore a mail shirt, or carried a weapon, at feasts. These celebrations were rare moments when a warrior could let his guard down, and relax in the knowledge no harm would befall him. To do so, was to insult his host and breach an unspoken rule.
Dylan’s gaze shifted from his brother to the table behind them. The feasters were no longer seated. They stood, ashen and shocked, staring at the king and the man who had tried to slay him. Dylan’s gaze eventually paused upon Cyneswith’s taut face, and there it stayed.
“Did you know of Caedmon’s plans?” he rasped.
She shook her head, her blue eyes growing huge.
“Speak girl!” Elfan roared. He stood by Dylan’s side, his face puce with outrage. His meaty hands flexed and looked ready to snap Princess Cyneswith’s delicate neck. “Has treachery turned you mute?”
“I did not know!” she cried, her voice shrill with panic. Her gaze darted around the faces of those she had been feasting with, pleading for their understanding. Dylan saw the terror in her eyes, and despite the anger that pulsed through him, he felt a twinge of pity for her.
“Who is this man?” he demanded, gesturing to the dead Mercian at his feet.
“One of my father’s guard,” she gasped. “I know very little of him, only that his mother was from Powys. My father choose him to escort me because he spoke your tongue. I swear on Woden and Thor that I, and my father, had nothing to do with his actions.”
“Your father did not plan to have me murdered at my own coronation then?”
“No!” the princess cried, tears streaming down her face. “He wants peace. He would never have sent me otherwise. Do you think he would put me in danger?”
“I think Penda of Mercia would throw his own mother to the wolves, if it served his purpose,” Dylan growled, advancing on the girl. “I think you would lie to protect him – even if it cost you your life.”
“I wouldn’t!” Cyneswith insisted, swallowing a sob. Despite her obvious terror, she did not back down. “But, my father would never have sent me here with an assassin. He would know I would be harmed.”
“Cyneswith is right.”
Merwenna stepped up beside the princess. Cyneswith jumped, startled, but Merwenna linked her arm through hers in a silent show of solidarity.
“Penda is cruel and ruthless,” she continued, her gaze meeting Dylan’s, “but he is protective of his wife and daughters. I saw them together, as did you. He would not send her here with a man ordered to kill you.”
Dylan halted mid-step. Merwenna’s intervention disarmed him.
“Why do you speak up for her?” he asked, frowning. “This girl would not do the same for you?”
Merwenna held his gaze and smiled. Her blue eyes were luminous, her cheeks flushed. Her unbound almond-colored hair rippled around her shoulders in silken waves.
He had never seen a woman so beautiful.
“Perhaps not,” she replied, her voice low and firm, “but I cannot stand by and let her be blamed for this.”
“The girl speaks true,” Morfael murmured, stepping up behind Dylan. “Cyneswith is guiltless. Look into her eyes, Dylan, and tell me she knew of Caedmon’s treachery.”
Dylan did as his brother bid, and stared deep into the princess’s guileless blue eyes. He saw no deceit there – only sincerity. Such a sheltered, innocent young woman could not have kept up the pretense of a lie this long, he realized.
“Very well,” he stepped back and raked a hand through his hair. “I believe you.”
Cyneswith sagged slightly against Merwenna, and looked about to faint.
Heledd stepped up then, her face pale and taut in the aftermath of nearly seeing her brother murdered.
“Will you still have peace, Milord?” she asked. “Now that you know Penda had no part in this.”
“Surely not?” Elfan exploded, unable to hold his tongue any longer. Their uncle strode forward, shouldered Morfael aside, and faced Dylan. “We must have vengeance.”
“The man to blame is dead,” Dylan replied. “Who would you have your reckoning upon?”
Dylan could see the fury in Elfan’s eyes, and knew his uncle would not let this lie. Yet, Dylan now saw things with startling clarity – it was as if he had spent the last days traveling through fog, and now the mist had cleared. Suddenly, he knew what path he would take.
“Cyneswith will wed Morfael,” he told his uncle, emphasizing each word for Elfan’s benefit, “and we shall have peace.”
“A ‘peacemaker’,” Elfan’s mouth twisted and he spat at Cyneswith’s feet. She shrank back against Merwenna, terrified. “All I see before me is a whey faced Mercian slut.”
“Mind your tongue, uncle,” Morfael growled, inserting himself between Elfan and Cyneswith.
“You would taint our blood-line!” Elfan roared, turning on the prince. “You would forget that Penda sent killers to slit your brother’s throat. You would forget the reckoning you vowed – just to wed this bitch!”
“Enough!”
Dylan’s command fell like the blow of a war axe, his voice echoing in the silence of his hall. He fixed Elfan in a cold, hard stare. “You forget your place, uncle. Don’t make me remind you.”
Elfan’s already high coloring had darkened from puce to purple. He glared back at Dylan, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. Yet, he held his tongue.
“The time has come for Powys to forge a new path,” Dylan continued, his gaze never leaving his uncle’s. “We must bend with change, or we will break. It’s true I wanted reckoning against the King of Mercia, and I would have sought it – but Penda showed good will in offering his daughter as a ‘peacemaker’. I will not wage war at all costs, when peace would serve us better.”
Dylan’s gaze swiveled then, to Merwenna. She stood, still bracing the trembling Cyneswith. However, her focus was entirely upon him.
A lump rose in Dylan’s throat, and he found he was nervous about what he would say next. He had been building up to this moment before Caedmon had attacked him – but he would leave it no longer.
“I could not accept Penda’s gift for myself, for I intend to wed another,” he began, his gaze never leaving Merwenna’s face. He saw a blush stain her cheeks, and noted that her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, but he pressed on lest she misunderstand him. “I would be handfasted to you, Merwenna, if you will have me.”
Merwenna stared at Dylan, breathless with shock. Her heart was pounding so loudly, she was surprised all present could not hear it.
Suddenly, it was as if they were alone. She forgot the gazes that pressed against her from all sides, forgot that she was a low born girl from a village in Mercia, and that many here would never accept her.
All that mattered was Dylan, the words he had just spoken – and the love
she saw in his eyes.
“Of course I’ll have you,” she whispered. The tears that had been brimming in her eyes, spilled over, but she paid them no mind. Instead, she stepped away from Cyneswith, releasing her arm as she went, and covered the two paces that separated her from Dylan.
She flew into his arms, laughing as he swung her round.
Dylan squeezed her against him in a crushing embrace. When he set her down upon the rushes, he cupped her face with his hands and kissed her, not caring who bore witness to it.
“Cariad,” he whispered against her mouth. “You stole my heart that night in the woods outside Weyham – and I’ve loved you ever since.”
Merwenna stifled a sob, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “You do?”
“Aye – I’m just sorry it took me so long say it. I can be block-headed at times.”
“I thought I had lost you,” she gasped.
She was aware then that, around them, folk were smiling. Some were even wiping away surreptitious tears. Although not Elfan, who had stormed off in disgust the moment Dylan declared his love for her.
Morfael was grinning, while next to him Cyneswith smiled and brushed tears from her cheeks. Even Heledd was beaming, her eyes sparkling with emotion. Gwyn and Owain roared their approval and called for cups of mead all round.
Merwenna looked back at Dylan and found that he was staring at her, his gaze devouring her openly. He gave her a private, sensual smile and Merwenna felt her innards melt like candle wax.
He is mine.
If this was a dream, she never wanted to wake from it. Fate had taken her on a journey that had truly tested her. Summer had turned to autumn, and the woman who stood here in the King of Powys’ arms, was not the girl who had run away to Tamworth. She had loved, and lost – and then discovered something magical lay on the other side of despair.
She had found Cynddylan, and she would remain at his side for as long as she breathed.
Epilogue
The Spring Visit
Six months later…
Merwenna took the bunch of wild flowers from the small girl, and pressed a thrymsa into her palm. Barefoot, dirty and dressed in threadbare homespun, the waif gasped at the wealth the Queen of Powys had just bestowed upon her. Her thin fingers tightened around the gold coin, as if she feared it might vanish.
“Thank you, M’lady!”
Merwenna smiled and glanced down at the flowers the girl had collected from the meadows in the Hafren Valley below; they smelled sweet and reminded Merwenna that, despite the chill in the air this morning, spring had arrived.
“Off you go,” she ruffled the girl’s dark curls. “Buy your family some meat with that gold.”
The girl nodded clutching her basket of flowers in one hand, her precious thrymsa in the other. Merwenna watched the urchin race off through the crowd, and her smile widened.
It was a princely payment for something so simple, but she felt in a generous mood. Wyrd had smiled upon her. Why should others not benefit from her good fortune? On this early spring morning, with the sun warming her face, and the sound of laughter and industry around her, she was very glad she had made Pengwern her home.
Yet, there were times when she thought of Weyham, and her family, and at those moments a veil of sadness would descend upon her. As happy as she was with Dylan, she missed her parents and her siblings. She wondered now, how they had fared over the long, harsh winter.
Still, the beauty of the morning chased away any homesickness. Merwenna stood in the market square, just off the tangle of streets below the Great Hall. A throng of folk bustled around her, bartering for the first of the spring greens, salted pork, fowl, cheeses, eggs, and grains. One farmer had brought in a mob of goats to sell; their plaintive bleats rising above the chatter of voices.
The aroma of fresh bread attracted Merwenna to where a baker sold loaves off the back of a small cart. She bought herself a roll and ate it while she continued her meandering path through the bustling market. The bread was delicious, and she finished it quickly. She was constantly hungry these days, especially now that the early days of sickness were over.
Merwenna’s hand moved down to the swell of her belly beneath her fur cloak, and felt something kick against her hand. Her womb had quickened shortly after she and Dylan were handfasted. Their babe grew quickly and strong – and was due shortly before Beltaine.
Merwenna finished her circuit and left the market square behind. She took the lane back toward the Great Hall. She was around ten yards from the gates when she spied a tall, dark-haired man. A purple cloak rippled behind him as he strode toward her.
As always, her stomach fluttered at the sight of her husband.
“Good morning, Milord,” she greeted Dylan with a playful smile. “Would some spring flowers please you?”
“Perhaps,” he replied, pretending to look cross. “Is that where you’ve been? I’ve looked everywhere for you.”
“The morning is too beautiful to be spent indoors,” Merwenna chided him. She gazed up into his eyes and felt the familiar tug at her heart. She would never tire of looking upon this man, nor of listening to him – or touching him. Despite the sternness of his voice, the languid softness of Dylan’s gaze told her he felt the same way.
“What did you want me for?” Merwenna asked, suddenly breathless.
“You have visitors,” he smiled, gesturing behind him. “All the way from Weyham.”
Merwenna gasped and peered around her husband. Up ahead, she caught sight of a man and a woman wearing thick fur cloaks, their cheeks ruddy with cold. The travelers stood by their horses before the gates of the Great Hall. She recognized their black, shaggy mounts immediately – Huginn and Muninn.
Joy flowered in Merwenna’s breast. She knew her father had promised her a spring visit, but she had long believed he would not come. Yet, Wil had kept his word, and he had brought Cynewyn with him.
Dylan took Merwenna’s hand and squeezed gently, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Will you not come and meet them?” he asked.
Merwenna tore her own gaze away from where her mother had started to wave frantically, and looked back at her husband. He was grinning at her. She smiled back and gave his hand an answering squeeze.
“Lead the way, my love.”
And he did.
--
Loved THE BREAKING DAWN and want more?
Buy Book #2 in the Kingdom of Mercia series: DARKEST BEFORE DAWN.
--
Read the Prologue of DARKEST BEFORE DAWN.
Prologue
Peace-weaving
Bebbanburg, the Kingdom of Northumbria,
Britannia
Late autumn, 653 A.D.
Alchflaed was riding on the beach when she saw the horsemen approach from the south.
She had taken a long ride that morning, enjoying the chill wind in her face and the clean, salt-laced air in her lungs. On the last stretch of shoreline toward home, she urged her pony into a brisk canter. Her two dogs ran alongside her, tongues lolling. She rode close to the water, accompanied by the roar of the surf and the hollow drum of her pony’s hooves on the hard silver sand.
The wind whipped tendrils of hair in her face but Alchflaed paid it no mind. Her gaze travelled across the smooth beach, over the reed-covered dunes, to the rocky promontory ahead, on which the fort of Bebbanburg perched. She could see the wooden palisades that ringed the flat top of the outcrop, and the great tower, made of dark red stone that stood out against the pale sky. The Northumbrian flag – eight yellow rectangles on a blood-red field – snapped in the breeze.
Alchflaed looked away from her home and was about to glance east to where the North Sea shimmered, when something caught her eye.
The horsemen thundered along the road leading to the base of the fortress. It was a sizeable company, the warriors’ spears and standards bristling above their heads.
Seized by curiosity, Alchflaed kicked her mare into a flat gallop. Behind her, the dogs barke
d excitedly and gave chase. As she drew closer, Alchflaed could make out the colors of the standards that the warriors bore: blue and gold.
Mercians.
***
“Thunor’s hammer, it’s cold up here!”
“That’s just the sea breeze, Elfhere. It’s like the finest ale – drink it in.”
Maric loosened his horse’s girth, grinning at the blond warrior next to him. They had just followed the king into Bebbanburg’s stable complex, which lay beyond the high gate within the inner palisade, and were in the process of unsaddling their horses.
“I grew up amongst hills and forests,” Elfhere grumbled. “What use do I have for the sea?”
“Surely, you admired the view on the way up?”
“Listen to you,” Osulf, a heavy-set warrior with a thick mane of chestnut hair and beard to match, jeered. “It sounds like you’ve had your head in a barrel of ale all morning.”
“Can’t a man be happy about life?”
Osulf snorted. “Aye, but ever since your handfasting you’ve been in repulsively good spirits.”
Maric’s grin widened. “I’ll not deny it – Gytha was the best thing to ever happen to me.”
“So you managed to wed the fairest maid in Tamworth. You don’t have to crow about it.”
“Come now. Don’t begrudge a man a bit of happiness.”
Osulf favored him with a scowl. “Some of us can do no better than a mead-hall whore.”
Nearby, Elfhere choked on a laugh, while Maric turned away from Osulf to hide a smirk. As he did so, he spotted the king heading their way. The king’s eldest son, Paeda, strode at his heels. Maric’s smile abruptly faded. His banter with his friends forgotten, he stepped forward to greet the King of Mercia.
“Milord?”