by Jayne Castel
“Scour Tamworth for any Northumbrians who managed to escape the hall,” he ordered, “and kill any of Wada and Alfwald’s men who still breathe.”
He turned to where a group of pale-faced slaves huddled against the far wall. “Clear the dead from the hall and tidy this place up,” he commanded them. “By noon, I want no sign the Northumbrians were ever here.”
Chapter Three
The Rightful King
Wulfhere sank deep into the hot water and let out a long sigh.
It was so long since he had taken a proper bath he had almost forgotten the sensual pleasure of it. The scent of lye soap—a smell that reminded him of his childhood—filled the alcove where he bathed. This small space had once been his mother’s, and before that, his sisters had slept here. These days, it housed a huge cast-iron tub that took slaves many trips to fill.
The hot water soothed away the aches and pains of battle. He had rinsed the blood off his injured forearm, but no healer had yet looked at it. The wound ached, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Beyond the tapestry that shielded him from the rest of the hall, he could hear the sounds of industry: the clatter and thud of pots as the cooks began work on the noon meal and the sounds of sweeping and scrubbing as slaves washed the hall clean of blood.
Smiling, Wulfhere closed his eyes and relaxed into the hot water. Moments later, a tremulous female voice interrupted him.
“M’lord . . .”
Wulfhere’s eyes snapped open, and he inclined his head to where a young woman had slipped into the chamber. He recognized her as the slave he had found with Wada. The girl was small and thin with a shock of golden hair. Unlike earlier this morning, she was now clothed, clad in a worn homespun tunic, girded at the waist.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Your brother, Lord Aethelred, commanded me to attend you, m’lord,” she murmured. “He told me you wanted your back scrubbed.”
Wulfhere smiled. “Did he? That was generous of him.”
The girl stared at him, her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. He could see she was shaking.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Asha, m’lord.”
“You’re new to the Great Hall—I don’t recognize you.”
“I came here at Winterfylleth,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “My father killed one of Wada’s warriors. They were drinking in the mead hall, and an argument got out of hand. I was part of the wergild he had to pay.”
Wulfhere raised an eyebrow. Wergild—man payment—was the price a man had to pay after committing a crime, as compensation to his victim’s family.
“So, your father killed a Northumbrian, did he?”
The girl nodded.
Wulfhere watched the slave a moment. She was young, barely out of childhood. Her pale skin bore bruises; Wada had clearly been rough with her.
Wulfhere sank back against the rim of the iron tub.
“Your father did us all a favor,” he said finally. “I don’t need my back scrubbed. Go to my brother and tell him that I release you from slavery. Then go to the smith and get that collar removed.”
The girl gaped at him. “Really? Am I free, m’lord?”
Wulfhere waved her away. “You heard me, girl. Go and see my brother . . . and get him to fetch me Glaedwine. I need a healer.”
Wulfhere crossed the floor toward the heah-setl—the high seat—where his brother and retainers awaited him.
This evening, the Great Hall of Tamworth bore no resemblance to dawn’s scene of carnage. Fresh rushes crunched underfoot, and the aroma of roasting mutton and herbs replaced the stench of death, mingling with wood smoke from the hall’s two enormous fire pits.
Long tables lined the floor, where men and women were taking their seats. He saw the smiles on their faces and shining eyes. They were pleased to have the rightful ruler of Mercia among them.
Aethelred was the first to greet him as he stepped upon the heah-setl.
“Good evening, brother.”
Wulfhere nodded and took his place upon the carved wooden chair at the head of the table. This had been his father’s chair, and it was the first time he had ever sat upon it.
Aethelred poured him a cup of wine and passed it to him.
“How does it feel?”
“What?”
“To sit in that chair.”
Wulfhere smiled. “Better than you can imagine.”
His gaze shifted to the other folk sharing his table. There were no other members of his kin here. His mother had taken the veil and gone to live in Bonehill, and both his sisters had left Tamworth to be handfasted, years earlier. Aethelred was all he had left. The others at the table were his retainers, Werbode and Elfhere among them.
The three ealdormen who had helped him take back Tamworth—Immin, Eafa, and Eadbert—were seated together at the far end of the table. Immin, big and blond, was flushed in the face from mead. Next to him was Eafa, a much smaller man with pale eyes and a bald head that gleamed in the light of the cressets that lined the nearby wall. The third ealdorman, Eadbert, was the youngest of the three. He was a tall, muscular man with a shock of black hair and a beard to match.
Eadbert caught his eye and raised his cup.
“To victory, Lord Wulfhere.”
Wulfhere’s smile widened into a grin. “Aye, I’ll drink to that.”
He raised his cup to his lips and took a sip of wine.
Werbode, seated at Wulfhere’s right, also raised his cup. “And here’s to your crowning, milord. Tomorrow?”
Wulfhere nodded. “At noon.”
Slaves brought food to the table, interrupting their talk. Great slabs of roast mutton, fresh griddle bread, and pickled onions. Wulfhere’s mouth watered at the sight of it; he had not forgotten how good the cooks were in his father’s hall.
He helped himself to some mutton and broke off a piece of griddle bread, before his gaze shifted out across the hall to the sea of men and women who were now eating and drinking, their voices echoing up into the rafters.
I’ve completed the first of Eorcenberht’s conditions, he thought. Tamworth is mine, but there’s just one thing I must do before I can return to Kent and claim Ermenilda as my own.
Wulfhere turned back to Werbode. He fixed him in a penetrating stare until his thegn glanced up and met his eye.
“What is it, sire?”
“First thing tomorrow, I need you to do something for me.”
Werbode nodded, his gaze curious.
“Go to the church and fetch me the monk, Seaxwulf. Before I can wear the crown, I must be baptized.”
Chapter Four
Wulfhere’s Prize
Cantwareburh, the Kingdom of the Kentish
One month later . . .
Ermenilda’s breath steamed in the wintry air as she whispered the final words of her prayer.
It was a chill day, and with no hearth to warm the interior of the church, the cold seeped in through the princess’s fur-lined boots and numbed her feet. Her hands, clasped before her as she knelt upon a pelt before the altar, were white with cold.
Constructed from oak and local stone, with a sea of slate pavers covering the floor, Cantwareburh’s church was reputed to be one of Britannia’s finest. Yet, it was no warmer than a burial chamber.
“The princess is praying . . . you cannot disturb her.”
Behind her, Ermenilda heard the bishop, Frithuwine, chastise someone. Although Frithuwine’s voice was barely above a whisper, it echoed in the silent church.
“I come from the king with an urgent message.” Another man’s voice echoed high in the rafters. “He wishes for Princess Ermenilda to return home immediately.”
Frowning in annoyance that her peace had been shattered, Ermenilda unclasped her hands and rose to her feet. The candles burning upon the altar before her guttered as she turned to face the newcomer.
Her gaze fell upon the tall spearman with a thick fur cloak about his shoulders.
“What is it, Bercthun?”
The thegn, one of her father’s favored retainers, dipped his head respectfully before replying.
“Apologies for interrupting you, milady. But, the king sends for you urgently.”
Ermenilda watched him steadily but made no move to obey her father’s instructions.
Bercthun shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to where Bishop Frithuwine—a heavyset man of around thirty winters, wearing plush purple robes—also studied him.
“Cantwareburh has visitors, milady,” Bercthun conceded, “from Mercia.”
Ermenilda’s feeling of inner calm, which her prayers always bestowed upon her, vanished.
“Who?” she demanded, her heart suddenly racing.
No, please don’t let this be . . .
“King Wulfhere of Mercia, milady. He has retaken the Mercian throne and has come to speak with your father.”
“The pagan prince who visited Cantwareburh a year ago?” the bishop asked, disapproval clear in his voice.
“Pagan no more, it seems,” the thegn replied. “He has been baptized, and a priest is among his party.”
A wave of nausea swept over Ermenilda, followed swiftly by dizziness.
Over a year had passed since Prince Wulfhere visited her father’s hall, and she had begun to hope that her father would let her take the veil after all. There had been no word from the north, and she, like many, had assumed that Wulfhere had failed in his mission to take back the Mercian throne.
It was a shock to discover he had succeeded.
“Milady, are you well?”
Bercthun was frowning at her.
Not trusting herself to speak, Ermenilda nodded and drew her fur cloak close about her.
“Come then, we can delay no longer,” her father’s retainer urged her.
Reluctantly, she followed Bercthun across the floor, her boots whispering on the icy stone, and exited the church through wide oaken doors.
Outside, it was a bright morning but bone-numbingly cold. A freezing wind bit at Ermenilda’s cheeks as she descended the stone steps before Cantwareburh’s great church and fell in step beside Bercthun. They walked up a wide, cobbled way, in between the sturdy timbered halls of Cantwareburh’s wealthiest inhabitants. They climbed a slight incline toward the wooden ramparts that ringed the Great Hall of Cantwareburh.
Eventually, the pair passed through the high gate and crossed a wide stable yard flanked by low buildings. The King’s Hall rose up before Ermenilda—and for the first time ever, she was scared to set foot inside it.
Ermenilda crossed the floor toward the high seat, ahead of Bercthun, aware that all eyes within the hall appeared to be upon her.
One gaze in particular scorched her, as if she stood too close to the Yuletide fire.
King Wulfhere of Mercia stood upon the high seat, next to her father, and she tried her best not to look at him. However, the force of his stare was so strong that it drew her toward him, as if she were a pike dangling on the end of his hook. Unable to resist him any longer, she looked up and her gaze met his.
He was as she remembered—tall and powerfully built with a mane of white-blond hair—only he was dressed more elegantly this time. He wore a fine blue tunic, edged with golden silk. A plush ermine cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened by amber brooches. He was, frankly, the most handsome man she had ever seen.
His silver-blue eyes glittered as she approached, and Ermenilda’s belly clenched. Her last, frail hope dissolved. His look made the situation clear. He had not changed his mind about wedding her.
“Lady Ermenilda,” he murmured when she stepped upon the high seat next to him. “You are as lovely as I remember.”
Ermenilda dipped her head, politely acknowledging the compliment.
“Thank you, Lord Wulfhere.”
“Wulfhere is now King of Mercia, Ermenilda,” her father spoke up. He stood to their left, with the queen beside him. Seaxburh was silent and pale, her gaze riveted upon the floor.
“Congratulations, milord,” Ermenilda added, keeping her own gaze downcast.
“And he has foresworn the old ways and accepted the one true god,” Eorcenberht continued, his voice booming with pleasure.
Ermenilda looked up and saw the small wooden crucifix that hung from around Wulfhere’s neck. No reply came to her, so she remained silent. Her gaze shifted to where her sister stood a few feet behind their parents. Eorcengota’s brown eyes were huge on her heart-shaped face. Like Ermenilda, she had not thought ever to see Wulfhere of Mercia again.
Ermenilda inhaled deeply and raised her gaze to meet Wulfhere’s once more.
“So you have met my father’s conditions, milord?”
“Aye, milady,” Wulfhere rumbled, his pale gaze ensnaring her, “and now I come to claim my prize.”
Ermenilda gritted her teeth. He made her sound like a trophy—like an enemy’s sword he had claimed after victory to hang upon the wall of his hall. Wulfhere knew nothing about her, save what was visible to the eye. Judging from the look on his face, he did not care to know anything else. He was attracted to her, and he wanted her—that was all that mattered to him.
Her gaze left his and shifted to her father. The king was grinning like a fool, delighted with the match he had helped create.
Betrayal cut her deep, like a seax blade under the ribs. She had thought he had listened to her when she told him of her desire to become a nun at Eastry, but now she realized the truth. He had merely humored her.
“I shall arrange for the handfasting tomorrow,” the king boomed, oblivious to his eldest daughter’s despair. “The sooner the better, eh?” He winked at Wulfhere, who returned his gaze dispassionately.
“I’ve waited a year, Lord Eorcenberht,” he replied. “I am a patient man.”
Eorcenberht’s dark eyebrows raised at this, but Wulfhere continued.
“I wish to be handfasted to Lady Ermenilda in my own hall. We shall depart from Cantwareburh at dawn tomorrow and return to Mercia.”
Stunned silence met Wulfhere’s words. Even Ermenilda was surprised by his response. The journey to Tamworth would take at least ten days—Wulfhere was a patient man indeed.
“My daughter should be handfasted here, and the ceremony blessed by Bishop Frithuwine.” Queen Seaxburh broke the heavy silence, her voice sharp with anger. “Only then, should she be allowed to leave Cantwareburh. How do we know you will not dishonor her?”
Wulfhere regarded the queen a moment and inclined his head slightly.
“Do you not trust me with your daughter?”
“I trust no Mercian,” the queen hissed.
“Seaxburh!” Eorcenberht roared. “Silence, woman!”
It appeared the queen would not hold her tongue. Seaxburh’s face was chalk white, her blue eyes glittering with rage, when she turned on her husband.
“My father would turn in his barrow to see you like this—toadying and groveling to lesser men.”
Eorcenberht stared at his wife, momentarily poleaxed by her outburst. Likewise, Ermenilda stared, stunned. Her mother, usually so meek and sweet, had never before shown such fire. For the first time, Ermenilda found herself in awe of the woman who had birthed her.
“Go to our quarters, wife,” Eorcenberht rumbled, finally recovering his wits, “and not another word, or I will take my hand to you, right now.”
The queen stared at him, her slender body shaking with fury.
“Go!” the king roared.
Finally, Seaxburh complied. Stiffly, she turned and stepped down off the high seat. Ermenilda watched her cross the hall, past staring men and women, before disappearing behind a heavy tapestry to the quarters she and the king shared.
Eorcenberht’s face was the color of raw meat when he turned back to Wulfhere.
The Mercian king watched him, a faintly mocking smile curving his mouth. The Kentish queen had effectively shamed her husband this day, in front of men he wished to impress.
“Do you share your wife�
��s views?” he asked mildly.
The Kentish king’s mouth twisted. “A woman’s opinion is not worth dog’s piss. I will punish my wife for her insolence.”
“So you don’t harbor a secret grudge against Mercia?”
“Would I be giving my eldest daughter to you, if I did?”
Satisfied, Wulfhere nodded. His gaze shifted to Ermenilda, who had not spoken during the entire exchange.
“And what about you, Lady Ermenilda?” he asked, his voice iron cloaked in silk. “Do you agree with your mother?”
Ermenilda held his gaze and wished she possessed her mother’s courage. She wished to tell him that the thought of being wedded to him turned her stomach—that baptized or not, king or not, she had no desire to have anything to do with him. His arrival had shattered her life, destroyed her dreams for a life of peace and seclusion. She hated him for it.
Yet, she did not say any of that. Instead, she merely shook her head and dropped her gaze to the floor.
Chapter Five
Leaving Home
Watery light filtered into Ermenilda’s bower through a crack in the shutters, warning her that dawn was breaking.
Despite that she had not slept, the time had passed swiftly. She could still not believe this would be her last night in her father’s hall. Her last night in Cantwareburh.
Events had spiraled out of control; she no longer felt as if her life belonged to her. This time yesterday, she had awoken serene and safe—and now a stranger was taking her away to a land she had never seen.
Ermenilda sat up and pulled the furs around her. Her eyes were puffy and sore, for she had cried all night, and her head felt as if it was filled with wool. Her gaze shifted to the leather trunks and packs stacked on the far side of her bower, and fresh tears welled.
No, it had not been a nightmare. She was indeed leaving.
“Erme . . .” Her sister’s voice carried softly through the thick hanging. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” Ermenilda replied weakly. “Come in.”