Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  He held her gaze for a moment longer. They were so close that she could see the flecks of darker blue in the silver blue of his irises. He smelled better than she wanted to admit—a virile smell of leather and horse, with the musky scent of maleness beneath.

  “Good,” he finally replied, rising to his feet. “Sleep well, milady. Tomorrow will be another long day. I want you well rested.”

  Ermenilda watched him leave, her heart hammering against her ribs. His presence unsettled her, filling her with confusion. She did not like the way he had demanded a response from her. If she did not feel inclined to speak this evening, after the trauma of leaving her kin behind, he should have understood.

  Tears pricked her eyelids, and she glared down at the crackling fire.

  “Milady,” Wynflaed spoke up, her voice gentle and laced with concern. “Is something amiss?”

  Ermenilda glanced up and met Wynflaed’s gaze. Wordlessly she nodded and inhaled deeply to prevent the tears from escaping her burning eyes. When she replied, her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Everything.”

  Wynflaed’s brow furrowed. “You do not wish to wed Lord Wulfhere, milady?”

  Ermenilda shook her head vehemently. “I would rather wed an adder.”

  When Wynflaed looked shocked at that, Ermenilda continued.

  “Do you know of his family, Wynflaed?”

  “Only that his father was a great warlord,” the girl replied cautiously.

  “He was a ruthless pagan who killed my grandfather and uncle. Penda of Mercia’s coldness and cruelty are legendary.”

  Wynflaed’s frown deepened. “Wulfhere might be different from his father,” she ventured.

  Ermenilda gave her maid a scornful look. “Take one look at his son and tell me he is not cut from the same cloth!”

  “He does appear quite cold,” Wynflaed admitted, although she did not wilt under her lady’s glare, “and his wolf scares me.”

  Ermenilda glanced down at the dancing flames in the fire pit before her.

  “I wanted to become a nun,” she murmured, “and my father was on the verge of allowing it when Wulfhere ruined everything.”

  “A nun?” Wynflaed replied, genuinely surprised by her mistress’s admission. “Do you not want a husband and children?”

  Ermenilda shook her head, vehement. “Not if it means being wed to Wulfhere of Mercia.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Wolf and the Lamb

  The Mercian party rode north, covering the furlongs swiftly, on the paved Watling Street. The weather remained good—cold with clear skies—although the outlines of skeletal trees reminded the travelers that spring was still some way off.

  Four days out from Cantwareburh, they entered Lundenwic.

  Ermenilda had heard much of this city from Bishop Frithuwine, but had not been looking forward to seeing Britannia’s largest settlement. According to the bishop, Lundenwic represented everything that was wrong with the world of men. It was a ferment of corruption, debauchery, and greed.

  Her first glance at the city did little to allay her fears.

  They rode into Lundenwic, following the western bank of the mighty River Temese, a wide tidal river that flowed through the center of the city. The first thing Ermenilda noticed was how dirty the river was. It was littered with refuse, the corpses of dead animals, and floating excrement. The stench made her bile rise, and she covered her mouth with a piece of linen scented with rose water to prevent herself from becoming ill.

  Farther upriver, they rode alongside wooden docks—pier after pier of moored longboats and cargo barges. The tide was rising, and it appeared some of the boats were preparing to leave. Men scurried to and fro, shouting to each other, tossing coils of rope, and carrying sacks and wooden crates onboard their vessels.

  Overwhelmed by the sight, sound, and smell of so much humanity, Ermenilda glanced away, her gaze shifting to the east, where the ruined wall of the old Roman city glowed in the afternoon sun. Beneath it, a carpet of thatched roofs spread out and hugged the lazy bend of the river. Smoke from cooking fires and smiths’ forges stained the sky.

  Lundenwic represented everything Ermenilda had wished to shun. It was dirty, uncouth, and overwhelming—and it made her long for her garden sanctuary in Cantwareburh.

  Riding next to her, atop her ugly roan, Wynflaed had the opposite reaction.

  “I’ve never seen a city so large,” she exclaimed, her wide-eyed gaze taking it all in. “There’s life here—you can breathe it in.”

  “You certainly can. Lundenwic has something for all folk.”

  An appreciative male voice drew the women’s attention to Wynflaed’s left, where a blond warrior with startling blue eyes had ridden up beside them.

  Ermenilda recognized him as the man who helped her handmaid mount in the mornings. His name was Elfhere, and he had clearly taken a shine to her comely servant.

  “I wish we were staying here,” Wynflaed admitted. “I would have liked to explore its streets.”

  “Perhaps, one day, you will have that chance,” he replied.

  Their gazes met for a few moments, before a slow smile crept across the warrior’s face. Then, with a nod to them both, he urged his horse forward and moved off up the column, leaving the women alone once more.

  Ermenilda pursed her lips. Although she instinctively liked Wynflaed, she found the girl’s optimism and childlike wonder vaguely irritating. She also did not approve of Elfhere’s interest in her maid; he was entirely too bold.

  “Something for all folk? I smell nothing but dung and rotten fish,” she commented.

  To her chagrin, Wynflaed laughed.

  “I know, isn’t it wonderful?”

  That was the last word Ermenilda would have used to describe this cesspit.

  Around them, beggars had clustered at the roadside to watch the passing Mercians. Emaciated and filthy, they called out to the passersby, pleading for food or coins. Ermenilda wished that she had some bread to give to them, for the desperation in their gazes cut her to the quick. To distract herself from the pitiful sight, Ermenilda focused on her maid.

  “You do not grieve for being parted from your family, Wynflaed. Why is that?”

  Wynflaed tore her gaze from the crowd, where folk were chasing off a leper. Covered in filthy rags, the dirty, limping creature was a sorry sight.

  “I am the youngest of five daughters,” Wynflaed replied, her guileless gaze meeting Ermenilda’s. “My father despaired of finding a husband for me, for three of my elder sisters are still unwed. To become the handmaid of a highborn lady is more than I could have hoped for. Truthfully, I was bored in Cantwareburh. My whole life, I have seen the same people and the same sights. It is a relief to be going to a new home.”

  “But your kin,” Ermenilda pressed. “Do you not miss them?”

  Wynflaed smiled. “Not as yet. They all wish me well, and I the same for them, but the time has come for us to take different paths.”

  Ermenilda listened to Wynflaed before lapsing into silence. Her maid’s pragmatic approach to life stunned her. They were so different, and Wynflaed’s boldness and fearlessness made Ermenilda feel like a frightened rabbit in comparison.

  Ermenilda wanted nothing more than to flee from the world—but Wynflaed could not wait to embrace it.

  “I can see you miss your family greatly, milady,” Wynflaed observed.

  Ermenilda nodded, her throat constricting. “My sister and mother are my best friends. I do not know how I will survive without them.”

  Wynflaed observed her for a moment, thinking upon Ermenilda’s words, before replying. “I know it is not my place to say it, but I think you are stronger than you believe, milady.”

  Ermenilda frowned, her body tensing. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that—you believe that away from your home and kin you are adrift and alone. Yet, I think that once you accept this change, it could well be the making of you.”

  Ermenilda stared at her han
dmaid. Her first reaction was outrage. How dare this thegn’s daughter lecture her on the merits of change. She felt her face grow hot as she struggled to rein in her temper. When she did reply, her voice was ice-cold.

  “I have just had all things I care about torn away from me. I do not wish to be any man’s husband, least of all Wulfhere of Mercia’s, and I do not wish to be queen. What I wanted was to be left in peace. Contrary to what you believe, this new life is likely to be the end of me.”

  Wynflaed’s gaze widened at her mistress’s sharp response, but this time she held her tongue. Stiff with indignation, Ermenilda turned her gaze back to her surroundings. She focused on the back of the warrior riding in front of her and ignored Wynflaed.

  Yet, her handmaid’s words lingered with her, needling her, long after their conversation ended.

  They did not delay in Lundenwic. Wulfhere’s men picked up some supplies, and then they resumed their journey. A vast wooden bridge spanned the River Temese, and the company clattered across it, before the Roman road continued northwest.

  Wulfhere rode a few yards ahead of his betrothed. Ermenilda had proved not to be a chatty travel companion, and although he liked women who were not prone to prattle, Wulfhere soon wearied of her cold silence.

  She will warm up soon enough, he reassured himself. Once the Kingdom of the Kentish is far behind us.

  Wulfhere realized that Princess Ermenilda, for all her demure manners and speech, was surprisingly willful. After seeing her mother’s display of anger, Wulfhere could see that there was more to his betrothed than met the eye. Queen Seaxburh looked as if a cross word had never parted from her lips, yet she had attacked him like a snarling wildcat. Her daughter clearly did not wish to be wed. He had heard from one of her father’s thegns that the princess had planned to take the veil.

  A terrible waste.

  Wulfhere allowed himself a smile. He would enjoy teaching his lovely young wife the delights she was naïvely willing to give up. She may have not realized it, but there was a simmering sensuality within Ermenilda. He had sensed it the first time they locked eyes in her father’s hall. He could see her own reaction to him flustered her. She may have been bent upon becoming a nun, but her body told another story.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Werbode had ridden up next to him, although Wulfhere had been so deep in thought that he had not noticed him.

  “Just thinking of my impending handfasting,” he admitted, “and of my bride-to-be.”

  Werbode gave him a shrewd look. “She is indeed a lovely creature,” he said, smiling. “However, she treats you coldly. She thinks herself better than you.”

  Wulfhere laughed at that, not remotely offended by his thegn’s directness. Werbode did not bandy words, and Wulfhere liked that about him.

  “Her coldness will pass,” he assured his friend. “In time, the lamb will surrender to the wolf.”

  Chapter Eight

  Upon the Bridge

  The attack came on a gray, windy afternoon.

  The Mercian company had left Lundenwic four days behind them to the southeast and had almost crossed the southern edge of the East Saxon kingdom. The borders of Mercia lay just a day’s ride away.

  Ermenilda rode in the midst of the company, as usual, with her handmaid traveling at her side, while the king had ridden up to the head of the column. They had spent the day riding across flat, largely nondescript countryside. Ermenilda had spied a few scattered East Saxon villages, but the Mercians had kept to the road and not stopped at any of them. Clearly, Wulfhere was keen to return home. He would not relax fully until he had crossed into his own kingdom.

  Above, the sky was the color of weather-beaten slate from one horizon to the other, and the chill north wind had spots of rain in it. The princess was glad of her thick fur cloak, but even so, the biting wind numbed her face and hands.

  Midafternoon, a wide, swiftly flowing river blocked their path. A huge bridge, made out of wood and stone, spanned it. The eastern bank from where they approached was grassy and led to wide meadows. Woodland crept down to the edge of the western bank, and the Roman way disappeared into the gloomy woods shortly after the river.

  The first of the Mercians clattered onto the bridge, the sturdy structure vibrating under their weight. Ermenilda urged her palfrey forward, following their lead.

  Her horse had taken no more than a couple of strides onto the bridge when the unmistakable twang of a bowstring releasing cut through the air.

  Moments later, men’s shouts and the scream of an injured horse shattered the monotony of the cold, gray afternoon. The warriors in front of Ermenilda pulled up short, and she hurriedly did the same, causing her palfrey to toss her head and skitter sideways.

  Wynflaed had brought her roan to an unsteady halt. The young woman was frowning as her gaze scanned the column ahead.

  “What’s happening, milady?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Suddenly, a man’s voice, rough with anger, echoed across the bridge.

  “We’re under attack!”

  Ermenilda’s blood ran cold. She thought the Mercians and East Saxons were at peace these days. Surely, the East Saxon king would not be so bold as to attack his ally traveling across his land in peace. Neither could she imagine that outlaws would dare attack a king’s party.

  The fact remained that someone was attacking them. The sound of arrows, peppering the air like incensed hornets, caused her heart to pound erratically against her breastbone.

  Of all the unpleasantness she was expecting to come from her new life as Wulfhere of Mercia’s wife, being attacked on the way to Tamworth had not even featured in her fears.

  Ahead, she caught a glimpse of her betrothed. Wulfhere was easy to spot, for his pale blond hair made him stand out, even on a dull day such as this.

  “Protect the princess!” he shouted to the men behind him. “Form a shield wall around her!”

  The Mercian warriors nearest to Ermenilda hurried to obey their king’s order. They unslung their limewood shields from their backs and formed a tight circle around Ermenilda and her maid. The hollow thud of wood overlapping wood momentarily obscured the sounds of the fight up ahead. Sensing her rider’s mounting panic, the palfrey danced nervously, snorting as the men formed a tight ring around them.

  Murmuring soothing words, Ermenilda leaned forward and stroked the mare’s quivering neck.

  Now that Wulfhere’s men surrounded them, she and Wynflaed could see nothing of the assault ahead. The noises told them that the fight was both violent and bloody—shouts, grunts, and screams, and the meaty thud of iron biting flesh. Arrows clattered against the perimeter of shields surrounding Ermenilda, and she bit back a scream when she saw one of the arrows find its mark.

  The warrior directly in front of her gave a muffled cry. He toppled forward off his horse, an arrow in his belly.

  Ermenilda caught a glimpse of the chaos beyond before the gap closed up. The men leading Wulfhere’s company had dismounted their horses and were engaging the attackers on foot. The opposite end of the bridge was a writhing mass of bodies. In her brief glimpse, Ermenilda had seen men fall off the bridge into the swiftly flowing river below, while others were trampled underfoot.

  Next to her, Wynflaed had gone as pale as milk. Tight-lipped, the handmaid clung on to the reins. To her credit, she did not start to weep or shriek in fear—and to her own surprise, neither did Ermenilda.

  Wulfhere cursed under his breath and glanced over his shoulder, to where a barrier of shields protected Ermenilda from view. She was too close to the fighting, but there was no way he could help her now.

  They were trapped. The bulk of his company had already crossed onto the bridge before the attack. They now formed a barrier so that those in front had nowhere to go but toward the enemy.

  The moment the bowmen, hidden in the woodland on the western bank, ceased their onslaught, warriors clad in boiled leather and mail had erupted from the trees. Wielding axes, spears, swo
rds, and seaxes, the attackers rushed onto the bridge howling like nihtgengan—goblins—released from the underworld.

  Wulfhere’s men had no choice but to meet them head on.

  As soon as the first arrows sliced through the air, the king had swung down from the saddle and drawn Shield Breaker. Werbode and Elfhere fought at his side, their own blades slick with blood.

  There were many attackers—but what had been their advantage quickly turned against them. The bridge was too narrow for the enemy to crowd onto all at once, and this diluted the strength of their assault.

  Wulfhere slashed his way through the last group of attackers. His boots slid on the gore-covered surface, but he managed to keep his feet.

  Howling his wrath, he ran at the few remaining men. One of the enemy warriors, suddenly realizing that he was almost alone on the bridge, lost his courage. One look at the face of the fair-haired warrior barreling toward him, sword raised, and the man leaped off the bridge.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the attack was over.

  An icy wind whistled across the bridge, mingling with the groans of the injured and the whimpers of the dying. Shortly after, the warriors surrounding the two women lowered their shields and moved away, giving Ermenilda a clear view of the carnage beyond.

  At the foot of the bridge, she saw Wulfhere, splattered in blood, striding over to where his men had caught the attackers’ leader alive.

  The captive was tall and broadly built, with golden hair. Ermenilda could see that blood flowed down his left arm and that he had a deep gash on his right cheek. He snarled and struggled against his captors as he watched Wulfhere approach.

  The Mercian King was an intimidating sight, clad from head to toe in leather armor and dripping with the blood of his enemies. He carried his sword, unsheathed, in his right hand, its broad blade coated crimson. His wolf, her snowy pelt streaked in blood, stalked behind him.

  Wulfhere stood before his captive and looked down at him. When the king spoke, his voice, low and powerful, rang across the now-silent bridge.