Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  “What is your name?”

  The man’s mouth curled in response and he spat at Wulfhere’s feet.

  A heartbeat passed before Wulfhere lashed out and hit the man hard across the face.

  “Answer me, or I will make your death a slow and dishonorable one.”

  The warrior glared up at him, considering defiance once more before grudgingly giving a response.

  “Sigric . . .”

  “And where are you from, Sigric?”

  The warrior’s face twisted before he spat out his answer. “Ely.”

  Wulfhere went still, and a deathly hush fell. Watching the scene unfold, Ermenilda’s throat tightened. Her betrothed was a terrible sight to behold when enraged. He was every inch the pagan warlord, a man who did not know mercy. His anger appeared cold and lethal, the quiet before a deadly storm.

  “You are East Angles,” Wulfhere said, finally.

  “Aye.” The captive gave Wulfhere a bloody grin.

  “Did King Aethelwold send you?”

  The warrior spat out a gob of blood, making his disdain for the East Angle ruler clear. “I follow Tondberct of Ely, not that pious coward.”

  “And what argument does Tondberct have with me?”

  “His wife, Aethelthryth, is Queen Seaxburh of Kent’s sister,” the warrior replied.

  At the sound of her mother’s name, Ermenilda stopped breathing.

  When Wulfhere did not reply, Sigric of Ely’s bloody smile widened.

  “The sisters seek reckoning for the death of their father and brother.”

  Listening, Ermenilda felt ill.

  No, Mōder . . . surely you did not . . .

  “And you were attempting to take it for them,” Wulfhere said, finishing the man’s sentence for him. He gave a cold smile of his own. “It is a pity then that you and your men fight like women.”

  “Mercian turd!” Sigric snarled. “Long have our people suffered under your yoke. We will have reckoning!”

  “My father is dead,” Wulfhere replied, his voice wintry. “You were a fool to rekindle an old blood feud, one that should have been let well alone. You have thrown away your men’s lives for nothing—and for that you’ve earned a slow, painful end.”

  With that, Wulfhere lifted his sword and skewered the East Angle through the stomach.

  The man’s wails cut through the damp air like a newly sharpened scythe. Ermenilda covered her mouth with her hand, to prevent herself from screaming. She watched Sigric of Ely collapse, writhing, onto the bridge. The East Angle’s screams went on and on. The stench of blood and gore made her bile rise.

  Ermenilda watched, horrified, as her betrothed stepped away from the injured man. His cruelty sickened her. There was no reason to make the man suffer. Wulfhere’s expression was dispassionate, while his pale eyes glittered. His gaze traveled over the bodies littering the bridge, many of whom were Mercian, and his face turned hard. Behind him, there were more bodies still, although most of these appeared to belong to the East Angle war band.

  Wulfhere turned to face the rest of his company that awaited at the opposite end of the bridge. However, his gaze sought only one person: Ermenilda.

  She lowered a shaky hand from her mouth and forced herself to meet his stare. Despite that they stood about twenty paces apart, Wulfhere’s gaze bored into her, stripping her bare. This look was different from all the others he had given her till now. The other glances were of smoldering intensity, of unspoken desire or veiled amusement—but this one was chillingly cold.

  Dread crawled across Ermenilda’s skin, causing her to shiver with fear. She needed no words to understand the accusation behind the stare.

  Wulfhere blamed her for the attack.

  Chapter Nine

  The Kiss

  The Mercians made camp at a distance of about two furlongs northwest of the bridge where the East Angles had attacked them. It had taken Wulfhere’s men a long while to pile up the dead into a pyre by the roadside and set fire to their corpses. Smoke stained the sky behind them when they finally continued on their way.

  The wind had started to blow hard, bringing sheets of icy rain with it, when the men set to work. They erected their tents in the center of a wide clearing, not far from the road, and used saplings and tree branches as the frames. They stretched the rolls of hide they carried with them across the tops to create the tents.

  Ermenilda was shaking with cold, her fingers numb as she attempted to unbuckle the girth to her saddle. Wulfhere had not spoken to her in the aftermath of the attack, but his rage terrified her nonetheless. Fortunately, with darkness swiftly approaching, other tasks appeared to absorb him, and he ignored her for the moment.

  Elfhere relieved Ermenilda and Wynflaed of their horses, assuring the women that he would finish seeing to them. Wynflaed cast the warrior a brittle smile of thanks, her face still pale after the afternoon’s trauma. Then, she turned to Ermenilda.

  “Come, milady. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

  Ermenilda did not need to be asked twice. Gratefully, she made her way across to her tent and ducked inside. One of Wulfhere’s men had just lit a fire, and Wynflaed hurried across to tend it while Ermenilda perched upon one of her leather packs and waited for the warmth to reach her chilled limbs.

  Wynflaed finished feeding the fire with larger pieces of wood and straightened up, her gaze shifting to her mistress.

  “You are very pale, milady,” she observed. “Are you not well?”

  Ermenilda forced a smile. “Well enough. I’m still a bit shaken, that is all.”

  “For the first time, I understand why men keep women away from war,” Wynflaed replied, her voice subdued.

  Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She would never forget the horror she had witnessed: Sigric of Ely’s screams and sobs, and Wulfhere’s chilling lack of emotion.

  More than ever, she resented her father for tearing a peaceful life at Eastry Abbey from her. Instead, he had given her to a ruthless warlord, a man without mercy.

  Gradually, it warmed within the tent. Outside, Ermenilda could hear men’s voices as they finished making camp and seeing to their horses.

  “I will make us a soup, milady,” Wynflaed announced. She placed a small iron pot next to the fire and dug around in one of their packs for provisions. “That should calm our nerves.”

  “Thank you, Wynflaed,” Ermenilda murmured. She appreciated her maid’s practical attitude. Focusing upon other matters also made her feel better. She looked on as Wynflaed cut up carrots and onions and placed them in the pot with a few slices of salted pork. Wynflaed poured the contents of her water bladder into the pot and sat it among the glowing embers.

  “It is simple fare,” Wynflaed said, casting her mistress an apologetic smile, “but it will warm our bellies nonetheless.

  “Wait.” Ermenilda reached over to a satchel. “I have some dried herbs that should add some extra flavor.”

  She withdrew a linen pouch and plucked out a sprig of dried thyme. “This was from my garden.”

  The pungent, woody aroma of thyme gave her a pang of homesickness, reminding Ermenilda of the afternoons she had spent weeding, sowing, and harvesting with her mother and sister in their beloved garden. In the summer, the sun would release the herb’s fragrance, and it would waft across the enclosure.

  “Thank you, milady.” Wynflaed took the sprig from her with a smile. “This should make the soup a little tastier.”

  Wynflaed had just added the thyme to the soup, and was stirring it with a wooden spoon, when the leather flap covering the entrance to the tent opened.

  A tall man, his silver-blond hair mussed by the wind, entered. Ermenilda’s fragile sense of peace shattered.

  One look at Wulfhere’s face and she knew she was in trouble. The king cast a glance at Wynflaed and jerked his chin toward the entrance.

  “Leave us.”

  Wynflaed’s eyes widened.

  They both knew that she was supposed to chaperone her mistress.
Ermenilda’s mother had insisted upon it. Until they were handfasted, Seaxburh did not want her daughter and the newly crowned Mercian king left alone together.

  “Milady . . . ,” Wynflaed ventured, her expression pained. “I—”

  “Leave us,” Wulfhere repeated, his voice a low growl. “Now.”

  This time, the maid did not protest. Her face was taut with fear as she fled the tent.

  Ermenilda rose to her feet, attempting to use outrage to cover the fear that caused her legs to tremble beneath her. “We cannot be alone together like this. Mōder insisted—”

  “Nithhogg take your mother,” Wulfhere snarled, advancing upon her. “Meddling bitch that she is.”

  He halted when they were barely a foot apart and grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her fast.

  “Look at me, Ermenilda,” he commanded.

  She raised her chin and met his hard gaze. He was angrier than she had had realized; his skin was pulled tight across his cheekbones, his eyes narrow slits.

  “I want the truth,” he growled, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her shoulders and upper arms.

  “Th—the truth?” Ermenilda stuttered.

  “Did you know of this attack?” he demanded. “Did you know what your mother had planned?”

  Ermenilda’s response was explosive and truthful.

  “Of course not! I had no idea. That man was lying—my mother would never do anything so treacherous.”

  “I saw her hate for my father,” Wulfhere countered, unmoved by her words. “She was bent upon reckoning. What did she promise Sigric of Ely? That when Penda of Mercia’s whelp was dead, he could take you as his prize?”

  Ermenilda was horrified. She brought up her hands and pushed against the hard wall of his chest in an attempt to free herself from him.

  “No!” she cried. “You are a pig for suggesting such a thing!”

  “I want the truth, Ermenilda.” Wulfhere was relentless, his anger breaking over her in a great, cold wave. “Did you know?”

  “I am telling the truth,” she gasped, staring up at him, her vision blurring with tears. “I swear with god as my witness that I knew nothing of this attack.”

  He glared down at her, a muscle working in his jaw as he struggled to rein in his temper. Two heartbeats passed, and then, with a whispered curse, Wulfhere stepped even closer to her, so that their bodies were almost touching.

  “I have no choice but to believe you,” he murmured, leaning forward so that his breath feathered her cheek, “but I warn you—the one thing I cannot abide is a liar.”

  Ermenilda swallowed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a battle drum.

  “I do not lie,” she whispered, before dredging up her last shred of courage. “But, I also cannot abide senseless cruelty. Why did you have to stab that man in the belly? You gave him a slow, agonizing death, for no reason at all save to satisfy your own vindictiveness.”

  “That is good enough reason for me,” he replied. “Sigric of Ely deserved it.”

  His lips brushed her cheek, and the sensation sent a jolt of liquid fire down Ermenilda’s neck. She started to tremble, although this time it was not in fear. She did not like him standing so close. She did not like the way the touch of his lips on her skin addled her brain. Suddenly she could not think clearly—could not even form the words to protest his forward behavior.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered, “yet, so cold.”

  “I’m not . . . cold,” she managed, the words nearly strangling her when his lips suddenly brushed hers.

  “No?” His tone was gently mocking, and when his mouth brushed hers once more, Ermenilda let out a soft gasp. “Shall we see whether heat lies beneath the ice?”

  Without waiting for her reply, for he clearly had no intention of listening to it, Wulfhere pulled her hard against him. His hands cupped the back of her head as his mouth claimed hers.

  Despite the possessiveness of Wulfhere’s touch, his kiss was surprisingly gentle. He brushed her lips repeatedly with his and then explored them with the tip of his tongue. He waited till her lips parted by their own accord before his tongue sought entrance. Even then, there was a melting gentleness to the kiss.

  Ermenilda was boneless in his arms. If he had not been holding her, she would have crumpled to the ground. He overwhelmed her senses, and despite that her mind screamed in protest at the liberties this man was taking, her body utterly betrayed her.

  She was caught in his web, and she could not break free. Her body no longer belonged to her; it ached to feel his hard, strong body against hers. It longed to feel his lips not just upon her mouth but everywhere.

  When Wulfhere finally ended the kiss, her body pulsed with need.

  Breathless, he stared down at her, surprise evident on his face.

  “My mistake,” he said, his voice oddly rough. “There is nothing cold about you, Ermenilda. To think you were about to give yourself as a bride of Christ—what a terrible waste.”

  His words had an immediate, dousing effect upon the passion that held Ermenilda in its thrall. Horrified, she twisted free of him and staggered back.

  “How dare you!” she rasped. “Brute!”

  To her fury, he merely gave a soft laugh, his eyes glittering.

  “It’s too late for that, princess. I now know that all that haughtiness is merely a ruse. Come our wedding night, you will enjoy being bedded as much as I will enjoy taking you.”

  Ermenilda gaped at him, her face burning, but Wulfhere had finished tormenting her. With a smoldering look, he turned and left the tent without another word.

  Dusk had settled over the Mercian camp, and the wind tore through it, grappling at the stakes that formed the enclosure around the horses, and battering the tents.

  Wynflaed ran a hand down her horse’s neck and cast a nervous glance toward Princess Ermenilda’s tent.

  He should not be in there alone with her.

  Guilt needled Wynflaed. She had made a solemn promise to the Kentish king and queen that she would ensure their daughter’s virtue remained uncompromised until her wedding day. Both of them would be furious if they knew that she had left Wulfhere and Ermenilda alone together.

  As if sensing her worry, Wynflaed’s horse gently nuzzled her arm. The roan gelding had the biggest, ugliest head she had ever seen on a horse, but he had a sweet, steady nature, and Wynflaed had grown fond of him during the journey.

  She stroked his furry forelock and inhaled slowly in an attempt to calm her nerves.

  “I hope he is not bullying her,” she murmured, speaking her thoughts aloud.

  “Bullying who?”

  A man’s voice behind her made Wynflaed jump. She turned, squinting in the light from the nearby pitch torch, and recognized Elfhere. He stepped toward her, frowning.

  “Is something amiss, Wynflaed?

  The maid glanced once more at the tent, where she had left Wulfhere and Ermenilda. Wynflaed gave Elfhere a pained look.

  “The king wanted to speak to Lady Ermenilda alone. He ordered me to leave.”

  Elfhere shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “It is his right, as her betrothed.”

  Wynflaed stiffened. “I gave the queen my word that I would not let her daughter out of my sight.”

  Elfhere smiled. It was a lopsided, sensual smile, and Wynflaed wagered it had melted the heart of many a woman over the years. Despite walking with a slight limp, Elfhere was an attractive man with warmth and charm that made him easy to like.

  “You cannot blame yourself, if the king ordered you to leave,” he replied gently. “I doubt Lady Ermenilda will come to any harm. Do you not see the way he looks at her?”

  “I do,” Wynflaed answered tartly, “and that’s precisely why I worry.”

  Elfhere chuckled at that, but his laughter faded when they spied Wulfhere duck out of Lady Ermenilda’s tent and stalk off into the shadows.

  Wynflaed cast a glance back at Elfhere, who was gazing at her intently.

  “I must go to her
,” she muttered. “Good eve, Elfhere.”

  Not awaiting his response, she hurried across the windswept encampment and ducked into the tent. Inside, she found her mistress seated upon a leather pack near the fire. Nearby, the soup was bubbling furiously. The aroma of salted pork, thyme, and vegetables mixed with the smoky air inside the tent. However, the princess paid the soup no mind.

  Ermenilda was weeping into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking from the force of her despair.

  Chapter Ten

  Anger and Arrogance

  Winter had drained the world of any warmth. Under leaden skies and with a chill north wind in their faces, the company pressed on with the dawn.

  The mood was somber this morning, for the attack had soured the previously convivial atmosphere among the Mercians. Until the attack, they had plenty to be happy about—a new king and an imminent handfasting. Now, many of their brothers would not be returning to Tamworth.

  The news that Queen Seaxburh had betrayed them had altered many of their attitudes toward Ermenilda. This morning, she noted their cold glances and scowls. Despite her love for her mother, she felt a bitter stab of reproach toward her. Ermenilda’s life in Mercia would be difficult enough as it was without folk turning against her. If the East Angle warrior had spoken true, her mother had committed a foolish act—something they would all pay for.

  How could she be so reckless?

  Ermenilda pulled up her fur-lined hood, in an effort to shield her face from the biting wind, and inwardly railed at her mother.

  What did you hope to achieve?

  “Good morning, milady.”

  The priest, Seaxwulf, appeared at her right, upon a stocky bay gelding. He had wrapped himself in a thick fur cloak, in an effort to ward off the chill, although his nose was red from cold.

  “Good morning, Brother Seaxwulf,” she responded dully. Usually, she welcomed the monk’s cheerful, reassuring presence, but this morning she preferred to be left alone with her thoughts.

  “Is anything amiss, milady?” Seaxwulf ventured, his quick gaze missing nothing.