Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  Low branches clutched at Ermenilda, and wet foliage slapped her face as the palfrey galloped through the trees. Gasping with terror, she gave up trying to halt her horse and crouched low over the mare’s neck in an effort not to be unseated by a low-hanging branch.

  Fear froze her to the saddle. If the mare continued at this pace, fleeing without a thought to her or her rider’s safety, she would soon fall and break a leg, or worse.

  The end of a naked tree branch caught Ermenilda across the cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. She gasped in pain and choked back a sob of panic. Once more, she tried to pull her mare up, but the horse still had her bit locked between her teeth, and showed no sign of slowing her pace.

  The thud of horse’s hooves to Ermenilda’s left drew her attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of black. Someone had pursued her through the woods and had nearly caught up to her palfrey.

  Wulfhere drew level with her, his black stallion easily keeping pace with the smaller mare. Reaching across he took hold of her reins in one hand and slowed his stallion with the other. Despite the terror that still pursued her like the devil, the palfrey had no choice but to respond. The horse squealed in protest, her neck arching upward—but she slowed her pace nonetheless.

  The mare skidded to an unsteady halt. Her body trembled in the aftermath of her shock, and she was just waiting for another lightning bolt to set her off. Ermenilda swung down off her back, realizing as she did so that it was now pouring rain, and thunder was rumbling directly overhead.

  Wulfhere dismounted from his stallion and ducked under the horse’s neck before straightening to his full height before Ermenilda.

  Her heart still racing from fear, Ermenilda pretended not to see him. Truthfully, it was taking all her concentration not to have her feet trod on, for her palfrey was now bucking and dancing on the spot, the whites of her eyes gleaming despite the sunless day.

  “Give her to me,” Wulfhere commanded.

  Wordlessly, Ermenilda stepped back and let him take the reins. She looked on as the Mercian reached out and stroked the mare’s quivering neck. The horse foamed at the mouth and looked as if she would bolt again, if given the chance.

  Wulfhere remained calm. He murmured soothing, gentle words under his breath as he continued stroking the mare’s neck. Gradually, the palfrey settled, her head inching lower until her nose rested against Wulfhere’s chest.

  Smiling, Wulfhere stroked the mare’s head and forelock.

  “That’s it,” he murmured. “It wasn’t going to kill you after all, was it?”

  Ermenilda watched, impressed, as the fear drained from her horse. She had never seen such a quick transformation.

  “You are good with horses,” she observed, albeit grudgingly.

  Wulfhere turned his ice-blue gaze to her, and Ermenilda felt the same breathlessness that had assailed her in the tent two days earlier return. Only this time, she held it in check.

  “Not with women, though?” he asked, his mouth quirking slightly.

  Ermenilda refused to be baited.

  “Thank you for helping me,” she replied stiffly.

  Wulfhere inclined his head slightly. “How could I not?”

  He reached out and ran a fingertip down her cheek.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  His touch made her stifle a gasp.

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  Thunder boomed overhead once more, and Ermenilda’s palfrey gave a shrill whinny, her nervousness returning.

  “We had better return to the others,” Ermenilda said quickly. She pushed her wet hair, which had come loose out of its long braid down her back, from her face.

  I must look a mess.

  Angry with herself that she should even be worried about her appearance before this man, she reached back to pull up her sodden hood. However, Wulfhere reached out and stopped her.

  “You are beautiful like this, all disheveled and wild,” he said, his voice low and intimate.

  Panic surged in Ermenilda’s breast. He seemed to have forgotten their altercation the day before and the hate-filled words she had spat at him. It was as if they were already lovers. She had hoped her viciousness would have driven him away, but he was looking at her now as if he would devour her.

  “Please, don’t . . . ,” she whispered.

  “Please, don’t what?”

  “Say those things . . . I don’t want to hear them.”

  His expression hardened, and his gaze narrowed.

  “Most women like to be desired, to be complimented,” he told her. “Why does it offend you so?”

  “You know why.”

  She did not want to spell it out for him again. She did not want to tell him how she reviled him, for it made her feel cruel and small afterward. Wynflaed’s chastisement the night before still rang in her ears, and despite that her feelings toward Wulfhere had not changed, she had no wish to wound him unnecessarily.

  Wulfhere stepped close and placed a hand under her chin, tilting her head up so that their gazes met.

  “This is not a battle you will win,” he told her.

  His hand left her chin and slid along her jawline. He tangled his fingers in her wet hair. Ermenilda’s mouth went dry, and her pulse started to race. A strange torpor filled her limbs.

  “So this is war?” she managed, her voice husky.

  Wulfhere gave her a wolfish grin. “Aye.”

  “Please let me be,” she pleaded weakly.

  Wulfhere shook his head. He glanced back, from the way they had come. The sound of approaching horses, and the crunch of twigs underfoot, warned them that they had only a few more moments alone together in the woods.

  It doesn’t matter how much you deny it,” he said softly. “Your body betrays you every time, lovely Ermenilda.”

  Blinking back tears of humiliation and rage, Ermenilda glared at him. She wanted to call him a liar, but the accusation would have been hollow.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Great Tower

  Tamworth appeared—a sprawling, dirty town, encircled by high palisades, with a huge gray tower looming over it like a grim watcher. The seat of the Mercian king sat at the intersection between two wide rivers: The Tame and the Anker. Thick woodland carpeted the land to the south and west, whereas wide meadows stretched east. To the north, there was a row of barrows; the grassy burial mounds of Mercian kings. The town’s setting was idyllic, although to Ermenilda’s anxious gaze, the settlement itself crouched menacingly at the heart of it.

  Ermenilda rode into Tamworth at Wulfhere’s side. He had insisted she did so, for his people would expect to see them arrive together. Even so, she made a point of not looking his way; an act of futility for even when she could not see him, she was keenly aware of his presence next to her.

  They had barely spoken since he had rescued her in the woods a few days earlier. Since then, she had gone out of her way to avoid him and, mercifully, Wulfhere had not sought her out.

  Now, with Tamworth before them, her reprieve had ended.

  They clattered across the wooden bridge that crossed the lazy flow of the River Tame and rode up an incline to the low gate. It was a bright afternoon, unusually warm for the season. Folk had gathered at the roadside to welcome home their king and catch a glimpse of the Kentish princess he would wed.

  Ermenilda saw the joy on their faces as she rode by. Children called out to her, and men and women cheered at the sight of their new queen. Mercia and the Kentish had always had an amicable relationship, although Ermenilda realized that she was more welcome here than she had anticipated.

  Wulfhere reined his stallion in close to her, so that their legs were almost touching.

  “The people of Tamworth are overjoyed to see you, Lady Ermenilda.”

  “I think it is their king they are pleased to welcome home,” she replied, still avoiding his gaze.

  “Ever since my father’s passing, Mercia has lacked security,” he answered. “My older brother, Pa
eda, was a puppet king, put in power by Oswiu of Northumbria. Paeda’s wife—who was a Northumbrian princess—was never truly accepted here. You bring my people hope.”

  Ermenilda glanced at him, frowning.

  Hope.

  She had none for herself. How could she provide hope to anyone else?

  They rode up the tangle of narrow, paved streets to the high gate and entered the inner palisade. A vast yard, flanked by low-slung buildings on either side, greeted them. Stone steps led up to the entrance to the Great Tower, where guards had opened the vast oaken doors to admit their king.

  Ermenilda glanced around her as she slid to the ground and adjusted her clothing. Everything was on a much grander scale here than in Cantwareburh. However, her father’s Great Hall was a much more welcoming structure, and a cursory glance around gave no sign of any garden, or even an orchard.

  “Come, Lady Ermenilda.” Wulfhere appeared at her elbow. His tone was reserved, polite. He was playing a role now, and he expected her to do the same. “My kin and retainers await.”

  “Brother! You did not exaggerate the Kentish princess’s beauty, I see.”

  The man who had just spoken bore a startling resemblance to Wulfhere and stood upon the high seat awaiting them. As she and Wulfhere approached, Ermenilda noted the differences between the two men: Wulfhere was far more striking, with his mane of white-blond hair and regal bone structure. The man waiting on the high seat was sharper featured, his pale gaze shrewder. He wore his dark-blond hair cropped short against his scalp.

  They had almost reached the high seat when the man stepped down to greet them. His face split into a grin, instantly making him devastatingly attractive.

  Beside her, Wulfhere snorted. “Have you ever known me to exaggerate anything?”

  Wulfhere turned to Ermenilda. “Lady Ermenilda, meet my brother, Prince Aethelred.”

  Unsmiling, Ermenilda nodded at the prince while he gave her an assessing, penetrating look in return. She shifted her gaze from Aethelred, noting that there was no one else standing upon the high seat behind the prince.

  It was so different from her father’s hall filled with her cousins, uncles, and aunts. A handful of men and women, all finely dressed, stood at the foot of the high seat. None of them bore any physical resemblance to the two brothers, so Ermenilda surmised that they were retainers rather than kin.

  Where is the rest of his family?

  She cast her gaze around the interior of the Great Tower of Tamworth. It was cold and damp and smelled faintly of mildew, despite the huge hearths burning at each end. Narrow, high windows appeared to let in very little light, while a number of clay cressets lined the circular walls, casting their warmth across the space. Above, Ermenilda noted that there appeared to be another floor, accessible via a ladder from the main hall.

  “You will be weary.” Aethelred clicked his fingers and motioned to a slave girl who was stoking one of the fire pits. “Bring the king some mead.”

  Wulfhere nodded. “It has been a long—and eventful—journey,” he admitted.

  Still keeping a gentle hold on Ermenilda’s elbow, he led her up onto the high seat, where they sat down at a long table. Wulfhere and Ermenilda’s chairs were beautifully crafted and carved from oak, with dragon’s-head armrests.

  Aethelred took a seat to his brother’s right, his gaze bright with curiosity.

  “So, when will you be handfasted?” he asked.

  “This evening,” Wulfhere replied without hesitation.

  Ermenilda felt her belly contract at this news. She had known their wedding was looming but had hoped that he might have waited till tomorrow. Panic fluttered up into her breast. She was not ready for this; she would never be ready.

  Aethelred smirked. “Impatient, eh?”

  Wulfhere gave his brother a cool look. “Can you ask Immin’s, Eafa’s, and Eadbert’s wives to make the arrangements?” he said, choosing not to reply to his brother’s comment. “The ealdormen are still in Tamworth, are they not?”

  Aethelred nodded. “They have eagerly awaited your return, Brother.”

  The slave girl appeared and poured each of them a cup of mead. Ermenilda took a sip from hers, before her gaze went to the iron collar about the girl’s thin neck. Her father did not keep slaves; all those who served in his hall were free men and women. Frankly, she was not surprised that many slaves worked within Wulfhere’s hall, although it did nothing to improve her opinion of him.

  “Milord . . .” She spoke for the first time since entering the hall. “May I visit Tamworth’s church now? Before the handfasting.”

  Wulfhere frowned. “The day grows late. You will need time to bathe and dress for the ceremony.”

  “It won’t take long,” she promised. “I will not linger.”

  “Very well,” Wulfhere conceded. He rose from his seat and waved to the priest, who had just entered the hall. “Seaxwulf will take you there.”

  Ermenilda bowed her head. “Thank you, milord.”

  She rose to her feet, forcing herself to maintain the appearance of serenity. Wulfhere’s brother was observing her. He had the kind of sharp gaze that missed nothing, and she wondered if he had noticed the tension between her and Wulfhere.

  Without another word, she stepped down from the high seat and made her way toward Seaxwulf.

  Wulfhere watched his betrothed cross the hall with the priest, Seaxwulf, at her side. He silently admired her proud posture; the long, slender curve of her back; and the way her golden hair spilled like honey over her shoulders.

  The journey from Cantwareburh had been the longest of his life. He ached for Ermenilda. Over the past few days, he had been able to think of nothing else but his betrothed.

  “She is indeed lovely.”

  Aethelred’s voice drew his attention away from the Kentish princess, forcing his gaze back to his brother. He did not like the way Aethelred was smirking. As children, it had always been a sign that his younger brother was about to stir up trouble.

  “She is,” Wulfhere agreed guardedly, before taking a sip of his mead.

  “Does she ever smile?”

  Wulfhere sighed. Here was the barb he had known was coming.

  “Not for me, she doesn’t.”

  Aethelred favored him with a shrewd look.

  “She dislikes you, doesn’t she?”

  Wulfhere glared at him. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Only to the trained eye,” Aethelred replied. “She is a highborn lady and hides it well enough. What did you do to offend her?”

  Wulfhere sat back in his chair and raked a hand through his hair.

  “The fact that I exist is offensive enough. Everything from having Penda of Mercia as my sire to the fact that I have prevented her from entering a nunnery offends Lady Ermenilda.”

  Aethelred raised an eyebrow. “And that doesn’t worry you?”

  Wulfhere shrugged, deliberately playing down how he really felt. He was not about to share his concerns with his brother. Aethelred was competitive enough to use any sign of weakness to his advantage.

  “A wife doesn’t have to like her husband,” he reminded his brother, “and it won’t prevent her from bearing my children.”

  Aethelred gave him a speculative look, clearly wanting to ask more. However, Wulfhere knew that his brother had noted the warning tone in his voice.

  Wulfhere decided it was time to change the subject.

  “Have you been to see Mōder?” he asked.

  Aethelred nodded. “I visited her just after you left for Kent.”

  “How is she?”

  “Well enough,” Aethelred replied with a shrug. “Although, I’ll never understand how life doesn’t bore her death.”

  Wulfhere had not seen his mother, Cyneswide, since she had taken the veil two years earlier. The queen mother, once as proud a pagan as her husband, had chosen a life of seclusion in response to her eldest son taking the throne. She, like Wulfhere and Aethelred, blamed Paeda for her husband’s death. Bonehill w
as a day’s ride away from Tamworth, and Wulfhere knew he was overdue for a visit.

  Wulfhere was about to ask his brother another question about their mother when Aethelred interrupted him.

  “You said the journey home was ‘eventful,’” he said mildly. “How so?”

  Wulfhere took a deep draft of mead and exhaled before replying. He had hoped to wait before delivering this news, for thinking upon it soured his mood. It would not be long before Aethelred noticed some of the king’s men were missing.

  “We were attacked, upon a bridge on East Saxon lands, and lost a number of our men.”

  “Hwæt?” Aethelred slammed his cup down onto the table, sloshing mead over the brim. “Those bastards!”

  “It wasn’t the East Saxons,” Wulfhere replied, forestalling him. “It appears that my betrothed’s mother, Queen Seaxburh, and her sister, Aethelthryth of Ely, have been nursing a grudge against Mercia for a long while. They seek reckoning for the death of their father and brother.”

  “Annan and Jurmin? But that was nearly five years ago.”

  “Recent enough for their grief still to be raw,” Wulfhere replied. “Long enough for their bitterness to fester.”

  “Are you going to let them get away with this?”

  Wulfhere met his brother’s gaze. “Attacking me was an act of war,” he reminded him. “Never fear. Those responsible—Seaxburh, Aethelthryth, and that East Angle fool she wedded—will pay for it.”

  “Just one more street, milady.”

  Seaxwulf led the way up a narrow lane, to the right of where the inner palisade ended. “My church is close by.”

  Ermenilda favored him with a wan smile. She did not mind the walk at all; it gave her a moment of reprieve from the Great Hall and the wedding ceremony, which loomed ever closer. Wynflaed followed close at her mistress’s heels, her gaze shifting around their surroundings with interest.

  “The buildings are much bigger here,” the maid observed.

  Ermenilda had also noted the same—there were many more timbered dwellings in Tamworth, the homes of the king’s wealthier thegns. It reminded her that her father’s fyrd—his king’s army—was considerably smaller than Mercia’s.