Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  “Those antlers shall grace this hall,” Aethelred boasted, before grinning across at his brother, “as a constant reminder of who is the best hunter among us.”

  Wulfhere snorted into his cup of mead.

  “Just like Paeda, you suffer from an overinflated sense of your own worth, little brother.”

  This comment drew a roar of laughter from around the table.

  Ermenilda, who was observing them all, noted that one of them did not join in the mirth and good cheer. Werbode sat among them, scowling into his cup.

  “Enough of hunting and boasting.” The thegn spoke up once the laughter had died down. “We have waited long enough. When will we have our reckoning?”

  The warrior’s comment brought forth a hum of excited whispering and murmurs around the hall. Ermenilda frowned, her gaze shifting to where Wulfhere sat beside her. She appeared to be the only one present who did not know of what Werbode spoke.

  “What reckoning?” she whispered to Wulfhere.

  Her husband either did not hear her or pretended not to. His cool gaze had settled upon Werbode, and his face wore a pensive expression.

  “I have not forgotten,” he answered, finally, when the chatter around them had ceased. “There are some things a man never forgets.”

  Werbode leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming. Unlike many of the warriors who grew their beards long, the thegn trimmed his close to his chin, with a pointed end.

  “When then?”

  “We are on the eve of Thrimilce,” said the king. “If we begin our preparations now, we will be ready to leave midmonth.”

  “It is a good month for travel.” Aethelred spoke up, his gaze shining. “The East Angle marshes will be easy to cross this time of year.”

  Ermenilda went still, while the conversation continued around her.

  “How many spears will we need?” Werbode asked. “I will begin gathering your fyrd tomorrow.”

  “At least two hundred,” Wulfhere replied. “Speak with Immin, Eafa, and Eadbert and request they and their men join us.”

  Werbode nodded, his mouth thinning. “They will,” he assured Wulfhere. “There is not one warrior in your hall who would deny you. We all thirst for vengeance for the death of our brothers on that bridge.”

  Panicked, Ermenilda turned to Wulfhere.

  “No! You cannot attack my kin!”

  Wulfhere looked at her, his gaze hooded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re planning an attack on my aunt in Ely, aren’t you?”

  “War is not a woman’s business.” Wulfhere’s voice held a warning. “You should keep out of this, wife.”

  Ermenilda stared at him, anger rising in her breast.

  “If you speak of attacking my uncle and aunt, then it is my business,” she replied. Although she kept her voice low, it was difficult not to spit the words out at him.

  “Tondberct of Ely will rue the day he did his wife’s bidding and sent men to kill us,” Aethelred interrupted. His face was hard as he glared at Ermenilda. “You are fortunate indeed that my brother does not blame you—as he does your aunt and mother.”

  “Aethelthryth of Ely tried to kill me,” Wulfhere continued, casting a quelling look in his brother’s direction. “I cannot let that go unpunished.”

  “The men who attacked you are all dead,” Ermenilda countered. “Surely, that is punishment enough?”

  She was suddenly aware that most of the men at the table were now staring at her with hard, accusing eyes. She knew she should hold her tongue, for she was sailing into dangerous waters. Yet, the cruelty of what Wulfhere was planning had caused her to cast aside her usual reticence.

  “It’s not enough,” Wulfhere replied. His voice was deceptively soft, a tone that Ermenilda knew meant his anger was quickening. “And you would do well not to pursue this further, wife.”

  Ermenilda heeded his warning and looked down at her half-eaten trencher of pottage. Outrage pulsed within her. She bit down on her tongue to prevent herself from screaming accusations at him.

  You cannot be surprised, a cruel voice within mocked her. You knew who you were wedding. You have let lust cloud your judgment. Wulfhere of Mercia is a merciless and cruel warlord, just like the men before him.

  “Milord.” Ermenilda broke the weighty silence that had descended over the high table. “May I be excused? I wish to go to church.”

  Wulfhere nodded curtly. He glanced up the table to where Elfhere sat. “Elfhere—take three men and escort my wife.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  Ermenilda rose from the table and, not casting a glance at any of the men seated around her, stepped down from the high seat. Then, stiff-backed with fury, she walked out of the Great Hall, with Elfhere following close behind.

  Wulfhere watched Ermenilda leave the hall before turning his attention to Werbode.

  “You would have done better not to have brought that up in the queen’s presence.”

  Werbode’s mouth twisted, and Wulfhere saw something move in the depths of his eyes. The thegn looked as if he wished to say something but wisely decided against it. Instead, he raised his cup to his lips and took a deep draft of mead. However, Aethelred, less prudent than Werbode, spoke his mind.

  “She would have found out soon enough, Brother. What’s wrong? Are you afraid of your wife’s wrath?”

  This comment brought a few choked laughs and smirks from those present, although the mirth rapidly faded when Wulfhere drew his seax.

  Aethelred had been resting his left elbow on the table, his right hand spread upon the pitted oak surface. Quick as a barn owl diving for its prey, Wulfhere launched himself at his brother, sinking the blade deep into the wood between the prince’s splayed fingers.

  Aethelred cursed and yanked his hand back, catching the edge of the blade with his forefinger. He cursed again as blood trickled down his hand.

  “Mad bastard!” he roared. “You nearly cut my hand off!”

  Wulfhere yanked his seax out of the table and slid it back into its scabbard at his waist.

  “Insult me again and you’ll lose more than a hand.”

  Wulfhere’s gentle tone belied the anger that was coiling in the pit of his belly. The prince had gone red in the face, and his pale eyes glittered with anger, but he held his tongue. Likewise, the other men at the table refrained from voicing their thoughts.

  Truthfully, Wulfhere was as angry with himself as with his mouthy brother. Most of the time, his wife epitomized the ideal highborn lady: demure, polite, and soft-spoken. However, he had seen flashes of a different woman—a strident, opinionated harpy, who would not hold her tongue if angered.

  Wulfhere sat back down upon his carved chair and poured himself another cup of mead from the clay jug before him.

  Fæder never had this problem with Mōder, he thought darkly.

  All the years they were together, Wulfhere had never once seen Cyneswide openly contradict Penda. Perhaps when they were alone she had done so, but never in front of others. Wulfhere knew that his father would never have tolerated it. He thought of his elder brother, Paeda, and the brutal way he had responded to his Northumbrian wife when she dared challenge him. Wulfhere could not bring himself to treat his own wife in that manner, even if he could see that many of his men thought less of him for not doing so.

  I don’t want Ermenilda to fear me.

  Yet, he could not let her question him again in front of his men like she had today. Something would have to be done.

  Ermenilda strode across the yard in front of the Great Tower of Tamworth, her vision blurring with tears.

  It was a windy evening, and the sun was setting in a blaze of gold behind the racing clouds to the west. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling tendrils of it free from her braid. It was cool outdoors, and she had no cloak. Such was the force of Ermenilda’s anger that she did not care.

  Ignoring the curious glances from the guards at the high gate, and Elfhere who silently followed her, she strode through i
t and turned left. The streets of Tamworth were largely deserted at this hour, and she saw few folk as she strode up to the church. On the way there, she feverishly went over what she had just heard inside the Great Hall.

  Aethelthryth and Tondberct were in danger—she had to warn them.

  Seaxwulf was the only one in Tamworth with the power to help her.

  Reaching the church, Ermenilda left Elfhere outside. She ran up the steps and burst inside through the heavy oaken doors. Seaxwulf was there, as she had expected. He was sweeping the paved floor with a broom. Ermenilda entered the church so quickly that he looked up in alarm, the tallow candles guttering around him.

  “Lady Ermenilda! What is it?”

  His concern caused something inside Ermenilda to snap, and she choked back a sob.

  “My husband is a monster,” she gasped. “I married a foul warmonger who plans to attack my kin!”

  Seaxwulf’s eyes widened at this news, and he cast his broom aside, taking a few hesitant steps toward her.

  “Please, milady. Tell me what happened . . . and start from the beginning, for your words make no sense to me.”

  Ermenilda took in a deep, shuddering breath to prevent another sob and brushed at the tears streaming down her face. She managed to tell him the tale, as best she could, gasping the words while she struggled to contain her tears. When she had finished, the priest’s face was solemn. Ermenilda did not like the look of resignation in his dark eyes.

  “I am sorry to hear this,” he admitted quietly, before he looked down at the stone pavers beneath his sandaled feet. “I had suspected that the king would not let that attack go unpunished.”

  “They are my family,” Ermenilda replied, her voice rising. “We must warn them. I am not able to write, but you can. Please write a note for my aunt and see that it is delivered to her. She must learn of this before my husband marches upon Ely.”

  Seaxwulf’s head snapped up.

  “Lady Ermenilda,” he gasped. “What you ask of me is treason.”

  “What I ask of you will save lives,” she countered.

  Seaxwulf shook his head, his expression turning stubborn.

  “I do not wish to see your kin in Ely harmed, but I cannot do what you ask.”

  Panic surged within Ermenilda. The priest was her only hope of getting word to Aethelthryth. She had been so sure he would help her.

  “I thought you were a good man, a Christian man,” she said bitterly, “but now I see you are like all the rest. Interested only in saving your own hide.”

  The priest held up his hand, as if to ward off her venom.

  “Lady Ermenilda,” he replied sternly, not remotely cowed by her accusation. “What you ask would cost me my own life. Is that what you want?”

  Ermenilda had not considered that.

  “Wulfhere would never know,” she replied weakly.

  Seaxwulf shook his head. “He would learn of it eventually, and he would cut off my head. You must not get in the way between a king and his reckoning, milady.”

  Chapter Twenty

  A Stormy Farewell

  Dread dogged Ermenilda’s steps during her walk back from visiting Seaxwulf. It was nearly dark outside when she slipped into the Great Tower. Inside, slaves were tidying and cleaning up after the evening meal, and a group of women—thegns’ wives—were working at their distaffs as they chatted around one of the fire pits.

  Ermenilda crossed the rush-strewn floor, making straight for the wooden ladder on the far side of the hall. Wulfhere and his men were drinking and talking upon the high seat, and she felt some of their gazes shift to her. However, she ignored them all.

  She climbed up to the King’s Loft, exhaling in relief when she was finally away from the gazes of the hall below. This platform, in the times when she retired for the night before Wulfhere, was her sanctuary. Slaves had been up here already and lit the oil-filled clay cressets lining the walls. They had placed a jug of watered-down wine for the king and queen upon a low table near the furs.

  Ermenilda poured herself a tall cup, wishing that the wine was not diluted. She dreaded the moment when Wulfhere would join her this eve. It was not just his anger she feared but her own. After learning of the reckoning he and his men planned, she could not bear to look upon him.

  The wine, weak though it was, calmed her jangled nerves, and she took a seat on the edge of the furs. She did not feel like sleeping yet, for she was too nervous, so she reached for her distaff instead and began winding wool onto the wooden spindle. Owing to the amount of time she passed in her garden, she had been lax in this chore of late. She had a mountain of wool to wind.

  The repetitive action calmed her somewhat, and she listened to the rumble of voices from below the platform as she worked. Still, when Wulfhere finally appeared at the top of the ladder, it took all her effort not to gasp in fright.

  As she had expected, his face was thunderous.

  “Not waiting for me naked this eve?” he queried.

  Ermenilda looked away from him, staring down at her distaff, and shook her head.

  She heard the rustle of his clothing as he began to undress. A lump lodged in her throat. The last thing she wanted was for him to touch her.

  “Put your distaff aside,” he commanded quietly, “and look at me, Ermenilda.”

  She clenched her jaw, bristling at the order, before she obeyed him. Wulfhere had just stripped off his tunic and was unlacing his breeches. Usually, his gaze was heated when he did this, dark with longing. This eve, his face was as hard as she had ever seen it, and his gaze was glacial.

  “You angered me today,” he told her. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Ermenilda swallowed her rising ire and forced herself not to glower at him.

  “Aye,” she replied softly.

  Wulfhere crouched before her so their gazes were level.

  “There are husbands who would beat a wife for publically contradicting him.”

  Ermenilda’s breathing hitched, fear shimmering through her.

  “Fortunately for you, I am not one of them,” Wulfhere continued.

  Their gazes held.

  “Ermenilda, if you wish to argue with me, wait until we are alone.”

  “You are planning an attack on my kin,” she replied, her voice husky with the effort she was making not to show her fear. He had not yet laid a hand on her during the marriage, but she did not like the implied threat in his words. “I had to say something.”

  “No you didn’t,” he countered, his voice hardening. “You could have waited till we were alone. In future, you will.”

  She stared at him, her vision blurring with tears. It was like talking to a boulder, as inflexible and hard as granite. Here she was, upset because he and his army were about to march on her East Angle kin, and all he cared about was the fact she had embarrassed him in front of his men.

  “Is there not a shred of mercy in you?” she asked. “Does the fact that I abhor what you are about to do not matter?”

  He stared at her a moment, before his gaze narrowed.

  “You don’t understand what it means to rule. Reckoning is like fate—it cannot be avoided.”

  “In the old world, it was so,” she replied, vehement, “but not now. The old gods demanded reckoning, and fate treated us like pawns—but no more. The one true god does not demand you spill blood on his behalf. It is he, not wyrd, who determines your future.”

  Wulfhere’s lip curled at that. He rose to his feet and stripped off his breeches, his movements angry.

  “Everything comes back to your religion, doesn’t it?” he snarled. “Every argument, every plea. Do you actually hold an opinion that wasn’t fed to you by a priest?”

  Ermenilda gasped and leaped to her feet, facing him.

  “You can’t be surprised,” she choked out, anger almost rendering her speechless. “I never wanted to wed you. I wanted a life as a nun, and you took it from me. If you wedded a woman with a strong faith, you have only yourself to blame.”
>
  “Careful, Ermenilda.” Wulfhere stalked over to her, even more intimidating than usual in his nakedness. “There are times when you have a forked tongue.”

  He was standing close, too close. Ermenilda breathed in the spicy male scent of him and felt her senses reel. Even when she was angry with him, this man affected her.

  “I wouldn’t,” she managed, trembling as he reached out and stroked her cheek. The gentleness of his touch was at odds with the anger in his voice. “If you did not offend me so deeply.”

  “Those are harsh words,” he replied, before leaning down and kissing her neck. The feel of his lips on her skin made Ermenilda’s limbs go weak. Without meaning to, she leaned toward him, stifling a groan as his arms went around her.

  “They are my only weapons,” she murmured, trying in vain to keep track of her thoughts. “You are a harsh man . . .”

  Wulfhere gave a soft laugh and unpinned her hair, letting it tumble down her back.

  “I thought women liked cruel men?”

  “I don’t . . . I . . .”

  Wulfhere claimed her mouth, kissing away her protests, her anger. He undressed Ermenilda with practiced ease before stripping away her clothing so that he could run his hands over her naked body. She gasped, trembling under his touch.

  He scooped her into his arms and stepped over to the furs. By the time he laid her down upon them, Ermenilda could think of nothing else but Wulfhere.

  He was her world, her past, her future—her penance.

  ***

  The days leading up to Wulfhere’s departure flew past with frightening swiftness.

  Ermenilda grew increasingly anxious. Even the afternoons spent in her garden, working alongside Wynflaed, could not calm her. Tamworth was a hive of activity. Men flooded in from nearby villages, warriors willing to wield a spear, axe, or sword for their lord. The clang of iron, as smiths forged weaponry, shattered the peace of each dawn and twilight.

  Ermenilda increasingly saw less of Wulfhere as the day he and his fyrd would march drew near. He spent his days overseeing preparations or practicing with his sword and seax alongside his men.

  Although she was grateful not to see him, her husband’s absence did little to settle Ermenilda’s nerves. She retired in the evenings, long before he did, and would often pretend to be asleep when he crawled into the furs next to her. After their argument on the day Ermenilda had learned of his plans, they did not speak of it again.