Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  “After having our hall occupied by Northumbrians for two years, he does not want to leave us vulnerable,” Aethelred told her with a frown, “and I don’t blame him.”

  Ermenilda studied him a moment. Prince Aethelred was somewhat of an enigma; she could not decide if he was a worse or better man than Wulfhere. There were times—when his smirks and calculating looks wore upon her—when she imagined being wedded to Aethelred would be far worse than to his brother. At other times, like now, he wore an introspective expression, and his gaze was troubled.

  Watching him, Ermenilda wondered if his arrogance and apparent ambition were merely a shield for the insecure youth beneath.

  “What is it?” Aethelred had noticed her penetrating look. “You stare at me as if I were an ugly earthworm you have dug up in your garden.”

  Ermenilda laughed. Her reaction was unexpected and caused others in the hall to turn to look. Covering her mouth with her hand, Ermenilda realized that it was the first time she had laughed in a long while. Life had become so serious of late that it felt odd to find something humorous.

  “I am glad I amuse you,” Aethelred said, although his disgruntled expression told her that the opposite was true.

  “I was just trying to gain your measure,” she admitted. “Before leaving Cantwareburh, I thought I was a good judge of character but these days I no longer trust my own assessment.”

  The prince raised an eyebrow.

  “That change is probably for the better. People are rarely what they first appear—good, bad, or otherwise. It never pays to make quick judgments about a man’s character.”

  Ermenilda took a sip from her cup and mulled over his words. She knew there was some truth to what he said, but she preferred a world she could understand. She liked to know what was good and what was bad—there was comfort in it.

  Everything had become so confusing of late. She had wedded a man she both detested and desired. On the one hand, Wulfhere’s absence had been a blessed relief, and on the other, she found herself unexpectedly missing him—especially at night. Worse than that, she found herself missing the low timbre of his voice and the sight of him prowling into the hall, his white wolf stalking at his heels. She missed the flutters of excitement in her belly every time his gaze met hers.

  Now it was Aethelred’s turn to observe. She had been so deep in thought that she had not realized the prince was watching her closely.

  “You are not like other women,” he said, finally, “although neither was the princess Paeda wed.”

  “That does not sound like a compliment,” Ermenilda replied, stiffening.

  Aethelred’s mouth curved into a mocking smile. “It was not meant as one.”

  “And how am I so different?”

  “You think too much, question too much. It appears a recipe for unhappiness, if you ask me.”

  Ermenilda stared at him, stunned. “You believe other women don’t think?”

  “Well, if they do, they have the wits to hide it from their menfolk.”

  Although she chafed at his comments, Ermenilda knew Aethelred had spoken true. She had eyes—she knew most highborn women saw much but said little. The bitter truth was that husbands preferred their wives that way.

  Her mother had brought Ermenilda and her sister up to be modest ladies, but some of Seaxburh’s fire burned in her firstborn daughter’s veins. Fortunately, Seaxburh had married a god-fearing man who ruled a peaceful kingdom. Until the day before Ermenilda’s departure, she had never really seen her parents argue. Unluckily, for Ermenilda, her father had given her to a warlord.

  Wulfhere brought out a side of her she had not known existed—a side she did not like.

  “There you go, thinking again,” Aethelred teased. “I don’t need to be a seer to read your face, Lady Ermenilda.”

  “So I think too much, do I?” Ermenilda muttered, stabbing her small wooden trowel into the damp soil. “So men prefer women to be witless fools?”

  Nearby, Wynflaed looked up from where she had been planting seedlings.

  “What’s that, milady?”

  “Lord Aethelred shared his opinion about my character with me at nón-mete,” Ermenilda replied, not bothering to hide the scorn in her voice. She was used to being frank with her handmaid, something Wynflaed appeared to appreciate. “Apparently, I have too much to say for myself. A cleverer woman would keep her eyes open and her mouth shut.”

  To Ermenilda’s chagrin, Wynflaed laughed. The sound—light and musical—echoed across the garden, where rows of cabbages, turnips, carrots, and onions now grew. The scent of roses from the first blooms edging the garden mingled with the woody aroma of thyme and rosemary that they had planted near the paths. Ermenilda sat back on her heels and glared at Wynflaed.

  “My mother always told me that was so,” the maid admitted, still smiling. “She said that it’s a rare man who wants a woman to be his equal. Most men believe our brains are smaller, that we are incapable of understanding anything beyond the realm of the home and children.”

  “And you find that funny?”

  Wynflaed shook her head, not remotely perturbed by Ermenilda’s glare. “I find it ridiculous,” she replied, “and any man who thinks so deserves to be cuckolded.”

  “Wynflaed!” Ermenilda scolded her, although she was now fighting a smile.

  The handmaid shrugged and reached for another seedling.

  “I said the same to my mother, and she pretended to be outraged as well. Yet, she knew the truth as well as me—the cleverer a woman is, the more careful she must be to hide it from her menfolk.”

  “In such a world, it’s better for a woman to remain unwed,” Ermenilda replied, viciously pulling out a weed and tossing it into her basket.

  Wynflaed looked up from her work, a frown marring her smooth brow.

  “But, we need men to protect us, to provide for us. Why else do you think womenfolk put up with it?”

  “Nuns don’t have to,” Ermenilda reminded her.

  “They still have rules to live by. We all do.”

  A male voice interrupted their conversation.

  Both women started slightly and turned to see the priest, Seaxwulf, standing in the gateway to the garden.

  “Apologies, if I startled you.” The priest gave an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  “Good afternoon, Brother Seaxwulf,” Ermenilda greeted him coolly. Ever since he had refused to aid her, she had avoided him, preferring to pray by her bedside than visit his church.

  The priest nodded and took another step forward, his gaze surveying his surroundings.

  “You have worked miracles with this plot,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  Despite her disappointment in Seaxwulf, Ermenilda smiled at his compliment. It felt nice to have someone admire her and Wynflaed’s hard work.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  It was then that she noticed the priest was dressed for traveling, in a dark woolen cloak, with a leather satchel slung across his front.

  “Where are you off to?”

  Seaxwulf glanced down at his attire and smiled. The cloak was too warm for the afternoon’s humidity, and his brow glistened with sweat.

  “I am traveling to Bonehill. I usually visit the abbey twice a year, to make sure the nuns have everything they need. I bring them grain and salted meat and cheeses to replenish their stores.”

  Ermenilda stood up and brushed soil off her hands. “Bonehill? I too would like to visit. How far is it from Tamworth?”

  “Just under a day’s ride, southwest of here. Once the king returns, I will ask him if you can accompany me on my next visit, if you wish it, milady.”

  Ermenilda smiled. His offer pleased her. “Yes, I would like that very much, thank you.”

  Seaxwulf moved back toward the gateway. “I must leave you now. I just wanted to stop by and say good-bye. I meant to depart this morning, but I’ve been delayed. At this rate, I will not reach Bonehill till tom
orrow morning.”

  “Well then, I bid you a good journey.”

  Ermenilda watched Seaxwulf depart. She knelt down once more and retrieved her trowel. Wynflaed was observing her, a thoughtful look upon her face.

  “What is it?”

  “Would you really have preferred a life as a nun, milady?”

  “Aye,” Ermenilda replied without hesitation. “I know their life can be hard, and austere, but I would prefer it to being wed to Wulfhere of Mercia.”

  Ermenilda paused there, her stomach clenching. “I shudder to think what he will do to my kin in Ely. If he returns with their blood on his hands, I will never forgive him.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ely Burns

  “Murderers! Devils!”

  Aethelthryth of Ely faced the men who strode into her hall, their blades slick with fresh blood. She stood alone in front of the fire pit. All her servants had fled, and the men had gone outside to fight. She trembled as the warriors approached but held her ground.

  Wulfhere respected her for that.

  He crossed the floor, taking in the cleanliness and order of the empty ealdorman’s hall as he went. The servants had thrown down their brooms and left their preparations for supper scattered across the workbenches, yet he could see that every surface gleamed. The air, though smoky, carried the scent of lavender and rosemary. Clearly, Lady Aethelthryth was an industrious woman and ran her husband’s hall well.

  “So you come at last,” she hissed at him when he came to a halt five feet from her. “To finish the job your father started.”

  Wulfhere inclined his head before motioning to Mōna, who had stepped up next to him and was growling low in her throat. The wolf, her jaws dripping with blood from the fight outside, was ready to savage this woman.

  “Quiet, Mōna.”

  “And you have brought your hellhound with you,” Aethelthryth observed, although her voice shook with fear. Her gaze flicked to the white wolf, now sitting by Wulfhere’s side.

  “I have no quarrel with your family,” Wulfhere said finally. “However, you made a mistake in not letting the past lie. Did you not think that attacking me in a time of peace would bring my wrath upon you?”

  Aethelthryth’s lip curled, and he could see her hatred for him burned deep.

  “I could not abide you wedding my niece.” She bit out the words. “A girl of pure body and spirit, destined to serve Christ. You have ruined her.”

  Behind him, Wulfhere heard Werbode snigger.

  “I told you the woman had a mouth on her,” the warrior said.

  Wulfhere did not respond to Werbode’s comment. Instead, he continued to watch Aethelthryth of Ely. She was younger and prettier than he had expected. Eventually, she broke the weighty silence between them.

  “What have you done with my husband?”

  “He is dead, as are all his warriors.”

  Aethelthryth went the color of milk at this news and swayed slightly on her feet.

  “You are a monster,” she whispered.

  Wulfhere inhaled slowly, quelling his mounting irritation. “I warned you both what would happen if I attacked Ely,” he told her. “You had the chance to come away willingly, but you refused. All this death is your doing.”

  “Kill me too then,” she spat at him; her face, framed by a white linen headrail, was gaunt with fury. “Finish it!”

  Wulfhere shook his head. “And make you a martyr, Lady Aethelthryth? I think not. You are coming back with me, to Tamworth, as my hostage. That way, your sister in Cantwareburh will think twice before continuing her blood feud.”

  “No!”

  Aethelthryth’s hard-won self-control snapped. She lunged for the nearest worktable, where a knife lay next to a pile of carrots. Her fingers had just fastened around the bone hilt when Wulfhere reached her. He grabbed hold of her wrist and squeezed until she dropped the weapon to the rushes.

  “What were you going to do with that?” he asked, kicking away the knife. “Stab me?”

  Aethelthryth did not answer. Instead, she struggled against him, kicking and clawing like a cat. For a small woman, she was remarkably strong.

  “I’d say she was going to slay herself,” Elfhere commented. The blond warrior stepped up and deftly bound the woman’s wrists behind her back while Wulfhere held her still. Aethelthryth was weeping now, her shoulders shaking with soundless sobs.

  Elfhere was frowning as he watched her. “Is she hurt?”

  Wulfhere shook his head. “Nor is she as helpless as she appears. Keep an eye on her.”

  They left the ealdorman’s hall behind and led their captive out into the ruined town. Smoke filled the afternoon sky, and around them thatched dwellings burned. Above it all, Ely’s great church had gone up like a great funeral pyre, flames licking high into the eggshell sky.

  Aethelthryth gave a choked cry when she saw it. She dropped to her knees and began whispering a fevered prayer.

  “The woman grates upon my nerves,” Werbode grumbled. “Can we not gag her?”

  Wulfhere shook his head. “She will quieten soon enough.”

  Smoke hung heavily in the air, causing Wulfhere’s eyes to water. The roar and crackle of the flames devouring the timber church behind them drowned out the groans of the dying men he stepped over. He could feel the heat of the inferno on his back.

  The bodies of Tondberct’s men lay thick around the perimeter of Ely, and their blood had stained the earth dark at the gates, where the fighting had been most intense. Wulfhere had lost a few men in the attack, but once they breached the gates, the fight had ended quickly.

  Outside the gates, they passed two heads atop pikes.

  Aethelthryth let out a long wail when she saw them. Tondberct and his brother, Cedric, stared back at her. They both wore their final moments upon their faces. Tondberct’s eyes were wide, his mouth gaping, whereas his brother’s face had twisted in a rictus of agony.

  “They both fought bravely,” Elfhere told her quietly. “They died with swords in their hands.”

  Aethelthryth ignored the warrior and began to sob—loudly this time—before sinking to the ground. Her wails echoed across the fenland, louder even than the roar of the burning church.

  Wulfhere watched her grief and felt an odd sensation fill him, one he could not define.

  He had never liked watching a woman weep.

  He had thought that his reckoning would feel better than this: that exacting revenge against Seaxburh and Aethelthryth would fill him with a sense of vindication. Instead, he just felt strangely hollow.

  Smothering the sensation, Wulfhere turned to Elfhere.

  “If she will not walk, carry her to the horses. We’re leaving.”

  “So soon?” Werbode stepped up, frowning. “We have not yet plundered the town. There will be plenty of riches to be had in Tondberct’s hall.”

  Wulfhere shook his head. Suddenly, the need to be away from Ely was the only thing that mattered.

  “Leave them,” he ordered. “The folk of Ely will need gold to rebuild their town when they return.”

  “Hwæt?” Werbode’s face turned thunderous. “Do you deny us the spoils of battle?”

  Wulfhere lashed out, his fist connecting with Werbode’s left eye. The warrior grunted, before dropping to the ground like a sack of barley.

  Massaging his bruised knuckles, Wulfhere cast a gimlet-eyed glare at his men, who had gathered around him. White-hot rage pulsed through him. He would kill the next warrior who crossed him.

  “Does anyone else have anything to add?”

  Only silence answered him.

  “Good. Ready your horses—we ride for Mercia.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A Cold Welcome

  Ermenilda was at her loom, working on a tapestry that would one day grace the wall above the high seat, when she heard that Wulfhere had returned.

  “The king’s fyrd has entered the low gate, milady.” Wynflaed had just stepped up onto the high seat, her cheeks flushed
from running. “Shall I help you change into another dress?”

  Ermenilda’s stomach contracted at the news. She looked down at the plain green sleeveless tunic she wore, girded at the waist with a simple cord. Her state of dress was the least of her worries.

  “There is no time,” she replied.

  Ermenilda rose to her feet and tucked away a lock of hair that had come free of its long braid. She had known that Wulfhere was due to return any day, but the realization that he would shortly enter the Great Tower caused her heart to quicken with a strange mix of dread and excitement.

  “Come,” she said to Wynflaed, her tone brisk to mask her nervousness. “We should go out to meet them.”

  Outside the Great Tower of Tamworth, the sun shone bright and warm on what was the warmest day of the year, so far. Heat bathed Ermenilda’s face when she stepped out of the tower’s entrance and halted at the wide ledge before the steps.

  Beyond the high gate, she could hear the thunder of approaching horses. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, and she placed her hand on her breast, in an attempt to calm her pulse.

  Moments later, men poured into the wide space before the Great Tower. The late morning’s peace shattered, as warriors and their horses filled the yard. The jangling of bridles, the creak of leather, the clunk of limewood shields, the rumble of men’s voices, and the snorting of horses greeted her. The noise washed over Ermenilda in a roaring tide.

  She spotted her husband easily. He rode into the yard, with Mōna loping at his side. He was helmetless, his pale hair spilling over his shoulders. Her breathing stilled at the sight of him. Try as she might to deny it, Wulfhere entranced her; his presence dominated any space he entered.

  She watched Wulfhere glance toward the tower, seeking her out, and their gazes met. The intensity in his pale eyes caused her to inhale sharply. She might have gone on staring at him forever had a woman’s voice not echoed across the yard.

  “Ermenilda?”

  I know that voice.

  Tearing her gaze from Wulfhere’s, Ermenilda looked behind him at where Elfhere was helping a woman dismount. The female was small and dressed in a gray-blue tunic that matched her eyes. Her white headrail was disheveled and stained.