Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The Hollow Crown

  It was silent in the church, so quiet and still that Wulfhere could hear his own breathing. It was a watchful, expectant silence, and he did not like it.

  Wulfhere had stepped inside the cavernous space and walked a few paces across the stone floor when the silence started to bother him. There were a handful of other people here, which surprised him. Seaxwulf had obviously been busy converting the folk of Tamworth to his god. The worshippers knelt near the altar, heads bowed in wordless prayer.

  The king stopped, regretting his decision to enter the church. He was about to turn on his heel and leave when Seaxwulf’s voice shattered the stillness.

  “Lord Wulfhere!”

  The priest, clad in a plain brown tunic, girded at the waist with a length of rope, emerged from the shadowed recesses of the church. Wulfhere saw the delight on Seaxwulf’s face and realized his mistake.

  I should never have come here.

  Oblivious of his king’s discomfort, Seaxwulf bowed.

  “It is a pleasure to welcome you here, milord.”

  Wulfhere did not respond, and when the silence between them lengthened, the priest filled it.

  “After Ēostre, I thought never to see you here again.”

  Wulfhere frowned. Sometimes, the priest was altogether too frank. Seaxwulf saw his lord’s displeasure, and the smile faded from his face.

  “I am humbled that you have come.”

  Wulfhere inhaled deeply and looked around him. He was not sure why he had ventured here. It had been an impulse. He had been thinking about Ermenilda, and his feet had carried him to the church. He missed his wife—and her garden and this church were the only things he had left that reminded him of her.

  “Do you wish to pray?” Seaxwulf asked, motioning to the fur upon the stone floor, spread out before the altar, in front of where the other folk knelt. “If you do, I can leave you alone for a while.”

  Grateful that the priest had finally understood how uncomfortable he felt here, Wulfhere nodded. “Thank you, Seaxwulf.”

  The priest smiled kindly and with another bow left him.

  Wulfhere breathed in the scent of incense and made his way to the altar, stepping around a heavyset man who appeared to be weeping as he prayed.

  Things had come full circle, it seemed. He had knelt before the Christian god and allowed himself to be baptized so that he could claim Ermenilda. And here he was, about to kneel before him again now that he had lost her.

  Wulfhere grimaced and knelt upon the fur. He glared up at the altar, his gaze fastening upon the iron crucifix perched above him.

  Is this my punishment?

  Aethelthryth had told him thus, after she learned of Ermenilda’s disappearance. He had seen it mirrored silently in her gaze every time their eyes met since.

  A god only had power over you if you believed in him. Wulfhere held Woden and his clan close and could not imagine believing in anything else. Ermenilda had been so passionate in her belief, so adamant that he had done something terrible in pretending to believe in the same god in order to wed her. At the time, Wulfhere had dismissed her concerns. What did it matter who he said he believed in? He had what he wanted.

  These days, he was not sure he had made the right decision.

  Aethelthryth openly blamed him for Ermenilda’s death. He could not bring himself to punish her for being so bold—for he too felt he was to blame. He had ignored his wife’s wishes, her requests, her pleas, and had done whatever pleased him. He had thought she would just acquiesce and come to accept it after a while.

  He was the king. His word was law.

  He had not meant to treat her so cruelly the last time he had bedded her, but he had miscalculated just how sensitive and vulnerable his wife was. How he wished he could return in time to that day and unsay those words.

  Wulfhere stared up at the crucifix for a moment longer, before dropping his head.

  I deserved to lose her.

  He had entered new territory, land he was unsure how to cross. He had learned how to be a man and a ruler at his father’s knee, but all the things that had once mattered to him seemed empty and meaningless. He had not listened to Ermenilda while she was alive, but he could do so now. He wore a hollow crown, one that bore a bitter reminder of his mistakes.

  Wulfhere’s gaze focused upon the stone pavers at the foot of the altar.

  I will make amends for what I have done.

  Wulfhere took a sip of mead, aware that someone was staring at him. He looked up and met Werbode’s intense gaze across the table. The warrior had stayed away from him of late, leaving the king to his melancholy while he trained Wulfhere’s men and led bands out hunting.

  These days, whenever he saw his thegn, Wulfhere sensed Werbode’s disdain toward him.

  Werbode would never grieve so openly—and so long—over a woman. He had made that clear. He had also made it evident that he considered it a weakness to do so. Wulfhere had ignored him, too entrenched in his misery to care what Werbode thought.

  There was little warmth in his thegn’s eyes now, just a sharp interest.

  “What is it, Werbode?”

  “The West Saxons,” Werbode replied, his voice a low drawl. “What are you going to do about them?”

  Wulfhere held his gaze steadily. He should have expected this conversation was coming. News had arrived two days earlier that the West Saxons were causing problems on Mercia’s southwestern border—raiding villages and setting fire to crops. The attacks had been sporadic and would likely die away with the coming of winter, yet Werbode had been incensed.

  “I will see if they resume in the spring,” Wulfhere replied eventually, before taking another sip of mead. “If they do, we shall deal with it then.”

  Werbode leaned forward, his dark gaze hardening.

  “They must be made an example of.” Werbode glanced at Aethelred, as if looking for support, but the prince merely stared back, his expression impassive. Glowering, the thegn fixed his attention on Wulfhere once more. “We should raid their villages, steal their livestock . . . take their children as slaves!”

  Wulfhere shook his head. “If the problem worsens, I will act accordingly. But not before.”

  Werbode made a disgusted sound and sat back, glowering at his king.

  Wulfhere watched him, wondering at the man’s worsening attitude of late. Their friendship had worn thin, like a rope stretched too tight. Werbode had revered Penda, and when Wulfhere looked set to follow his father’s example, the thegn’s loyalty had appeared absolute. There was tension between them now—and it grew with each passing month. Wulfhere wondered how much longer he would tolerate Werbode by his side.

  Wulfhere tore a chunk off a round of griddle bread and chewed slowly. His visit to the church had made him reflective. Although the fog of sadness had not lifted, he saw the way ahead clearer now. Werbode was merely a distraction, and he would not let the fact that the warrior was spoiling for a fight push him into war with the West Saxons.

  Wulfhere had other priorities at this moment.

  The king’s gaze shifted down the table, past his brother and Elfhere, to the far end where Aethelthryth of Ely sat next to the priest. As always, her posture was prim, her gaze downcast, as she ate. The woman barely suffered her life here and shunned the company of all but Seaxwulf. She attempted to be brave, but Wulfhere could see the unhappiness etched into the lines of her heart-shaped face.

  The agony of a proud woman who was being slowly broken.

  “You summoned me, milord?”

  Aethelthryth stopped before the high seat and dipped her head. In another woman, the gesture would have been respectful, but not in the Lady Aethelthryth of Ely. Her scorn was palpable.

  “Yes, Lady Aethelthryth,” Wulfhere replied pleasantly, motioning to the seat next to him. “I would speak with you a moment . . . please.”

  Nearby, Aethelred had taken a seat. The prince had just beaten Werbode at a game of k
nucklebones. He had left the warrior sulking over a cup of mead at a nearby table. Wulfhere saw the curiosity flare in his brother’s eyes.

  This was the first time since Ermenilda’s disappearance that Wulfhere had spoken directly to Aethelthryth. Usually, he left dealing with the sharp-tongued and willful widow to his brother—a task Aethelred had complained loudly over.

  Slowly, her body stiff with outrage, Aethelthryth obeyed him. She stepped up onto the high seat and perched on the edge of the stool he had offered her. Wulfhere watched her a moment, noting the way she stared intently at her clasped hands.

  She was an odd female. Full of passion and intensity, but not the sort of woman that would bring a man any joy. Was it any wonder that Ermenilda’s beliefs had been so strong, with an aunt such as this?

  “Are you well, Aethelthryth?” he asked finally.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Have we made you comfortable here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, I trust my brother has not been a brute toward you?”

  Aethelthryth looked up sharply, while Aethelred made a choked sound behind her.

  “You left me in charge of a shrew, brother,” Aethelred muttered.

  Wulfhere ignored him, focusing instead on Aethelthryth.

  “He has the manners of a goat,” she said coldly, “but he has not mistreated me.”

  “Good.” Wulfhere steepled his fingers in front of him and regarded her. “I would not like to hear that you were mistreated here.”

  Aethelthryth’s finely arched brows shot upward.

  “I have decided,” Wulfhere said slowly, “that your time here as my hostage has come to an end.”

  She stared at him, clearly not believing what she was hearing. Wulfhere smiled slightly, an expression so rare these days that it strained his facial muscles.

  “I am not playing with you, Lady Aethelthryth. Tradition dictates that a hostage is only kept as long as a king desires. Tomorrow, I will organize an escort to accompany you back to Ely. I will provide you with enough gold to rebuild your church and your town.”

  Aethelthryth clutched her hands together tightly. Wulfhere could see she was shaking.

  “But why?” she whispered.

  “The reason does not matter,” he replied quietly, “but I will say that I am sorry for the pain you have suffered on my account. My wife begged me not to have my reckoning, and I ignored her at my peril. I cannot undo what has been done, but I will not keep you here against your will any longer.”

  Wulfhere looked over at Aethelred. “My brother will accompany you, to ensure your safe return to Ely.”

  His brother’s face went slack with shock.

  “Hwæt! Can’t you send Werbode—or Elfhere?”

  Wulfhere shook his head. He held his brother’s gaze steadily, aware that others around them—including Werbode—were now listening to their conversation.

  “I trust no one more than you, Aethelred.”

  They were strong words, and Wulfhere meant them. He had grown up distrusting both his brothers—something their father had always encouraged. Penda had enjoyed pitting them against each other. When he had claimed the throne, Wulfhere had expected Aethelred to start plotting against him. It surprised him that the opposite had happened. His younger brother had been sly as a youth, but events of late had matured him.

  Satisfied that Aethelred would not give him any more trouble, Wulfhere turned his attention back to Aethelthryth. There were tears in her eyes, but her face was solemn. He would never have this woman’s love, but then nor did he expect to. Her response when it came surprised him all the same.

  Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet he heard the sincerity in it.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Moving Forward

  The next morning it rained. It was not torrential, like the day Ermenilda disappeared, but a thick, wet mist that descended over the world and soaked everything under it.

  Aethelred was in a foul mood as he followed his brother out of the hall.

  “What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” he muttered.

  “This is an honor,” Wulfhere replied, pretending to ignore his brother’s ill humor. “I did Lady Aethelthryth wrong and am attempting to make amends.”

  They stepped outside, and Aethelred cursed, pulling his fur cloak up around his ears.

  “Guilt over Ermenilda has addled your brains,” he muttered.

  Wulfhere shrugged. “Perhaps it has . . . or maybe I am seeing clearly for the first time.”

  Aethelred gave him a hard look, his pale-blue eyes questioning.

  “You are truly sorry, aren’t you?”

  Wulfhere gave a bitter smile. Aethelred would never know just how sorry he was.

  Together, the brothers descended the steps into the muddy yard below. The king’s men had prepared the horses for the journey, and slaves had strapped on saddlebags filled with provisions. The horses did not like the rain. They carried their heads low and flattened their ears back. Likewise, many of the warriors who would escort Aethelthryth back to Ely wore scowls, while others muttered oaths under their breaths.

  They had almost reached Aethelred’s horse, when Wulfhere turned to his brother.

  “I think I will visit mother while you’re gone.”

  Aethelred inclined his head, smiling.

  “She will like that.”

  Aethelred had visited their mother a few times already at Bonehill Abbey, where she had gone to live as a nun three years earlier. Wulfhere had kept meaning to pay her a visit, but his wedding to Ermenilda, followed by his journey to Ely and the events that unfolded afterward, had drawn his attention. Now, the visit was well overdue.

  He had found himself thinking often of his mother of late. Perhaps it was guilt, but he needed to see her.

  At that moment, Aethelthryth emerged from the Great Tower. A small figure, clad head to toe in fur, she glided down the steps and wove her way around puddles and horse dung, to where her palfrey waited.

  Aethelred dragged a hand through his short blond hair, now wet from the rain, causing it to stand up in hedgehoglike spikes.

  “I swear this is cruel revenge for some wrong I’ve done you.”

  Wulfhere laughed softly and slapped his brother on the back.

  “You’ll be fine. Just get her to Ely safely and your job is done.”

  “Aye,” Aethelred grumbled, “if the witch doesn’t scratch my eyes out in my sleep on the way there.”

  He said that loud enough for Aethelthryth to hear. The widow threw him a venomous look before turning her back on him.

  Wulfhere turned his attention from his brother and Aethelthryth, his gaze traveling over the assembled escort. Elfhere was also accompanying Aethelred. He was saddling his horse a few feet away, unaware that a young woman approached him.

  It was Wynflaed, Ermenilda’s handmaid.

  The sight of her pained Wulfhere. The young woman had been a permanent fixture at his wife’s side. She had been the last person to see Ermenilda alive. The girl had tried to apologize, but Wulfhere had not wanted to hear it. Now, months on, he did not blame Wynflaed for his wife’s death. Even so, he wished she had returned to her kin in Cantwareburh.

  Instead, she had found a reason to stay on in Tamworth.

  “Elfhere!”

  The warrior turned to the girl, his face splitting into a grin. He kissed her passionately, not caring who saw.

  An ache twisted deep in Wulfhere’s chest, and he looked away. The love between Elfhere and Wynflaed had been the talk of the Great Hall for several months. Although he did not wish either of them ill, the sight pained him.

  Such natural, uncomplicated affection held a cruel mirror up to what Wulfhere had shared with Ermenilda. There had been no easy kisses, no smiles between them. Apart from the passion they had shared in the furs, their rapport had been stiff and awkward from the moment they met, till the day Ermenilda disappeared.

  ***
r />   Ermenilda looked up at the sky and frowned. The air smelled fresh and rich, but the misty rain was heavy enough to wet her face in moments.

  There would be no gardening in this weather. Disappointed, she blinked water out of her eyes and wiped her dripping face with the hem of her sleeve. Then, with a sigh, Ermenilda retreated indoors.

  Inside, all the nuns were busy. They were forever industrious; not a moment was spent idle at Bonehill. Ermenilda could smell cooking—the pungent aroma of boiling cabbage, turnips, and carrots for the evening pottage—coming from the kitchens. The smell blended with the more pleasant scent of baking bread.

  Ermenilda’s belly rumbled. Meals were frugal here at Bonehill, and she worked so hard that she often felt faint with hunger by the time mealtimes arrived. Owing to the rain, this afternoon would be less arduous than most.

  Later on, Ermenilda would join the other novices for a lesson on reading and writing. Every two days, Abbess Ardwyn took it upon herself to instruct the novices; in just over three months, Ermenilda could now read and write simple sentences.

  Until her lesson, she would have to occupy herself with weaving. As highborn women, she and Sister Cyneswide had been given a complex tapestry to work on—a large hanging that depicted Christ crucified on the cross. The tapestry would take them another ten months, at least, to finish.

  Ermenilda retrieved her pickup stick, a long pointed length of hardwood that she used to insert warp threads into the tapestry. As she did so, she noticed how red and sore her hands looked. Once, she had the pale, delicate hands of a lady, despite the time she spent in her garden at Tamworth. Hard physical labor at Bonehill had given her the hands of a farmer’s wife. She would have liked some lard to rub on them, to soften the skin, but such luxuries were forbidden in the abbey.

  Turning her attention to the task at hand, Ermenilda started to weave. She and Cyneswide worked companionably, side by side, for a while before Ermenilda became bored with the silence.

  It was always so silent here. Not like the noise and confusion of the Great Tower of Tamworth.

  “Why did you take the veil?” she asked finally, careful to keep her voice low lest one of the other nuns overhear.