Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  Sister Cyneswide glanced at her, surprised, before answering.

  “I came here because my husband died, and there was no place for me in my old life.”

  Ermenilda frowned. “Your family didn’t want you?”

  Sister Cyneswide shook her head and picked up her tapestry beater. “It was not as simple as that.”

  Ermenilda sensed her companion did not want to divulge more, although her words had piqued her curiosity.

  “I thought women came here because they wanted to,” she said quietly.

  “Most do,” Cyneswide replied. “Certainly, no one forced me either. It’s just that the choices of women are sometimes few.”

  They certainly are.

  “What of you, Sister Hild?” Sister Cyneswide asked, turning the conversation away from herself.

  “It was always my dream to become a nun,” Ermenilda admitted.

  “It was?”

  Ermenilda smiled at the older woman’s incredulity. “Aye, all the women in my family are pious.”

  One of the other nuns passed by carrying a basket of wool over to where two of the novices were winding wool onto distaffs. Ermenilda remained silent until she was out of earshot.

  “Are you happy here, Sister Cyneswide?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

  Cyneswide gave a pensive, enigmatic smile.

  “Being happy does not come into it,” she replied, with a shake of her head. Ermenilda heard the faint rebuke in the older woman’s voice and realized that she had overstepped the mark. Cyneswide may have been a warm and gentle-natured woman, but she was also an intensely private one.

  “I accept my life here,” Cyneswide concluded, her gaze meeting Ermenilda’s, “as will you.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The Visitor

  Wulfhere swung down from his stallion and passed the reins to Werbode.

  “Make camp here,” he instructed his retainer. “I will rejoin you in the morning.”

  Werbode frowned. “You’re going to sleep inside the abbey?”

  “I’m the king,” Wulfhere replied. “I sleep where I want.”

  Werbode chuckled. “Aye, perhaps one of the nuns will offer to share her bed.”

  Wulfhere gave the thegn a cool look but did not respond to the deliberate provocation. Instead, he turned to Mōna, who sat expectantly at his feet, and stroked her ears.

  “You wait here, girl.”

  Wulfhere left the party of twenty men he had brought with him from Tamworth and strode across the rippling grass to Bonehill Abbey’s gates. It was a bleak spot, here at the end of a windswept valley, and he wondered how his mother had fared. It would be an altogether different life from the comfort of the Great Tower of Tamworth.

  The shadows were lengthening; it was getting late in the afternoon. Wulfhere and his men had left Tamworth just after breaking their fast and had made good time. Still, he knew that nuns kept to strict routines, and he hoped he had not arrived too late in the day.

  Wulfhere rang the bell, listening to its mournful sound echo across the valley. He glanced back at his warriors. Werbode had done as bade and was organizing the men. There were few trees in the exposed valley, so he had sent out a party to gather wood for a fire and to cut branches for tents.

  Hearing the scuff of footsteps beyond, Wulfhere turned back to the gate. The hatch, just level with his neck, slid open, and a woman’s face peered out.

  “Wes þū hāl,” she greeted him hesitantly, her sharp blue eyes silently assessing him.

  “Wes hāl,” he answered, his gaze meeting hers. “I am King Wulfhere of Mercia. I am here to see my mother.”

  The nun closed the hatch without another word and opened the gate to admit him.

  “I am Abbess Ardwyn,” she said, dipping her head in respect. “Welcome to Bonehill Abbey, milord.”

  Wulfhere nodded and let his gaze travel around his surroundings. There was an atmosphere of peace inside the abbey, and the scent of herbs and flowers made him relax. The tranquility reminded him of Ermenilda’s garden, although it pained him to think of that special place.

  “You have made this a beautiful spot,” he said, turning back to the abbess.

  She smiled, and he could see that his comment had pleased her.

  “Thank you, milord. We have worked long and hard to make it what it is.” She dipped her head once more. “Come, I will take you to see your mother.”

  Sister Cyneswide was waiting for her son when he entered the garden. Seated upon a low stone bench, she sat as still as the shrubs and flowers surrounding her.

  Wulfhere barely recognized her, clad in a shapeless gray habit, her hair shrouded by a white veil; she bore no resemblance to Penda’s golden queen. However, the deep blue of her eyes, when her gaze lifted to meet his, was unmistakable. As was the gentleness on her face.

  Wulfhere’s throat unexpectedly tightened—a reaction that surprised him. Although he was fond of his mother, he had neglected her over the past few years. He had focused on other matters, like taking back the throne, finding a wife, and exacting vengeance. It was only now that he realized how much he missed her smile, her reassuring presence.

  “Wulfhere,” she said softly, her face radiant. “How handsome you have become.”

  She rose to her feet and embraced him. Wulfhere hugged his mother close, overwhelmed by his reaction to seeing her. She still smelled the same: the faint scent of lye soap and lavender.

  Wulfhere cleared his throat and struggled to compose himself.

  “I apologize for not coming sooner, Mōder.”

  “You have had much to occupy your thoughts,” she replied.

  She was making excuses for him, as she had once done for his father.

  “I still should have come sooner,” he answered with a shake of his head.

  They sat down, side by side, upon the bench, surrounded by birdsong and the sigh of a light wind that stirred the leaves. At the far end of the garden, Wulfhere spied the ghostly shapes of nuns, as they went about their work.

  “I last saw Aethelred in the spring,” Cyneswide said softly. “He told me of how you had taken back the throne, and of your marriage to a Kentish princess. I am proud of you, Wulfhere, as would your father be.”

  Wulfhere stared back at her, something deep inside his chest twisting. His mother must have seen the look of anguish on his face, for she frowned.

  “What is wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I have made a mess of things. You would not be so proud, if you knew the truth.”

  Cyneswide’s frown deepened. “What has happened?”

  Wulfhere looked away from her, staring down at the grass beneath his boots.

  “My wife is dead. Three months ago, during heavy rains. I believe she threw herself into the Tame and drowned, although her body has never been found.”

  His mother did not respond to this news, and when the silence grew uncomfortable, Wulfhere glanced across at her. Cyneswide was watching him, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

  “She did not want to wed me,” he told her. “She hated me before we even met, but my actions did not improve matters.”

  He saw the confusion in his mother’s eyes, and so he began the tale from the beginning. He told her of his exile, of his winter visit to Cantwareburh. He explained how he had sworn to take back the Mercian throne and renounce the old gods if King Eorcenberht would agree to the match. He told her of the attack, during their journey home, and of who was to blame. He told her of Ermenilda’s garden and of how things had softened between them for a short while, before his decision to take vengeance upon her aunt shattered their fragile rapport.

  He told the story plainly, without any emotion or embellishment, although when he finished it, he felt raw on the inside, as if he had reopened a wound that was just beginning to heal.

  “Wulfhere,” Cyneswide breathed, brushing away a tear that had escaped and was trickling down her cheek. “You should not blame yourself.”

  An
ger flared deep within Wulfhere.

  “I am to blame, Mōder. If I could return in time, I would do things differently.”

  Cyneswide observed him, and Wulfhere could see she was thinking.

  “You are not like him at all,” she said, finally.

  “Like who?”

  “Your father.”

  Wulfhere gave a bitter laugh. “All I ever wanted was to follow in his footsteps, but I’ve failed there too.”

  His mother gave a faint smile. “It wasn’t a criticism. I am glad you are not like him.”

  Wulfhere held her gaze, surprised. “You are?”

  “Penda lacked humanity. Even I, who loved him the most, never saw a hint of vulnerability in all the years we were together. Paeda had his cruelty . . . but you and Aethelred are kinder.”

  “I still managed to make a mess of things,” he replied, gazing out across the lush garden. “What I would give for a second chance.”

  It was then that he saw one of the nuns walk across the garden. She had her back to him and carried a wicker basket under one arm. Even in her loose robes, the woman walked with regal elegance, her posture straight and shoulders back.

  She reached an apple tree at the rear of the garden and began to pick fruit from the lower branches. As she worked, the nun turned slightly, revealing her profile to him.

  The world stood still.

  Wulfhere was vaguely aware of his mother asking him something, but he could not tear his gaze away from the nun at the bottom of the garden.

  “Wulfhere, what is it?”

  Heart pounding, he turned to his mother.

  “That nun.” He finally spoke, although his mouth felt as though it were full of wool. “Who is she?”

  Cyneswide frowned, her gaze shifting to where the nun was stretching up to retrieve an apple from a high branch.

  “That’s Sister Hild,” she replied, frowning.

  “How long . . . how long has she been here?”

  “Since midsummer,” his mother replied. “She arrived here around three months ago, after her husband died . . .”

  Cyneswide’s voice died away. Realization dawned, and her face paled as she stared at the nun.

  “Oh . . .”

  Wulfhere rose to his feet, his pulse thundering in his ears.

  “Her name is not Hild,” he rasped. “That woman is Ermenilda . . . my wife.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Ghosts

  Ermenilda plucked the apple from the branch and deposited it into her basket. A breeze feathered her cheeks, and she glanced up at the sky, noting that the light was starting to fade. Vespers were nearing; soon she would have to retreat indoors.

  Behind her, a man’s voice intruded.

  “Ermenilda.”

  She froze. A chill swept over her, followed by a wave of fire. She knew that voice, recognized its deep pitch.

  For the love of Mother Mary and all the saints . . . no . . .

  Slowly, as if she were swimming in deep water, Ermenilda turned.

  He was standing a few feet behind her.

  Wulfhere was staring at her as if he looked upon a demon. The king was an imposing and intimidating sight, dressed all in black, with a gray squirrel cloak about his shoulders.

  Wulfhere’s face was rigid with shock, his pale eyes frozen wide. Ermenilda saw a muscle in his clenched jaw flicker, the only sign of his inner turmoil.

  Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she clutched her basket to her breast and took a step backward. She was dumbstruck. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. There were no words, no excuses, which could extricate her from this moment. Behind Wulfhere, she spied Sister Cyneswide approaching.

  The older woman’s face was ashen and taut, her gaze full of reproach.

  Ermenilda’s gaze returned to Wulfhere. What connection did he have with Sister Cyneswide?

  Wulfhere must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for his mouth twisted.

  “I’m here to see my mother,” he said softly. “Only, I did not expect to set eyes on my wife’s ghost.”

  His mother?

  The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and all of the things Cyneswide had revealed to her in their conversations took on a new meaning.

  The man that Cyneswide had never stopped loving was Penda of Mercia.

  Ermenilda moved, pivoting away from him, and attempted to flee back inside the abbey. Wulfhere intercepted her, his hand closing over her forearm.

  Ermenilda gasped, her basket dropping from nerveless fingers. The apples rolled out onto the ground at her feet.

  “Not a ghost then.” Wulfhere squeezed gently, as if proving to himself that she was real. “But flesh and bone.”

  She could not bear the look in his eyes, the accusation and pain she saw there. He had thought her dead, only to discover that she had merely run away from him.

  She had never meant him to know.

  “Why?” he demanded, his voice raw.

  “You know why,” she finally managed, the words barely above a whisper.

  His hand dropped away from her, leaving an imprint of heat on her forearm. Hostility and pain pulsed between them like a living thing.

  “I grieved for you, Ermenilda,” he ground out, his eyes glittering, “and all the while you’ve been here, laughing at my expense.”

  Ermenilda shook her head and wrapped her arms about herself. It was a mild evening, but she felt chilled to the bone.

  “I did this to save us both.”

  Wulfhere’s gaze narrowed further still. “You did it for yourself, no one else.”

  Ermenilda ran, and this time Wulfhere did not try to stop her. She picked up her skirts and fled across the grass, under a stone arch and into the stone building beyond.

  Only the whispering wind followed her.

  Ermenilda sat upon her straw-filled pallet, staring sightlessly at the wall, when Sister Cyneswide entered the novice’s dormitory.

  She heard the nun’s soft footsteps, the scuff of her sandals on stone, and felt the pallet shift as the older woman sat down next to her. Ermenilda did not look her way; she was too humiliated to do so. She had shared intimate details with Cyneswide—information she could use against her if she so chose.

  Cyneswide did not speak. Instead, she sat next to Ermenilda in gentle silence. Outside, the bell was ringing for Vespers, but both women ignored it. This afternoon, neither of them would adhere to Bonehill’s strict routine.

  Eventually, Ermenilda broke the silence.

  “So, you were queen.”

  “Aye, I was.”

  Ermenilda glanced across at the nun, studying her as if for the first time. Now that she was looking for it, she could see the family resemblance. Wulfhere had the same cheekbones, the same nose.

  “You never guessed who I was?”

  Cyneswide gave a wry smile and shook her head. “Time stands still here at Bonehill. The goings-on in the world outside cease to matter. I knew my son had married a Kentish princess, but nothing else.”

  Ermenilda nodded, before glancing down at her hands clasped upon her lap. She wanted to stay seated here forever, to pretend she had never seen Wulfhere. She had felt restless at Bonehill of late, but now that her peace had been shattered, she was desperate to remain here.

  “He cannot make me leave,” she whispered.

  Cyneswide did not reply immediately. When she did, her voice was firm.

  “Wulfhere blames himself.”

  “That’s not the impression he gave me,” Ermenilda replied, her tone sharpening. “He thinks me selfish and cruel.”

  Cyneswide shook her head. “He is in shock. Before he saw you in the garden, Wulfhere told me everything. He would have done anything to go back and change the past. I’ve never seen a man sorrier.”

  Ermenilda clasped her hands tightly together. She did not believe Cyneswide. It was all too easy for a mother to see the good in her son. After all, she had loved Penda of Mercia, one of the most hated men in Britain.

 
; “I will not go from here,” she said, fear rising within her at the thought of returning to Tamworth. “He cannot force me.”

  Cyneswide sighed, impatience creeping into her voice. “He is the King of Mercia. If he wishes to take you away from here, no one—not even the abbess—will be able to prevent him.”

  Wulfhere waited alone in the chapter house, the space where the abbess and other nuns or visiting monks and bishops would meet to discuss matters. The room had a high vaulted ceiling, and richly detailed tapestries covered the walls. Low stone benches, where the nuns would sit for their meetings, lined the edge of the room.

  Wulfhere did not sit down upon any of them. Instead, he paced the room.

  Betrayed. Insulted. Wounded.

  Anger snaked through him and made him want to lash out. He felt like tearing this room apart with his bare hands, ripping down the walls—stone by stone. Yet, underneath the anger, there was a rising sense of relief, of burgeoning joy.

  Ermenilda is alive.

  He was furious and hurt, but to know his wife had survived had lifted a heavy mantle from his shoulders.

  Wulfhere heard the sound of footsteps and whirled to face the three women who silently entered the chapter house. His mother, her blue eyes clouded with worry, led the way, followed by the stern-faced abbess. Ermenilda—pale and tense—entered last.

  “Lord Wulfhere.” Abbess Ardwyn bowed her head respectfully, although her mouth had drawn up as if she had just taken a sip of vinegar. “Your mother has informed me of all.”

  The abbess turned to Ermenilda, her disapproval palpable.

  “So, your name is not Hild but Ermenilda.”

  The young woman nodded, her brown eyes huge on her pale face.

  “You lied to me about your identity.” The abbess’s voice lashed like a whip. “That was a wicked thing to do.”

  Ermenilda looked down at the flagstone floor.

  “I am sorry, abbess.”

  Abbess Ardwyn made a noise of disgust and turned back to Wulfhere.

  “She is your wife, milord. Take her away with you when you leave here.”