by Jayne Castel
“No! I must stay!” Ermenilda’s face had gone taut. Her slender body trembled. Looking upon her, Wulfhere could see her abject horror at the thought of leaving with him. If she had struck him across the face, it would have hurt less.
Ermenilda’s outburst had not impressed the abbess. The older woman’s brows had knotted together in disapproval beneath penetrating blue eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“Forgive me, abbess,” Ermenilda gasped, clearly struggling to rein in her emotions, “but this is my home now. I do not wish to leave.”
“What you wish does not concern me,” the abbess sniffed. “You are a liar and had no place coming here without your husband’s permission.”
Abbess Ardwyn turned back to Wulfhere.
“Take her with you in the morning. I will make sure she is ready.”
Wulfhere said nothing. Instead, he looked across at his wife. Ermenilda was staring at the floor and was clearly struggling not to weep. His mother had wisely remained silent since entering the chapter house. However, Wulfhere could see the concern etched across her face.
“My wife thinks me a beast,” he said finally. The words hurt him, but he forced them out. “She would be happier here.”
The abbess glared at him. “I cannot abide lying. This woman came here with a tale of how she was recently widowed. She told me her kin had ridiculed her wishes to become a nun, so she had traveled here on her own. We all praised her for her devotion, but everything she told us was false.”
“I had to lie,” Ermenilda burst out, tears streaming down her face. “You would not have taken me in otherwise!”
Abbess Ardwyn gave the younger woman a cold look before she turned back to Wulfhere.
“Your wife is no longer welcome here,” she told him, her voice clipped with barely restrained anger. “If you do not take her with you, I will cast her out.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Insults
The looks on his men’s faces when Wulfhere led Ermenilda out of Bonehill the next morning were almost comical.
Under other circumstances, Wulfhere might have found their dumbstruck expressions amusing. This morning, their reactions just added to Ermenilda’s humiliation of him.
Some of them paled as if they had just seen a wraith, while others muttered oaths under their breaths.
Werbode just stared. It was rare to see the thegn lose his composure, but the sight of Ermenilda—alive and well—flummoxed him.
Ermenilda had removed her veil, revealing that she had braided her blonde hair tightly around her head. A woolen cloak hung from her shoulders, although underneath, she still wore the coarsely woven gray tunic—the last remnant of her life at Bonehill Abbey.
The sun had just risen over the edge of the valley to the east, and the sky was clear, promising a bright day ahead. Wulfhere led Ermenilda up the incline, his hand gently guiding her elbow. They halted about five feet from the king’s men. Mōna approached, tail wagging, but Wulfhere stilled her with a gesture.
He greeted his men. “No, your eyes do not deceive you.” The words were bald, and Wulfhere could hear the flatness in his own voice. There was no way to soften the news. “Queen Ermenilda lives. It appears she did not drown in the river but instead fled to Bonehill to start a new life as a nun. Had I not visited my mother, I would never have known.”
The men stared, their silence the only response Wulfhere needed. Werbode was the first to find his tongue.
“You will take her back?” he asked, incredulous.
“I would prefer she remain at Bonehill,” Wulfhere admitted, “but the abbess has cast her out.”
“Leave her to the wolves then,” Werbode replied. He watched Ermenilda, his lip curling.
Wulfhere shook his head. “She is my wife. I cannot treat her thus.”
“She let you think she was dead. You owe her nothing.”
Wulfhere understood Werbode’s anger, but the warrior asked the impossible. He would never leave his wife out here to die. Instead, he led her across to his stallion and helped her mount.
He swung up behind her, ignoring his men’s shocked faces.
Ermenilda stared ahead, barely taking in her surroundings, as Wulfhere turned his stallion northeast.
Back to Tamworth.
It hardly seemed real. She felt as if she were moving through fog, as if none of this was happening to her. She had seen the astonishment and anger on the faces of Wulfhere’s men—and the rage upon Werbode’s—but none of it had touched her.
She had spent the night weeping in despair, feeling hollow inside.
Wulfhere sat close behind her; the heat of his body enveloped her back, and she could feel the strength of his arms on either side of her torso as he guided the stallion up the hill, away from Bonehill. His presence was oddly reassuring. Without his protection, she was doomed.
Ermenilda glanced back at the place that had been her home for the past three months. From here, the abbey appeared a sanctuary of green in a bleak, empty valley.
Cyneswide was still there and would remain so. Ermenilda had watched her say good-bye to Wulfhere at the gates just after dawn. Wordlessly, she had embraced her son, before cupping his cheek with her palm. Wulfhere had said nothing. Theirs had been a silent farewell.
Ermenilda turned her gaze from Bonehill Abbey and closed her eyes. To think she had chafed under the austerity and restrictions of daily life in the abbey. Now, she would give anything to return there.
The irony was that Wulfhere did not even want her back. It was only out of some sense of decency that he did not leave her to the wolves.
Wulfhere did not speak as they rode, and she was grateful for his silence. He understood the gravity of the situation. He would have to explain her deceit once more to his hall once they reached Tamworth—something that would humiliate him more than it would her.
At midday, they stopped for a meal of bread, cheese, and apples. Bonehill, and its lonely valley, now lay many furlongs behind them, and the party halted amid woodland. The trees were changing their coats, turning from shades of green to red and gold, and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn. The king’s party stopped next to a small stream. The trickling of water and the murmur of the wind through the trees were the only sounds in the peaceful spot.
Ermenilda let Wulfhere help her down from his horse, although she carefully averted her gaze. She could not bear to look at his face. She had preferred anger, not the wounded look in his eyes this morning.
Moving as if in a dream, Ermenilda sat down upon a tree stump. She was vaguely aware of the men moving around, unbuckling saddlebags and unstoppering water bladders. She paid them no mind, instead staring down at the apple she held but did not eat.
Mōna came to see her, nudging up against her leg. The wolf’s behavior surprised her. In all the months Ermenilda spent at Tamworth, Mōna had largely ignored her. She was loyal to Wulfhere only and tracked him like a shadow.
Not so today. The she-wolf gazed at her with soft eyes and licked her hand. Ermenilda placed a tentative hand on the wolf’s head. Her pelt was plush, and her ears soft.
“Hello,” she murmured, her misery lifting for a moment. “You are a beauty, aren’t you?”
Werbode’s voice, aggressive and rough with malice, intruded.
“That wolf will be the only one to acknowledge you, once we reach Tamworth.”
Ermenilda looked up to find him looming over her. The warrior had a wild, dangerous look in his eye.
“You will be shunned, treated like the devious witch you are.”
He was standing too close, and Mōna let out a growl, low in her throat. Werbode ignored the wolf, his dark gaze burning into Ermenilda.
“I knew from the first you were trouble, but Wulfhere couldn’t see beyond your pretty face.”
Ermenilda eventually found her tongue. Werbode had always unnerved her, but now he was frightening.
“Get away from me.”
The warrior leered at her. “Afraid? Y
ou should be.”
Wulfhere stepped in between them, forcing the warrior to take a step back.
“Werbode, that’s enough.”
The warrior spat on the ground in response. “You still defend her?”
“She is the Queen of Mercia, and you will address her as such,” Wulfhere replied, his voice emotionless.
Werbode shook his head and drew his seax from its sheath at his waist.
“The sight of her turns my stomach, as does your weakness,” he snarled.
A deathly hush settled over the glade.
Wulfhere watched his thegn, giving no sign of offence, surprise, or fear. Mōna’s growling grew louder. Ermenilda saw the hackles rise on the back of the wolf’s neck, and her body coiled, ready to spring.
“What are you doing, Werbode?” Wulfhere asked gently.
“Showing the others who you really are.”
“And who’s that?”
Around them, his men shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting between the king and his thegn.
“Weak. A man who lets a woman make a fool of him.”
Wulfhere appeared unmoved by Werbode’s insult, although the thegn’s words chilled Ermenilda.
Is that what they all think?
“Do you really want to fight me?” Wulfhere asked.
Werbode smiled at him, showing him his teeth. “I want to gut you.”
Wulfhere drew his own seax, a short fighting dagger with an ornately carved wooden handle.
“One of us is going to die here,” he told the thegn.
Werbode’s smile widened. He backed away from the king, shrugged off his cloak, and tossed his seax with an arrogant flick of his wrist. “It’s time to meet your precious god.”
Ermenilda watched the scene unfold with growing horror. Yet she could not help but be impressed by Wulfhere’s reaction to his thegn’s threats. If they concerned him, he did not show it.
Instead, Wulfhere turned his head to Ermenilda, their gazes meeting for the first time since dawn.
“If I should fall, Mōna will guard you,” he told her. His gaze shifted to the wolf. Mōna stared back at him, her yellow eyes glowing.
“Àmundae,” he commanded softly.
Protect.
Ermenilda wanted to speak, to tell Wulfhere to halt this madness, but her throat had constricted.
Wulfhere took off his fur cloak and dropped it to the ground. He stepped away from her and Mōna, walking out in the clearing where Werbode awaited him.
“Wulfhere, stop!” The words finally burst from Ermenilda. “You don’t have to do this. Ignore him!”
Wulfhere glanced back at her, a bitter smile curving his lips. “Some things cannot be ignored. He insults us both.”
“But I don’t care if he insults me. They’re only words!”
“Words have more power than you realize.” Wulfhere looked away from her. “You may not care, but I do—and Werbode will answer for it.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Blood and Honor
“Still explaining yourself to your fishwife?” Werbode mocked as Wulfhere approached him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she cut off your balls on your wedding night.”
Wulfhere smiled at him, and the expression chilled Ermenilda to the bone. It was a killer’s smile.
“You talk too much,” Wulfhere told Werbode quietly. “It’s always been a failing of yours.”
In response, the warrior spat once more on the ground. However, Ermenilda could see his arrogance had ebbed slightly.
A hush had settled over the clearing as the king’s men watched and waited for the fight to begin. To Ermenilda’s untrained eye, both men looked like equal opponents. They were both tall, muscular, and in their prime. Yet, in looks they were the opposite—one as dark as a raven’s wing, the other as pale as a summer’s dawn.
The two men circled each other. Werbode grinned, tossing his knife from hand to hand as if he was toying with the king. In contrast, Wulfhere appeared watchful, his body coiled and ready. Neither man bore shields. They both carried their weapons in their right hands.
Werbode attacked first, with a suddenness that made Ermenilda start. He closed in on the king fast in short, shuffling steps that brought him hard up against his opponent.
Wulfhere was ready for him. His left hand snapped up, grasping Werbode’s right wrist, and he struck at him with his own weapon. The blade scored the edge of the thegn’s leather jerkin. Werbode twisted away and danced back a few steps.
They circled each other once more, before Werbode attacked again, slashing at Wulfhere’s face. The king brought his seax up to deflect it, and the two men drew apart.
It was like watching a deadly dance. They circled—gazes fused—before attacking, withdrawing, and attacking again. Ermenilda saw they had different fighting styles; Werbode was showy and aggressive while Wulfhere was watchful and minimal in his movements, as if conserving his energy.
Werbode drew first blood, in a downward slice that slipped under Wulfhere’s defense and cut into his left thigh.
Ermenilda heard Wulfhere’s hiss of pain. A dark patch soaked through the leg of his breeches, but he paid it no mind. A moment later, he lunged forward, catching Werbode by surprise, and struck out at his face.
The edge of Wulfhere’s blade left a ribbon of scarlet across the thegn’s cheek.
“Your mother was a dirty whore!” Werbode cursed him as they circled once more. “I had her. All your father’s men had her.”
Werbode meant his words to inflame, to incite Wulfhere into anger so he would do something rash and foolish.
Wulfhere did not rise to the bait.
Angered, Werbode attacked again, his blade cutting into Wulfhere’s leather wrist brace. Ermenilda saw blood trickling down her husband’s bare arm, but like the injury to his thigh, he paid it no mind. His attention did not waver from his opponent.
They continued to fight, and more blood flowed. Wulfhere sustained another cut to his leg, although he managed to slash Werbode deeply across the front of his right thigh and above his left hand. The hand wound bled copiously, dripping onto the grass.
Ermenilda watched the fight, nausea creeping up her throat as she did so. She had risen from the tree stump but felt as if her feet were made of stone—she could not move. Mōna stood next to her, the beast’s muscular body pressed against hers. The wolf continued to growl low in her throat, her gaze fixed upon the two men circling and slashing at each other just a few yards away.
The fight ended as quickly—and violently—as it had begun.
Werbode leaped high into the air, aiming a killing thrust at Wulfhere’s throat. The king ducked beneath him and brought his own seax up under Werbode’s rib cage, burying it to the hilt.
Werbode’s grunt of agony ripped through the glade. He collapsed to the ground, still slashing at his opponent. Wulfhere moved fast. He yanked the blade free and knelt on Werbode’s chest, pinning him down. He stared down at him with pitiless eyes. Without uttering another word, he cut Werbode’s throat.
Werbode lay twitching under him, his blood soaking into the dirt.
Wulfhere eventually climbed to his feet. Ermenilda saw the fire in his eyes. Battle lust still consumed him. However, he did not look at her, but at his men.
“Does anyone else question my honor?” he asked them, his voice a low growl.
Heart pounding, Ermenilda studied their faces. She searched for a sign that another sought to challenge him. None came. Werbode had acted alone.
“Does anyone else wish to insult the queen?” Wulfhere demanded, his voice hardening.
Only silence greeted him.
Ermenilda approached Wulfhere cautiously, as one would a wounded animal. He was standing alone, by his horse, and was attempting to staunch the flow of blood from the cut on his thigh with a leather strap. She noticed he was pale and guessed it was from pain and loss of blood.
“Wulfhere,” she greeted him softly. “Will you let me take a look at those wounds?”
“I am fine. They can wait till Tamworth.”
Ermenilda held Wulfhere’s gaze steadily.
“Please . . . you’re still bleeding.”
The king exhaled sharply, irritated, but Ermenilda remained before him. Finally, he nodded. They stood a few yards away from where Wulfhere’s men finished their noon meal. They had dragged Werbode’s corpse away into the trees, where scavengers would most likely find him, and returned to their meal as if nothing had happened. Their nonchalance shocked Ermenilda, but then she remembered that these were all hardened warriors, used to the blood and gore of a shield wall.
The death of one man—and one who had not been well liked—meant little to them.
Wulfhere and Ermenilda walked over to the stream. First, making sure she avoided eye contact with him, Ermenilda undid the leather brace on Wulfhere’s wrist and looked at the wound. It was not deep, but it was still bleeding heavily. She tore strips of linen from her undertunic and wet one of them in the stream, before washing the wound. Then, she bound it with a dry strip of cloth.
All the while, Wulfhere said nothing. He merely watched her under hooded lids.
When Ermenilda had tended to his arm, he undid his breeches and pushed them down to his ankles so she could examine the two wounds on his left thigh. Ermenilda gritted her teeth when she saw how serious one of the cuts was. Werbode’s seax blade had sliced deep into the flesh, cutting into muscle.
“This will need stitching,” she told him, “but I will bind it as best I can for now.”
Wulfhere nodded, although she could see he was sweating from the pain. As she tended to him, Ermenilda was aware that Mōna sat nearby watching them calmly with warm amber eyes.
“My wolf seems to have taken a liking to you,” Wulfhere observed.
“Aye,” Ermenilda agreed, not taking her gaze from her task. “I cannot think why, though. Everyone else here hates me.”
“I do not,” he replied.
“You should,” she said stiffly. “After what I’ve done.”