Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  Chapter Forty

  The Prince Returns

  A biting wind was blowing in from the northeast when Aethelred led his men across the bridge leading into Tamworth.

  The lazy waters of the River Tame sparkled in the late afternoon sun. It was one of those bright autumn days, when every detail stands out in vivid relief. Even the Great Tower of Tamworth, rising high above the thatched roofs like a grim stone god, looked attractive in such weather. The afternoon light was so pure that Aethelred could pick out every detail on its lichen-encrusted, pitted surface.

  Leaves wheeled and skittered over the earth, and billowy clouds raced across the pastel sky. His stallion’s hooves clip-clopped hollowly on the dirt road as he urged it into a canter.

  A smile stretched across Aethelred’s face. It was good to be home.

  He led his company under the low gate and up the tangle of streets toward the Great Tower. It had been an exhausting journey, and never had he been so relieved to ride into Tamworth. Aethelred was looking forward to downing a cup of frothing ale, putting his feet up next to the fire pit, and catching up with his brother.

  However, when he reached the high gate, one look at the expression of the spearman guarding it caused his good mood to sour.

  Even before the warrior spoke, Aethelred knew something was wrong.

  Ermenilda was mopping Wulfhere’s fevered brow when Prince Aethelred appeared at the top of the ladder. His face was grim, his pale gaze hard, as he stepped out onto the platform and moved toward her. Ermenilda’s throat closed at the sight of him. The prince looked incensed.

  Trembling, she rose to meet him.

  “Lord Aethelred.”

  He ignored her, instead stopping before the furs and gazing down upon his brother’s fever-racked body. Tense moments passed, and Ermenilda saw the anger, grief, and disbelief on his face.

  “How long has he been like this?” he finally demanded.

  “Werbode injured him five days ago,” Ermenilda replied softly, “but he has not been awake for over a day now, and his condition worsens.”

  Aethelred’s gaze shifted from Wulfhere and pinned her to the spot.

  “This is your doing.”

  Ermenilda nodded. There was little point in denying the obvious.

  “He was cursed the day he met you,” Aethelred ground out. His crystalline gaze, so like his brother’s, was as hard as flint. “You have brought him nothing but suffering.”

  Ermenilda flinched, but she could not deny his words.

  “I’m sorry for it, Aethelred. If I could undo what has been done, I would.”

  The prince’s gaze widened. He had clearly not expected her to acknowledge the truth. Another tense silence stretched between them before Ermenilda eventually broke it.

  “My aunt,” she began hesitantly. “How is she?”

  Aethelred’s gaze shifted away from hers, back to where Wulfhere lay.

  “She’s well,” he replied gruffly, “or she was when I left her at Ely. Her tongue is still sharp enough to flay the flesh off a man.”

  Ermenilda gave a small smile. “Aethelthryth has a forceful character.”

  The prince snorted at that, before kneeling down at the edge of the furs next to his brother. He reached out and laid a hand on Wulfhere’s arm, before inhaling sharply.

  “He is burning alive. Fetch Glaedwine—we need him now!”

  “The healer has been tending to him. He says that Werbode’s knife has poisoned the king’s blood. There is nothing more he can do.”

  Ermenilda watched Aethelred a moment, before she sidled away toward the ladder. It was clear that the prince wished to be alone with his brother for a while.

  “I will return shortly,” she said. “I need to fetch some fresh water and cloths.”

  Aethelred nodded but did not look her way.

  Alone in the loft with Wulfhere, the prince struggled with the grief that gripped his throat.

  His brother was seriously ill; he did not need to be a healer to understand that. Wulfhere’s skin, drawn sharply across the bones of his face, was flushed and mottled. The healer had cut away the left leg of his breeches, allowing the wounds access to the air. An evil-smelling poultice covered the cuts, leaving Aethelred wondering if the stench was due to the ointment that Glaedwine had used or the infection. Wulfhere’s leg had swollen to twice its size. At least there were no livid streaks radiating down his leg from the wound. That was a sure sign a man would either lose his leg or die.

  Even so, he could see his brother was gravely ill.

  With Wulfhere gone, he would become king. Their father had brought his sons up to be rulers, and to fight each other for the prize if they had to.

  If it had been Paeda lying there, Aethelred may have felt differently. Their eldest brother had been a difficult man to like. Growing up, he had bullied his younger brothers mercilessly, something Aethelred had never forgiven him for. Over the years, the two of them, Wulfhere and Aethelred, had drawn close in response to Paeda’s cruelty. Yet, it was not the only reason that Aethelred was upset now.

  Without Wulfhere, he would be alone—the last member of a once mighty dynasty.

  “There’s only us now, Brother,” he murmured, reaching out and gripping Wulfhere’s fevered hand. “Fæder, Paeda—they’re both gone—we’re all that’s left of the Iclingas.”

  Aethelred squeezed Wulfhere’s hand tighter still. “Don’t abandon us. Don’t abandon me.”

  Ermenilda did not dine alone upon the high seat that evening. Aethelred joined her, as did Elfhere, Seaxwulf, and Glaedwine. Slaves brought them trenchers of hare stew while Wynflaed circled their table, filling their cups with sloe wine.

  Ermenilda took a sip of the strong wine and sighed as its heat settled in the pit of her belly. The past few days had been exhausting, and now with Aethelred’s return, she found herself on the defensive once more. This evening, her nerves felt stretched as taut as a drum, and her back and shoulders ached as if she carried a great weight upon them. The tension inside the Great Hall was taking its toll on her.

  The hare stew was rich and delicious but she ate sparingly. Across the table, the prince said little. He appeared to have withdrawn into his own thoughts.

  Wynflaed leaned over Elfhere, filling his cup with wine. Ermenilda watched their gazes meet. Elfhere, his sea-blue eyes filled with warmth, smiled at the young woman. She returned the expression, her hand brushing his as she pulled away.

  Ermenilda could see the attraction between them, the invisible thread that pulled them close. She witnessed the unabashed affection and desire on their faces and felt a pang of envy.

  That’s how it should be between a man and a woman.

  After the evening meal, Ermenilda returned upstairs to tend Wulfhere. His breathing was now labored, and he had grown deathly still.

  Glaedwine paid his patient a visit shortly after, with Aethelred and Seaxwulf close behind him. An ominous silence filled the loft as they watched the cunning man attend the king. Eventually, Glaedwine sat back on his heels, his expression bleak.

  “His wounds are slightly better than yesterday, but his fever is not,” he told them. “He’s stopped fighting . . .”

  “Is he dying?” Aethelred rasped.

  The healer turned to Aethelred, pity in his eyes.

  “It will be decided tonight,” he replied. “If the king lives to see the dawn, then he might survive, otherwise the fever will take him . . .”

  Glaedwine’s voice trailed off.

  Seaxwulf cleared his throat, his gentle gaze settling upon Ermenilda.

  “May I bless him, milady?”

  Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  ***

  Night settled over Tamworth. Outside, the wind howled, hurling itself against the tower’s stone walls and pummeling the roof and shutters. Nature had whipped itself up into a fury, almost as if it raged against what was happening within.

  Ermenilda sat at her husband’s side and listened to the w
ind. Wulfhere had gone pale and still. Her eyes burned with fatigue and her body ached, but she would not sleep tonight.

  Even so, she felt in need of some fresh air. She had been at Wulfhere’s side for a long while and wished to feel the wind’s fury upon her face before she took her place at the king’s side for the remainder of the night.

  Moving slowly, her limbs heavy and clumsy, Ermenilda crossed the platform and climbed down to the hall below. As always, Mōna lay curled up at the foot of the ladder. The wolf opened one glowing eye as Ermenilda stepped past her.

  “Stay there, girl,” Ermenilda commanded softly. It was late, and she would not be going far. She would not need Mōna’s protection. Most of the inhabitants of the Great Hall had either retired to their alcoves, which lined the sides of the wide space, or had stretched out upon the rushes to sleep.

  Only Aethelred was awake. He sat by one of the fire pits, cradling a cup of mead in his hands. The prince did not appear to notice her. Instead, he gazed sightlessly into the flames. His face was drawn, his eyes hard. Shortly after Glaedwine had delivered his news, Aethelred had stormed away, leaving the priest to bless his dying brother.

  Ermenilda eyed him as she picked her way across the hall, weaving in between the prone bodies of men, women, children, and dogs. The depth of his grief over his brother surprised her; she had thought that rivalry between Penda’s sons would have hardened them against each other. Did he not covet the crown?

  She left the hall behind, silently passing through the entrance hall toward the doors. Stepping outside, Ermenilda braced herself against the wind. It hit her like angry fists, pummeling her skin and clawing at her clothing. She had not brought her cloak with her, and the chill air bit at her skin. She welcomed its fury.

  Ermenilda stood on the wide stone ledge, above the steps leading down to the yard below, and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply. The wind slapped at her face and whipped her hair around, but it was what she needed. Its ferocity gave her strength for what was to come.

  She lingered there awhile, on the edge of the darkness, until the cold started to drill into her bones. Reluctantly, Ermenilda pushed her way back through the doors.

  The entranceway was a shadowy space, lit only by two pitch torches on each wall. Passages led off either side to store rooms. Ermenilda was halfway across it when two figures stepped out of the shadows.

  Instantly, she recognized Aeaba and Burghild, two of the women whose hostile stares had dogged her steps since her return to Tamworth. Their husbands were thegns, and both women had a high standing in the Great Tower. Aeaba was plump with thick walnut-colored tresses that she wore braided around her head. Her friend, Burghild, was tall and thin with pale blonde hair.

  Both women stalked her, their narrowed gazes glinting in the torchlight.

  “Christ-worshipping witch,” Burghild whispered. “Did you think we would never get you alone?”

  “You can’t take that wolf everywhere with you,” Aeaba chimed in. “Sooner or later, we were going to corner you.”

  Ermenilda backed up toward the door she had just entered, her heart hammering. The biting wind had sharpened her senses, and she was aware how vulnerable she was here without Mōna to protect her.

  “What do you want?” Ermenilda gasped out the words, fear turning her limbs weak.

  “You should be punished,” Aeaba replied, her voice rising. “The king is too sick to do it, so we must.”

  “A pretty face is wasted on you,” Burghild added. “You need some scars.”

  Terror pulsed through Ermenilda. Clumsily, she drew Wulfhere’s seax. It was a wicked-looking blade, and it caused both women to check their step.

  Burghild recovered first. “Do you think that scares us?”

  “You don’t have the stomach to use it?” Aeaba mocked.

  “Don’t come a step closer!” Ermenilda gasped, holding the knife low as she had seen Wulfhere do when he and Werbode fought. Now that she held a weapon, her paralyzing fear had ebbed slightly. In its place, she could feel anger building.

  Aeaba made a grab for her.

  Without thinking, Ermenilda slashed the dagger at her and felt the blade bite flesh.

  Aeaba squealed and fell back clutching her arm.

  “Hōre! You cut me!”

  “I warned you,” Ermenilda said between gritted teeth. Her husband was upstairs dying, and these two were preventing her from returning to him. “Keep away from me.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  The Long Night

  Silence filled the entrance hall.

  Ermenilda’s attackers glared at her, deciding upon their next move. Strangely, the last of her fear had dissolved now, and she readied herself to fight.

  “Come on then,” she taunted the women. “But, don’t think I’m going to make it easy for you.”

  A moment later, a man’s voice echoed through the hall.

  “I’d heed her if I were you.”

  Ermenilda’s gaze shifted behind Aeaba and Burghild to where a figure leaned against the doors leading into the hall. The man detached himself from the shadows and stepped into the light.

  Aethelred viewed the trio with a hooded gaze.

  “Aeaba . . . Burghild. Do your husbands know what you’re up to?”

  Ermenilda saw both women blanch, although Aeaba was the first to recover. She was a bold, pugnacious woman, and her self-righteousness was too strong to be leashed for long.

  “Our husbands would applaud our actions, milord,” she replied, drawing herself up as she faced him. “This woman has brought shame upon her own husband, upon your family. She must be punished.”

  “You take a lot upon yourself, Aeaba,” Aethelred said softly. Ermenilda knew that tone. Wulfhere used it when he was angry. “That is for the king to decide, not you.”

  Aeaba’s confidence appeared to falter slightly. She glanced at her accomplice, but Burghild seemed to have developed a sudden fascination with the wooden floor beneath her feet.

  “Go to bed,” Aethelred ordered, his tone brooking no argument, “and let no more be said of this. If I ever catch you threatening the queen again, I will deal with both of you harshly.”

  Aeaba and Burghild slunk away like beaten dogs, taking their bitterness and resentment with them. The door to the main hall whispered shut behind the women, leaving Aethelred and Ermenilda alone.

  “Did they hurt you?” Aethelred asked.

  Ermenilda shook her head and sheathed the seax, noting that her hands were trembling.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “I don’t know what would have happened had you not intervened.”

  Aethelred gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You looked to have the situation in hand, to me. I just thought I had better step in before those two stupid geese got their throats cut.”

  Ermenilda tried to smile but failed. The whole incident was yet another reminder of all the mistakes she had made.

  “I had better return to Wulfhere,” she replied quietly.

  The light from the cressets lining the walls flickered across Wulfhere’s ashen skin. He was breathing so shallowly now that Ermenilda could barely make out the rise and fall of his chest.

  Glaedwine was right: Wulfhere was giving up the fight.

  Ermenilda sank down on the furs next to her husband, her limbs still quivering from her brush with Aeaba and Burghild. She knelt upon the floor before her husband and, clasping her hands together, murmured a heartfelt prayer.

  “Please Lord, spare this man. Don’t take him from this world . . . not now.”

  Finishing her prayer, Ermenilda climbed onto the furs. She stretched out next to Wulfhere and lay on her side, facing him. She reached out and took his limp, heated hand in hers.

  “Fight, Wulfhere,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Don’t let Werbode take you with him.”

  Her husband did not respond. He just lay there, sinking further and further into darkness. Ermenilda watched him for a few moments before grief splintered inside her.

&
nbsp; “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Tears slid down her cheeks, scalding them. “The truth is that I never wanted us to be happy together. I made up my mind about you before we ever wed. I wanted to hate you, to feel superior to you. I learned at my mother’s knee—her bitterness and resentment became my own—and it poisoned everything between us.”

  Her husband was a warlord, but he was not the monster she had portrayed him to be. She accepted that now, although she had known from the first. His quest for revenge had sickened her, but it was no worse than the motivations that had spurred her own mother and aunt to plot an attack on him. Wulfhere was not responsible for his father’s actions, but Aethelthryth and Seaxburh had wanted reckoning at any cost.

  “We’re all flawed,” she told him, her voice quavering, “and me more than most. If you would only live, Wulfhere, I would show you just how sorry I am. Live and I will love you—I promise!”

  There were no more words, for her weeping now turned to silent sobs. She shifted closer to him and laid her head upon his chest. His skin was dry and scorching, as if too close to a fire pit.

  Ermenilda’s tears rained down, soaking them both.

  She wept for a long while, an outpouring of pent-up emotion she had been suppressing for months.

  Ermenilda let it all go.

  When she finished crying, she fell asleep where she lay, upon Wulfhere’s bare chest.

  She awoke to the rumble of voices and the aroma of baking bread.

  Below, the Great Hall was coming to life, as its inhabitants stirred. Ermenilda listened for a few moments, letting the fog of sleep clear. For a short spell, she forgot where she was. All she knew was that it was dawn and time to rise.

  Then, she remembered Wulfhere.

  She still lay upon his chest; she had not shifted all night. The skin against her cheek no longer burned, but was quite cool.

  Ermenilda’s heart leaped and the last remnants of sleep dissolved. She sat up, pushing the hair that had come free of its braid from her eyes.

  Her gaze went to Wulfhere’s face. He was still and pale. Dread rose within her, and she placed a hand on his forehead, confirming that the fever was gone.