Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia)

by Jayne Castel

  Is he dead?

  She leaned back over his chest, this time placing her ear over his heart.

  Ermenilda held her breath, and then she heard it.

  The slow, reassuring thud of his heart. She felt the gentle rise and fall of his breathing beneath her.

  Relief swept over her in a giddying wave.

  He’s alive!

  Ermenilda scrambled to her feet and flew across the platform toward the ladder. She needed to fetch Glaedwine.

  The healer placed his hand on Wulfhere’s forehead and gave a grunt of approval.

  “Good.”

  He checked for swellings over the king’s body—prodding under his arms and in his groin, and gave another grunt when he found nothing to concern him. Lastly, he cleaned the wounds on Wulfhere’s thigh and examined them.

  “There is no pus this morning,” he announced. He looked up, his gaze meeting Ermenilda’s across the furs. “I think your husband will live, milady.”

  Ermenilda smiled back at him, speechless with relief.

  “He will wake up soon enough,” Glaedwine concluded. “Make sure he has something to eat and drink when he does.”

  Ermenilda nodded. “Thank you, Glaedwine.”

  Prince Aethelred stood next to the cunning man. The tension appeared to leave his body at Glaedwine’s judgment. He was now watching Ermenilda, surprise etched on his face. She met his gaze, and he frowned.

  “I thought you cared little for my brother. Yet, here you are rejoicing that he will live.”

  They were blunt words. Ermenilda did not blame Aethelred for his reaction but, this morning, nothing could dampen her joy. Wulfhere would live, and that was all that mattered.

  She gave Aethelred a small, enigmatic smile.

  “A long night changes many things.”

  Aethelred snorted and cast Glaedwine an exasperated look. “God’s bones, I’ll never understand women.”

  The healer laughed before casting a shrewd look in Ermenilda’s direction. “You’re not alone, Aethelred—neither do most men.”

  ***

  Wulfhere awoke slowly. First, he was aware of the faint murmur of voices. He felt warm air caress his skin and breathed in the aroma of roasting meat . . . mutton.

  His body felt weak but blessedly cool. The furnace that had roared within him and the aching in his joints had both disappeared.

  Wulfhere’s eyes flickered open. It was day, for pale light filtered in from the high windows above him. He swallowed before wincing. His throat felt like a dry piece of wood.

  “Water,” he croaked weakly.

  “Here.” A woman’s soft voice greeted him. “Drink slowly or you’ll choke.”

  It was then that he realized his head was resting upon someone’s lap. He caught the faint scent of rose water and lavender.

  Ermenilda.

  He drank from the cup she raised to his lips, taking three swallows although he wished to drain the whole cup. He rested back against her with a groan.

  He felt as weak as a newborn lamb.

  “What happened?” he rasped. “Did I sleep?”

  “The fever almost claimed you,” Ermenilda replied, “but you fought back.”

  It was all returning to him now. The knife fight with Werbode, his injuries—and the fever that followed.

  “My leg . . . will I lose it?”

  “Glaedwine says it will heal, now you are over the worst.”

  She shifted from under him, removing her softness and scent. Instead, she placed a rolled up fur under his head as a pillow and came to sit by him.

  Wulfhere drank her in. Dressed in a simple, sleeveless tunic the same color as her eyes—walnut brown—she was a welcome sight. However, he noted the tiredness etched upon her delicate face and the lines of tension about her eyes and mouth.

  “You worried us all,” she said, before favoring him with a smile.

  The expression made his breathing still. There was a softness in her eyes when she smiled at him that he had never seen before.

  “Even you?” he asked. He cursed his raspy voice. It sounded as if he had just swallowed a cup of sand.

  She nodded. He saw her blush, and her eyes glittered unnaturally bright.

  “When you found me at Bonehill, you could have punished me,” she began, her voice low and steady, “but, instead you protected me from Werbode, and even when you were ill, you worried for my safety.”

  Ermenilda broke eye contact with him, developing a sudden fascination with her hands clasped upon her lap.

  “I never had a chance to thank you,” she whispered.

  “Thank me?” Wulfhere eventually found his tongue. “All I have ever done is hurt you.”

  Her gaze shifted back to him.

  “I am hardly blameless,” she replied firmly. “Both of us had a part to play.”

  Silence fell. Wulfhere watched her. A veil had lifted revealing them both to each other for the first time. He reached out and took her hand, clasping his fingers around hers.

  “Can we start again?”

  It took everything he had to ask the question. His chest constricted as he waited for her answer. It suddenly hurt to breathe.

  Wordlessly, Ermenilda squeezed his hand. Then, she nodded.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Healing

  “You win again!”

  Aethelred flung the knucklebones down on the table in disgust. Glowering, he reached for the jug of ale and refilled his cup.

  “If I hadn’t been watching you like a hawk, I’d think you were cheating.”

  Wulfhere gave a soft laugh and raised an eyebrow.

  “Poor loser.”

  The brothers sat upon the high seat. It was late morning, and the cooks had almost finished preparing the noon meal. The aroma of rabbit and leek pie wafted through the hall, causing Wulfhere’s stomach to growl. In the five days since he had awoken from the fever, he had been constantly hungry. He was still weak, and his leg pained him, but Glaedwine assured him the wounds to his thigh were now healing well. They had scabbed over, and the swelling had now completely gone.

  “Another game?” he asked Aethelred.

  “Not likely,” his brother grumbled.

  Wulfhere regarded the prince a moment, smiling at Aethelred’s inability to lose gracefully.

  “I haven’t asked you how the trip to Ely went,” he said, changing the subject. “Did the widow behave herself?”

  Aethelred’s expression darkened further.

  “We fought from the moment we left Tamworth till when I left her among the ruins of Ely,” he admitted.

  “I am sorry to have burdened you with such a shrew,” Wulfhere replied, forcing himself not to grin. “Surely, it was not too much of an ordeal.”

  Aethelred snorted, before he grinned wolfishly. “I did see her once without her headrail during the journey,” he admitted. “Did you know she has long, dark hair . . . beautiful.”

  Wulfhere sat back in his chair. Aethelthryth, even without her nunlike veil, had not appeared the sort of woman to tempt a man. His brother’s admission surprised him.

  Aethelred poured himself some ale and took a deep draft.

  “So have you and Ermenilda mended things?”

  Wulfhere smiled, his gaze moving to the other side of the hall where his wife worked upon a tapestry.

  “Things are better,” he admitted, “although it will take time. We never really knew each other before.”

  Aethelred nodded, and he returned his brother’s smile. “At least you are no longer at war with each other,” he replied.

  ***

  Ermenilda glanced across at Wulfhere.

  “Are you tired? Shall we return to the hall?”

  “I’m not a feeble old man,” Wulfhere grumbled. “I think I can manage a short walk.”

  Ermenilda glanced down, hiding a smile. Now that he was healing, Wulfhere was proving to be an irascible patient. His energy was returning, but he chafed at not being able to ride, hunt, and fight as he had be
fore. He still walked with a limp, although it lessened with each passing day. Wulfhere had little patience with his healing body.

  They walked down an incline, in between rows of timbered houses, after paying Seaxwulf a short visit at his church. It was a windy afternoon, and gusts caught at the fur cloak that Ermenilda wore about her shoulders. The nights were drawing in, and the days were getting colder. As always, Mōna loped after them. She was ever their shadow these days, and Ermenilda had grown fond of the wolf.

  “Shall we visit my garden?” she asked him.

  “Aye,” Wulfhere replied, casting her an apologetic look. He knew that he was being grumpy. “It is a while since I saw it.”

  He reached out and took her arm, tucking it through his. It was a protective gesture, and Ermenilda welcomed it. Many days had passed since Wulfhere had awoken from his fever, and they were still circling each other warily. Wulfhere kept a respectful distance from her, and although they slept in the same furs at night, he had not touched her. There was an unspoken pact between them that they would find their way forward slowly.

  They passed many townsfolk on the way down the hill. Children were playing in the dirt after the day’s chores had been done. Women were bringing in washing, while men carted wood indoors for the fire.

  Folk called out to them, hailing their king and queen. Wulfhere raised a hand to acknowledge them, and Ermenilda was relieved to see that outside the Great Tower at least, folk did not hate her.

  They entered the garden, with Mōna at their heels, and walked to its heart. Ermenilda watched Wulfhere look around taking it all in. She had spent many afternoons out here since her return, and Ermenilda was proud of how the garden was looking. The last of the roses had dropped from the bushes lining the space, and some of the other plants were going to ground for the winter, but there were still some of the hardier herbs and vegetables growing.

  “After you disappeared, I used to come to the garden,” Wulfhere said finally, turning to her. “I felt your presence here.”

  Ermenilda looked down, suddenly self-conscious. “It was a thoughtful gift for a new bride. If I hadn’t been so full of prejudice, I would have appreciated it more.”

  “Other highborn women wish for furs and jewels, but all you wanted was a garden.”

  Ermenilda glanced up and saw he was smiling.

  “Aye, I’m not like other women. That was why I wished to take the veil.”

  Wulfhere’s smile faded. He reached out and gently stroked her cheek. Ermenilda swallowed, a blade of need arrowing through her. They had deliberately avoided touching each other over the last few days, although the feel of his fingers on her skin reminded her of what they had shared in the past.

  “Do you miss Bonehill?” he asked. “Do you still wish for that life?”

  Ermenilda shook her head, surprising herself that this was the truth.

  “I learned that I like the world beyond the convent walls, with all its dirt and barbarity, more than I realized.” she admitted.

  Wulfhere gave a soft laugh, his pale gaze twinkling. “I am glad.”

  The king and queen entered the Great Hall just before sunset, still walking arm in arm. They crossed the rush-strewn floor, past where slaves were making the finishing touches to the evening’s pottage, and made their way toward the high seat.

  Elfhere was waiting for them, with Wynflaed at his side.

  The warrior’s face was serious, his body tense. Next to him, Wynflaed’s cheeks were flushed, and she fidgeted nervously.

  “Elfhere, Wynflaed,” Ermenilda greeted them first. “Is something amiss?”

  “No, milady?” Elfhere replied, although the tension in his body appeared to coil tighter as the king and queen stopped before them.

  Elfhere’s gaze went to Wulfhere, and he bowed his head.

  “Lord Wulfhere, I come to ask permission to wed Wynflaed.”

  The king held his thegn’s gaze for a few moments. Wulfhere saw anxiety in the man’s eyes and knew that he was the cause.

  “You look so worried, Elfhere. Do you really think I would deny you?”

  Wynflaed stepped forward, ignoring the look of warning that Elfhere cast her. She bowed her head, and when she spoke, her voice trembled.

  “Milord, I still blame myself for letting the queen out of my sight. I understand if you feel the same way.”

  Wulfhere shook his head thinking he should have dealt with this sooner. It was clear Wynflaed had struggled under a mantle of guilt since Ermenilda’s disappearance—one she had not yet shed.

  “I never blamed you, Wynflaed,” he said quietly. “I raged upon myself, and you were a reminder of what I had lost.”

  He paused, then waited for her to look up and meet his gaze. When she did, he saw that her eyes glistened.

  “I know you have served Ermenilda loyally,” he told her. “I give both you and Elfhere my blessing.”

  Wynflaed stared at him for a moment. Her body sagged and she burst into tears. Elfhere reached out and pulled Wynflaed against him. His gaze met Wulfhere’s, and he smiled, the tension leaving him.

  “Thank you, milord.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  The Handfasting

  Elfhere and Wynflaed wed on a sunny afternoon, outside the walls of Tamworth. The ceremony took place upon the wide meadows beyond the east gate. To the north, the barrows of Mercian kings looked on as the warrior and his young bride faced each other before Seaxwulf and pledged their lives to each other.

  To the left of the priest, Ermenilda stood at Wulfhere’s side. She found herself struggling not to cry as she watched the lovers make their oaths. The priest finished blessing them. Then, he unwound the ribbon that tied their hands together, so that they could drink from the same cup and share a honey seedcake.

  Crowds of people surrounded them. All of Tamworth had turned out for the celebration, and Wulfhere had ensured that a great feast was prepared for them. Wild boar, mutton, and venison all roasted on spits behind the crowd, and the wood for a bonfire had been laid in the center of the meadows, ready to be lit for the dancing and reveling that would follow after dusk.

  When Elfhere and Wynflaed had both pledged their gifts to each other, Seaxwulf solemnly pronounced them wed. Without hesitation, Elfhere pulled Wynflaed into his arms, his lips claiming hers for a passionate kiss.

  A roar went up in the crowd. Some of the men hooted, whistled, and called out ribald comments. When the clamor died away, all gazes went to the king.

  Ermenilda also looked at her husband healed and strong. Just the sight of him caused her breathing to quicken. He was dressed in a quilted vest and leather breeches embossed with fine patterns. His gold and silver arm rings glinted in the setting sun, as did the circlet he wore upon his head. His pale hair glowed as if lit by moonlight, and a plush ermine cloak hung from his shoulders.

  Ermenilda ached to touch him. Despite that they had grown ever closer over the past days, they still kept their distance physically. She wondered how much longer Wulfhere would restrain from touching her. Perhaps he no longer desired her. Disappointment tightened in the pit of Ermenilda’s belly as she considered this possibility.

  Wulfhere’s gaze traveled across the crowd. When he spoke, his voice echoed over the meadows.

  “Let the celebrations begin!”

  Night’s long shadow crept over Tamworth, chasing away the rosy blush of the setting sun. The bonfire in the center of the meadows roared to life. Men rolled out barrels of mead, ale, and sloe wine, and slaves passed around platters of roast meat, tureens of braised onions, and baskets of griddle bread.

  Back from the fire, three musicians stood upon a platform, playing a lively tune upon a bone whistle, lyre, and drum. Wulfhere sat at the head of a long table, with Ermenilda at his side. They shared a platter of food, and Wulfhere watched his wife help herself to pieces of meat, before unselfconsciously licking grease from her fingers.

  The sight filled him with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

&nb
sp; For weeks now, he had avoided touching her, but he was not sure how much longer he could continue to do so. She was radiant this evening, clad in a long-sleeved plum-red gown that hugged her lissome form. A plush red-squirrel cloak hung from her shoulders, and a slender circlet studded with tiny stones sat upon her head. She wore her hair unbound this evening, and it rippled over her shoulders like sunlight.

  It was torture watching her, spending days and nights by her side and not being able to touch her. After everything that had happened, and after the last time they had lain together, Wulfhere was wary of ruining the fragile happiness they had found.

  Every night, he lay listening to his wife’s gentle breathing, the warmth of her body reaching out to him, and wondered how he would continue to endure it.

  What if she shrank away from his touch?

  Once the feasting ended, the revelers moved away from the tables toward the fire. The music rose high into the night sky, and the roaring fire gave off a glow that lit up the meadow for a furlong in every direction.

  Wulfhere and Ermenilda remained seated at the table, watching Elfhere and Wynflaed take the first dance.

  “They make a handsome couple,” Ermenilda observed, raising her cup of wine to her lips. “Elfhere noticed Wynflaed on the journey from Cantwareburh, but she resisted him for a while.”

  “Aye, she made him work for her affections,” Wulfhere agreed.

  Their gazes met and held. Suddenly, it was as if they were alone. The raucous, excited crowd swirling around them had disappeared.

  Wulfhere’s gaze devoured her. Ermenilda’s skin looked creamy and burnished with gold in the firelight, her brown eyes dark and luminous. Her lips parted slightly as she held his gaze. Desire clawed up Wulfhere’s throat, threatening to choke him.

  Wordlessly, he reached out and cupped her chin, running his thumb along her bottom lip.

  He did not want to talk about Elfhere and Wynflaed, to skirt around the subject they had been avoiding for days. He wanted to talk about them.