by Jayne Castel
Oswiu’s face darkened.
“You dare issue threats? You stand alone in my hall, with only your son and three of your men to protect you.”
“Now who is issuing threats, Oswiu?” Penda rumbled.
Maric recognized the tone of his lord’s voice well. It was the calm before the storm; Penda was about to unleash his wintry rage. Oswiu was a dolt if he thought being outnumbered and unarmed was any hindrance to Penda of Mercia. Not only that, but his son was almost as lethal as he was. Penda had not chosen Maric, Elfhere and Osulf by chance either. Each of them had earned their place as trusted warriors at their king’s side.
However, the Northumbrian lord’s response was forestalled by his son. Seated next to Oswiu, the young man leaned forward, his voice low.
“Fæder, she’s here.”
Oswiu’s sharp gaze shifted from Penda, travelling over his shoulder to the hall’s entrance behind him. Likewise, the Mercian King and his escort turned, their gazes swiveling to the young woman who strode into their midst.
Maric found himself staring.
When Oswiu described his daughter as ‘wild’, he had not been exaggerating. Alchflaed swept into the hall like a storm. She resembled a warrior maid, rather than a princess. Two shaggy, long-legged hounds – one black and the other brown – trailed at her heels, staying close to their mistress as she crossed the floor.
Her auburn hair was unbound and tumbled over her shoulders in unruly waves. She was tall and statuesque with milky skin, and dressed in a long tunic, belted at the waist. The tunic was split at the sides, to allow for riding astride. Underneath, Maric glimpsed shapely legs clad in soft leather leggings and fur-lined boots. She moved like a huntress, with long purposeful strides. Unlike her sister by marriage, Cyneburh, there was nothing demure or subservient about her.
Sharp, moss-green eyes focused on the party before the high seat, travelling over their faces. Then, unexpectedly, her gaze paused upon Maric.
Their eyes locked for a heart-beat.
Woden.
Maric considered himself happily married. He could not wait to be reunited with Gytha, the raven-haired beauty awaiting him in Tamworth. Even so, this woman’s vibrancy and raw sensuality disarmed him.
A heartbeat passed before he tore his gaze from her, and noted that he had not been the only one captivated by Princess Alchflaed. Both Elfhere and Osulf were gawking at her, while Paeda looked pole-axed. The prince stared at the princess, open-mouthed, as if he gazed upon a goddess.
Only Penda appeared immune. He turned back to the Northumbrian king and raised a pale eyebrow.
“So this is your daughter?”
“Alchflaed. Greet Lord Penda of Mercia,” Oswiu growled.
The young woman dropped into a neat curtsy, a gesture that was at odds with her untamed appearance.
“Lord Penda.”
Unlike the queen, the princess’s voice was low-pitched, with a slight husky edge. The sound of it caused Maric’s pulse to quicken.
Get a hold of yourself, man.
Oblivious to the furor she had caused, Alchflaed crossed the space to the high seat and took her place on the far right of the raised platform, next to her sister by marriage. The dogs sat obediently at her feet, tails wagging.
Alchflaed cast a glance at Cyneburh and received a look of cool censure in response. She had sensed the tension as soon as she entered the hall, and the vexed look upon her father’s face now only confirmed it. Her entrance had interrupted a brewing argument.
She had observed the Mercian party closely as she approached the high seat. Penda of Mercia was as she had imagined; cold, hard and built like Thunor himself. The young man next to him – dark haired and powerfully made – was definitely related to Penda, for he carried himself with the same arrogance. However, it was the three men who stood with him that had intrigued her: one dark, one blond, and the third red-haired.
One, in particular, had drawn her eye. Tall and lean, with long dark hair and pale skin, the warrior was dressed, head to foot, in dark leather armor. He exuded a restless, contained energy, but it was his face that drew her in. She had never seen a man with such defined cheekbones. He had dark finely drawn eyebrows, an angular chin and jaw, and crystalline blue eyes. His face was, simply put, beautiful.
When their gazes met, it was as if someone had punched her, just below the ribcage. Her breath had left her, and for a moment the world stood still. Heart racing, she had torn her gaze away and forced herself to keep walking.
Now that she was seated, Alchflaed allowed her gaze to return, once more, to the mysterious dark-haired Mercian warrior. He stood two paces behind his king, and he appeared to be deliberately avoiding her gaze.
Penda broke the weighty silence that had settled over the hall.
“She will bend to our ways easily enough. What will your answer be, Oswiu? Shall we weave peace between our kingdoms? Shall Paeda and Alchflaed be betrothed on this day?”
Alchflaed’s attention jerked back to the Mercian King.
Betrothed.
For the first time, she looked properly at the young man standing at Penda’s side. He was staring at her, a look of naked hunger upon his face. Alchflaed’s stomach knotted as the reality of Penda of Mercia’s visit took hold. She broke out into a cold sweat and tore her gaze from his, staring down at the rush-strewn floor beneath the platform.
“I think not,” Oswiu’s response brought both relief and dread rushing forth within Alchflaed. “I tire of the games you play.”
“And what games are they?”
“This mask of friendship you wear every time we meet. You killed my brother. You butchered his corpse and hung his remains in a tree for the crows to feed on. Yet, you come here and speak as if another wedding between our families will mend things.”
“Oswald fell in battle,” Penda rumbled. “What my men chose to do with his corpse was their business.”
“Do you think me a fool?” Oswiu snarled. “The last marriage did nothing to ease your warmongering. You wish to rule these lands. Wedding my daughter to your son is just a ruse.”
“So you will not agree to the match?”
Oswiu leaned forward and spat on the rushes at the foot of the high seat. Alchflaed stared at her father, shocked. She had rarely seen him so incensed. His face had gone white and pinched, his eyes were dark with rage. His hatred for Penda was palpable.
“It is you who is the fool, Penda. You are no longer welcome at Bebbanburg.”
“So you would make me your enemy?” Penda replied, his pale eyes glittering.
“I am already your enemy,” Oswiu snarled back. “Your word means nothing to me. Enough with the pretense. Be gone from my hall.”
Penda favored Oswiu with a long, dark look.
“Very well, you have made your choice. The next time we meet, it will be in battle – and I will show you no mercy.”
With these words spoken, the King of Mercia turned, his wolfskin-pelt cloak billowing behind him. His son hesitated, his gaze lingering upon Alchflaed, before it shifted to Oswiu.
“Paeda,” Penda barked. “Come!”
Alchflaed watched the Mercians stride from the hall, her insides churning. Then, she glanced over at her father. He was staring after Penda, hate etched onto every line of his lean face.
With a sinking heart, she realized that despite years of bloodshed, her people’s problems with Mercia were only just beginning.
PART ONE
THE PRINCESS
Two years later…
Chapter One
The Eve of Battle
River Winwaed, northern Britannia
Late autumn, 655 A.D.
The rain tore across the land in great, grey sheets, flattening grass and churning earth to mud with its violence. Nature unleashed its fury upon a windswept landscape of gorse-strewn moor and wild skies.
Dusk was settling, turning the world bleaker still. A shadow in the gloaming, Maric made his way down the slippery bank toward the Mercian
encampment. His gaze swept over the army as it bedded down for the night; a sea of goatskin tents, hemmed in by the roaring River Winwaed to the south, and high moorland to the north.
Halfway down the bank, Maric paused, wiping water out of his eyes. He surveyed the army, before his expression turned grim. Strategically, they could not have been in a worse position. The rain felt as if it was coming down harder than ever. By morning, the river would be a raging beast.
Maric pulled his hood down over his face, continuing his way down the hill. He reached the encampment and waded through ankle-deep mud toward the King’s Tent.
Pushing aside the tent flap, Maric stepped into another world. He left behind mud, howling wind and slashing rain, and entered a luxurious space warmed by braziers. Heavy tapestries kept the seeking wind at bay and rushes covered the wet ground. However, despite that he was no longer braving the elements, Maric had not found sanctuary here. Outside, the gods were brawling, but inside a king was raging.
Penda slammed his fist onto the table that dominated the wide space.
“Battle shirking son of a whore! When I am done here, I will track that craven bastard down and feed him his own balls!”
Maric paused just inside the entrance to the tent and pushed back his hood, taken aback by his king’s outburst. It was rare for Penda to show his temper so openly; his fury was usually cold, quiet, and lethal. The king’s ealdormen and thegns surrounded him; their expressions pinched, their faces pale.
Penda’s gimlet stare shifted to Maric, barely registering his presence, such was the depth of his fury.
“Cynfeddw of Gwynedd has abandoned us,” he growled. “He’s taken his army with him.”
Osulf, who stood at his king’s right, met Maric’s gaze; his friend’s expression was pained.
“Aethelwald of Deira has also withdrawn,” Osulf added quietly.
This second piece of news did not come as any surprise to Maric. Aethelwald was Oswiu of Bernicia’s nephew. Maric had long suspected the young ruler of Deira lacked the stomach to meet his uncle in battle.
“We still outnumber them,” Maric reported. “I’ve just come from their outer perimeter. We have at least three times their number.”
“We had,” Osulf corrected him.
In response, the king whirled away from the table, flinging his cup of wine across the tent. Then he turned to Maric.
“Tell me, what else did you see out there?”
The malevolence in Penda’s voice caused some of his men to draw back from him. He looked ready to draw his sword and cut down the next man who said anything to displease him. Maric watched his lord with cool detachment. He no longer feared Penda of Mercia’s rage, for the events of the last two years had taught him that he was capable of the same killing fury. He too had awoken the beast within and had been changed in the aftermath. Nonetheless, he wisely let his king’s temper settle before he delivered his news.
“They have completely blocked off any chance of escape. Oswiu has us between the high ground and the river.”
“The bastard was waiting for this,” Osulf spat on the ground before glancing at where Elfhere stood at the other side of the table. The fair-haired warrior looked grimmer than Maric had ever seen him.
“He wanted to trap us here,” Elfhere muttered.
Indeed, it appeared as if Penda had played straight into the Northumbrian leader’s hands. With the onset of winter, the marshes to the west – the quickest route back to Mercia – had become impassable. Penda had been forced to push his armies east, onto higher ground. Here, the land narrowed into a funnel for the northerly approach of the River Winwaed crossing. The heavy rains had turned the usually calm tributary into a raging torrent – Penda was now effectively hemmed in.
Maric watched as the king began to pace his tent, his face thunderous.
“I brought thirty warlords north with me,” he snarled, “a mighty fyrd that would have crushed Oswiu in the north, had I let them. I should never have taken his treasure in return for not slaughtering him. He planned to trap us from the beginning.”
Penda was referring to the chest of gold and jewels that Oswiu had used to barter for peace, when it was clear Penda was close to destroying him. However, instead of returning to Bebbanburg after the exchange, Oswiu’s army had tracked the Mercian fyrd south, awaiting its chance.
“You still have the East Angles and Powys, M’lord,” Elfhere eventually ventured. “They will not desert you.”
“And you have Paeda,” Osulf added. “We will not stand alone at dawn.”
Penda stopped his pacing and turned back to the cluster of battle-hardened men who stood around the table. His gaze swept over them, and his face darkened. Osulf’s mention of Paeda had drawn his attention to the fact that his first born was absent from his battle conference.
Misgiving stirred in Maric’s gut when he realized he had not seen Paeda since they had stopped to make camp in the late afternoon. Then, he saw the look that passed over Penda of Mercia’s face, and his worry turned to foreboding.
Silence hung over the tent for a few moments, broken only by the rhythmic pounding of rain on the hide canopy above their heads. When Penda eventually spoke, his voice was rough, barely audible.
“Where is my son?”
***
Oswiu poured a large cup of wine and handed it to the man before him.
“So, tell me again why I should trust you?”
The man, around twenty-five winters, with close-cropped dark hair and a face that for all its youth was hard and uncompromising, took the proffered cup and gave a cool smile. He was the same height as Oswiu, but with twice his girth, broad-shouldered and with heavily corded muscle. Dressed in a mail shirt with leather breeches and a thick woolen cloak, Paeda of Mercia cut a formidable figure.
His eyes gleamed intently when he replied. “Because, I wish to wed your daughter.”
King Oswiu took a sip of wine and regarded Paeda over the rim of his cup. They stood in Oswiu’s tent, warming themselves next to a glowing brazier, while the sides of the tent snapped and billowed in the wind. Outside, they could hear the rumble of men’s voices and the rasp of blades being sharpened. The odd burst of laughter also reached them; Oswiu’s fyrd had maneuvered itself into a very strong position and morale was high this eve.
The King of Bernicia turned his attention back to his guest. Paeda’s infatuation with Alchflaed did not surprise Oswiu, for he had seen the prince’s reaction to his daughter two years earlier. Ever since she blossomed into womanhood, slack-jawed young men had dogged Alchflaed’s heels; not that she paid most of them any mind. However, Paeda’s decision to use his desire for Alchflaed as a bargaining tool intrigued Oswiu.
“Is one woman worth betraying your father for?” he asked, deliberately provoking. “I heard your father made you King of the Middle Angles, an honor indeed.”
Surprisingly, Paeda did not rise to the bait.
“I do this for ambition, not just for your daughter,” he replied, his face expressionless. “My father is a warlord. He would ride over his own kin to victory. He made me King of the Middle Angles because it suited his plans, for no other reason. His warmongering ways cost me your daughter’s hand two years ago – this is my last chance to forge my own path.”
“You are no closer to having our trust, Paeda.” Alchfrith, Prince of Bernicia, who had been silently observing the conversation till now, spoke up. “Will you swear a blood oath to my father?”
Oswiu glanced across at his son, pleased by his comment. Auburn haired and fair-skinned, Alchfrith – like his sister – was a constant reminder of the woman who bore him.
Rhienmelth.
Both Alchfrith and Alchflaed had their mother’s fire, her directness. Even now, years after her death, there were times when he missed her. She had been his ‘Queen of Lightning’, as her name denoted; a royal princess of Rheged, the Briton territory to the north-west of Bernicia. Rhienmelth had not been his first consort – during his exile in Ireland a
s a young man, an Irish princess named Fin had borne him a son – but she had been his first love. Ten winters past, Rhienmelth had sickened of a terrible fever, from which she never recovered. He had remarried shortly after but, although he was fond of Eanflaed, she would never replace Rhienmelth in his heart.
Paeda held the Prince of Bernicia’s gaze for a moment, as if taking his measure, before nodding.
“If we are victorious tomorrow, will you kneel to my father? Will your loyalties remain with us once your father is defeated?” Alchfrith pressed.
“They will.”
Oswiu studied Paeda of Mercia’s face and decided that he would never put his trust in this man. Not that it mattered – it paid to keep your enemies close. A match between Alchflaed and Paeda suited Oswiu’s plans.
Paeda broke the silence between them.
“Whatever oath you require of me, I will take it – as long as you make me King of Mercia after the battle, and give Alchflaed to me.”
Oswiu raised an eyebrow.
“Whatever oath? It’s unwise to make such a promise, for you have no idea what I may ask of you.”
Paeda stared back at him, his pale gaze never wavering.
Your father brought you up in his image. A dangerous enemy but an even more treacherous friend.
Oswiu stepped forward and raised his cup to the younger man, allowing himself a cool smile.
“Very well, Paeda. I accept your proposal.”
***
“Curse this rain, it will be the end of us if it continues.”
Osulf hunched his shoulders against the deluge as he, Elfhere and Maric slogged their way uphill to join the first watch of the night.
Elfhere pushed wet hair out of his eyes and flicked it off his face. “Aye, and it shows no sign of letting up.”
Maric glanced up at the sky. It was the fourteenth day of Blod monath, Blood month. The eleventh month of the year and the last moon cycle before winter and the coming of Yule. It was the month of sacrifice, when folk would kill animals and offer them up to the gods. The sacrifices made this month provided villagers with enough food to see them through the winter.