Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  Alchflaed and Maric joined the line of travelers who inched forward. The guards at the east gate, unlike the ones at the high gate, were awake and alert this morning. Watchful, they surveyed the folk passing before them. Alchflaed’s breathing stilled when she saw that they were questioning some of them.

  “You’re travelling light,” one of the guards stepped before Maric, blocking his path.

  Maric, who had pushed down his hood, although he had instructed Alchflaed to keep hers raised, smiled back at the guard. He had pulled the collar of his cloak up high, to conceal his iron slave collar.

  “The folk of Tamworth all wanted roast fowl for their lunch yesterday,” Maric replied. “My wife and I could have sold three times the number of birds we brought with us.”

  The guard shifted his gaze to Alchflaed, who kept her own downcast, her face in shadow.

  “She’s a shy one,” he observed.

  Maric gave a soft laugh. “Not in the furs.”

  The guard grinned at that before returning to his interrogation.

  “You would have transported your fowl here on a cart,” he noted shrewdly. “Where is it?”

  Maric sighed, feigning annoyance.

  “Best not remind my wife,” he muttered. “I lost it over a game of knuckle bones in the mead hall last night.”

  The guard snorted. He hesitated then, his gaze returning to Alchflaed, before he waved them ahead. “Go on then.”

  They walked through the east gate, following the other travelers. Alchflaed noted that Maric deliberately did not hurry and so she slowed her pace.

  “As soon as we’re out of sight, we run,” he told her, “but not before.”

  The walk across the meadows was the longest of Alchflaed’s life. To the north, the sun bathed grassy mounds, the great barrows of Mercian kings. Farther to the east, Alchflaed could see the green boughs of trees. The other travelers took the road that travelled northeast – the way that Alchflaed had arrived in Tamworth months earlier – while she and Maric struck out directly east, across the grass.

  Maric glanced across at her as they neared the woods.

  “They will hunt us,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  Alchflaed inhaled deeply, holding his gaze firmly in hers, and nodded.

  Together, they entered the cool damp of the trees and began to run.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Treachery

  Elfhere awoke with a groan. His head pounded and he needed to piss.

  That is the last time, he vowed as he rolled off the hard bench, that I drink so much mead.

  He straightened his aching back and winced. Then, he picked his way through the crowd of men and women who were rousing themselves from the floor. The interior of the Great Hall smelled like a barnyard, and it was a relief to step outside into the fresh morning air. Once he had relieved himself, Elfhere drank deep from the water barrel before re-entering the hall.

  His gaze sought Maric, who was usually up early at chores. However, he could not see his friend amongst the slaves who had begun the massive task of cleaning up the hall after the revelry of the night before. Elfhere cast his gaze around the interior, and saw that Bryni was throwing up on the rushes. The lad had gone the shade of pond scum. On the far side of the hall, near the ladder to the king’s platform, Osulf was stirring.

  Elfhere walked across to him. “You look healthy for a man who drank enough to fell an ox last night.”

  Osulf shrugged before rising to his feet and stretching.

  “Slept like a babe.”

  Osulf’s gaze then flicked up to the platform above, where neither the king nor queen had yet appeared.

  “They won’t be up for a while yet,” Elfhere told him with a wry grin. “Paeda took a liking to that sloe wine. Can’t stand the stuff, myself.”

  Osulf nodded but said nothing.

  “They’ll be selling fresh griddle bread in town,” Elfhere continued. “I need something to settle my belly. Let’s go?”

  Osulf shook his head. “I’ll stay here. Bring me back some.”

  Elfhere nodded, although he wondered at Osulf’s mood this morning. He seemed on edge.

  It was a bright morning, promising a warm day ahead, and Elfhere enjoyed the walk through Tamworth’s streets to the baker’s. His injured leg still pained him slightly, especially in the mornings, but the walk eased the damaged muscle in his thigh and lessened his limp slightly.

  At the baker’s, Elfhere had to wait a bit as folk pushed their way forward to buy a fresh loaf. Eventually, Elfhere managed to jam his elbow into a few sides and fight his way to the front. He bought two large wheels of griddle bread and made his way back up the hill, whistling.

  Back inside the hall, he found the air far fresher than earlier. The men and women who had spent the night here had cleared out, returning to their homes, and slaves had cleared away the tables. They had also taken out the soiled rushes and replaced them with clean ones. Broth bubbled in a large cauldron over one of the fire pits. It had been made with the lamb bones from the feast.

  Elfhere spotted Seaxwulf, who was looking slightly pale this morning, sitting at a table beneath the high seat. The monk saw him approach and lifted a tired hand in greeting. Osulf sat upon a stool nearby, chewing on a piece of pork rind and scowling.

  “You took your time,” Osulf grumbled.

  “You should have seen the crowd,” Elfhere replied. “I had to fight for these.”

  He placed the wheels of bread down on the table, broke off a chunk and handed it to Seaxwulf, before offering a piece to Osulf. His friend took it; although for a man who had complained about having to wait, he ate the bread in a lackluster manner.

  “I thought you were hungry,” Elfhere accused as he tore into his piece.

  Osulf grunted. “My stomach’s a bit sour.”

  Elfhere cast Osulf a rueful look and sat down at the table, opposite Seaxwulf.

  “You’re looking a bit peaky as well, brother.”

  “That sloe wine is the work of the devil,” the monk replied with a grimace. “I only had two cups and I awoke with a terrible head this morning.”

  “You had two cups?” Osulf asked, showing interest in his surroundings for the first time. He was watching the monk intently, his gaze narrow.

  Seaxwulf nodded. “It was an effort to rise from my bed for my morning prayers. I don’t know how I managed.”

  Osulf frowned, before glancing up at the King’s Loft. The king and queen had still not made an appearance. Watching Osulf, Elfhere felt the first tickle of alarm, as if a winter’s draught travelled across his bare arms.

  Something was amiss.

  Elfhere glanced around the hall, his own gaze narrowing.

  “Have you seen Maric?”

  Osulf shook his head, clearly uninterested in their friend’s whereabouts. At that moment, the two northerners that King Alchfrith had left as stewards approached the table.

  “Is the king still abed?” the blond one, Wada, asked.

  “It seems so,” Seaxwulf replied. The monk was nibbling at his piece of griddle bread, and he still looked unhealthily pale.

  “I would be too, if I were wed to a woman like Alchflaed,” Alfwald, the red-haired one, said with a grin. He sat down next to Elfhere and helped himself to a piece of bread.

  At that moment, a slave-girl appeared with a pot of hot broth. She ladled out cups for the men, and received a slap on the rump from Alfwald before she hurried away.

  Elfhere sipped at the broth; it was hot and tasty, and helped ease his headache. The men sat around the table, breaking their fast and talking in low voices. Then, Wada emptied a pouch of knucklebones onto the table and challenged Elfhere to a game. They played awhile, although Osulf refused to join in. He sat apart from the others and Elfhere noted he would steal the occasional glance toward the King’s Loft.

  The morning slid by and as noon approached, Elfhere’s uneasiness had deepened into worry. It was difficult to keep his mind on knucklebones, and after Wad
a beat him three times in a row, he begged off another game.

  “Seaxwulf,” Elfhere murmured to the monk while the others argued over who would play Wada next. “Something is wrong. Lord Paeda and Lady Alchflaed would never stay abed this late.”

  Seaxwulf nodded, concern in his dark gaze. “Should we check on them?”

  Elfhere gave the monk an uneasy smile, for he was loath to interrupt his lord, if Paeda was in the midst of swiving his wife. “You’d best do it.”

  Some of the warriors, including two of Paeda’s ealdormen, who had now joined them at the table, shouted out rude comments as the monk crossed the hall toward the ladder. Seaxwulf threw a censorious glare over his shoulder but that only fueled their taunts.

  “That’s what happens when a man gives up women,” one of Paeda’s ealdormen sniggered. “It turns him into a letch.”

  “Hoping they’ll invite you into their bed, eh?” another warrior, who sat next to Osulf, called out.

  Seaxwulf had the good sense to ignore the insults, although Elfhere could see from the set of his shoulders that the monk was angry. Reaching the ladder, Seaxwulf climbed swiftly up to the platform, where he disappeared.

  A moment later, the monk’s shout echoed off the rafters.

  “Treachery!”

  Elfhere leaped to his feet and ran toward the ladder, the other men close at his heels. When he reached the foot of the ladder, Elfhere looked up to see Seaxwulf’s stricken face peering down at him.

  “The king has been murdered,” he cried, “and Alchflaed is gone.”

  ***

  The rest of that day passed in a blur. Yet, Elfhere would never forget that afternoon, or the events that unfolded afterward.

  Tempers exploded as soon as Seaxwulf delivered the news that Paeda’s throat had been slit while he slept. The murderer had then plunged a seax into his chest, as if worrying that ripping a man’s throat open from ear to ear was not enough to kill him. The queen had disappeared. The only trace of her was a bloodied tunic on the loft floor.

  This caused Paeda’s two ealdormen to let out howls of rage.

  “Murdering bitch!”

  “This is northern treachery. Oswiu is behind this!”

  Wada and Alfwald took offence at those comments. Roaring, they launched themselves at the Mercians. Slaves ran for cover, women shrieked and Seaxwulf wisely stayed up on the platform as men grabbed the nearest weapons to hand – pokers, cooking knives and sticks – and attacked each other.

  Elfhere did not want to fight, not without knowing the truth first, but the rage of his fellow Mercians forced him into it. He was unarmed, and there was nothing around him to use as a weapon so he fought with his fists.

  Osulf had produced a seax, which surprised Elfhere, since the king permitted no man to enter the Great Hall bearing weapons. Osulf slashed a Northumbrian in the belly before launching himself at Wada. The blond ealdorman had retrieved a poker from the fire pit, and fended off Osulf’s assault. Osulf was good in a fight – better than good – but Wada bested him. He smashed the poker over Osulf’s bare knuckles, causing him to drop his seax. Then, he smacked Osulf round the head with the poker and felled the Mercian like an oak.

  The fight was brief, but violent, and in the end, the Northumbrians won. Wada and Alfwald never went anywhere without their warriors and they fought like cornered hounds. Elfhere picked himself up off the rushes, and tried to stem the blood that gushed from his nose.

  The Northumbrians surrounded him, their faces black with rage. Elfhere saw that Osulf lay a few feet away. He was breathing, so Wada’s blow had not killed him as Elfhere had thought. However, both the Mercian ealdormen were dead, as were three Northumbrian warriors. The remaining Mercians, Bryni among them, were bloodied and wary.

  Elfhere stood his ground and met Wada’s hard, blue gaze.

  “I did not accuse you of treachery,” Elfhere said. “I only want the truth.”

  “Then, I might let you live,” Wada rumbled. The ealdorman cast his gaze around the hall. “Besides the queen, is anyone else here missing?”

  Elfhere said nothing, and hoped that no one else had noticed Maric’s absence. Silence stretched out, and Elfhere was beginning to think no one had, when one of the women spoke up. Her name was Hild and she was the wife of one of Paeda’s thegns. Unlike most of the other women, who were hiding in alcoves or weeping, she had come forward.

  “One of the slaves is gone,” she told Wada, meeting his eye boldly. She was a dark-haired, well-built woman with a long face and shrewd eyes. “Maric is his name.”

  Wada’s gaze narrowed. “The man who killed Eadweard of Eoforwic?”

  Hild nodded.

  At that moment, Prince Aethelred emerged from his alcove, roused by the fighting. The prince looked bilious and was ghostly pale. His gaze traveled around the hall, which was now in disarray. Over-turned tables, smashed pottery and bodies greeted him.

  “What is going on here?” he demanded.

  “Your brother has been murdered, and his wife is missing,” Wada told him bluntly, “but it appears we know who is to blame.”

  Wada turned to Elfhere, dismissing the prince.

  “Gather a search party. Northumbrian and Mercian. We will hunt this theow down.”

  ***

  Elfhere handed Osulf the reins to his horse.

  “Are you well enough to ride out?”

  Osulf nodded, although Elfhere could see his friend was still in pain from the blow Wada had dealt him to the skull. Frankly, Elfhere had the urge to sink his own fist into Osulf’s face and finish what Wada had started, but that would have to wait until later.

  Elfhere turned from Osulf and sprang up onto his horse’s back. He urged the gelding forward, joining the stream of riders heading out of Tamworth. They brought hunting dogs with them, lean beasts hungry for a hunt. Townsfolk came out of their houses to watch the warriors ride past. The people of Tamworth whispered among themselves as gossip spread like the pox from house to house.

  It was mid-afternoon and they had searched the town thoroughly, including Maric’s old house, but they had found no trace of him, or Alchflaed. Excitement now hung in the air as folk speculated about what had happened in the Great Tower of Tamworth.

  Elfhere clenched his jaw and followed the band out through the low gate. He wished he could have refused to join the hunt for Maric and Alchflaed, like Edgard and Bryni had. However, Wada, who had taken charge of Paeda’s hall, had given him the task of gathering men to ride out with them.

  Outside the town walls, Elfhere pulled his horse up and waited while the hounds searched for the scent. The hound master had given the dogs a scrap of the queen’s clothing to sniff, and they took off around the banks of the River Tame, searching for her scent.

  They found it on the meadows beyond the east gate.

  Their baying echoed through the warm afternoon and caused a chill to run down Elfhere’s spine. He cast a dark look at Osulf, who had halted beside him, and promised himself he would have the truth out of his friend by the end of the day. Then they were off, galloping across the meadows toward the woodland beyond.

  The hunt had begun.

  ***

  Dusk spread out across the beech-wood in a soft blanket, ending a hot, windless day. The band of Northumbrian and Mercian warriors, led by Wada, for Alfwald had remained behind to keep an eye on Prince Aethelred, rested for a while, before continuing their hunt.

  Elfhere loosened his horse’s girth and left it cropping grass. Then, he went to find Osulf. The warrior sat apart from the others, brooding as he sharpened his sword with a whetstone.

  Elfhere strode over to him, ignoring the pain in his thigh, which had cramped after an afternoon in the saddle. He took a seat on a tree-stump opposite Osulf and fixed him in a cold gaze.

  “You’re behind this, aren’t you?”

  Osulf glanced up, surprised. They had grown up together, and Elfhere had long looked to Osulf like an elder brother. Yet, of late, he had grown secretive, consumed
by bitterness after their defeat at Winwaed. Elfhere found himself disliking the man his friend had turned into.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not the fool you think I am,” Elfhere growled. “You’ve been plotting something for weeks – only I didn’t think you would be such a nithing as to kill a man in his bed and blame his wife for it.”

  Osulf’s face reddened. Elfhere had just named him the worst sort of coward.

  “Keep your voice down,” he growled.

  “No one can hear us,” Elfhere replied, not shifting his gaze from Osulf’s face. “Tell me the truth, Osulf.”

  His friend’s face reddened further, and Elfhere saw the resentment in his one good eye; his anger at Elfhere for cornering him. However, he could not risk anyone knowing that he was to blame.

  “Glaedwine helped me,” he admitted sullenly. “He added dried foxglove leaves to the sloe wine – not enough to kill, just enough to bring on nausea, blurred vision and a deep slumber.”

  “Foxglove,” Elfhere hissed. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  Osulf’s mouth twisted. “I knew you’d drink only mead.” He paused then, gathering his thoughts, before continuing with his tale. “Paeda was easy to kill. He lay unconscious upon his bed, his wife sleeping soundly beside him.”

  Elfhere spat on the ground between them.

  “That was a coward’s act,”

  “Why should a betrayer like Paeda die with honor,” Osulf snarled. “What better way to end his life, and lay the blame upon Oswiu. Now everyone thinks that northern slut he married slit his throat.”

  “No…,” Elfhere ground out. “Everyone thinks that Maric plotted to kill him before running away with his wife.”

  “I tried to protect him, as I did you,” Osulf replied sourly. “It is not my fault if he involved himself.”

  The warrior’s gaze dropped to the blade he was sharpening.