by Jayne Castel
“I’m dressed,” she called to Maric, “and the water’s still warm, if you’d like to bathe.”
The curtain parted and Maric stepped out. His face was serious, and he avoided her gaze.
“Thank you,” he replied. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”
Alchflaed nodded and edged past him. She stepped onto the pallet and drew the curtains closed behind her, before sinking down onto the fur. She was exhausted, although she had to admit that her bath had restored her.
On the other side of the curtain, she heard Maric moving around and imagined he was undressing. That thought was a mistake, for she immediately remembered his naked torso that day she had visited him at his home. She remembered how lithe and lean he was, how he moved with feline grace, and her mouth went dry.
Then, she heard splashes and realized that Maric must be bathing.
Alchflaed sat, frozen to the spot for a few moments, her heart pounding as if she had just finished a sprint.
Don’t think about it, she chastised herself. You’re tired and traumatized. Go to sleep.
Yet, she could not. All she could think of was the man on the other side of the curtain. How she longed for him.
Eventually, she could not bear it any longer.
Alchflaed shuffled up to the edge of the furs. Then, carefully, her hands shaking, she parted the curtain slightly and looked out.
Indeed, he was naked. Maric looked down at the cauldron as he scooped up some warm water in his palms and sluiced it down his body, rinsing off the lye he had just soaped himself with. As he straightened up, Alchflaed’s gaze slid down his torso, to his belly, where his manhood strained, hard and proud.
Alchflaed had not expected to see him aroused and she gasped, the curtain gaping open before her as she forgot that she was supposed to be hidden from view.
Maric looked up and their gazes met.
A heartbeat passed, and then another before Maric moved. He did not move to reach for his clothing but toward her. One moment, he had been standing on the other side of the fire pit, the next he strode toward her, ripped the curtain aside and pulled Alchflaed into his arms.
Alchflaed cried out in surprise, for at first she thought she had angered him, before Maric’s mouth came down over hers. She was suddenly aware of his hard, slick body pressed against her, soaking through the thin linen of her tunic.
Then, all rational thought fled her mind.
She groaned, her lips parting under his, their tongues tangling. She kissed him wildly, clinging to him; her finger nails digging into his bare shoulders. She drank him in, reveling in the taste and smell of him, and the shivers of pleasure his touch sent thrilling through her.
Maric cursed under his breath and tore her undertunic off her. Then, he knelt and suckled her breasts, drawing each nipple deep into the heat of his mouth until she screamed.
Alchflaed’s legs gave way under her and they sank back onto the fur. He crawled up over her, as if stalking her, and held himself up over the length of her body as he kissed her once more.
“Alchflaed,” he gasped her name as he ripped his mouth from hers. “Please touch me.”
He did not need to ask twice. Alchflaed let her hands trace down his chest, allowing her nails to rake over his heated skin, and down to his flat belly. He groaned, his body quivering above her, and when she curled her hand around his shaft, he rasped her name once more.
Alchflaed stroked him slowly, marveling in the heat, silkiness and hardness of him. This was so different to her experience with Paeda, whom she had been loath to touch. She wanted to make this man hers, to brand her soul upon his.
She stroked him until he growled for her to stop. Then, he parted her legs wide and sat back on his heels to gaze upon her. The look on his face as his gaze raked over her, before settling upon the most intimate part of her, made her shudder with need.
“Please, Maric,” she gasped. “Please.”
Maric smiled and he lowered himself over her. Then, he entered her in one deep thrust. Alchflaed screamed and dug her nails into his back, urging him deeper still. She angled her hips against him, pleading with him, and he answered her call.
He took her hard, cupping his hands under her buttocks as he thrust deep. She heard his cries, blending with her own. With each plunge Alchflaed’s body trembled, until she shook uncontrollably and pleasure crested in a molten wave that threatened to drown her. She screamed, the sound mingling with the hiss of the lashing rain outside.
Then, Maric reared back and roared his pleasure, emptying his seed deep inside her.
Chapter Thirty-five
A New Dawn
Breathing hard, Maric propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down upon Alchflaed.
She returned his stare, her eyes glistening with tears.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, suddenly worried.
She shook her head.
“I had wanted to wait,” he continued, stroking her cheek with his thumb, “but when you opened the curtain, I lost control. I’m sorry…”
“Don’t apologize,” she replied softly, “don’t ever say you’re sorry for that…”
She reached up, trailing a fingertip along his lower lip.
“I knew, from the first moment I saw you… I knew,” she whispered.
Maric nodded. He had been married to Gytha, the first time he had set eyes upon the flame-haired huntress who had swept into her father’s hall like the North Wind. Yet, he had felt it too, the inexorable pull between them. Wyrd – fate – had marked them both that day. All of it – the loss, the pain, the bloodshed that followed – had all been leading up to this. He had loved Gytha but he had never felt for her what he did for Alchflaed.
“I thought to never have this,” he murmured. “I never thought I would feel this.”
Alchflaed smiled and brushed away a tear that he had not even realized was running down his cheek.
“I’ve lived in the dark for so long,” he continued, wanting to share his heart with her, “and of late, it seemed as if the gods were raging against me.”
“It’s always darkest before dawn,” Alchflaed replied softly. “I too never believed I would be happy.”
Maric looked down at her and his throat constricted. She was indescribably lovely, laying upon the furs with firelight playing across her skin, her auburn hair fanned out around her. Her moss-colored eyes had darkened to a sultry forest-green. Her full lips had parted slightly as she gazed up at him.
“I didn’t know it was possible to love like this,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. “I would protect you with my last breath.”
He watched her tears overflow then and he kissed them away. After that, he kissed her mouth, parting her lips so he could taste her. Then, there were no more words, for he kissed and licked his way down her body, till she was shuddering with joy and gasping his name.
Maric rolled onto his back and took her with him. There, he let her slide down upon his shaft until he was deeply seated within her.
Alchflaed rode Maric, her magnificent breasts bouncing as she slid up and down the length of him. He gazed up at her, and saw the creamy skin of her chest and neck flush, while her back arched.
He watched her slowly lose control. His own excitement rose as he pulled her hips down to meet each thrust of his – and when she started to cry his name, he too felt the last shreds of his control dissolving.
She was his, he was hers, and together they would wipe the slate clean and begin again.
***
Alchflaed stepped out into a drizzling, gray morning and wished she had not given Elfhere her cloak. Then, she remembered that in doing so, she had gained her freedom, and the rain did not bother her any more. She silently thanked Elfhere and turned her face up to the sky, smiling as she did so.
Maric stepped out of the hovel, joining her.
“Do you want my cloak?” he asked.
Alchflaed shook her head.
“You need to keep your iron collar hidden. Should we as
k the smith in Laegrecastrescir to remove it?”
“We’re too close to Tamworth to risk drawing attention to me,” Maric replied. “He’d think I was a theow who’d run away from his master… and he’d be right.”
They began walking toward the town gates. It was not long after dawn, although a pale blanket of low cloud hid the sun from view. The rain fell in a gentle, silent veil without disturbing a leaf. Alchflaed and Maric emerged from the gate onto the paved way known as Watling Street, an ancient track that the Romans had built, which stretched far to the southeast of Britannia.
As they set out along it, Maric glanced at Alchflaed, his brow furrowing.
“We have a long journey ahead of us. Are you sure you’re rested enough?”
Alchflaed met his gaze and favored him with an impish smile. “I’ve never felt more rested.”
Even so, she understood his concern. They owned only the clothes on their backs, and even though Maric carried her seax, they had no other weapons or means of hunting food. Their only wealth was a brooch, which Alchflaed had used to pin her cloak, and her two silver arm-rings. Maric had told her that the brooch would be enough to buy them a fast horse, although it would be safer to do so once they distanced themselves from Mercia. The Kingdom of the East Angles lay directly to the east; a land of marshes, flat grasslands and huge skies – they would buy a horse there.
There were few travelers about on this dreary day, and Alchflaed was grateful for it. Still, she found herself often glancing over her shoulder, just to ensure there was no one following them; or straining her ears for the baying of hounds in the distance. Wyrd smiled upon them, however, for there came no sign of either.
“This is the life I was meant for,” Alchflaed told Maric suddenly. They had been walking in silence for a while, each immersed in their own thoughts. “Remember I told you on the journey to Tamworth that I’m my happiest when I’m free.”
Maric grinned at her, pleased by her comment.
“Do you mean to tell me you won’t miss all those fine dresses, rich food, and having slaves tend to you?”
Alchflaed screwed up her face at the thought. “Or having ambitious relatives knife you in the back? That life is a gilded cage. This is living.”
Maric laughed and slung an arm across her shoulders, holding her against him as they walked.
“I shall remind you of that when we’re living in a sod hut eating turnips,” he teased.
Alchflaed gave him a playful slap on the arm. Certainly, a completely different life lay ahead; one that would bring its own challenges. Excitement fluttered in the pit of her belly, for hardship or not, she was ready for it.
“I’m a fine cook,” she admonished Maric, although it was difficult to keep a straight face. “You’d be surprised at how many ways I can prepare turnip.”
Four years later…
Epilogue
On the Shore
Dommoc – the Kingdom of the East Angles – Britannia
Late spring, 660 A.D.
The gulls swooped low, their cries echoing across the frothing surf. Alchflaed watched them wheel toward the shingle bank, drop shellfish on the stones, and then land to retrieve the meat from the shattered shells. She stood upon the shingle, above them, a basket under her arm, as she paused for a moment to look out across the North Sea.
There was a crisp wind this morning, tangling her hair and whipping strands of it into her eyes. Alchflaed had just come from Dommoc, a bustling fishing harbor perched on the edge of the sea. She could just make out the top of the town’s thatched roofs, and the spire of its new church, to the north. She had visited its weekly market, where she had bought a wheel of Maric’s favorite cheese, and some salted pork.
It was not a long walk from home and Alchflaed enjoyed the stroll. This coastline was different to the one she had grown up on, for the shingle shore constantly moved with the tide. Bebbanburg had wide, sandy beaches that were perfect for riding. The shoreline here was difficult to navigate, for your feet sank ankle deep into the fine pebbles with each step. In the four years she had lived near Dommoc, she had not seen anyone ride a horse along the beach. Nonetheless, she preferred her life here and enjoyed living among the East Angles.
Alchflaed turned from the sea and resumed her journey south, toward her home. Upon arriving here, Maric had fallen in love with this coastline and declared that he wanted to build a house close to the sea. Despite his threats about a hovel made of sods, Maric had built them a sturdy home of wattle and daub and thatched the roof with straw. Alchflaed spied the smoke rising from it, up ahead, billowing south in the direction of today’s wind.
The house sat well back from the water, and Alchflaed had to climb a steep bank and cross a swathe of rippling grasses to reach it. A woodland spread out behind the house, although they had cleared a space for a vegetable garden and Maric had built an enclosure for the fowls and goats they owned.
As always, Alchflaed smiled at the sight of her home. It was not a king’s hall, or even a thegn’s, but Maric had built it with love, skill and care. Out the front, she had planted some flowers; colorful clumps of witch hazel and pansies edged the pebble path that led up to the front door.
As Alchflaed reached the edge of the grasses, the door flew open and a small figure, arms and legs wheeling, came barreling toward her.
Elfhere – for Maric and Alchflaed had named their son after the man who saved both their lives – had his father’s dark hair, his mother’s green eyes and a strong will that he had inherited from both his parents. He was only three years old, but already got up to more mischief than many boys twice his age.
“Mōder!” he flung himself at Alchflaed’s skirts and waved a small, fork-shaped branch, with a leather thong tied to each tip. “Fæder has made me a slingshot!”
“Has he?” Alchflaed smiled down at him, ruffling his dark hair. “Mind you’re careful with that.”
“I will kill a boar with it!”
Alchflaed frowned. “You will kill nothing with it, until you learn how to use it without taking your own eye out.”
She looked up then, to see a lean, dark-haired man emerge from their house. Maric paused in the threshold and leaned casually against one of the posts that framed the doorway. Seeing Alchflaed’s exasperated expression, he grinned.
“Our son loves his new slingshot.”
“He will be a menace to every squirrel, bird and rabbit living nearby, if you’re not careful,” Alchflaed replied sternly, although it was hard not to smile when Elfhere was jumping up and down excitedly next to her.
“Fret not, wife, I will teach him to use it,” Maric assured her. He left the doorway then and approached her. He looked well, her husband, his skin bronzed from the days he spent outside working in the fields behind their house. They grew more than enough produce these days to feed themselves and made enough gold at harvest time to see them through the long winter. Maric, once one of Penda of Mercia’s most feared warriors, had not lifted a sword in four years, and he had never been happier.
Kissing her lightly on the lips, a lingering touch that promised more for later, Maric peeked in her basket and grinned.
“Salted pork!”
Alchflaed smiled back, glad she had pleased him.
“Yes, and if you behave yourself, you will have some for your supper.”
“Behave myself?” Maric gave her a sultry look before winking. “I think you prefer me not to…”
Alchflaed shot him a quelling look, for Elfhere was clinging to her skirts, listening to every word. Yet, Maric merely laughed and, putting his arm around her shoulders, steered her down the path toward their door.
Toward home.
--
Loved DARKEST BEFORE DAWN and want more?
Buy Book #3 in the Kingdom of Mercia series: DAWN OF WOLVES.
--
Read the Prologue of DAWN OF WOLVES.
Prologue
The Winter Meeting
Cantwareburh, the Kingdom of the Kentish, Br
itannia
Winter, 657 AD
Ermenilda watched the snow fall. The delicate flakes fluttered down from a darkening sky like apple blossoms caught by a gust of wind. An ermine crust covered the garden’s gravel paths and frosted the plants that had not died away over the winter.
Damp, gelid air stung Ermenilda’s throat, and her fingers were numb, but still she lingered. As always, she was reluctant to leave her refuge. She circuited the path between the high hawthorn hedge and the frosted sage and rosemary, her boots sinking deep into the snow.
Despite the cold, she had ventured out here to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the king’s hall, which was full of greasy smoke and the reek of stale sweat. Outdoors, the air tasted like freshly drawn cider. Better yet, she did not have to listen to the prattle of women, the booming voices of men, and the squeals of children bored with being cooped up indoors.
Ermenilda loved this secret spot; it was her sanctuary. Her father had told her the Romans built this garden, and that it was a crumbling ruin when he had first come to live in Cantwareburh. Since then, his wife had poured her energy into restoring the secluded space. As soon as she could walk, Ermenilda accompanied her mother to the garden, as did her younger sister. Even over the winter, the three women spent most afternoons out here—the garden was a passion they all shared.
At the far end of the garden, Ermenilda paused. There, she admired the snowy branches of her mother’s prized quince tree. As she gazed upon it, a veil of melancholy settled over her.
Soon, I will have to leave this place.
Nervousness fluttered just under her ribs, replacing the sadness, before giving way to a lingering excitement.
Ermenilda had heard that Eastry Abbey also had a magnificent garden. Once settled there, she would no longer miss this one. She was hoping that her father would let her take her vows at Eastry in the spring. He had been noncommittal whenever she raised the idea, but she had time to convince him yet.