The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (28 page)

Chapter
One

The
Thaw

The
Village of Went, the Kingdom of the East Angles

Ten
years later…

Wilfrid rode into the ruins of Went and felt his
stomach twist. Shock and unexpected grief hit him like a falling axe.

What in the name of Woden had happened here?

He rode in the midst of a group of forty warriors.
After three days travel through biting cold and melting snow, they had emerged
from the thick woodland that created a natural border between the two kingdoms.
Until now, a long, bitter winter had made travel impossible. As soon as the
thaw came, the king had sent them to patrol the southern borders, where there
had been rumors of problems with the East Saxons before Yule. The company
approached the village, expecting to see its high paling fence bristling
against the sky, with spear-wielding warriors before the gate.

Instead, Went no longer existed.

They passed, single-file, through the remains of
the charred gates, and what had once been a tall fence. Only fragments
remained, the rest was little more than a dark line in the cold earth.

Bracing himself for what was to come, Wil bent his
head against the chill wind that whistled through Went. Even if he had been
unhappy here, and never felt the urge to return, he could not bear to see the
village where he had been born reduced to ruins.

Wil heard some of the men around him utter curses
as they gazed around at the village. It looked as if
Nithogg
himself –
the great beast of the underworld – had laid waste to it. Scorched palings
stood out against a pale sky and the rest of it was little more than a
collection of blackened, twisted remnants.

The warriors rode through Went, their gazes
scouring the devastation. At the center of the village stood the skeleton of
the ealdorman’s hall, and next to it was the remains of a huge funeral pyre. A
few of the warriors dismounted here, and started searching the ruins. One of
them was Heolstor, their leader. A tall, balding man, his face was thunderous
as he circuited the pyre. Yet, like his companions, he was at a loss for words.

“Look who I found skulking in the shadows.”

One of the warriors emerged from behind the ruins
of the ealdorman’s hall. He hauled two emaciated figures after him – both lads
barely ten winters’ old. The boys were plainly petrified, their eyes huge on
thin faces. They struggled weakly as the man dragged them before Heolstor.

“Scavengers, eh?” Heolstor fixed the lads in a hard
gaze.

“Please, M’lord,” one of the boys gasped. “We
weren’t scavenging – I promise. We’re from Blackhill.

The boy who had not yet spoken started to snivel,
only to receive a quelling look from his companion.

Heolstor continued to stare at them. “Blackhill?
You’re far from home, boy,” he replied. “Tell me what happened here.”

“It was the East Saxons,” the first boy spoke up
once more. “They came just after Yule, not long before the snows. They
slaughtered everyone.”

The lad’s voice died away as the warriors
surrounding him burst into mutters of outrage. His courage bolstered, the boy
continued.

“Folk from our village discovered them, days later.
There were signs of a great battle. We built a pyre and burned the dead.”

Heolstor’s face was a hard mask as he listened to
the end of the lad’s tale. His gaze swept around the charred remnants of Went.
“Those dogs will pay for this.”

Rumbles of assent echoed around him, although Wil
remained silent. His mind and senses were still reeling at what he had just
heard.

“And your village?” Heolstor turned back to the
lads. “Was Blackhill attacked?”

Both boys shook their heads, although the grief
that flared in their gazes was impossible to miss.

“Blackhill still stands,” the first lad replied.
“Yet it is full of women, the sick, and those who are too old, or young, to
fight – there are few men left. The ealdorman and his warriors are all dead.”

“Dead?”

“After the East Saxons slaughtered the folk of
Went, Aldwulf, the ealdorman of our village, vowed vengeance. He took his men
and went out hunting for them. The snow was falling thick, but they went
anyway. They met an East Saxon war band, but they were outnumbered…” the boy
broke off here, visibly struggling to control the grief that welled within him.
Beside him, his companion was weeping openly. “Our father was among them.”

Watching the boys, who were obviously brothers, Wil
felt his earlier grief resurface. Once more, the intensity of it surprised him.
He had often thought of Went, and all its memories, as another life.

“Wil,” the warrior next to him, a man of Wil’s age
with long, dark hair and a thick beard to match, roused him from his thoughts.
“You didn’t have kin still here, did you?”

Wil looked up and met his friend’s concerned gaze.
Aelin was one of the few in the King’s Hall that Wil had truly befriended, for
he trusted few.

“My parents both died a few years before I left,”
he replied with a shake of his head. “There was no one left I’d grieve for.”

The king’s men took the lads with them and left the
ashes of Went behind. The subdued company of warriors rode out onto a wide
meadow. Clumps of dirty snow covered the ground in parts, although it was
melting fast.

Wil glanced up at the pale sun; it was still high
in the sky. However, they had a good distance to cover before reaching
Blackhill. The boys had, indeed, traveled far from home – unwise with East
Saxon war bands on the move.

The light was beginning to dim – the shadows lengthening
– when the horsemen eventually clattered over the bridge leading to Blackhill.
The cruel wind had dropped, although the cold was still biting. Grateful for
his thick fur cloak that he had pulled up around his ears, Wil gazed up at the
wooded hill before them and the outline of a tall paling fence at its summit.

Blackhill.

Wil felt his stomach twist once more – although not
in grief – but in dread for who he might see in the village of Blackhill.

A woman he had spent a decade trying to forget.

She might never have married Aldwulf of
Blackhill.

She might be dead.

They might have left this place.

Many thoughts tumbled through Wil’s mind as he
followed the column of riders up the narrow road leading to the village gates.
The shock at seeing Went destroyed had distracted him from his memories.

Ten years are too long,
Wil
told himself, angered that after all this time thoughts of her still affected
him.
You need to let this go
. And yet, he had never been able to. He had
wanted Cynewyn since the beginning of his thirteenth winter – he had ached for
her. Yet, she had never returned the sentiment; not even minimally. Her
rejection, and his humiliation before her father, still stung. He had never
been able to heal that scar. Some wounds cut too deep.

Pushing his thoughts aside, Wil focused his
attention on the huge wooden gates looming before them.

It’s time
, he thought
grimly,
to face your past
.

***

“Cynewyn,” a woman’s voice echoed across the hall.
“There are men here – the king’s men.”

Cynewyn looked up from her sewing to see
Mildthryth, her mother-in-law, walking toward her. Mildthryth was a small
woman, like Cynewyn, with thick blonde hair, threaded with grey. The events of
the last few months might have broken a weaker woman – but not Mildthryth. Her blue
eyes, although hollow with grief, were resolute.

Cynewyn had always liked her mother-in-law. She
wished her husband could have inherited some of his mother’s strength. Yet,
instead, Aldwulf had taken after his father; a pleasure-seeking man with a lazy
streak.

“Really?” Cynewyn gave her mother-in-law a
quizzical look before laying aside her sewing and rising to her feet. “Did
someone send word?”

Mildthryth shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, let us see what brings them to Blackhill.”

Together, the two women walked across the
rush-matting floor to the doors. This hall had once been dominated by men; the
low timbre of male voices echoing amongst the rafters. Now, only women filled
the space – frightened women with pinched faces and haunted eyes.

It had been a bitter winter, in more ways than one.
The weather had been the coldest in years; a vicious wind had howled in from
the north, bringing hail and snow storms that covered the world in a thick
white blanket. Even now, with the first signs of spring appearing – bright
green shoots pushing up through the damp earth – the warmth of summer was a
distant memory. Yet, the heavy snow, which had made travel near to impossible,
had been a blessing as well as a curse. It had prevented the East Saxons from destroying
Blackhill, like they had Went.

Cynewyn stepped outside and pulled the fur cloak
she wore close about her. Even though the blustery wind had died, the air had
teeth to it. However, her attention was immediately distracted from the cold by
the sight of over two dozen men filling the clearing in the center of the
village.

Men. Their voices sounded loud and rough after long
weeks of only women, children and elderly for company. Dressed in leather
armor, with lime-wood shields hanging from their backs, and shields and axes at
their sides, they were a forbidding sight. The warriors dismounted from their
horses, many of them looking about with interest.

Two boys dismounted with the warriors. Cynewyn
recognized them instantly. Beorn and Rodor had run off after an argument with
their mother two days earlier and had not been seen since. Judging from their
taut, white faces and frightened eyes, the lads had not enjoyed their time away
from Blackhill. They ran to where their mother emerged from a low, wattle and
daub dwelling. Ealhwyn’s face, work-worn and haggard, sagged in relief as she
pulled her sons into a fierce embrace.

Cynewyn walked forward to greet the newcomers. The
other villagers fell in behind her, silently acknowledging Aldwulf’s widow as
their leader.

One of the warriors, a tall, balding man with a
short blond beard, approached Cynewyn.

“Are you the mistress of Blackhill?”

“Yes – what’s left of it,” Cynewyn replied.
“Aldwulf of Blackhill was my husband. Eomer of Went was my father.”

“I am Heolstor,” he told her. “I lead the king’s
men. We have just come from Went.”

Cynewyn nodded; a chill went through her at the
flatness of his tone. She knew what had greeted him at Went, for she had seen
it herself. She would never forget the sight of the shell of her father’s hall;
or seeing his charred corpse lying over that of her mother. Eomer of Went had
died trying to save his wife.

Blinking back tears, Cynewyn looked away from
Heolstor then. Instead, her gaze scanned the amassing crowd of men.

“You are very welcome,” she said huskily. “The East
Saxons could attack at any time.”

Heolstor did not reply. When Cynewyn glanced back
at him, she saw that he was frowning.

“‘Tis not safe here, Milady,” he told her flatly.
“We cannot let you remain at Blackhill.”

Cynewyn went still. “
Hwaet?”

“You have lost nearly all your
menfolk,” Heolstor’s frown deepened at her sharp tone. “We cannot remain here
to protect you from the East Saxons.”

Cynewyn felt her body grow cold. “This
is our home – we can’t leave it.”

“You must.” Heolstor replied flatly.

“
Nithogg
take you!” Cynewyn
snarled. “This land has been in our families for generations. The East Saxons
have burned our villages and terrified our folk for too long – we cannot just
walk away!”

“Watch your tongue, woman,” Heolstor growled. “I
did not travel here to argue with a fishwife. Insult me again and I will knock
you down.”

Cynewyn glared back at the warrior, her hands
balling into fists.

This was the last straw. Bitterness threatened to
overwhelm her, as years of unhappiness and frustration surged to the fore. It
was only Mildthryth’s hand on her arm, firm and cautioning, that made her keep
her rage in check.

“We will stay here overnight,” Heolstor informed
her. “Tomorrow morning, the remaining villagers will pack up what they can
carry and we will then escort you back to Rendlaesham.”

“But what shall we do there?” Mildthryth spoke up
then. Her voice was calm, but Cynewyn could hear the core of iron just beneath.
Like her, Mildthryth was furious. “We have no property, no land.”

“You must take it up with the king,” Heolstor
replied, glancing around as if he could not wait to rid himself of these
irksome women and their questions. “He may compensate you for your losses.”