The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (30 page)

A moment later, he slumped sideways and fell off
his horse.

Chapter
Four

Refuge
in the Woods

Cynewyn had never seen a battle, let alone been in
the midst of one before. One moment, they had all been standing still, as dusk
crept across the land, watching as Heolstor slid from his horse – the next, the
world exploded.

Weapons drawn, the warriors on both sides gave
battle cries and sprinted for each other, while the women shrank back, dragging
their children with them. Tearing her eyes from the mayhem just yards in front,
Cynewyn rushed back to where the villagers cowered.

“Leave the carts,” she cried. “Follow me!”

Cynewyn grabbed Mildthryth by the arm and dragged
her mother-in-law after her. The older woman had frozen with fear the moment
the fighting had started. She clung to Cynewyn now – taking her lead.

The villagers all did as they were told. Their
prized possessions fell to the ground, the carts of livestock abandoned. The
folk of Blackhill knew what capture meant; they knew what the East Saxons did
to their enemies.

The roar of battle behind them spurred all of the
villagers – young and old – on. Cynewyn knew she needed to lead the folk in a
wide circle around the fighting and into the woods. Once they reached the
trees, if they could get past the fighting and escape into the woodland, the
villagers might have a chance.

“Make for the woods!” Cynewyn pushed Mildthryth
ahead. “Go left and skirt the edge of the fighting. I’ll get the stragglers.”

Mildthryth nodded, her face pale but resolute.
“Come!” her mother-in-law dropped her basket of belongings on to the ground,
for it would only slow her down, and picked up her skirts. “Follow me!”

Cynewyn went back to where the elderly and the
young brought up the rear of the group. Those on horseback, she sent on ahead.

“Ride!” she shouted. “Don’t look back!”

Around them, the sounds of battle – the clang of
iron and the shouts, and cries, of men – were deafening. Cynewyn dared not
glance back to see if one side was gaining the upper hand. However, when the
thunder of battle did not dim, but grew even louder, she forced herself to look
back over her shoulder.

Her breath stilled.

A flank of the East Saxon war band had split away
from the others and were coming straight for the fleeing villagers. Some of the
East Angle warriors were rushing to intercept them.

Cynewyn was at the rear of the group. The others
had taken her advice and were running for the trees. The first of them –
Mildthryth among them – had just reached the edge of the woodland.

A sob caught in Cynewyn’s throat. The East Saxons
had almost reached her; she would not make it.

Then, without warning, her skirts caught around her
legs, and she tripped.

She hit the ground hard, skinning her knees and the
palms of her hands. Scrambling to her feet she turned to find an East Saxon
warrior running for her, his spear held above his head. Horrified, Cynewyn
stared at him, knowing that she could not outrun him. He was about to skewer
her.

Suddenly, the warrior crumpled, just a few feet
from Cynewyn. His spear skimmed along the ground and came to rest at her feet.
Wilfrid stepped up behind him, and withdrew his sword from between the man’s
shoulder blades.

For a brief instant, Cynewyn and Wil stared at each
other. Then, Wil tore his gaze from hers and turned to face his pursuers.

“Cynewyn,” Wil ordered roughly, “get behind me!”

Cynewyn scooped up the spear, and gripping the ash
shaft tightly, did as she was told.

Another spearman came at them, yelling in fury. Wil
fought him off, and felled his opponent with a blade to the throat. Slowly –
foot by foot – Wil and Cynewyn inched back toward the edge of the woods. Yet,
if Wil continued to stand and fight, the East Saxons would draw a net closed
around them and there would be no escape.

Cynewyn realized that they would have to turn-tail
and run soon; while they still had the chance. Wilfred obviously was thinking
along the same lines, for he kept a steady progress backward, fighting off each
man who charged him. However, after a while, his movements became choppy and
sluggish, and Cynewyn realized that he was injured. His strength was starting
to fail.

They had almost reached the trees when Wil
staggered. An axe-man slashed at him, beating him back relentlessly. Moments
more, and the axe’s blade would slice into Wil.

Still gripping the ash spear, Cynewyn rushed at the
man and slammed the spear into his belly, feeling the axe-blade whisper past
her ear as she did so.

The man let out a terrible scream and slumped
forward, his axe slipping from nerveless fingers.

Then, Wilfrid grabbed Cynewyn by the arm and hauled
her into the woods. They dove into the trees, crashing through the undergrowth
of bracken, blackthorn and brambles.

The East Saxons came after them.

A sob of despair welled in Cynewyn’s breast. She
had been a fool to think they would be safe once they reached the trees; the
East Saxons had no intention of letting their quarry flee. She and Wilfrid fled
through the woods like two deer pursued by wolves. Wil kept a tight hold of her
hand, dragging Cynewyn through ever thicker undergrowth and avoiding the open
spaces between trees where it would be easier to catch them. Cynewyn felt the
brambles tear at her skirts and claw at her skin, but she ran on, her lungs
burning from the effort.

If they stopped now it would be over for them both.

Yet, still their hunters followed. They were
gaining on them now; Cynewyn could hear their shouts and the crashing and
snapping of the undergrowth giving way behind her.

They would never outrun them.

Cynewyn glanced down at where Wil’s hand gripped
hers. His hand was red with blood from a wound on his upper arm. She could see
he was tiring. Neither of them could run like this for much longer.

Suddenly, Wil unexpectedly pivoted to the left,
hauling Cynewyn after him. A few yards later, they skidded down a bank into a
shallow hollow filled with ferns. Wil abruptly pulled Cynewyn against him and
threw himself to the ground.

Together they rolled into a cramped space just
under the lip of the bank, squeezing themselves in. Then, Wil reached past
Cynewyn and pulled the ferns over them. A moment later, she heard men crashing
down the bank and into the hollow. They did not stop. The pair of them lay, not
even daring to breathe, listening as the sounds of their pursuers faded.

Cynewyn’s heart thundered in her ears. She lay
limply against Wil, feeling nauseous with exhaustion. Her head was pressed up
against his chest. She could feel wetness – his blood – on her cheek and could
hear his heart pounding as if it was trying to pry its way out of his rib cage.

They lay there for a long while, daring not move
from their hiding place lest their pursuers find them. Eventually, when they
squeezed out of their cramped hiding place and emerged from the bed of ferns,
the last light of dusk was settling across the woodland.

They gazed silently around the shadowed woods – for
neither had spoken a word since taking flight – their eyes straining in the
half-light. Eventually, satisfied that no one was stalking them, Wil turned to
Cynewyn.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She shook her head. “But you are.”

He nodded, his gaze flicking once more to the
shadows. Cynewyn could see he was tense; and after what they had just endured
she did not blame him.

“We’ll see to that later,” he replied gruffly. “For
now, I suggest we get as far from here as we can before the light fades
completely.”

Then, without another word he led the way, up the
bank and out of the hollow.

Chapter
Five

Night
Shadows

The moon was rising over the treetops when they
finally stopped their journey north. Night shrouded the woodland, turning it
into a world of deep shadows and muted sounds. Cynewyn and Wilfrid made camp
for the night in the heart of the woods, far from the southern fringes where
they had lost their pursuers.

They found shelter for the night under a great
fallen oak, next to a clear stream.

 “Will we be safe here?” Cynewyn asked.

“I believe so,” Wil replied. He paused from where
he had been ripping bark off the fallen oak to use for a fire, and cast his
gaze around the secluded spot. “They won’t bother traveling this far north – it
grows dangerous for them, the farther they travel into our kingdom. This
campsite should keep us safe for the night.”

Those were the first words they had exchanged in
hours. There was a tension between them, which had grown, once the fear of
capture had ebbed. Cynewyn had avoided glancing in Wil’s direction, as she grew
ever more aware of his presence.

It was a clear night and the moon cast a silver
light over the trees. The air had grown chill; something that had not bothered
either of them while they were walking. However, now that they had stopped,
Cynewyn found herself shivering – as much from the shock of what they had just
lived through as from the cool night.

Wil lit a small fire, assuring her it was safe to
do so, as they were now far north of where they had lost their pursuers. There
was no meal; this eve, they would have to go hungry. Growling stomachs were a
small price to pay for their lives. Nonetheless, Cynewyn would have welcomed a
wheel of crusty griddle bread and a slab of sharp goat’s cheese.

Seated by the fire, Wil shrugged off his fur cloak
and, for the first time, examined the wound he had taken to his bicep. Dry
blood encrusted his arm, but Cynewyn could see that it was a deep laceration.
He saw her observing him and winced.

“A spear.”

“I should wash and bind it.”

“Bind it? With what?”

Cynewyn unlaced her fur-lined boots and placed them
near the fire. Then, she reached under the ankle-length woolen tunic she wore,
to her linen under-tunic, and ripped a long swathe of fabric off from around
the hem. She tore the strip into two pieces.

Looking up, she met Wil’s gaze.

“There’s enough moonlight for me to see well
enough,” she explained. “Follow me down to the stream and I shall cleanse your
arm.”

Wil nodded, before unlacing his boots and following
her, barefoot, down to the stream. Clear water, sparkling in the moonlight,
trickled over smooth stones. Cynewyn stepped into the water, her breath hissing
between her teeth.

Thor’s hammer it’s cold.

Wetting one of the pieces of linen, she waited for
Wil to step into the stream next to her. Then, she reached out and washed away
the encrusted blood – working her way up from his hand to his shoulder. After
that, she gently bathed the deep cut on his bicep.

“This will need stitching,” she observed. “You will
have an impressive scar.”

Wil gave a pain-filled grunt in response.

As she finished bathing the wound, Cynewyn was
aware of his proximity. She could feel his gaze upon her face and she felt her
pulse quicken in response. She wished he would stop staring at her – it was
unnerving.

“Cynewyn,” he said her name like a caress.

“Yes?” she replied, reaching for the second strip
of linen to bind the wound.

“Did you love your husband?”

Cynewyn froze and her face flamed at his boldness.

“You don’t ask everyday, ordinary questions like
other folk, do you?” she replied, covering her embarrassment with sharpness.
Then, avoiding his gaze, she wrapped the linen around his bicep.

“Did you?” he persisted.

Cynewyn glanced up at him, annoyed, before
instantly regretting it. His eyes, gleaming in the moonlight, fused with hers.

“What does it matter?” she replied, unable to keep
the bitterness from her voice.

“It matters to me,” he answered, his voice soft; his
gaze never left hers for a moment.

“It shouldn’t,” Cynewyn snapped. She looked back
down at the bandage, which she tied firmly about the wound. “Best to let the
past stay in the past – where it belongs.”

“For you perhaps,” he replied, before asking once
more. “Did you love him?”

“For the love of Woden – just leave it be!”

“I have to know, Cynewyn. All these years, I’ve
never forgotten you. Were you happy?”

“No,” Cynewyn snarled, still avoiding his gaze. “No
– I didn’t love Aldwulf. I never wished him ill but I never loved my husband.
And no – I wasn’t happy. You have your answer. Are you content now?”

Silence stretched between them then and Cynewyn
felt his gaze, hot and searching on her face, willing her to look at him.

“
Nithogg
take you!” she snarled once more,
her patience snapping. “Stop staring at me!”

She stepped back abruptly, stumbling on the
slippery stones. However, she cared not – she was desperate to put some space
between them. He was too close; she could not breathe.

Wil put his hands out to steady her. A moment later
he pulled her roughly against him and his mouth came down upon hers.

The kiss was passionate, and brief, for Cynewyn
yanked herself away and slapped him hard across the face.

“How dare you!” she hissed. She turned and
struggled toward the edge of the stream. “Churl!”

He came after her, dragged her back into his arms
and smothered her curses and insults with his mouth.

Cynewyn fought him hard; as hard as she fought her
own desire. Yet, his touch, the feel of his lips searing hers, his hard body
against her belly and breasts, his hands pressing into the small of her back –
were all her undoing.

With a gasp of surrender, she stopped fighting and
her lips parted under his.

Desire knifed through the pit of her belly and made
her legs weaken.

She heard him groan, deep in his throat. With one
hand he pulled her hard against him, letting her feel his shaft – stiff against
her belly – and with the other he tangled his fingers in her hair and sensually
stroked the nape of her neck. His touch unleashed something within Cynewyn; a
hunger she had never felt in a man’s arms.

Gasping with the force of it, she slid her hands up
his chest, feeling the sculpted muscles under the sleeveless leather tunic and
linen under-tunic he wore. He kissed her thoroughly, with the same intensity as
his stare, exploring her mouth with his tongue and gently biting her lips.
Cynewyn shuddered from the intense pleasure his kisses gave her.

You should not be doing this,
her
conscience needled her.
Your husband is only dead two moon cycles – and the
last thing you need is be beholden to another man.

Yet, she could not stop herself from kissing him
back, from pressing her body urgently against his. The yearning for something
she could not name, could not even describe, grew with each passing moment.

Wil slid his hands over the curve of her bottom and
picked her up; his mouth never left hers as he waded out of the stream. In
response, Cynewyn wrapped her legs around his waist, gasping with excitement at
the feel of his manhood pressed against her. She lifted her hips and pressed
herself harder still against him – and was rewarded by a groan.

“Cynewyn,” he gasped, carrying her up the bank to
the fire.

Under the shelter of the oak, Wil sank to his knees
on the fur cloak he had discarded earlier, his hands trembling as he undid the
girdle about her waist. Then, he reached down and took hold of the hem of her
tunics, pulling both of them over her head.

Cynewyn sat naked on his cloak and watched Wil
undress before her. As he did so, his gaze roamed over her nakedness. She did
the same, drinking him in. Wil’s naked body was as she had imagined it; strong
and muscular. He was broad shouldered and narrow hipped. His arousal was
impossible to miss, straining against his flat belly. Cynewyn’s mouth went dry
at the sight of it; ridding her of any inhibition. She reached out and stroked
the hard column of his shaft, her excitement rising when he groaned once more.

Wil pulled her to him, onto his lap, astride him.
His hands stroked her breasts and he pushed her up onto her knees so that he
could suckle each nipple. Despite the fire flickering beside them, it was a
cool night. Chill air feathered across their naked skin. However, Cynewyn
hardly noticed, groaning at the pleasure of his hot mouth. She pressed herself
against him, making him suckle her breast harder.

Her body trembled when he eventually took hold of
her hips and lowered her gently onto him, impaling her deeply. Cynewyn threw
back her head and gave a long, moan of pleasure. Never in her wildest dreams
had she imagined it could be like this. All those years of tepid lovemaking
with Aldwulf, who more often than not came to her mead-soaked and uninterested,
she had not realized what she was missing.

Who would have thought that Wilfrid of Went – the
man she had dismissed without a second thought all those years ago – could
provoke such passion in her. Her hunger for him was so powerful that she almost
felt ill from it. Fiercely, she brought her mouth down upon his, kissing him
wildly – and he responded in kind.

Moments later, she was under him, her legs pushed
back and splayed wide; and he was moving inside her with exquisite slowness,
his gaze never leaving hers all the while.

“Wil,” she gasped, reaching for him, “please.”

He gave a sensual smile – so different from the
serious mask he presented to the world. His smile was filled with promise.
“There’s plenty of time,” he whispered, his voice sliding over her like honey.
“Why rush this?”

Cynewyn’s body trembled in response; a deep, flooding,
heat spreading from her loins up through the pit of her belly. She gazed at him
through half closed lids as he moved within her, watching the way the firelight
danced on his skin that was now slick with sweat. She could feel the tremors
that ran through his body, every time he arched his hips against her; his hard
won self-control was starting to slip.

Finally, her pleasure crested, and she thrust her
hips up against him, wrapping her legs about him, her body shuddering. Cynewyn
threw back her head and cried out, gasping his name and reaching for him.

She heard him cry out then, thrusting deep into her
as he gave in to the desire that consumed him. The ache in her loins exploded
into pulsing pleasure and she cried out again when he thrust deep into her once
more. A moment later, Wil reared back and gasped her name as he found his
release.

Sweat soaked and panting, they lay, their limbs
entangled, on the fur cloak. Cynewyn’s mind was devoid of thought, of worry,
for the first time in many years. Her body was a gently rippling pool of
pleasure. The musky smell of Wil’s skin, and the feel of his strong body
entwined with hers, altered her senses, and made rational thought impossible.

They had only been lying there a short while,
recovering from the lovemaking that had rocked them both to the core, when Wil
propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. His hazel eyes were dark
in the firelight. Their gazes met and Cynewyn felt the same rising hunger that
had consumed her earlier return. Wil did not speak; instead, his gaze slid down
the length of her prone body, devouring her. Then, his mouth came down over
hers. The kiss was soft and tender initially, before it deepened into something
else entirely.

Wil was still inside Cynewyn, but she felt his shaft
harden as their passion re-awoke. She gasped into his mouth and arched against
him, hearing his sharp intake of breath in response.

This night, neither of them would sleep.