The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (32 page)

Chapter Eight

Return
to Rendlaesham

The first sign that Cynewyn had of Rendlaesham –
the seat of the king – was the straw thatched roof of his great timbered hall
gleaming in the noon sun.

She had never traveled this far north; until now
she had never had reason to leave the area in which she had grown and married –
few folk did. Rendlaesham had seemed another world away.

Nestled in the fold between two softly curving
hills, the town dominated the landscape. A huge, spiked paling fence surrounded
a mass of wattle and daub houses. The town climbed the side of one of the hills
to where a massive timbered hall rose above the thatched roofs.

It was a crisp day, with blue sky and scudding
clouds. As they approached Rendlaesham, Cynewyn caught the scent of wood-smoke.
They made their way toward the main gates, along a road that bisected fields of
cabbages, turnips, carrots and onions.
Ceorls
, the lowest rank of free
men and women under the king, worked the fields. Many straightened up at the
sight of the group of travelers arriving from the south; their faces
scrutinizing the newcomers with interest. One of the young women by the
roadside – a pretty girl with dark-blonde hair – spied the warriors leading the
group.

“Aelin!” she called out, her tired face
brightening. “You’re back!”

“
Wes hāl,
Aeva,” Aelin called back with
a wave, breaking free of the group to greet her. “How about a kiss to welcome
me home?”

Her face split into a wide smile. “Come here then!”

Ignoring the wolf-whistles and ribald comments of
the men behind him, Aelin did just that. He strode over to the girl and scooped
her up into his arms; kissing her soundly for all to see.

Watching them, Cynewyn felt a sudden pang. That was
how it was between some men women – easy and uncomplicated. Why had it never
been like that for her?

“Young love,” Mildthryth commented from beside
Cynewyn, a trace of longing in her voice. “Such a beautiful thing.”

Cynewyn did not reply. Instead, she tore her gaze
away from where Aelin, seeming to have forgotten that he had an audience – or
perhaps not caring – was continuing to kiss the winsome Aeva. Indeed, it was a
beautiful thing.

That was why she could not look upon it.

Leaving the lovers to their reunion, the travelers
approached Rendlaesham’s walls and entered the town through the main gates.
They followed the main thoroughfare up the hill, past the mead hall and to the
high fence that encircled the base of the ‘Golden Hall’ as it was known
throughout the land.

Helmeted, spear-wielding warriors blocked the way,
stepping aside when they recognized the cluster of warriors leading the group
of travelers.

“
Wes hāl,
Wilfrid,” one of them nodded
at Wil as he passed by. “You’re back early. Where are the others?”

“Dead,” Wil replied, his face grim. “An East Saxon
war band attacked us near the southern border. Went has been destroyed and
Blackhill has lost its warriors. The folk behind me are all who remain of the
two villages.”

The warrior shook his head in disgust. “Those
honorless bastards!”

“Don’t worry,” Wil assured him. “The king will hear
of this.”

The warriors stepped aside and let the weary
travelers through the gates. Cynewyn, who was walking close behind Wil, entered
the stable yard and looked around her with interest. It was a hive of activity.
Men were shoeing horses at one end, women were removing cakes from a huge clay
oven at the other; and slaves were crossing the yard, weighed down with buckets
of water that they had collected from the well next to the stables.

Upon spying the ragged group of king’s men and
villagers, stable hands emerged to help them with their horses. Cynewyn was
helping a little girl down from a horse when a good looking young man with wavy
blond hair appeared at her side.

“Here M’lady,” he grinned. “I’ll do that.”

“I thank you,” Cynewyn stepped back and let him set
the girl on the ground. He then started unstrapping saddle bags. Cynewyn looked
on, relieved to have this man’s assistance. She was drained after the events of
the last few days and wished for nothing more than to stretch out on a bed of
soft furs and sleep.

The stable hand removed the bags in quick, deft
movements, before turning back to Cynewyn with another charming smile. “‘Tis a
pleasure to be of service.”

Cynewyn favored him with a subdued smile in return.
She remembered days, long past, when she would have responded eagerly to his
flirting. Now, it just reminded her of how much the years had changed her;
charming, silver-tongued men no longer held the appeal they once had.

She turned then, and followed the warriors and folk
of Blackhill, up the steep wooden steps to the king’s hall. When, she entered
the ‘Golden Hall’, Cynewyn caught her breath. She had heard many a story of its
magnificence, but nothing had prepared for her the reality. It was like
standing inside the ribcage of some great beast. The blackened beams above
their heads, stained from the huge fire pit in the center of the hall, were
impossibly huge. Cynewyn’s gaze traveled over the richly woven tapestries,
weaponry and furs that hung from the walls. It was all so sumptuous and grand.

Ealdormen, thegns and their kin filled the Great
Hall. The crowd parted to allow the group of warriors and villagers through.
Cynewyn felt their gazes upon her but pretended not to notice. Instead, she
focused her attention ahead, to the far end of the vast space. There, seated
upon a carved wooden throne, on a raised dais, was King Raedwald himself.

Cynewyn could see the stories about the king were
true. Even though he was nearing fifty winters, he was still a handsome, virile
man. He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscular with a mane of grey-streaked
blond hair and deep-blue eyes. She imagined that in his prime, he would have
had women spellbound.

Raedwald sat, relaxed in his throne, his handsome
face expressionless. As she drew closer, Cynewyn noted the deep lines on his
face, and recognized them as lines of grief. She had heard of how he had lost
his beloved son, just three years earlier, in battle.

The loss had clearly left its mark upon him.

A striking woman with thick grey-streaked red hair
and intelligent slate-grey eyes sat to his left, and beside her a girl of
around fifteen winters – a beautiful maid, with a mane of golden curls,
sea-blue eyes and flawless skin. To the right of the king sat a young man with
short brown hair, a sharp-featured face and the same grey eyes of his mother.

These were the king’s kin – his wife Seaxwyn, his
daughter Raedwyn and his surviving son, Eoprwald.

“Wilfrid,” the king greeted his thegn. “What news
do you bring from the south?”

“Treachery,” Wil replied, his face grim. “Our
neighbors have turned against us.”

King Raedwald’s blue eyes turned cold. “Tell me
all,” he commanded.

Wil spoke then of what had befallen them, his low
voice echoing in the hushed hall. As he described the destruction of Went, the
death of the warriors of Blackhill and the attack on the edge of the woodland,
Cynewyn kept her gaze riveted on the king’s face, attempting to gauge his
reaction. The king listened, his face growing dark. By the time, Wil concluded
his tale, King Raedwald’s expression was murderous.

“There will be retribution for this,” Raedwald said
finally. “This death and destruction will be avenged. I will lead a company of
men south tomorrow. We will find this war band and take their heads.” The king
turned then, his hard gaze meeting that of his son. “Eorpwald, you will join
me.”

The young man nodded, his face tensing slightly.
“Yes,
fæder
.”

Raedwald turned then, looking over the group of
folk who stood behind Wil.

“Did any of the ealdormen’s kin survive?”

“Yes, Milord,” Wil replied, “Lady Cynewyn – Eomer
of Went’s daughter, and Aldwulf of Blackhill’s widow – is here.”

Wil turned, and his gaze met Cynewyn’s. “Milady,
come forward.”

Cynewyn did as she was bid and curtsied before the
king; feeling his eyes on her face. When she dared look up, she saw frank
appreciation there.

“Greetings, Milord,” she ducked her head, suddenly
embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze.

“Lady Cynewyn,” he said her name, causing her to
look up and make eye contact once more. “I am sorry for your loss. The East
Saxons will pay for what they have done.”

“I thank you, Milord,” she replied. She paused
then, before the question that had been burning within her ever since they had
entered Rendlaesham’s gates, burst forth. “When can we return to our homes?”

 The king held her gaze for a moment, before
shaking his head. She could see the answer in his eyes before he spoke.

“I cannot allow you to return to Blackhill,” he
replied. “You have lost all your menfolk – you will not survive long on your
own.”

“But Milord,” she exclaimed. “My people have worked
that land for generations, we have poured our blood, sweat and tears into it.
We must return to it.”

The king watched her for a moment, before his gaze
shifted to the faces of those standing behind Cynewyn.

“This is your new home,” he informed them, his tone
hardening just enough to let them know that if they disputed his words, they
did so at their own peril. “The folk of Blackhill will have homes built here in
Rendlaesham and land to work.”

The king’s gaze shifted back to Cynewyn then. “You
are too young and lovely to remain a widow Lady Cynewyn. I shall have to find
you a suitable husband to replace the one you lost.”

Panic knifed through Cynewyn at these words.

A husband was the last thing she wanted – she had
not rejected Wil so that the king could arrange a marriage with another.

“Milord,” she spoke up, hearing the shrill edge to
her voice but unable to stop herself. “I would prefer to remain unwed. I do not
wish to marry again.”

He raised his eyebrows at that. “I cannot build a
hall for a woman.”

This comment drew laughter from some of the men
nearby, although Cynewyn noticed that Wil did not laugh.

“You will need to remarry, if you wish to live at
the same rank as before,” King Raedwald told her with a shake of his head,
dismissing her protests. He then stood up, signaling that their conversation
had come to an end. “For now let me offer you and the folk of Blackhill my
hall’s hospitality. Let us drink and feast. Although I can’t bring back those
you have lost, I can offer all of you a new life here in Rendlaesham.”

Chapter
Nine

The
King’s Will

A warm breeze ruffled Cynewyn’s hair and feathered
across her face, bringing with it the scent of grass and blossom. She walked
outside Rendlaesham’s walls, to the scattering of timbered houses the men were
building. Nearly a moon cycle had passed since their arrival in Rendlaesham.
During that time, Raedwald had departed for the kingdom’s southern border and
had not returned.

In the meantime, work had started on the new homes
for the folk of Blackhill. Raedwald’s men were hard at work, digging in poles
for the four corners of each dwelling and constructing woven wattle panels that
would be smeared with mud to create the wattle and daub walls. Meanwhile, the
children had been collecting water reed and rushes from the nearby stream to
use for the thatched roofs.

If only one of those homes was to be hers.

Cynewyn approached the skeletons of the new
dwellings, walking along the narrow dirt road that ran between them. Folk waved
to her from where they had turned the land into vegetable plots. Their industry
never ceased to amaze her; her people had lost everything but they still had
hope.

She wished she shared their optimism.

Every night, she spread out her fur cloak on the
rush-matting floor of the king’s Great Hall and wondered when the axe would
fall. She had been granted a reprieve while Raedwald was dealing with the East
Saxons, but once the king returned he would not waste time announcing the name
of her future husband. However, just the thought made her want to turn tail and
flee from Rendlaesham, never to return. 

The reality of her situation here in Rendlaesham
had been a slap to the face. She had gotten used to her freedom in Blackhill;
she and her mother-in-law had ruled the village after Aldwulf died, and they
had done it better than her husband ever had. She had forgotten that the rest
the kingdom was not Blackhill. The king would not send her home, and nor would
he just give her a new hall. She was a woman, and young enough to marry again
and bear children. He would find a suitable husband for her.

Thoughts of her future made Cynewyn’s chest ache.
For the first time ever, she saw only bleakness and emptiness before her.

It was a good spot, on the eastern side of the
town’s walls. The land was verdant with fertile soil, excellent for growing
crops; Raedwald had been generous. The king had promised to build a perimeter
fence once the houses were finished, which would keep the wolves out in the
winter and give the inhabitants a greater sense of security.

As she walked through the first dwellings,
Cynewyn’s gaze spied Wil up ahead. He was sawing a piece of wattle in half with
an iron saw, his back to her.

Cynewyn’s step faltered. It was the first time she
had seen him in days; for of late he had avoided her. Even at meals in the
Great Hall, he sat as far as possible from her, making it impossible for their
gazes to meet, even by accident.

Could she blame him?

Yet, seeing him now, naked to the waist as he
worked, his skin glistening with sweat, Cynewyn felt an ache of longing consume
her. Traitorous body – how she hated the effect this man had on her. And still,
a part of her wanted to talk to him, to find out how he fared and what his
plans were. He could be charmless and taciturn, but she had found herself
missing his company once they rejoined the others. Once again, her thoughts and
feelings contradicted her rational mind.

Feeling someone’s gaze upon him, Wil straightened
up from sawing the wattle and glanced over his shoulder. Cynewyn could see that
the injury on his arm had healed well, although he would bear the scar for the
rest of his life. His body stilled when their gazes met. However, there was no
warmth in his eyes or face at seeing her.

“Greetings, Wil,” she gave him a wan smile. “How
goes it?”

He gave her a dismissive look, not even bothering
to respond to her, before disappearing inside the hut he was constructing. Hurt
lanced through Cynewyn at his rudeness. Without stopping to think about what
she was doing, she stalked after him, entering the shadowy space where he had
just erected a wattle panel.

“You could at least be civil when we meet,” she
told him. “I don’t wish you ill.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her as he wedged
the wattle he had cut into place in the panel. “How generous of you,” he
replied coldly. “Do you expect me to be grateful for that?”

“I expect you to at least answer me when I greet
you.”

Wil turned then and advanced upon her. Cynewyn took
a hasty step backward against the door frame. He stood over her, so close she
could smell the musky scent of fresh sweat on his skin.

“You are not my mistress,” he told her, his voice
flat with anger, his hazel gaze burning into hers. “I don’t answer to you – now
or ever. If I wish not to greet you, then that is my choice.”

They stood so close, he could have easily have bent
his head and kissed her then. Yet, Cynewyn could see that she had hurt him too
deeply for him to ever make such an attempt again. They had left that path
behind in the shadowy woods. She had made that choice; it was too late to
regret it now.

As if reading her thoughts, his lip curled and he
stepped back from her.

“I made an ill choice all those years ago,” he told
her coldly. “Pining for a woman who thought me no better than a dog to run at
her heels. However, those days are over. Leave me alone Cynewyn – I have no
wish to speak with you again.”

With that, he left the dwelling, and moments later,
she heard the sound of iron against wood as he resumed work.

Sick to her stomach, Cynewyn left the structure and
walked away without a backward glance. She knew she should not care. After all,
this was entirely her doing – it was her choice, her preference.

Why then, did her vision blur with tears?

She made her way along the dirt road, back to
Rendlaesham’s gates, before walking up the wide thoroughfare that led up to the
‘Golden Hall’. The spring weather had brought the folk of Rendlaesham outdoors.
Children played on the streets, their cries echoing in the warm air, and women
sat outside at their distaffs and looms, enjoying the sun on their faces as they
worked. Once she reached the King’s Hall, Cynewyn would also return to ‘woman’s
work’; an afternoon of winding wool onto a spindle, ready to be used on a loom,
awaited her.

Not relishing the prospect, Cynewyn slowed her pace
and inhaled the aroma of freshly baking bread as she passed the ovens. The door
to the low-slung building was open and she caught sight of the baker removing a
batch of honey cakes from the massive clay oven. Acknowledging his cheery wave
with a strained smile, Cynewyn continued up the street, past the mead hall. The
mead hall was empty – it was too early in the day, the weather too bright, for
drinking.

In just one moon’s cycle, Rendlaesham had come to
feel like home. Cynewyn preferred it to Blackhill; this town was vibrant and
prosperous compared to her dying village. Yet, today, nothing – not the sun on
her face, nor the carefree sound of children’s laughter – could lift her mood.

She entered the stable yard beneath the ‘Golden
Hall’, and was half-way across it when a blond youth intercepted her.

“How goes it M’lady?”

Cynewyn, interrupted from bleak thoughts,
recognized him as the stable hand who had helped her with her horse when she
arrived at Rendlaesham. She had seen him a few times since then, and had caught
him staring at her more than once.

“
Wes hāl,
” she greeted him
distractedly. She was vaguely irritated that he was effectively blocking her
path, forcing her to halt and speak to him.

“‘Tis a fair day, is it not?” he grinned, his gaze
sweeping down from her face over her body, lingering on her curves. She was
wearing a blue woolen
wealca
– a long tunic dress clasped at the
shoulders by two broaches over a long linen tunic – that left her arms bare. It
was a plain dress but the color matched her eyes. However, it was not the dress
he was admiring.

She nodded, and was just about to step around him
and continue on her way, when his gaze met hers once more.

“Are you well?” he asked, the grin fading slightly.
“You’re very pale.”

Cynewyn shook her head, irritated that her misery
was so evident. “I am just weary, ‘tis all,” she replied. She moved past him
then, just as he was about to say something else, and hurried toward the steps.
Cynewyn could not face men these days, especially not after what Wil had just
said to her. She wanted only to be left alone.

She had almost reached the steps when a rumbling
noise, like rolling thunder, reached her.

Horses.

Swiveling on her heel, Cynewyn watched a stream of
men on horseback enter the stable yard. They were warriors dressed in battered
and dirt-encrusted leather armor; shields on their backs and spears at their
sides. Cynewyn’s stomach twisted – she had not thought this day could get any
worse.

The king had returned to Rendlaesham.

***

The roar of voices inside the King’s Hall was
deafening.

Ealdormen, thegns and their kin jostled for a place
at one of the long tables, readying themselves for a great feast. Slaves were
spit-roasting the carcasses of two deer over the great hearth at the center of
the hall. The air was thick with smoke, despite the gaps in the ceiling above,
which had been designed to let the smoke out. However, the aroma of roasting
meat made up for the discomfort of stinging eyes and irritated lungs.

Slaves carried great wheels of griddle bread around
the hall, depositing it next to the platters of roast carrots and onions that
sat on the long tables lining the hall. Others carried jugs of mead around,
filling up the feasters’ cups.

Cynewyn held out her cup to be filled before taking
a large gulp of the pungent drink. She had never enjoyed mead, especially after
it became her husband’s greatest solace; yet this eve she sought to numb herself.
She was seated near the head of the table, at the king’s insistence, and knew
that it boded ill for her.

To make matters worse, Raedwald had insisted that
Wil also sat at his end. To his credit, Wil looked as if he would rather be
anywhere but here. Yet, Raedwald, who was already well into his cups this
evening, did not appear to notice his thegn’s grim expression. Wil sat facing
Cynewyn, although a little further up the table. He did not look her way once
as the meal begun.

Next to Cynewyn, Mildthryth helped herself to some
griddle bread and smiled at the man seated to her right. His name was Coenred;
he was another one of the king’s thegns. A balding man with bright blue eyes
and a booming laugh, Coenred had formed an attachment with the widow since their
arrival at Rendlaesham. For the past few days both Coenred and Mildthryth had
made sure that they sat near to each other at every meal.

Cynewyn, despite her misery, was delighted for her
mother-in-law’s burgeoning happiness. She knew that Mildthryth had despaired of
ever finding love; she had been widowed a long while and had not dared to hope
that she might marry once again. Coenred did not bother to hide his
infatuation. Even now, he did not take his gaze off the petite blonde beside
him.

Cynewyn heard Mildthryth laugh at something her
suitor had whispered in her ear, and noted the joy in that sound. She had never
heard Mildthryth laugh like that before. She looked a decade younger this eve.
Her cheeks were flushed, although not with mead; her eyes bright with laughter
as she gazed into Coenred’s eyes.

A wistful smile curled the edges of Cynewyn’s mouth
then. No one deserved happiness more than Mildthryth.

Cynewyn looked away from the happy couple and took
another deep draught of mead, feeling warmth seep through her body. For the
first time she understood why Aldwulf had sought oblivion in drink.

“A toast,” Raedwald’s voice boomed across his hall,
drawing the feasters’ attention. He held out his cup to be refilled. “To
victory!”

Opposite the king, his son – Eorpwald – raised his
own cup. The lad was sporting a nasty gash on his left forearm after their
skirmish with the East Saxon war band on the kingdom’s southern border.
However, his gaze was bright with triumph this evening. The prince looked older,
and surer of himself, compared to the last time Cynewyn had seen him.

“Was it the work of the East Saxon king?” Wil
asked, his gaze meeting Raedwald’s. “Did he send his men to attack us?”

Raedwald shook his head. “They were outlaws who
believed that the land south of the woods belonged to the East Saxons, not the
East Angles. Their king had already denied them but they decided to take the
land anyway.”

“We met them near Blackhill,” Eorpwald spoke for
the first time, his voice low but firm. “Their numbers had swollen to nearly a
hundred, as word of their victory over the folk of Went and Blackhill spread.”

“It was a bloody fight,” Raedwald slapped his son
across the back, “but in the end we had our vengeance.”