The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter
Six

The
King’s Return

Merwenna wiped sweat off her forehead with the back
of her wrist and squinted down at the tunic she was mending. It was unbearably
stuffy here inside the Great Hall. The air was so close that it made her feel
light-headed. It was difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.

The aroma of baking bread mingled with the odor of
stewing cabbage and onion, and that of stale sweat. Despite that it was one of
the hottest afternoons of the summer outside, the two fire pits within the hall
smoldered. Slaves were baking griddle bread over one of the fire pits; placing
thin discs of dough on a hot iron plate. A simmering cauldron of pottage cooked
over the second fire pit.

She sat with the other women, opposite to where the
two princesses, Cyneburh and Cyneswith, embroidered pieces for a new banner. It
bore the Mercian crest – pale gold with a
wyvern
, a two-legged dragon
with spread wings, at its center. The banner was to be a gift to their father
for his victory, and it was nearly finished. The princesses had both proved to
be haughty and unfriendly toward Merwenna, in stark contrast to their mother’s
warmth.

Queen Cyneswide perched at a huge loom, not far
from her daughters, where she, and two ealdormen’s wives, worked at a tapestry.
It was half-finished, but Merwenna could see that it was to be a panorama of
green hills and verdant forest, with a great tower in its center – Tamworth.

Merwenna looked down at her mending and tried to
swallow the nausea that had plagued her ever since she had watched her brother
walk outside to be whipped that morning. She was already regretting her
decision – only now it was too late to put things right. Without Seward’s
reassuring presence, she felt vulnerable in the king’s hall.

Despite Cyneswide’s graciousness, the other women
here were not welcoming. Merwenna had caught them whispering, and could only
imagine it was about her. Once or twice, she had caught some of the women
staring – and their gazes had not been friendly.

Merwenna did not belong here. She was a village
girl, and by rights should not have been sitting with the high born ladies. Her
father had once served Raedwald of the East Angles many years earlier, but now
he was of lesser rank. These days, he served Weyham’s ealdorman. Merwenna had
been proud of her father’s rank at home, but here she realized that he would
have been treated as a landless peasant among folk such as these. It was only
the queen’s generosity that allowed her to remain here, and everyone present
knew the truth of it.

Merwenna’s gaze traveled then to Cerwen. The slave
was sweeping food scraps away from the hearth. The girl’s pretty face was pale,
her eyes hollowed. Merwenna’s gaze shifted to the collar about Cerwen’s neck
and felt her own throat constrict. She had not been among the eager crowd that
had followed the lovers outside, clamoring to witness their whipping. Still,
from inside the hall, she had heard Cerwen’s screams. From her brother, she had
heard nothing.

Suddenly, Merwenna could not stand to be inside the
Great Hall a moment longer. She felt as if the walls were closing in on her.
The sharp glances from the other women were like boning knifes, stabbing and
twisting till she could bear it no more. She needed air.

“Excuse me,” Merwenna put her mending aside and
rose to her feet. “I must visit the privy. I shall be back soon.”

Whispers followed her, as she crossed the floor.
She could feel the weight of their stares pressing between her shoulder blades.

Merwenna let out a long breath of relief as she
stepped beyond the doors. Outside, the afternoon sun slanted onto the wide
yard, cooking the hard-packed dirt. It was so hot that the dogs that usually
prowled the space had taken refuge in the shade, tongues lolling. The sun was a
white orb in a hard blue sky. Yet, despite the heat, Merwenna’s breathing steadied.
At least here, she was not scrutinized.

She made her way down the stone steps to the yard
and moved into the shade, near one of the panting dogs. The beast paid her no
mind; it was too intent on snapping at flies that buzzed too close.

Although she was lightly dressed, in her best green
wealca
, a tube linen dress with shoulder straps attached with broaches,
she felt sweat begin to slide down her spine. There were few folk about on this
unusually hot late summer’s afternoon. However, Merwenna spied two warriors,
sweating in boiled leather, guarding the gates leading into the yard.

“What are you doing out here on your own, girl?”

A rough male voice sounded behind Merwenna, causing
her to start. She whirled to see Rodor standing a couple of feet behind her,
his cold gaze fixed upon her. His sleeveless tunic was dark with sweat, and he
smelled of horses.

“Just taking some air,” Merwenna replied nervously.
There was something about Rodor that put her nerves on edge – that and the fact
he had been the one to whip her brother. Rodor said little but thought a lot;
she could see it in those gimlet eyes. There was also cruelty in the lines of
his face.

“Careful,” he smiled. “Wandering off alone makes
you look as if you’re looking for the same kind of trouble as your brother.”

Rodor looked her up and down speculatively.
“Perhaps you are.”

Merwenna was horrified by his words, but tried her
best not to show it.

“It was too hot in the hall,” she replied,
pretending that she had not understood.

Rodor’s gaze flicked to the pole that stood in the
center of the yard.

“Your brother wept like a maid while I whipped
him,” he murmured. “I’d wager you would have whimpered less.”

Merwenna felt the sweat that coated her skin turn
cold. Her stomach balled in sudden anger. Not for the first time in her twenty
winters, she wished she had been born a man. She would have punched that leer
off his face.

She was saved having to respond, when one of the
guards at the gate turned and waved to Rodor.

“The King returns!” he shouted. “His
fyrd
approaches!”

Rodor strode forward, Merwenna forgotten. “Open the
gates,” he ordered. “Let them in!”

The ground started to tremble, and Merwenna heard
the thunder of the approaching army. Her heart leaped.

Beorn!

Moments later, a stream of lathered horses and
sweat-soaked, armored men poured into the yard. Merwenna stayed put, her back
against the sun-warmed stone, as to run out to greet them would be to risk
being trampled. Her gaze frantically searched the faces of the men that surged
into the yard, filling the wide space.

Where is he?

The din was incredible. The horses kicked up clouds
of dust and the stillness of the sultry afternoon shattered. Merwenna imagined
that this was only a fraction of the king’s army – the rest of his
fyrd
would stretch down the street outside, and beyond to the market square.

Merwenna’s chest ached with longing as she
continued to search the crowd for Beorn’s handsome face. Next to her, the dogs
had risen from their slumber and were standing, eager-eyed, their tails
wagging.

How will I find him in this crowd?

Eventually, Merwenna realized that it was unlikely
that Beorn would be here. She would not find him at the head of the
fyrd
,
amongst the king’s ealdormen and thegns.

She was just about to dive into the crowd of
milling men and horses, in search of her betrothed, when her gaze was drawn to
an imposing figure that could only be the King of Mercia himself.

She had heard many tales of Penda of Mercia.
Throughout the kingdom he was a god amongst men: tall, blond and merciless.

The tales did not exaggerate.

A man that towered above all around him swung down
from a grey stallion. He was finely dressed in leather, mail and a thick blue
cloak. His face was shielded by an iron helm and when he removed it, the face
underneath was no softer.

A cruelly handsome face, and eyes the color of a
winter’s sky, surveyed the yard. Long ice-blond hair, streaked with grey,
streamed over his broad shoulders. Penda of Mercia was indeed striking, as
would be his sons when grown. Merwenna instinctively feared him.

The king threw his reins to a slave and cast a cool
glance about him.

Merwenna looked away from the king and squared her
shoulders. The thought of combing Tamworth in search for Beorn frightened her,
but she would do it nonetheless. This was why she had come here; this was why
she had not left with her brother. Merwenna crossed the yard, ducking out of
the way of a horse that kicked out as she passed behind it.

That was close
.
Merwenna’s heart started to hammer against her ribs but she pressed on.

She would search the king’s army, from one end to
the other, until she found her betrothed.

***

The Prince of Powys watched the slave pour his cup
full of mead. She was a dark-haired wench that he would wager was of Cymry
blood. Her pretty face was pinched and drawn, and she avoided his gaze as she
went about her task.

Dylan watched her go, before his gaze shifted to
the huge platters of food that slaves and servants were laying out on the long
tables lining either side of the Great Hall’s fire pits.

After days of travel and a frugal diet of stale
seed cakes and hard cheese, his belly growled at the sight of the feast before
him. Spit-roasted wild boar dominated the table, surrounded by apples roasted
with walnuts and honey. There were platters of braised leeks and buttered
carrots, and tureens of rich mutton stew – all accompanied by mountains of
griddle bread.

Beside Dylan, Gwyn gave a grunt of pleasure and
started helping himself to the roast boar and apples.

“A good feast this,” he acknowledged with his mouth
full. “Penda has fine cooks.”

Dylan gave a shrug before filling the trencher
before him with mutton stew. “It is impressive. Let us hope that Penda is as
generous with his gifts, as he is with his stores.”

Gwyn nodded, his eyes glinting at Dylan’s meaning.
Powys had made a pact with Mercia before Dylan marched his men to war, but
Penda had yet to honor it. Still, now that they had reached Tamworth, there
would be plenty of time to talk of such things. This eve, Dylan was in no
hurry.

Dylan’s gaze shifted to the other end of the table,
where the king and queen dined together. Their offspring – a fine looking brood
– flanked them; the two adolescent girls to the right and the three boys on the
other side.

The king and queen spoke little, but Dylan noticed
the ease between them; the frequency with which their gazes met. Queen
Cyneswide was entering her fourth decade but she was still a beautiful woman.
Dylan could see, by the softness of her face every time she looked in Penda’s
direction, that she plainly adored her husband.

No accounting for taste.

Dylan took a draught of mead and turned his
attention back to the feast. He sampled a bit of everything, and was beginning
to feel uncomfortably full when servants brought honey cakes, plum tarts and
apple pies to the table. The feasters fell upon the sweets, as if they had not
already consumed a king’s share of food, drizzling the cakes with thick cream.

It was then, as Dylan sat considering whether it
was prudent to eat anything else, that one of the girls serving the sweets,
caught his attention.

It was uncomfortably hot in the hall and the young
woman’s face and arms gleamed with sweat. She wore a pretty green
wealca
that hugged her lissome form. She was small and slender but with a swelling
bosom that made her look ripe and womanly. Her thick mane of brown hair was
tied back, revealing a long neck. When she turned in Dylan’s direction, he saw
the girl had a plump, rosebud mouth and startling blue eyes.

Desire lanced through Dylan, making him catch his
breath.

Months without a woman made him suddenly hungry for
one. A night with such a girl would definitely put a smile on a man’s face. The
slave he had been admiring earlier was forgotten as his gaze devoured the
lovely serving wench. Consumed by lustful thoughts, Dylan looked away and held
out his cup to be filled by a passing slave.

When he looked back in the girl’s direction, she
had gone.

Chapter Seven

Ill-tidings

“Let the dancing begin!”

The feasting had ended, and the mountains of food
scraps tidied away. Servants had pushed the long feasting tables back against
the walls, to make way for the musicians – two playing bone whistles, and one
on a lyre – and the throng of dancers.

The king and his family looked down upon the
revelry from a
heah-setl,
high seat, at the far end of the hall,
watching as the ealdormen and thegns led their wives out onto the center of the
floor to dance.

Merwenna leaned over a water barrel, at the
opposite end of the hall, and sipped from a long-handled ladle. She drank
thirstily. The water tasted stale but was a balm in the airless heat of Penda’s
Great Hall.

The musicians had struck up a lively tune. Men and
women whirled around the center of the hall. Merwenna stepped back from the
water barrel and let her gaze travel over them. There was joy and revelry on
their faces – but she could not share their gaiety. She would not rejoice for
Mercia’s victory until she found Beorn.

Merwenna’s vision blurred with tears of frustration.

She had spent the afternoon scouring Tamworth for
her betrothed, but had not found him. She had asked many men if they had seen
Beorn, or knew him, but none had. Some of the men she had asked had been rude
to her, others lecherous and frightening. She had returned to the tower, weary
and tearful, only to have an ealdorman’s wife – a bossy, shrill woman named
Hild – inform her that Merwenna could earn her keep by serving at the evening’s
feast.

Merwenna had not minded the task; it kept her busy
and stopped her worrying about Beorn. However, as the evening progressed,
anxiety wove itself into a tight ball in the pit of her belly.

I must speak to the king,
she
finally decided. Her worry was eating her up inside, she had to take action.
Only he can help me. How else will I know if Beorn has survived?

Straightening her back with resolve, Merwenna
stepped away from the wall and started to make her way around the edge of the
hall. It was slow progress. The Great Hall heaved with the press of sweating bodies.
It was so hot in here that Merwenna started to feel light-headed.

She longed to escape into the cool evening, to
breathe fresh air – but first she had to speak to the king.

Through the press, she caught glimpses of the king
and his entourage. Now that the feast had ended, and the tables had been
shifted, Penda’s most favored ealdormen sat at the foot of the high seat – as
did a striking dark-haired man.

The stranger was dressed in a mail vest and leather
breeches. A plush purple cloak hung from his broad shoulders. The man stood out
from those seated around him. He had chiseled features, a lithe build and raven
hair; marking him as one of the Cymry. He lounged back on cushions, watching
the dancing, his expression slightly bored.

This must be Cynddylan son of Cyndrwyn of Powys;
the man who had brought his army to aid the Mercians in their victory.

The prince looked as if he would have rather been
elsewhere than in this hall full of noisy high born Mercians. Merwenna was
about to refocus her attention upon King Penda, when Cynddylan’s gaze met hers.

She gasped, her step faltering, and was grateful
when the swirling dancers obscured his view of her. No man had ever looked at
her like that, not even Beorn. The heat of this stranger’s gaze had made her
body prickle as if she stood naked in a draft. The sensation was unnerving.

Refocusing her thoughts, Merwenna edged closer to
the high seat. She would not be distracted; there was too much at stake.

I must find Beorn. The king will help
me.

She gathered her courage as she went, and mentally
rehearsed the request she would make before the king. The dancers moved aside
and Merwenna once more had a view of the royal family. She reached the foot of
the high seat and, not hesitating – lest her nerve fail her – she stepped up to
address the king.

“My Lord, Penda,” she addressed him tremulously,
curtsying low. “Please, may I have a moment of your time?”

Penda looked up from where he had quietly been
conversing with his wife. His gaze focused upon Merwenna, and then narrowed.

“What is it wench? Why do you interrupt your king?”

“I apologize,” Merwenna bowed her head, “but there
is something I must ask. There was a young warrior named Beorn who rode with
you to war – Beorn of Weyham. Do you know of his fate?”

The king’s gaze narrowed further.

“Bold wench,” he addressed her coldly. “How did you
gain entrance to my hall? How dare you badger me. Be gone before I give you to
my men.”

“Penda,” Cyneswide interjected gently, placing a
restraining hand on her husband’s forearm. “Merwenna is my guest. She should
not have approached you so boldly but she is plainly desperate to know the fate
of her betrothed.”

The king inclined his head and gave his wife a
bemused look.

“Your guest?”

Cyneswide nodded, flushing slightly. “Please help
her, for my sake.”

Penda glanced back at Merwenna, his gaze hewn from
stone. “I know not if your betrothed survived the battle or not,” he admitted.
“Thousands of men serve me. I do not know the names of most of them, let alone
this
Berthun
.”

“
Beorn
, Milord. He was tall and blond, with
a short beard. He had blue eyes.”

“That description could fit many of my warriors,”
Penda’s mouth twisted in scorn. “Stop wasting my time.”

“Beorn of Weyham did serve you, Penda.”

A man’s voice, deep and lightly accented, sounded
behind her. Merwenna swiveled, and her gaze met that of the Prince of Powys
once more. Cynddylan ap Cyndrwyn remained seated, lying back indolently on
cushions.

Merwenna stiffened. Prince or not, he should rise
to his feet when addressing Penda.

As if thinking upon the same lines, the King of
Mercia’s cruelly handsome face grew harder still. His gaze upon the Prince of
Powys was wintry.

“Do you not remember him?” Cynddylan asked,
seemingly unmoved by the king’s cold stare. “The lad who followed you around
for days before the battle. The one who personally asked to fight in the shield
wall to show his loyalty to you.”

Penda’s gaze narrowed as if taking the measure of
the man seated below him.

Merwenna glanced from the King of Mercia’s face, to
that of the Prince of Powys. She was aware of the tension between them that had
nothing to do with her presence. There was an unspoken challenge in Cynddylan’s
eyes.

“Perhaps,” Penda’s gaze flicked back to Merwenna.
“Blond, bearded and handsome, you say?”

Merwenna nodded, feeling sick to the stomach.

“Then I do remember him. The Prince of Powys speaks
true. The lad was eager to please. A young warrior who thought war was a game.
After I told him he could fight in the shield wall, I never saw him again. I
know not if he lives.”

“He does not,” Cynddylan’s words echoed in the
sudden hush.

Merwenna was aware that the music and dancing had
stopped and that many were staring at her. She turned to meet the Prince of
Powys’ gaze. There was pity in his moss-green eyes that made her legs start to
tremble.

Suddenly, she did not want to hear any more.

“How do you know this?” she finally managed, her
voice hoarse with the effort it was taking for her to keep her composure.

“I saw his body among the dead, after the battle,”
he replied, his tone gentling. “Your betrothed died with honor, fighting for
his people – for his king.”