The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Temptation

Merwenna slid to the ground. She clenched her teeth
as the impact jarred, sending pain up through her ankles. It had been a while
since she had ridden.

On the morrow, I’ll be suffering for
it.

The day had been long and tiring. Relieved to be on
the ground once more, Merwenna stretched her back and looked about the gentle
slope where the men were making camp. They had left the wooded valley far
behind, and where now traveling through grassy hills, interspersed with beech
thickets. She stood at the midst of the army, and watched the men with interest
as they unsaddled and rubbed down horses, built fires and raised tents.

Nearby, Cynddylan was rubbing down his horse, his
back to her. Against her will, her gaze rested upon him, taking in the breadth
of his shoulders, and the flex of his muscles as he worked. He had offended her
yesterday, but that did not stop her from being a little in awe of him. It was
not every day she rode with a prince.

Yet, there was something about him that made her
wary. He had looked at her with a hungry, almost predatory look in his eye last
night. She felt flustered and nervous whenever he stood too close. Riding
behind him, her breasts jiggling against his back with every stride of his
horse, had been slow torture. The feel of his strong body pressed up against
hers had distracted her for most of the day.

Merwenna turned her back on Cynddylan, cursing
herself for being so easily seduced. Vowing to keep her distance from him from
now on, she moved across to the largest of the fires that had just been lit. A
young man had just sat down to skin a pile of conies they had trapped the night
before.

“Can I help?” Merwenna asked shyly, aware that she
was the only one in the camp that appeared to be idle.

The warrior, only a couple of years older than her,
glanced up and smiled. He was slightly built, compared to the men she had grown
up with. Lean and sharp featured, he had a mop of dark hair that kept falling
in his eyes.

“Sit down,” he gestured to the rock beside him. “I
could use a hand.”

He spoke Englisc haltingly, with a very thick
accent. Yet, since Merwenna knew no more than a handful of words of Cymraeg,
she was grateful.

She perched on the rock and took the bone-handled
knife the warrior handed her. Then, she plucked a dead rabbit from the top of
the pile and began to skin it with practiced ease. Over the years, Merwenna had
lost count of the evenings she had spent beside the hearth, skinning rabbits
with her mother and sister at her side.

The act brought back memories that made her smile,
and caused a wistful pang of homesickness for Weyham, and for her kin. Yet,
fear of what awaited her there, caused her nostalgia to fade.

“My name’s Merwenna,” she said eventually, after
skinning and gutting her fifth rabbit. “What’s yours?”

“Owain,” he replied.

“You must be looking forward to returning home.”

The man nodded.

“How long have you been away?”

“Since last winter,” Owain replied. “Many months.”

Merwenna nodded, trying to imagine the life he
would have left behind.

“Do you have a wife and children waiting for you?”

He nodded. “My wife and son. Ifan will be walking
now; he was just a babe when I left.”

Merwenna smiled. The love and pride on Owain’s face
were evident.

“Do they know you survived the battle?”

Owain shook his head, his expression growing grim.
“There’s been no time to send word. My wife, Eira, will be worrying.”

Merwenna’s smile faded. She remembered the gnawing
worry that had gripped her upon waking, every morning after Beorn’s departure.
In the end, it had become unbearable.

“It’s the waiting that’s the worst,” she replied
softly, “and yet, it is a woman’s lot.”

***

Merwenna picked the last scraps of meat off her
rabbit carcass and threw the bones on the fire. The flames hissed and popped as
they devoured them. Licking grease off her fingers, she sat back from the fire
and stretched out her legs in front of her.

It was a mild evening without a hint of a breeze.
Autumn was not far off, yet the air still held summer’s warmth tonight. Night
had fallen and the sky was a curtain of black. The stars twinkled in sharp
relief overhead.

Merwenna sat back on her hands and craned her neck
back so that she could study the stars more closely. Their majesty made her
feel so small.

Suddenly, she was aware of a man’s gaze upon her.

She inclined her head, her own gaze traveling
across the faces of the men who sat nearby. It came to rest upon Cynddylan. The
Prince of Powys was staring at her, the firelight playing across the chiseled
contours of his face.

He was used to having his way with women. She had
never lain with a man, but knew the gaze of one who stripped her naked with his
eyes. The heat of his gaze caused her breathing to quicken. She struggled to
keep her face expressionless, although inside she was churning with a wild,
dangerous excitement. He looked at her in a way that made her skin ache to be
touched, her mouth burn to be kissed.

Merwenna gasped at her body’s betrayal and tore her
gaze away from the prince’s. He cared not that she grieved for her betrothed.
Instead he wielded his devastating charm like a weapon, drawing her in against
her will.

How many women had melted under that stare?

Merwenna took a slow, shuddering breath and glanced
back up at the heavens. Was Beorn looking down on her right now? Did he despise
her for her weakness?

I’ll not betray you, my love
,
she vowed silently.
You were everything to me.

Those words were true. She had loved Beorn. Why
else had she run away to Tamworth? She had risked much in doing so – for her
family would not be quick to forgive her behavior. He was the man she had
planned to spend the rest of her life with. The only man for her.

Yet, if that was the case, why did her body burn
under the gaze of another?

Chapter Fifteen

Drefan
of Chester

Sunlight on his face woke Drefan of Chester from a
deep slumber. He slowly opened his eyes, struggling to gain his bearings for a
moment or two, till the fog of sleep lifted.

Cursing foully, he struggled to his feet.

Dawn had broken some time ago. He should have
already been on his way, not snoring by the fire as if he had all the time in
the world. He would never keep up with Cynddylan and his rabble at this rate.

Drefan’s head felt twice its size this morning, and
his mouth tasted like rank, old leather. He had downed two large skins of mead
last night, and was now paying the price. Ever since Cynddylan had ripped his
prize from him, and humiliated him in the bargain, Drefan had been in an evil
mood. Before running into Merwenna in the woods, he had been planning to travel
south, to trade his wares in the Saxon settlements.

Now, he had changed his direction to the west. 

That bitch had made a fool of him twice now, and
she would have to pay. Thanks to her, the Queen of Mercia would no longer buy
his cloth; something that could potentially ruin him. Tamworth had always been
his most lucrative stop on the way north.

Merwenna of Weyham had made him a leper in
Tamworth.

Drefan was not a man who easily forgave – and he
never forgot. He would follow Cynddylan’s army, and when the chance presented
itself – for one day it would – he would take Merwenna from her new protector
and make her rue the day her mother birthed her.

Drefan unloosed the ties on his breeches and
relieved himself on the smoldering embers of last night’s fire. His urine, dark
and stinking of mead, hissed on the hot coals. As he pissed, Drefan closed his
eyes, imagining what he would do to Merwenna, once he caught her. He was just
retying his breeches, when a sound behind him made him start.

The tread of a heavy foot on the leaf-strewn ground.

Drefan whirled to find a group of men gathered at
the edge of the small clearing, watching him.

His gaze traveled across their faces. They were big
men, dressed in leather armor and fur cloaks. They were also well-armed. Swords
hung at their sides, shields from their backs, and most of them carried quivers
of arrows and longbows. He would have thought them a hunting party, but his
well-honed instincts told him that was not the case.

Drefan’s gaze rested on the face of the biggest
warrior among them – a good-looking man with shaggy brown hair and a wintry
gaze – and his breath stilled. He recognized that face; the sight of it
bringing him back to his humiliation in Tamworth’s market square. This man had
been one of Queen Cyneswide’s guards. The one she had called Rodor.  It was he
who had placed the coins in Drefan’s outstretched palm.

The recognition was mutual, for Rodor smiled under
Drefan’s scrutiny. Then he stepped forward, unsheathing his sword in one smooth
movement. The sound of iron scraping against leather echoed across the still
clearing, and Drefan’s bowels loosened.

“Taking your cloth elsewhere?” Rodor motioned to
the small cart sitting a few yards away, and the stocky ponies hobbled next to
it.

“Well, I won’t be selling it in Tamworth, will I?”
Drefan replied with a sneer.

“No,” Rodor stepped forward, his sword blade
glinting in the pale morning light. “I’m afraid you won’t be peddling it
anywhere.”

Panic flared, and Drefan backed away from the
warrior.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you about to kill me?”

“Because you recognize me – and I can’t have that.”

“I won’t tell anyone you were here.” Drefan’s gaze
locked on the blade that was slowly advancing toward him. “There’s no one to
tell.”

“Have you not seen anyone on your travels then,
merchant?”

“My name’s Drefan – and yes, I’ve seen plenty of
folk of late. That little whore you paid me for in Tamworth for one.”

Rodor went still at that. “Really?”

“I ran into her just over a day ago,” Drefan rushed
the words out, taking advantage of Rodor’s pause. Drefan was unarmed, save for
the boning knife at his belt. He was a worthy opponent, and knew how to fight
with low cunning. However, faced by this warrior with eyes the color of ice,
wielding his sword as if he had been born with it, he did not rate his chances.

If Drefan did not talk his way out of this, he was
dead.

“And where’s Merwenna now?”

“She ran off.”

“Did she?” Rodor cocked an eyebrow and continued
his path across the glade toward Drefan. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Actually, there is more to it than that,” Drefan
swallowed, feeling sweat slide down his back. “She did run off, and I followed.
However, she ran straight into the path of the Cymry army, and their prince
rescued her.”

“You saw Cynddylan of Powys?” Rodor stopped once
more, his expression hardening. “How far ahead are they?”

“No more than a day. I overslept this morning or I
would already have been on their trail.”

“You’re following them?”

Drefan licked his lips, considering whether to tell
this man the truth. Rodor was watching him closely, and he could see he was no
idiot. It was perilous to lie to clever men.

“Yes – that wench made a fool of me once again and
I’m not having it. I’d wager they are escorting her home, on their way back to
Powys. I intend to follow them there.”

“She is from Weyham, is she not?”

Drefan nodded, his gaze flicking from Rodor’s sword
to his face. “You’re tracking Cynddylan’s army, aren’t you?”

Drefan saw Rodor’s gaze narrow at that, and so he
rushed on, aware that he only had moments to convince this man he was not worth
killing.

“Let me come with you. I know these lands well –
and I know a short cut to Weyham. If you’re wanting to catch up with Cynddylan
and his men, I can help you.”

Rodor gave a chilling smile. “Is that right?”

“Look,” Drefan raised his hands pleadingly. “I
don’t know why you’re after him, and I don’t care. I only hope it’s to slit his
throat. You can trust me, I have no love for the Cymry – least of all that
whoreson.”

“That may be the case,” Rodor replied, “but I trust
no man unless he proves himself worthy of it.”

“I can prove myself. If you want to kill Cynddylan
of Powys, I’ll help you. Just let me have Merwenna.”

Rodor glanced back at his men. They were all
silent, observing the scene with obvious amusement. Some were openly
sniggering, while others stood there smirking.

“What do you think boys? Shall we let him live?”

“Don’t think so,” one of them – a tall, lean
warrior with lank blond hair and a stubbly beard – replied with a grin. “I’d
say he’s lying to save his hide.”

Rodor smiled back. “Well said, Caedmon. Of course
he is.”

Drefan watched, cold dread washing over him, as
Rodor closed the gap between them in two long strides.

“Wait!” he choked out, stumbling back. “I can help
you.”

Yet, Rodor had finished talking.

Drefan of Chester saw the glint of Rodor’s blade –
as it swung toward him – and knew his end had come.