Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) (11 page)

Alchflaed sat up, watching Maric as he approached.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Alchflaed shook her head. Her left cheekbone throbbed and
was starting to swell already, but it was nothing compared to the slaughter she
had just witnessed.

Maric reached down and grasped her hand in his, pulling
Alchflaed to her feet. Wordlessly, she took back her seax. Maric’s gaze
travelled to where the ealdorman now lay still. When he turned back to her, his
expression was exasperated.

“I told you to wait for us on the other side of the river.
Don’t you ever do as you’re told?”

Black smoke stained the afternoon sky. The stench of
burning flesh made Alchflaed’s gorge rise and she turned her back on the
roaring fire. Her companions had piled the corpses of the Northumbrians upon a
pyre of oak branches and set fire to the dead. It was better than leaving their
bodies as a feast for crows, but the scene sickened her nonetheless.

Eyes watering from the smoke, Alchflaed hastened away
from the fire, and followed the Mercians into the woods. They had retrieved
their horses from where they cropped grass near the riverbank. Alchflaed’s gaze
shifted to where they carried Baldwine and Bryni. The latter was alive but
badly injured. Baldwine would have his own funeral pyre; he would not burn with
the ealdormen and his ceorls.

A few yards in, they found the northerners’ horses,
hobbled and awaiting their riders’ return. Alchflaed looked on as the Mercians
freed the horses from their hobbles.

“What shall we do with the horses?” she asked. “Free
them?”

Edgard shook his head, his expression incredulous.
“Horses are worth a lot of gold,” he told her. “We shall take them with us.”

Alchflaed nodded, and felt a goose for asking such a
foolish question. No one besides a spoiled king’s daughter would suggest such a
thing.

They made camp in a forest glade. While the men set about
cutting branches for tents and unsaddling the horses, Alchflaed knelt next to
Bryni and took her first proper look at his wound. The young man lay propped up
against a leather pack. His face was ashen and covered in sweat, his gaze
glassy. She bent over him and started to unlace the leather vest around his
torso.

“Lady Alchflaed,” he whispered. “Am I dying?”

Alchflaed shook her head, her eyes smarting, only this
time it was not from smoke.

“Not if I can help it,” she replied crisply, forcing some
cheer into her voice.

Alchflaed pulled away the leather vest, and the
blood-soaked tunic underneath. She sucked in her breath when she saw the wound.
The ealdorman’s blade had punctured him, to the right, just beneath his rib
cage. It was a broad, thin wound that had penetrated straight through the young
man’s torso. However, to Alchflaed’s surprise it was not bleeding heavily.
There had been some blood initially, but now it had slowed to a trickle.

Dread rose within her. Was Bryni bleeding on the inside
instead? If that were the case, he would certainly die. Swallowing panic, she
rocked back on her heels and called over her shoulder to Edgard, who was busy
lighting a fire.

“Edgard, I need Yarrow for his wound. Can you see if any
grows near here?”

Edgard frowned. “Woundwort? Aye, but it is too late in
the year for it to be flowering… M’lady.”

Alchflaed glanced up, surprised by his use of ‘M’lady’.

“It does not matter, the leaves will do just as well,”
she replied. “Please gather as much as you can.”

Edgard nodded and rose to his feet. “Kenhelm, Osgar –
come with me.”

Satisfied, Alchflaed turned back to Bryni.

“How great is the pain?”

“Terrible,” he gasped. “That bastard stuck me.”

“And he died for it.” Maric stepped up next to them, and
hunkered down next to Alchflaed. She could see the wound to his bicep required
attention; it had stopped bleeding but was deep enough to warrant stitches.

Maric ignored his own injury, his gaze shifting to
Alchflaed.

“Do you think the blade pierced his liver?”

“Aye,” she replied softly. “Although I cannot know how
bad it is.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Edgard’s gone to look for some Yarrow, but I need to
fetch something from my bag.”

Maric nodded. Alchflaed rose to her feet and hurried
across the clearing to where Briosa patiently awaited. Digging into one of the
leather bags behind the saddle, she withdrew the pestle and mortar her father
had gifted her. She had tried not to think about these items during the
journey, for he had given them for a dark purpose. But, this evening she would
be using them to try and save a life, rather than take one.

Alchflaed returned to Maric’s side, just as Edgard and
the others emerged from the trees with bunches of Yarrow. Taking them with a
nod of thanks, Alchflaed began to pound the herbs into a mash inside the
mortar. Maric looked on with interest.

“You are a skilled healer,” he observed.

Alchflaed shook her head. “My mother was. She taught me
some of her skill before she died.”

She poured some wine over the wound to cleanse it,
causing Bryni to whimper in pain, before packing the mashed Yarrow leaves as
deep into the wounded flesh as she could manage.

“Yarrow will numb the pain in a little while,” she told
Bryni. “It should help stop the wound from festering.”

“Thank you, M’lady,” the young warrior whispered, his
voice barely audible.

Alchflaed watched him with concern. Sweat covered his
skin and he looked so pale that she feared he was close to death.

If he survives the night, it will be a
miracle.

***

Alchflaed put aside her needle and straightened up.

“There, it is done.”

She and Maric sat alone in the smallest of the three
tents in the midst of the clearing. Maric had told Alchflaed that for the remainder
of the ride south, this tent would be hers. She was grateful, for the lack of
privacy during their journey had been difficult at times. After Eoforwic, Maric
had insisted she slept in the main tent, where her safety could be assured.
With Eadweard of Eoforwic no longer a threat, she could now sleep alone once
more.

 A small fire crackled in the center of the tent, keeping
the evening chill at bay. Outside, Alchflaed could hear the low voices of the
rest of their company, as they roasted rabbits over a fire and made the final
preparations for the evening.

Maric was pale but he managed a drawn smile.

“Thank you.”

His gaze narrowed as it travelled down her face to her
swollen left cheekbone.

“Does that need attention?”

Alchflaed shook her head. “I’ve put some salve on it –
the swelling should go down tomorrow.”

She gestured at the wound she had just sewn shut on his
left bicep before glancing away from him.

“You’re fortunate not to have ended the battle with more
wounds than that. I thought the ealdorman was going to kill you.”

“And he would have… if you had not intervened.”

Something in his tone made Alchflaed look up at his face.
Maric’s expression was grave.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You saved my life,” he replied. “I owe you a debt.”

The intensity of his words, although softly spoken, made
Alchflaed uncomfortable. She gave a nervous laugh in response.

“What kind of debt?”

“The kind that cannot be erased or forgotten.”

Alchflaed swallowed, her pulse quickening. “You make
saving a man’s life sound like a terrible thing.”

“It is, if you interfere with fate. Wyrd wished me dead
today.”

Alchflaed’s gaze narrowed. “That is dark and reckless
talk. Wyrd wished you to live, why else would you have taught me how to use a
seax. Why else would I have been close by when you needed help?”

A smile quirked at the corner of Maric’s mouth, although
it did not reach his eyes. “All the same, this means that a debt is owed.”

Alchflaed gave him a long, searching look, before the
truth dawned on her.

“It’s not about interfering with events at all, is it?
You don’t want to owe a debt to anyone, least of all to me.”

Maric stared at her, his eyes widening in surprise.
Alchflaed started packing her things away. Hurt closed her throat, making it
difficult to get the next words out.

“I shall make it easy for you then. I release you from
your debt. You owe me nothing.”

She moved away from him and started to rise to her feet.
However, his hand fastened upon her forearm, stilling her.

“You cannot release me,” he replied. His voice was
slightly hoarse, and strained.

Their gazes met, and what Alchflaed saw in his eyes made
her breathing grow shallow. His gaze, usually crystalline blue, had darkened
like a summer’s sky before a storm. She wanted to speak, to ask him why he
stared so, but she had been momentarily robbed of the power of speech.

Two heartbeats passed and then Maric wordlessly released
her arm. He rose to his feet and moved toward the tent’s entrance. The physical
distance between them caused the tension to ease, and Alchflaed breathed once
more.

“Good eve, princess,” he said softly.

With that, he ducked out of the tent, leaving Alchflaed
alone.

Alchflaed wrapped a fur mantle around her shoulders and
left her tent. Outside, the rain fell heavily, soaking her hair in moments.
Ignoring it, Alchflaed crossed the clearing. She passed a pile of smoking and
hissing embers – all that remained of Baldwine – and entered the largest of the
three tents.

Inside, Maric was handing a cup of hot broth to Bryni.
Nearby, Edgard passed around some stale griddle bread, which the men softened
in their cups of broth made with the bones of last night’s rabbits.

For the first time since leaving Bebbanburg, many of the
men greeted her with smiles and nods. Yesterday’s battle had altered their
attitude toward her. They had seen her risk her life to save Maric’s, and help
kill the man who threatened them all.

Alchflaed returned their greetings, although she
deliberately avoided looking Maric’s way. After their conversation the previous
night, she felt it best to keep her distance from him. Instead, she crossed to
where Bryni lay, propped up upon a pile of furs. The sight of Bryni awake and
not wracked with fever delighted her.

The night before, Alchflaed had tended him a long while
after they had torched Baldwine’s bier. The young man had slipped into a deep
sleep, his face chalk-white. She had retired to her tent, not expecting to see
him alive this morning.

Alchflaed knelt next to the warrior and reached out, laying
the back of her hand across his forehead. His skin was slightly clammy but
cool. Pain still lined his face, although his gaze when it met hers was clear.
Alchflaed grinned.

“What a welcome sight! Thunor favors you.”

The young warrior gave a lopsided grin, flustered by the
attention. “Aye, it seems so, M’lady.”

Edgard appeared at Alchflaed’s shoulder and passed her a
steaming cup of broth and a piece of bread.

“The woundwort seems to have had some effect,” he
observed.

Alchflaed nodded. “I will need some more this morning,
for a fresh poultice.”

“I will fetch it,” Edgard promised.

Alchflaed sat down upon a pack, next to Bryni and broke
her fast. The bread was very stale, but it softened well in the hot soup. As
she ate, Alchflaed felt Maric’s gaze straying to her. With difficulty, she
resisted meeting his eye.

“When shall we move on?” she asked Edgard.

“Tomorrow,” Maric replied before Edgard had time to,
speaking for the first time since Alchflaed had entered the tent. “Bryni needs
to rest and the rain has set in for the day.”

Edgard emptied the dregs of his cup on the ground and got
to his feet, brushing crumbs off his leathers.

“I shall fetch that woundwort now, Milady.”

Alchflaed rose to her feet, seizing the opportunity to
escape the tent as well.

“I will join you.”

***

They resumed their journey the following dawn, setting
off under a veil of drizzle and low cloud. With the River Winwaed behind them,
the landscape steadily grew more wooded, the hillsides less windswept and
bleak. The rain persisted, drenching them every step of the way.

Alchflaed soon forgot what it felt like to be dry and
warm. Her wet clothing chafed as she rode, her feet and hands grew numb, and her
muscles and joints ached. She rode next to Bryni, near the rear of the column.
The young man was recovering, albeit slowly due to the lack of the rest.
Ideally, he should not have ridden for at least five days after such an injury,
but Maric insisted that they press on without further delay. Yule was almost
upon them, and he had promised King Paeda that his betrothed would arrive in
Tamworth before Mother Night.

They entered Mercia two days after Winwaed. It was Bryni
who informed her when they crossed the border between the two kingdoms. They
had just forded a shallow river and rode through woodland of ash and beech.

“You’re in Mercia now, Milady,” he announced proudly.

Alchflaed looked about her, slightly disoriented by his
proclamation. The landscape looked just the same as it had moments earlier. However,
now that she knew she no longer travelled through Deira – her brother’s
territory – it
felt
different. She had truly left the north behind. Still,
she had expected to feel a more dramatic change between the two kingdoms.

The same grey sky. The same rain. The same
scent of wet earth and undergrowth.

Shrugging off a sense of dislocation, Alchflaed turned to
Bryni. The young man had regained a lot of color to his face, although his
rounded shoulders and pinched expression told her that his wound pained him.
His dark blond hair was plastered to his skull and he looked as miserable as
she felt.

“Where in Mercia are you from?” she asked him.

“Legacæstir,” he replied with a wan smile, “to the
north-west of the kingdom, although I’ve lived in Tamworth for the past three
years.”

“Do you still have kin in Legacæstir?”

“Aye, all of them,” Bryni’s smile widened as thought of
his family brightened his mood. “Three brothers, four sisters and an army of
cousins. One day I’ll return there and live among them again. But first, I must
make my kin proud.”

“I’m sure they’re already proud of you,” Alchflaed
replied.

Bryni’s boyish face grew serious. “I’m a free man with a
spear, but I want more than that from life. I want to win my lord’s praise for
my valor, to serve as his thegn – like Maric and Edgard have – before I go
home.”

Alchflaed understood his sentiment, for she had grown up
watching young men like Bryni try to win her father’s favor. However, a
warrior’s life was a brutal one, and it cost a man.

Alchflaed’s gaze shifted up the column, to where Maric
rode next to Edgard. The two warriors were talking, although she was too far
back to catch their conversation. Watching Maric’s aquiline profile, Alchflaed
wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to him to make him so
aloof, so unreachable.

Don’t concern yourself with him.

Alchflaed pushed her wet hair from her eyes and tore her
gaze from Maric.

It’s yourself you should be worrying over.

“How far are we from Tamworth now?” she eventually asked
Bryni.

“Just two days, M’lady.”

Alchflaed took a deep, steadying, breath and tried to
stem her rising panic at this news. Memories of the evening she had learned of
her father’s plans returned. She recalled the ruthlessness in his eyes, the
hardness of his voice. He had thrust a terrible task upon her, but there was no
defying him.

No one disobeyed King Oswiu.

Alchflaed’s heart began to race and she swallowed down
nausea. Panic engulfed her, smothering her, making it hard to breathe.

“M’lady, are you well?”

Bryni urged his horse close to her, his face creased in
concern.

Alchflaed tried to nod. She attempted to tell him all was
well, but her tongue felt welded to the roof of her mouth.

Suddenly, the world started to wheel around her, and she
heard nothing save the roaring of ocean waves in her ears. Her vision started
to speckle, and the rain-slicked reins slid from her fingers.

When Alchflaed awoke, she found herself lying on her back
upon the wet ground. She blinked and looked up into the concerned faces of
Maric, Edgard and Bryni.

“What happened?” she murmured.

“You fainted,” Maric replied, his brow furrowed in
concern.

Fainted
. She had never once
blacked out before. Truthfully, she had always looked upon women who fell into
a faint as weak. Her face heating in embarrassment, Alchflaed pushed herself up
into a sitting position.

“I don’t remember anything,” she muttered. “I don’t know
why I did that. I’m sorry.”

“We’ve been travelling hard, M’lady,” Edgard replied,
with a rueful smile. “It’s cold and you’re soaked through.”

Alchflaed looked down to cover her embarrassment.

Maric hunkered down so their gazes were level.

“Are you hurt? We were worried you hit your head when you
fell off Briosa.”

Alchflaed shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
Mortification warred with the fresh panic that was now clawing up her throat.

Maric rose to his feet. He then held out his hand to her.

“Come, Alchflaed. “I apologize for pushing you too hard.
We’ll take a break here so you can rest.”

Alchflaed reluctantly took the hand he offered. His fingers,
warm and strong, closed around hers, and he pulled her gently to her feet.

After a short rest, the company pressed on. They
travelled along a rutted track for most of the afternoon, until they joined the
Roman road that would bring them south to Tamworth. The road was wide and
paved, as many such roads were throughout Britannia. For the first time since
Eoforwic, they passed other travelers; merchants mainly, carrying their wares
north.

Panic chased Alchflaed south. Her father’s orders rang in
her ears as she rode. Now she knew they were only two sleeps from their
destination, she felt she could not breathe. Her escort likely thought she was
apprehensive of wedding the ruthless Paeda – but it was what she must do to him
that concerned her the most.

At dusk, they made camp in the woods, not far from the
road. Mercifully, the rain had ceased, but all of the travelers were soaked
through. A dense fog closed in on them, sealing the company in a damp,
colorless world.

Alchflaed saw to Briosa and retired to her tent as soon
as it was ready. She did not join the men for their evening meal and sent Bryni
away when he came bearing a wooden bowl of stew. She told him that she had a
headache and was not hungry. Indeed, her belly had tied itself in knots. She
felt as if she would choke if she tried to force down a mouthful of food.

Inside her damp tent, Alchflaed hung up her sodden fur
mantle next to the fire and did her best to get dry. Soon, steam was rising off
her cloak and feeling had returned to her numb fingers. She could hear the
rumble of men’s voices outside but, fortunately, the Mercians left her in
peace.

Darkness fell and Alchflaed fed her fire with damp wood
before stretching out, as close as she dared, next to its warmth. However, she
could not sleep. The tide she had been keeping back since her departure from
Bebbanburg, had been loosed. Try as she might, she could not draw her thoughts
away from the task ahead.

Marry him and then kill him.

She was not a murderer. Did her father really think her
capable of it?

The night stretched out. Somewhere in the dark, an owl
hooted. Alchflaed lay alone, staring up at the darkness, listening to the sound
of her breathing, and the gentle pop of embers in the fire pit next to her.
When the first glimmer of dawn stained the eastern sky, she still lay awake.
Dry-eyed, her head pounding from lack of sleep, she watched pale light filter
in from the smoke slit in the roof of her tent.

Marry him and then kill him.