Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (11 page)

“Very well,” Wulfhere conceded. He rose from his seat and waved to the priest, who had just entered the hall. “Seaxwulf will take you there.”

Ermenilda bowed her head. “Thank you, milord.”

She rose to her feet, forcing herself to maintain the appearance of serenity. Wulfhere’s brother was observing her. He had the kind of sharp gaze that missed nothing, and she wondered if he had noticed the tension between her and Wulfhere.

Without another word, she stepped down from the high seat and made her way toward Seaxwulf.

Wulfhere watched his betrothed cross the hall with the priest, Seaxwulf, at her side. He silently admired her proud posture; the long, slender curve of her back; and the way her golden hair spilled like honey over her shoulders.

The journey from Cantwareburh had been the longest of his life. He ached for Ermenilda. Over the past few days, he had been able to think of nothing else but his betrothed.

“She is indeed lovely.”

Aethelred’s voice drew his attention away from the Kentish princess, forcing his gaze back to his brother. He did not like the way Aethelred was smirking. As children, it had always been a sign that his younger brother was about to stir up trouble.

“She is,” Wulfhere agreed guardedly, before taking a sip of his mead.

“Does she ever smile?”

Wulfhere sighed. Here was the barb he had known was coming.

“Not for me, she doesn’t.”

Aethelred favored him with a shrewd look.

“She dislikes you, doesn’t she?”

Wulfhere glared at him. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to the trained eye,” Aethelred replied. “She is a highborn lady and hides it well enough. What did you do to offend her?”

Wulfhere sat back in his chair and raked a hand through his hair.

“The fact that I exist is offensive enough. Everything from having Penda of Mercia as my sire to the fact that I have prevented her from entering a nunnery offends Lady Ermenilda.”

Aethelred raised an eyebrow. “And that doesn’t worry you?”

Wulfhere shrugged, deliberately playing down how he really felt. He was not about to share his concerns with his brother. Aethelred was competitive enough to use any sign of weakness to his advantage.

“A wife doesn’t have to like her husband,” he reminded his brother, “and it won’t prevent her from bearing my children.”

Aethelred gave him a speculative look, clearly wanting to ask more. However, Wulfhere knew that his brother had noted the warning tone in his voice.

Wulfhere decided it was time to change the subject.

“Have you been to see Mōder?” he asked.

Aethelred nodded. “I visited her just after you left for Kent.”

“How is she?”

“Well enough,” Aethelred replied with a shrug. “Although, I’ll never understand how life doesn’t bore her death.”

Wulfhere had not seen his mother, Cyneswide, since she had taken the veil two years earlier. The queen mother, once as proud a pagan as her husband, had chosen a life of seclusion in response to her eldest son taking the throne. She, like Wulfhere and Aethelred, blamed Paeda for her husband’s death. Bonehill was a day’s ride away from Tamworth, and Wulfhere knew he was overdue for a visit.

Wulfhere was about to ask his brother another question about their mother when Aethelred interrupted him.

“You said the journey home was ‘eventful,’” he said mildly. “How so?”

Wulfhere took a deep draft of mead and exhaled before replying. He had hoped to wait before delivering this news, for thinking upon it soured his mood. It would not be long before Aethelred noticed some of the king’s men were missing.

“We were attacked, upon a bridge on East Saxon lands, and lost a number of our men.”

“Hwæt?” Aethelred slammed his cup down onto the table, sloshing mead over the brim. “Those bastards!”

“It wasn’t the East Saxons,” Wulfhere replied, forestalling him. “It appears that my betrothed’s mother, Queen Seaxburh, and her sister, Aethelthryth of Ely, have been nursing a grudge against Mercia for a long while. They seek reckoning for the death of their father and brother.”

“Annan and Jurmin? But that was nearly five years ago.”

“Recent enough for their grief still to be raw,” Wulfhere replied. “Long enough for their bitterness to fester.”

“Are you going to let them get away with this?”

Wulfhere met his brother’s gaze. “Attacking me was an act of war,” he reminded him. “Never fear. Those responsible—Seaxburh, Aethelthryth, and that East Angle fool she wedded—will pay for it.”

“Just one more street, milady.”

Seaxwulf led the way up a narrow lane, to the right of where the inner palisade ended. “My church is close by.”

Ermenilda favored him with a wan smile. She did not mind the walk at all; it gave her a moment of reprieve from the Great Hall and the wedding ceremony, which loomed ever closer. Wynflaed followed close at her mistress’s heels, her gaze shifting around their surroundings with interest.

“The buildings are much bigger here,” the maid observed.

Ermenilda had also noted the same—there were many more timbered dwellings in Tamworth, the homes of the king’s wealthier thegns. It reminded her that her father’s fyrd—his king’s army—was considerably smaller than Mercia’s.

Behind the two women and priest, four of the king’s guard followed: Werbode, Elfhere, and two other men, whom Ermenilda did not recognize. Wulfhere obviously had no intention of letting his betrothed go about unescorted, especially this close to their handfasting.

Tamworth’s church sat at the top of the rise. Although not nearly as striking as Cantwareburh’s great church, it was a handsome structure of oak and local gray stone. Ermenilda picked up her skirts and followed the priest inside.

The moment she stepped within the silent, yawning space, her spirits lifted.

Wooden rafters formed the ceiling of the church, and high, narrow windows let in the watery late-afternoon light. Slate tiles covered the floor, and her boots whispered upon them as she followed Seaxwulf across to the altar.

Although Wynflaed and Wulfhere’s men had entered, they stopped just inside the entrance, leaving her in peace. Grateful for the moment of silence and relative solitude, Ermenilda knelt on the fur rug.

“I would like to pray for a few moments,” she told Seaxwulf. “If I may?”

“Of course, milady,” the priest replied, giving a gentle smile. “You never have to ask permission. You are always welcome here.”

His kindness made Ermenilda’s throat constrict. She returned his smile and turned to the altar. Clasping her hands and closing her eyes, she began to pray.

Lord, please give me the strength to wed this warlord,
she began.
I’m sorry but I feel so lost, so alone—please guide me.

Nothing but silence echoed around her, making her feel even lonelier, even more lost. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, for she could feel tears welling behind her eyelids.

I do not want to wed this ruthless, pitiless man,
she continued,
but every time he looks my way, my pulse quickens.

My body is weak.

Forgive me for it.

Ermenilda sank with a sigh into the iron tub of steaming water. It had been difficult to keep clean during the journey to Tamworth, and no amount of cold washes with a bowl and cloth could compare to a soak in a bath.

She had never bathed in a tub this large before. She could soak right up to her armpits in it. The tub she used at home had been cramped and uncomfortable to sit in, whereas she could have luxuriated in this one all evening—or she could have, had she not felt sick with nerves.

The scent of lavender, from the oil her maid had added to the water, wafted through the space, a tiny bower hidden from the main hall by a heavy tapestry. The perfume went some way to calming her, although the rumble of men’s voices behind the arras was a constant reminder of what was to come.

“Come, milady.” Wynflaed had opened a pot of lye soap and was smearing some on a wet cloth. “We had better hurry, if you want me to wash your hair as well.”

Ermenilda nodded before leaning forward and letting her maid wash her back. She closed her eyes, enjoying the heat of the water as Wynflaed poured it over her head and began to soap her hair.

“I have laid your dress out,” Wynflaed told her. “It was the blue one?”

“Aye,” Ermenilda murmured. “Thank you.”

Once her hair was washed and Wynflaed had wrung it out so that it could start drying, Ermenilda took the cloth and washed the rest of her body. She glanced down at her pale, strawberry-tipped breasts, which bobbed like two small apples in the soapy water. Like her mother, she was slender and somewhat lacking in womanly curves.

What will he think when he sees me naked?

The rush of heat that followed this thought immediately made Ermenilda regret it.

Who cares what he thinks
, she told herself, angrily scrubbing at her arms with the rough cloth. She only hoped that Wulfhere was the sort of man who preferred to couple in darkness.

It would make this whole ordeal much easier to bear.

“That’s the last lace tied, milady,” Wynflaed informed her, before stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You look radiant.”

Ermenilda turned to face her handmaid, arranging her features into a calm mask. Inside, her innards were churning. She felt on the verge of tears, and panic was clawing its way up her throat. Yet, Wynflaed thought she looked radiant.

Indeed, the dress was lovely. It was low-cut, pushing Ermenilda’s breasts together and, for once, creating a cleavage. The gown’s cloth was a pale-blue heavy silk, a fabric that her mother had purchased from merchants who had brought exotic clothes and threads from the East. A gold chain girded her hips, and the dress had long bell sleeves hemmed with gold thread. On her feet, she wore slippers made of the same blue silk as her dress.

“Thank you,” she replied, attempting to be gracious. Wynflaed was only trying to be kind.

“I think we should leave your hair unbound,” Wynflaed continued. “It’s prettier.”

“It matters not,” Ermenilda assured her with a brittle smile. “I’m sure that I’m presentable enough.”

Wynflaed’s brow creased at that, and she glanced down at her own dress—a sleeveless green tunic. Around her right bicep, the maid wore a bronze arm ring.

“I hope I am presentable,” she muttered. “I feel shabby. I wish I had brought another dress with me.”

Ermenilda smiled before shaking her head. Women were so critical of themselves. Wynflaed was even more striking than usual in that tunic, which showed off her enviable curves. Ermenilda was sure Elfhere would seek her out for a dance during the evening.

“You look lovely, Wynflaed,” she assured her. “That tunic matches your eyes. You have no need to worry.”

“Thank you, milady.” Wynflaed flashed her a grateful smile. She picked up a vial of rosewater and unstoppered it. “Just one more touch, and you will be ready for your handfasting.”

Ermenilda took a deep, steadying breath and prayed—once more—for the strength to see her through this evening, and the night to follow.

***

The ealdormen’s wives had worked miracles in the short space of time Wulfhere had given them. They had spent the afternoon decking out the walls with ivy, sunny-yellow witch hazel flowers, and creamy-white winter honeysuckle.

A venison haunch was roasting over one of the fire pits, laboriously turned by a slave boy, while mutton roasted over the other. Other slaves were bringing in baskets of treats, baked in the ovens outside the hall: breads, pies, and honey seedcakes—the traditional handfasting sweet.

Two musicians, playing a sweet tune upon a lyre and a bone whistle, stood at the back of the high seat. A crowd of excited men and women—ealdormen, thegns, and their wives—almost drowned out the music with their chatter as they clustered around the high seat, where the handfasting was about to take place.

Eventually, both the music and the conversation stopped, and all gazes shifted to the man and woman about to be joined.

Wulfhere and Ermenilda knelt before Seaxwulf. The priest wrapped a ribbon around their clasped hands. He blessed them in the name of god and bid them both to pledge their loyalty to each other.

Ermenilda felt as if her throat was full of sand, but she did her best to speak clearly. Apart from the first glimpse of her betrothed, she had not looked Wulfhere’s way since kneeling next to him. That first look had done nothing to still her pitching stomach. Wulfhere was breathtakingly handsome this evening, dressed in black leather breeches and a black quilted vest studded with amber and embroidered with gold. On his naked arms, he wore béagas—arm rings—of gold, silver, and bronze. His hair was loose, its silvery hue contrasting with the darkness of his clothing.

Kneeling next to him, Ermenilda caught the faint scent of lye soap. He had obviously also bathed in preparation for his wedding night.

Once they had completed their vows, Seaxwulf smiled down at the man and woman kneeling before him.

“May you be made one.”

The priest gently unwound the ribbon that joined them. Wulfhere and Ermenilda completed the ceremony by sharing a small cup of mead and a bite of seedcake, as tradition dictated.

Wulfhere rose to his feet and, reaching down, pulled Ermenilda to hers. He leaned down and kissed her, and the Great Hall erupted in cheers and applause.

Once the kiss ended, Ermenilda stepped back from Wulfhere, grateful he had been gentle this time. He had barely brushed her lips with his, unlike that day in front of his men when his kiss had been possessive, demanding, and humiliating.

Wulfhere met her gaze. He smiled, his eyes glittering in the torchlight.

“Ermenilda, Queen of Mercia,” he murmured, his voice low so that only she could hear. “My patience has been rewarded. Finally, you are mine.”

The feasting and reveling went on late into the night.

Wulfhere and Ermenilda sat at the head of the table, upon the high seat, where slaves brought the dishes for them to try first. Wulfhere filled Ermenilda’s trencher with the choicest cuts of meat and delicacies. He insisted on feeding her morsels from his own trencher—a sliver of aged cheese and a pickled quail’s egg.