Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (27 page)

Werbode’s voice, aggressive and rough with malice, intruded.

“That wolf will be the only one to acknowledge you, once we reach Tamworth.”

Ermenilda looked up to find him looming over her. The warrior had a wild, dangerous look in his eye.

“You will be shunned, treated like the devious witch you are.”

He was standing too close, and Mōna let out a growl, low in her throat. Werbode ignored the wolf, his dark gaze burning into Ermenilda.

“I knew from the first you were trouble, but Wulfhere couldn’t see beyond your pretty face.”

Ermenilda eventually found her tongue. Werbode had always unnerved her, but now he was frightening.

“Get away from me.”

The warrior leered at her. “Afraid? You should be.”

Wulfhere stepped in between them, forcing the warrior to take a step back.

“Werbode, that’s enough.”

The warrior spat on the ground in response. “You still defend her?”

“She is the Queen of Mercia, and you will address her as such,” Wulfhere replied, his voice emotionless.

Werbode shook his head and drew his seax from its sheath at his waist.

“The sight of her turns my stomach, as does your weakness,” he snarled.

A deathly hush settled over the glade.

Wulfhere watched his thegn, giving no sign of offence, surprise, or fear. Mōna’s growling grew louder. Ermenilda saw the hackles rise on the back of the wolf’s neck, and her body coiled, ready to spring.

“What are you doing, Werbode?” Wulfhere asked gently.

“Showing the others who you really are.”

“And who’s that?”

Around them, his men shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting between the king and his thegn.

“Weak. A man who lets a woman make a fool of him.”

Wulfhere appeared unmoved by Werbode’s insult, although the thegn’s words chilled Ermenilda.

Is that what they all think?

“Do you really want to fight me?” Wulfhere asked.

Werbode smiled at him, showing him his teeth. “I want to gut you.”

Wulfhere drew his own seax, a short fighting dagger with an ornately carved wooden handle.

“One of us is going to die here,” he told the thegn.

Werbode’s smile widened. He backed away from the king, shrugged off his cloak, and tossed his seax with an arrogant flick of his wrist. “It’s time to meet your precious god.”

Ermenilda watched the scene unfold with growing horror. Yet she could not help but be impressed by Wulfhere’s reaction to his thegn’s threats. If they concerned him, he did not show it.

Instead, Wulfhere turned his head to Ermenilda, their gazes meeting for the first time since dawn.

“If I should fall, Mōna will guard you,” he told her. His gaze shifted to the wolf. Mōna stared back at him, her yellow eyes glowing.

“Àmundae,” he commanded softly.

Protect.

Ermenilda wanted to speak, to tell Wulfhere to halt this madness, but her throat had constricted.

Wulfhere took off his fur cloak and dropped it to the ground. He stepped away from her and Mōna, walking out in the clearing where Werbode awaited him.

“Wulfhere, stop!” The words finally burst from Ermenilda. “You don’t have to do this. Ignore him!”

Wulfhere glanced back at her, a bitter smile curving his lips. “Some things cannot be ignored. He insults us both.”

“But I don’t care if he insults me. They’re only words!”

“Words have more power than you realize.” Wulfhere looked away from her. “You may not care, but I do—and Werbode will answer for it.”

“Still explaining yourself to your fishwife?” Werbode mocked as Wulfhere approached him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she cut off your balls on your wedding night.”

Wulfhere smiled at him, and the expression chilled Ermenilda to the bone. It was a killer’s smile.

“You talk too much,” Wulfhere told Werbode quietly. “It’s always been a failing of yours.”

In response, the warrior spat once more on the ground. However, Ermenilda could see his arrogance had ebbed slightly.

A hush had settled over the clearing as the king’s men watched and waited for the fight to begin. To Ermenilda’s untrained eye, both men looked like equal opponents. They were both tall, muscular, and in their prime. Yet, in looks they were the opposite—one as dark as a raven’s wing, the other as pale as a summer’s dawn.

The two men circled each other. Werbode grinned, tossing his knife from hand to hand as if he was toying with the king. In contrast, Wulfhere appeared watchful, his body coiled and ready. Neither man bore shields. They both carried their weapons in their right hands.

Werbode attacked first, with a suddenness that made Ermenilda start. He closed in on the king fast in short, shuffling steps that brought him hard up against his opponent.

Wulfhere was ready for him. His left hand snapped up, grasping Werbode’s right wrist, and he struck at him with his own weapon. The blade scored the edge of the thegn’s leather jerkin. Werbode twisted away and danced back a few steps.

They circled each other once more, before Werbode attacked again, slashing at Wulfhere’s face. The king brought his seax up to deflect it, and the two men drew apart.

It was like watching a deadly dance. They circled—gazes fused—before attacking, withdrawing, and attacking again. Ermenilda saw they had different fighting styles; Werbode was showy and aggressive while Wulfhere was watchful and minimal in his movements, as if conserving his energy.

Werbode drew first blood, in a downward slice that slipped under Wulfhere’s defense and cut into his left thigh.

Ermenilda heard Wulfhere’s hiss of pain. A dark patch soaked through the leg of his breeches, but he paid it no mind. A moment later, he lunged forward, catching Werbode by surprise, and struck out at his face.

The edge of Wulfhere’s blade left a ribbon of scarlet across the thegn’s cheek.

“Your mother was a dirty whore!” Werbode cursed him as they circled once more. “I had her. All your father’s men had her.”

Werbode meant his words to inflame, to incite Wulfhere into anger so he would do something rash and foolish.

Wulfhere did not rise to the bait.

Angered, Werbode attacked again, his blade cutting into Wulfhere’s leather wrist brace. Ermenilda saw blood trickling down her husband’s bare arm, but like the injury to his thigh, he paid it no mind. His attention did not waver from his opponent.

They continued to fight, and more blood flowed. Wulfhere sustained another cut to his leg, although he managed to slash Werbode deeply across the front of his right thigh and above his left hand. The hand wound bled copiously, dripping onto the grass.

Ermenilda watched the fight, nausea creeping up her throat as she did so. She had risen from the tree stump but felt as if her feet were made of stone—she could not move. Mōna stood next to her, the beast’s muscular body pressed against hers. The wolf continued to growl low in her throat, her gaze fixed upon the two men circling and slashing at each other just a few yards away.

The fight ended as quickly—and violently—as it had begun.

Werbode leaped high into the air, aiming a killing thrust at Wulfhere’s throat. The king ducked beneath him and brought his own seax up under Werbode’s rib cage, burying it to the hilt.

Werbode’s grunt of agony ripped through the glade. He collapsed to the ground, still slashing at his opponent. Wulfhere moved fast. He yanked the blade free and knelt on Werbode’s chest, pinning him down. He stared down at him with pitiless eyes. Without uttering another word, he cut Werbode’s throat.

Werbode lay twitching under him, his blood soaking into the dirt.

Wulfhere eventually climbed to his feet. Ermenilda saw the fire in his eyes. Battle lust still consumed him. However, he did not look at her, but at his men.

“Does anyone else question my honor?” he asked them, his voice a low growl.

Heart pounding, Ermenilda studied their faces. She searched for a sign that another sought to challenge him. None came. Werbode had acted alone.

“Does anyone else wish to insult the queen?” Wulfhere demanded, his voice hardening.

Only silence greeted him.

Ermenilda approached Wulfhere cautiously, as one would a wounded animal. He was standing alone, by his horse, and was attempting to staunch the flow of blood from the cut on his thigh with a leather strap. She noticed he was pale and guessed it was from pain and loss of blood.

“Wulfhere,” she greeted him softly. “Will you let me take a look at those wounds?”

The king turned to her, his expression enigmatic.

“I am fine. They can wait till Tamworth.”

Ermenilda held Wulfhere’s gaze steadily.

“Please . . . you’re still bleeding.”

The king exhaled sharply, irritated, but Ermenilda remained before him. Finally, he nodded. They stood a few yards away from where Wulfhere’s men finished their noon meal. They had dragged Werbode’s corpse away into the trees, where scavengers would most likely find him, and returned to their meal as if nothing had happened. Their nonchalance shocked Ermenilda, but then she remembered that these were all hardened warriors, used to the blood and gore of a shield wall.

The death of one man—and one who had not been well liked—meant little to them.

Wulfhere and Ermenilda walked over to the stream. First, making sure she avoided eye contact with him, Ermenilda undid the leather brace on Wulfhere’s wrist and looked at the wound. It was not deep, but it was still bleeding heavily. She tore strips of linen from her undertunic and wet one of them in the stream, before washing the wound. Then, she bound it with a dry strip of cloth.

All the while, Wulfhere said nothing. He merely watched her under hooded lids.

When Ermenilda had tended to his arm, he undid his breeches and pushed them down to his ankles so she could examine the two wounds on his left thigh. Ermenilda gritted her teeth when she saw how serious one of the cuts was. Werbode’s seax blade had sliced deep into the flesh, cutting into muscle.

“This will need stitching,” she told him, “but I will bind it as best I can for now.”

Wulfhere nodded, although she could see he was sweating from the pain. As she tended to him, Ermenilda was aware that Mōna sat nearby watching them calmly with warm amber eyes.

“My wolf seems to have taken a liking to you,” Wulfhere observed.

“Aye,” Ermenilda agreed, not taking her gaze from her task. “I cannot think why, though. Everyone else here hates me.”

“I do not,” he replied.

“You should,” she said stiffly. “After what I’ve done.”

Wulfhere’s mouth twisted.

“So you agree with Werbode. I should have cast you out into the wilderness?”

She looked back down at the leg she had just bound. Despite her best efforts, blood had started to seep through the bandage.

“It’s what I deserve,” she replied.

Wulfhere gave a soft laugh, causing her to look up and meet his gaze for the first time since they had stopped by the stream.

“I think you’d like that . . . Saint Ermenilda, the martyr.”

There was no malice in his voice, just weariness. Even so, the words held a sting. Ermenilda finished binding his wounds in silence.

***

They entered Tamworth as the sun slid gently beyond the western horizon.

Ermenilda rode alongside Wulfhere upon a bay gelding that had been Werbode’s, and they led the party up to the high gate. Her skin prickled under the stares and whispers that greeted them. Many of the townsfolk cried out her name and pointed.

Beside her, Wulfhere stared ahead, as if he had not seen them. Ermenilda clenched her jaw and attempted to do the same, although it was hard to maintain her composure as the crowd swelled in size.

The news of her return raced ahead of them like the plague, and by the time they rode under the high gate, all those who lived inside the Great Tower of Tamworth had spilled out into the yard to greet them.

At the back of the group, standing on the stone steps leading down from the tower, Ermenilda spied Wynflaed.

The young woman stood frozen to the spot as she stared at Ermenilda. Her thick auburn hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her green eyes were enormous on her pale face. The maid’s expression was not unlike the one Wulfhere had worn when he had discovered her in Bonehill’s garden. Wynflaed looked at her as if she had risen from the dead.

Ermenilda slid down off her horse and glanced over at Wulfhere. He was pale, his face all sharp angles, although she could not tell whether the austerity on his face was due to pain or anger. He handed his horse over to a stable boy and crossed to her, limping slightly. Ermenilda glanced down and saw that the linen she had bound his leg with was now bright scarlet.

“Come,” he said, taking a firm hold of her elbow. “Best you wait upstairs and allow me to explain what has happened.”

Ermenilda swallowed hard. Nerves had twisted her belly in knots, yet she could not let him face his hall alone. She had never planned to return to Tamworth, but now that she had, it would be cowardly to hide up in the King’s Loft.

If she had been prepared to run away, she also had to be prepared to deal with the consequences.

“I should stay with you,” she replied. “Otherwise I shall only give everyone more of a reason to hate me.”

Wulfhere’s gaze met hers, and she saw his surprise, before he eventually nodded.

“Very well, let’s go in and face them.”

Wulfhere’s chest heaved in agony. He lay with a blade clenched between his teeth while Glaedwine finished stitching his wounds. The cunning man had poured strong wine over the wound, before stitching it with a hemp thread—a process that had nearly caused the king to pass out from pain. They sat alone in an alcove, out of sight from the rest of the hall.

“You were fortunate, milord,” Glaedwine said as he straightened up and reached for a basin of warm water. “Any deeper and Werbode would have severed an artery.”

Wulfhere unclenched his jaw and removed the seax blade. His left leg pulsed; it felt as if it was on fire.