Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (31 page)

Instantly, she recognized Aeaba and Burghild, two of the women whose hostile stares had dogged her steps since her return to Tamworth. Their husbands were thegns, and both women had a high standing in the Great Tower. Aeaba was plump with thick walnut-colored tresses that she wore braided around her head. Her friend, Burghild, was tall and thin with pale blonde hair.

Both women stalked her, their narrowed gazes glinting in the torchlight.

“Christ-worshipping witch,” Burghild whispered. “Did you think we would never get you alone?”

“You can’t take that wolf everywhere with you,” Aeaba chimed in. “Sooner or later, we were going to corner you.”

Ermenilda backed up toward the door she had just entered, her heart hammering. The biting wind had sharpened her senses, and she was aware how vulnerable she was here without Mōna to protect her.

“What do you want?” Ermenilda gasped out the words, fear turning her limbs weak.

“You should be punished,” Aeaba replied, her voice rising. “The king is too sick to do it, so we must.”

“A pretty face is wasted on you,” Burghild added. “You need some scars.”

Terror pulsed through Ermenilda. Clumsily, she drew Wulfhere’s seax. It was a wicked-looking blade, and it caused both women to check their step.

Burghild recovered first. “Do you think that scares us?”

“You don’t have the stomach to use it?” Aeaba mocked.

“Don’t come a step closer!” Ermenilda gasped, holding the knife low as she had seen Wulfhere do when he and Werbode fought. Now that she held a weapon, her paralyzing fear had ebbed slightly. In its place, she could feel anger building.

Aeaba made a grab for her.

Without thinking, Ermenilda slashed the dagger at her and felt the blade bite flesh.

Aeaba squealed and fell back clutching her arm.

“Hōre! You cut me!”

“I warned you,” Ermenilda said between gritted teeth. Her husband was upstairs dying, and these two were preventing her from returning to him. “Keep away from me.”

Silence filled the entrance hall.

Ermenilda’s attackers glared at her, deciding upon their next move. Strangely, the last of her fear had dissolved now, and she readied herself to fight.

“Come on then,” she taunted the women. “But, don’t think I’m going to make it easy for you.”

A moment later, a man’s voice echoed through the hall.

“I’d heed her if I were you.”

Ermenilda’s gaze shifted behind Aeaba and Burghild to where a figure leaned against the doors leading into the hall. The man detached himself from the shadows and stepped into the light.

Aethelred viewed the trio with a hooded gaze.

“Aeaba . . . Burghild. Do your husbands know what you’re up to?”

Ermenilda saw both women blanch, although Aeaba was the first to recover. She was a bold, pugnacious woman, and her self-righteousness was too strong to be leashed for long.

“Our husbands would applaud our actions, milord,” she replied, drawing herself up as she faced him. “This woman has brought shame upon her own husband, upon your family. She must be punished.”

“You take a lot upon yourself, Aeaba,” Aethelred said softly. Ermenilda knew that tone. Wulfhere used it when he was angry. “That is for the king to decide, not you.”

Aeaba’s confidence appeared to falter slightly. She glanced at her accomplice, but Burghild seemed to have developed a sudden fascination with the wooden floor beneath her feet.

“Go to bed,” Aethelred ordered, his tone brooking no argument, “and let no more be said of this. If I ever catch you threatening the queen again, I will deal with both of you harshly.”

Aeaba and Burghild slunk away like beaten dogs, taking their bitterness and resentment with them. The door to the main hall whispered shut behind the women, leaving Aethelred and Ermenilda alone.

“Did they hurt you?” Aethelred asked.

Ermenilda shook her head and sheathed the seax, noting that her hands were trembling.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I don’t know what would have happened had you not intervened.”

Aethelred gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You looked to have the situation in hand, to me. I just thought I had better step in before those two stupid geese got their throats cut.”

Ermenilda tried to smile but failed. The whole incident was yet another reminder of all the mistakes she had made.

“I had better return to Wulfhere,” she replied quietly.

The light from the cressets lining the walls flickered across Wulfhere’s ashen skin. He was breathing so shallowly now that Ermenilda could barely make out the rise and fall of his chest.

Glaedwine was right: Wulfhere was giving up the fight.

Ermenilda sank down on the furs next to her husband, her limbs still quivering from her brush with Aeaba and Burghild. She knelt upon the floor before her husband and, clasping her hands together, murmured a heartfelt prayer.

“Please Lord, spare this man. Don’t take him from this world . . . not now.”

Finishing her prayer, Ermenilda climbed onto the furs. She stretched out next to Wulfhere and lay on her side, facing him. She reached out and took his limp, heated hand in hers.

“Fight, Wulfhere,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Don’t let Werbode take you with him.”

Her husband did not respond. He just lay there, sinking further and further into darkness. Ermenilda watched him for a few moments before grief splintered inside her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Tears slid down her cheeks, scalding them. “The truth is that I never wanted us to be happy together. I made up my mind about you before we ever wed. I wanted to hate you, to feel superior to you. I learned at my mother’s knee—her bitterness and resentment became my own—and it poisoned everything between us.”

Her husband was a warlord, but he was not the monster she had portrayed him to be. She accepted that now, although she had known from the first. His quest for revenge had sickened her, but it was no worse than the motivations that had spurred her own mother and aunt to plot an attack on him. Wulfhere was not responsible for his father’s actions, but Aethelthryth and Seaxburh had wanted reckoning at any cost.

“We’re all flawed,” she told him, her voice quavering, “and me more than most. If you would only live, Wulfhere, I would show you just how sorry I am. Live and I will love you—I promise!”

There were no more words, for her weeping now turned to silent sobs. She shifted closer to him and laid her head upon his chest. His skin was dry and scorching, as if too close to a fire pit.

Ermenilda’s tears rained down, soaking them both.

She wept for a long while, an outpouring of pent-up emotion she had been suppressing for months.

Ermenilda let it all go.

When she finished crying, she fell asleep where she lay, upon Wulfhere’s bare chest.

She awoke to the rumble of voices and the aroma of baking bread.

Below, the Great Hall was coming to life, as its inhabitants stirred. Ermenilda listened for a few moments, letting the fog of sleep clear. For a short spell, she forgot where she was. All she knew was that it was dawn and time to rise.

Then, she remembered Wulfhere.

She still lay upon his chest; she had not shifted all night. The skin against her cheek no longer burned, but was quite cool.

Ermenilda’s heart leaped and the last remnants of sleep dissolved. She sat up, pushing the hair that had come free of its braid from her eyes.

Her gaze went to Wulfhere’s face. He was still and pale. Dread rose within her, and she placed a hand on his forehead, confirming that the fever was gone.

Is he dead?

She leaned back over his chest, this time placing her ear over his heart.

Ermenilda held her breath, and then she heard it.

The slow, reassuring thud of his heart. She felt the gentle rise and fall of his breathing beneath her.

Relief swept over her in a giddying wave.

He’s alive!

Ermenilda scrambled to her feet and flew across the platform toward the ladder. She needed to fetch Glaedwine.

The healer placed his hand on Wulfhere’s forehead and gave a grunt of approval.

“Good.”

He checked for swellings over the king’s body—prodding under his arms and in his groin, and gave another grunt when he found nothing to concern him. Lastly, he cleaned the wounds on Wulfhere’s thigh and examined them.

“There is no pus this morning,” he announced. He looked up, his gaze meeting Ermenilda’s across the furs. “I think your husband will live, milady.”

Ermenilda smiled back at him, speechless with relief.

“He will wake up soon enough,” Glaedwine concluded. “Make sure he has something to eat and drink when he does.”

Ermenilda nodded. “Thank you, Glaedwine.”

Prince Aethelred stood next to the cunning man. The tension appeared to leave his body at Glaedwine’s judgment. He was now watching Ermenilda, surprise etched on his face. She met his gaze, and he frowned.

“I thought you cared little for my brother. Yet, here you are rejoicing that he will live.”

They were blunt words. Ermenilda did not blame Aethelred for his reaction but, this morning, nothing could dampen her joy. Wulfhere would live, and that was all that mattered.

She gave Aethelred a small, enigmatic smile.

“A long night changes many things.”

Aethelred snorted and cast Glaedwine an exasperated look. “God’s bones, I’ll never understand women.”

The healer laughed before casting a shrewd look in Ermenilda’s direction. “You’re not alone, Aethelred—neither do most men.”

***

Wulfhere awoke slowly. First, he was aware of the faint murmur of voices. He felt warm air caress his skin and breathed in the aroma of roasting meat . . . mutton.

His body felt weak but blessedly cool. The furnace that had roared within him and the aching in his joints had both disappeared.

Wulfhere’s eyes flickered open. It was day, for pale light filtered in from the high windows above him. He swallowed before wincing. His throat felt like a dry piece of wood.

“Water,” he croaked weakly.

“Here.” A woman’s soft voice greeted him. “Drink slowly or you’ll choke.”

It was then that he realized his head was resting upon someone’s lap. He caught the faint scent of rose water and lavender.

Ermenilda.

He drank from the cup she raised to his lips, taking three swallows although he wished to drain the whole cup. He rested back against her with a groan.

He felt as weak as a newborn lamb.

“What happened?” he rasped. “Did I sleep?”

“The fever almost claimed you,” Ermenilda replied, “but you fought back.”

It was all returning to him now. The knife fight with Werbode, his injuries—and the fever that followed.

“My leg . . . will I lose it?”

“Glaedwine says it will heal, now you are over the worst.”

She shifted from under him, removing her softness and scent. Instead, she placed a rolled up fur under his head as a pillow and came to sit by him.

Wulfhere drank her in. Dressed in a simple, sleeveless tunic the same color as her eyes—walnut brown—she was a welcome sight. However, he noted the tiredness etched upon her delicate face and the lines of tension about her eyes and mouth.

“You worried us all,” she said, before favoring him with a smile.

The expression made his breathing still. There was a softness in her eyes when she smiled at him that he had never seen before.

“Even you?” he asked. He cursed his raspy voice. It sounded as if he had just swallowed a cup of sand.

She nodded. He saw her blush, and her eyes glittered unnaturally bright.

“When you found me at Bonehill, you could have punished me,” she began, her voice low and steady, “but, instead you protected me from Werbode, and even when you were ill, you worried for my safety.”

Ermenilda broke eye contact with him, developing a sudden fascination with her hands clasped upon her lap.

“I never had a chance to thank you,” she whispered.

“Thank me?” Wulfhere eventually found his tongue. “All I have ever done is hurt you.”

Her gaze shifted back to him.

“I am hardly blameless,” she replied firmly. “Both of us had a part to play.”

Silence fell. Wulfhere watched her. A veil had lifted revealing them both to each other for the first time. He reached out and took her hand, clasping his fingers around hers.

“Can we start again?”

It took everything he had to ask the question. His chest constricted as he waited for her answer. It suddenly hurt to breathe.

Wordlessly, Ermenilda squeezed his hand. Then, she nodded.

“You win again!”

Aethelred flung the knucklebones down on the table in disgust. Glowering, he reached for the jug of ale and refilled his cup.

“If I hadn’t been watching you like a hawk, I’d think you were cheating.”

Wulfhere gave a soft laugh and raised an eyebrow.

“Poor loser.”

The brothers sat upon the high seat. It was late morning, and the cooks had almost finished preparing the noon meal. The aroma of rabbit and leek pie wafted through the hall, causing Wulfhere’s stomach to growl. In the five days since he had awoken from the fever, he had been constantly hungry. He was still weak, and his leg pained him, but Glaedwine assured him the wounds to his thigh were now healing well. They had scabbed over, and the swelling had now completely gone.

“Another game?” he asked Aethelred.

“Not likely,” his brother grumbled.

Wulfhere regarded the prince a moment, smiling at Aethelred’s inability to lose gracefully.

“I haven’t asked you how the trip to Ely went,” he said, changing the subject. “Did the widow behave herself?”

Aethelred’s expression darkened further.

“We fought from the moment we left Tamworth till when I left her among the ruins of Ely,” he admitted.

“I am sorry to have burdened you with such a shrew,” Wulfhere replied, forcing himself not to grin. “Surely, it was not too much of an ordeal.”