Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (33 page)

Wulfhere bent down and suckled each breast, while his hands moved down the length of her body. Her nipples ached, her breasts sensitive to every touch. When he parted her legs and stroked her between them, Ermenilda shuddered, pleasure radiating out from his fingers.

She gasped his name, collapsing against him as he continued to suckle and stroke her.

“Please,” she panted, reaching down and stroking the length of his pulsing erection. “Waited . . . too long. I need you . . .”

Wulfhere answered her with a low growl.

He parted her legs wide and thrust inside her in one smooth movement, burying himself deeply. Ermenilda’s cry echoed through the clearing. She heard herself pleading with him.

He ground into her, pinning her against the tree trunk. Then, he began to move inside her, in long deep strokes. Her pleas turned to cries. Wave after wave of throbbing pleasure crested inside her. Ermenilda dug her fingers into his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him deeper still.

Wulfhere’s hoarse cries rose above hers. His body shuddered as he drove into her. A moment later, his body convulsed, and he spilled his seed deep in her womb. Ermenilda clung to him, as if he was a rock in the midst of a raging sea.

Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings: the moonlight filtering through the trees, the faint sound of music, and revelry to the west. She felt the heat from Wulfhere’s body and the steady drum of his heartbeat against her breasts.

This is from my dream.

She remembered it now; she had dreamed of this many times while at Bonehill Abbey, to awake aching and tormented after Wulfhere had taken her. Only, now it was real.

Wulfhere’s lips trailed the length of her neck, and she shivered under the light touch.

“My Ermenilda,” he whispered. “I love you . . . never doubt it.”

Two months later
. . .

The snow was falling gently as Ermenilda entered her garden.

The chill air, laced with wood smoke, smelled dank. Delicate snowflakes fluttered down from a colorless sky. It was getting late in the day, and beyond the swirling snow, daylight was fading.

Ermenilda moved through the garden, her rabbit-skin boots sinking into the pristine crust of fresh snow. Basket under her arm, she made her way over to the large bush of rosemary. It grew against the wattle fence that encircled the perimeter. Unlike some of the other herbs, this hardy one would grow all winter.

Working quickly, for the cold air numbed her fingers, Ermenilda snipped off a large branch of rosemary and placed it in her basket.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

Ermenilda turned to see Wulfhere behind her. He wore a squirrel cloak about his shoulders. Snowflakes settled upon his hair and eyelashes like tiny jewels.

Ermenilda met his gaze and smiled. She turned and showed him her basket.

“You can’t have lamb without rosemary.”

Inside the hall, the cooks were roasting two whole lambs over a spit. Ermenilda had insisted they needed to season the meat.

Wulfhere rolled his eyes. “Aye, and thanks to that lamb, the whole tower is filled with greasy smoke.”

Ermenilda grimaced. It was true—and another reason why she had been eager to venture outdoors, despite the chill. She was loath to return inside the Great Tower. The cold weather kept everyone indoors, and the odor of stale sweat, together with the smoke from the roasting lamb, made the air in her garden seem perfumed in comparison.

“Come.” Wulfhere held out his arm to her. “We will both freeze if we remain out here much longer.”

Arm in arm, Wulfhere and Ermenilda left the garden and trudged slowly through the snow back toward the Great Tower.

“I didn’t realize you were so fond of rosemary,” Wulfhere commented, casting a look in Ermenilda’s basket.

Ermenilda shrugged. “Not usually, but I have a yearning for its flavor this evening.”

She gave her husband a sidelong glance. She had initially wanted to share her news with him tonight, once they had retired to their loft. Since they were alone now, she thought that perhaps this was the right moment.

“Glaedwine says that a woman can crave odd foods once her womb quickens.”

Wulfhere abruptly halted and turned to her. The look of shock on his face made her smile.

“You’re with child?”

Ermenilda nodded, smiling hesitantly. “Glaedwine confirmed it this afternoon. The babe will be born late summer.”

The joy on her husband’s face made Ermenilda’s breath catch. Wulfhere was a self-contained man; few besides her saw behind the iron shield he presented to the world. Yet she now knew that he felt things as deeply, if not more so, than other men. In a world where only warriors survived, Wulfhere was careful whom he revealed his soul to, but the happiness in his eyes now brought tears to hers.

“You are pleased then?”

Wulfhere laughed, the sound echoing across the empty yard where they stood. He picked her up and swung her around, as if she weighed nothing. When he set her down, his eyes were shining.

“Pleased? There is no happier man in the whole of Britannia.”

He kissed her, a long, sensual kiss that melted her limbs and made Ermenilda wish they were lying naked in the furs together. When the embrace ended, they were both breathless.

Ermenilda met her husband’s gaze and, reaching up, stroked his cheek.

“And there is no happier woman either,” she replied softly.

Thank you for reading DAWN OF WOLVES. I hope you enjoyed Wulfhere and Ermenilda’s tempestuous love story!

If you enjoyed this novel, please leave an honest review on Amazon or Goodreads. It would mean a lot to me—and will ensure that others find the book too!

Thank you for your support.

Jayne

All those who have read my previous books will know that all my novels are based around real historical events and figures. This novel is no exception.

Wulfhere was Penda of Mercia’s second son, who ruled from 658–676 AD. He was married to Ermenilda, a Kentish princess, and was the first Christian king of Mercia. After Wulfhere’s death, Ermenilda was said to have taken the veil and become abbess of Ely. After her death, she was sainted. Her feast day is February 13.

There is quite a bit of evidence to suggest that their marriage was one of opposites—the wolf and the lamb. This gave me the idea for this story. However, the story recorded by history paints Wulfhere out in a very poor light.

Here is one version of the story (very different from mine!) from
Virgin Saints of the Benedictine Order
(pp. 59–64, Forgotten Books):

Wulfhere was married to the saintly and beautiful Ermenilda, daughter to Erconbert, King of Kent, and of Sexburga his wife. The latter was the daughter of the King Annas, of holy memory, who was slain by Penda. Wulfhere and Ermenilda were strangely matched, for if Wulfhere had inherited his father’s courage and military prowess, he had likewise inherited his violent and cruel temper. We wonder how St. Sexburga could have entrusted her gentle young daughter to a man of such character, and, above all, to a pagan; yet she may have foreseen that Ermenilda’s influence would at length prevail, and that the leaven of her virtues would gradually impregnate the whole country over which she would one day be queen.

Besides, it was not the first time in history that the “leopard was to lie down with the kid, and the wolf with the lamb” (Isaias xi. 6); a Patricius and a Monica, a Clovis and a Clotilde come readily to mind.

Wulfhere and Ermenilda had four children. Werburgh was the eldest and the only girl; the boys were Ulfald, Rufifin, and Kenred: the last seems to have been much younger than the others. Wulfhere probably did not interfere with the religion of his daughter, since she was baptized and allowed openly to profess her faith. He no doubt thought Christianity good enough for women: but with his sons it was a very different matter. He wished them to be fond of war, to shed blood without scruple, and to shrink from no means so long as they attained their end. Ermenilda was therefore obliged to use her influence with the utmost tact, and to instil Christian principles into them without allowing their father to suspect what she was doing. Fortunately the children all inherited their mother’s temperament and virtues; and she did not cease to water and tend with the utmost care the tender plants entrusted to her, endeavoring to enkindle within their hearts the undying flame of charity, and to impress on their minds the imperishable truths which lead to life eternal.

Werburgh must very soon have noticed the contrast between the violent nature of her pagan father and the gentle sweetness of her Christian mother, since we read of her that she had a serious thoughtfulness beyond her years, and took no pleasure in the usual enjoyments of a child. . . .

At that time St. Chad, afterwards Bishop of Lichfield, was living as a hermit in closest union with God in a neighboring forest. St. Ermenilda desired very much that her sons should have him for their master in the spiritual life now that they were growing into man’s estate; yet she dreaded her husband’s violence if he should come to know of her plan, and endeavored to carry it out with the greatest secrecy. It was therefore agreed that the two elder boys should go out on pretence of hunting expeditions, and that in the course of the chase they should slip away and seek out the hermit’s cell. This happened several times, no one apparently suspecting anything; and their young hearts being inflamed by St. Chad’s instructions, they begged him not to defer their Baptism. At length the Saint acceded to their request, and, pouring upon their heads the regenerating water, washed their souls white in the Blood of the Lamb.

In the meanwhile Werburgh had reached a marriageable age, and on account of her striking beauty and sweet ways, she was eagerly sought after by suitors for her hand. . . .

However, she had bound her virginity by vow to Christ, and with angelic purity repulsed all suitors, God himself dwelling in her as sole master of all her affections.

Among those who sought her in marriage was a powerful nobleman named Werebode. Wulfhere was greatly indebted to this man, and was anxious to keep on good terms with him from motives of policy as well as of gratitude. He therefore readily agreed to give him his daughter, provided she herself would agree to the union. Werebode was a headstrong, haughty man, unaccustomed to be thwarted, and with a very exalted idea of his own attractions. When, therefore, Werburgh turned a deaf ear to his proposals, he was stung to the quick, and being mad with passion, his love speedily turned into hate. He understood that it was her religion which had raised a barrier between them, and he determined to be revenged both on Werburgh and her faith. He had noticed the mysterious disappearance of the two young princes in the forest, and had secretly watched their interviews with St. Chad. He therefore formed the diabolical plan of compassing their ruin.

He sought out their father and poured out a story full of slander and cunning about the deceit of his sons, telling him how they had deserted the gods of their ancestors, Odin and Thor, and had embraced the religion of the Crucified, and how they were plotting to seize their father’s crown and kingdom to make it Christian too. It was easy enough to rouse Wulfhere’s passionate nature, and Werebode so worked upon his feelings that he became beside himself with rage. “Come,” said Werebode, “and I will give you proof of my story”; and with that the two rode off into the forest. It happened that at the moment they reached the hermit’s cell the two boys were kneeling in the rude chapel, having but now received holy Baptism from the hands of St. Chad. . . . The King was exasperated, and, breaking in violently upon them, demanded angrily of them to renounce their superstition and give up their foolery. But no threats could move them, and the father in his fury bade Werebode murder his own sons. Werebode had attained his end, but his triumph was to be shortlived, for soon after he perished miserably.

We can well imagine [Ermenilda’s] grief . . . at the terrible crime committed by her husband, and at the loss of two who were dearer to her than life, yet joy and gratitude for the martyrs’ death, which had won for her sons an immortal crown. Taking Werburgh with her, Ermenilda set out for the hermitage, and there found St. Chad keeping vigil by the precious relics. Ulfald and Ruffin lay locked in each other’s embrace, apparently wrapped in a deep sleep, for no trace remained on their countenances to tell of the violence of their death; rather the smile, which lingered there betokened the souls’ awakening to gaze for ever on the Master for whom their lives had been sacrificed. Tenderly and reverently St. Chad, assisted by Ermenilda and Werburgh, laid them in their last resting-place, which was soon to become so favourite a place of pilgrimage. Then the mother and daughter retraced their steps homewards with heavy hearts, not knowing what to expect, scarce knowing what to hope for. But the dying prayer of the sons for their father had not been in vain; the blood which they had shed cried for mercy and not for vengeance, and even Wulfhere’s hard nature could not withstand the flood of grace which the little martyrs obtained for him. Remorse, keen and deep, had taken possession of him, and he bitterly deplored the fearful result of his passion. Humbled and crushed, he listened the more readily to the words of hope spoken to him by Ermenilda and Werburgh, and consented to go to St. Chad to confess his sin and be instructed by him in the faith for which his sons had died. Finally, he embraced Christianity, and with the sacred waters of Baptism expiated his crime.

I’ve also used an excerpt from the epic Anglo-Saxon poem
Beowulf
(1384–1389) as the scop’s song in chapter twenty-five.