The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

By
the Fireside

Dylan and his men listened to Merwenna in grim
silence.

She finished her tale and felt anger stir around
her. News that King Penda had betrayed them, and was planning to murder his
ally, rippled around the camp.

“There will be reckoning for this treachery,” Gwyn
muttered, his craggy face dark with rage.

“There will,” Dylan replied with surprising calm.
Merwenna watched his face, and searched for some clue as to his thoughts, but
found she was looking into a handsome mask that gave nothing away. “Make sure
the camp is secure and tell the men to keep their heads. Then, return here – we
have much to discuss.”

Gwyn nodded, before striding off to do his lord’s
bidding. Then, Dylan turned, his gaze meeting Merwenna’s once more. His gaze
was suddenly hard and she felt a pang of misgiving. Till now, her focus had
been entirely on reaching her destination, and delivering her warning. She had
deliberately avoided thinking about how Dylan would react to her arrival – now,
she realized why.

“Come with me,” he instructed her.

Merwenna followed him to his tent, her stomach
fluttering nervously. The moment they were inside, out of sight of his men, the
prince rounded on her.

“You should not have come.”

“But I had to warn you,” she replied, flustered by
his anger.

“Then, send someone else. You did a foolish thing,
coming here on your own. Have you forgotten Drefan of Chester? At the very
least, your father or brother should have escorted you.”

Merwenna lifted her chin, her own anger rising. “I
don’t need an escort. I can ride as well as any man. You needed to be told –
there was no time to ask anyone for help.”

“That might be the case, but you’ve put yourself in
danger. I’d send you on your way right now but it’s not safe. Rodor and his men
will be close by now.”

Merwenna stared at him, trying not to show how hurt
she was. “You could show some gratitude,” she finally managed. “I only came to
help you.”

They stood there, gazes fused. Merwenna’s breathing
was coming in spasmodic gasps as she forced back tears. The last thing she
wanted to do was cry before this man. His lack of thanks stung.

Suddenly, a man’s cough intruded, followed by a voice
outside the tent.

“
Fy arglwydd!”

At the sound of one his men hailing him, Dylan’s
gaze shifted to the doorway.

“
Beth?”
he called back.

A short answer in Cymraeg followed and Dylan’s face
went taut as he listened.

“What is it?” Merwenna asked.

“We have a visitor,” he replied, his exasperation
clear. “Your father is here.”

***

Wilfrid was standing next to the fire pit, awaiting
them, when Dylan and Merwenna emerged from the tent.

Feeling as if her father had caught them in an
illicit act, Merwenna’s face burned. She cursed her blush, for it incriminated
her even more. Yet, when she saw the expression on her father’s face, her
embarrassment turned to dread.

Wil’s narrow gaze, clenched jaw and steely
expression spoke volumes – he was furious.

“You ride fast, Merwenna,” he greeted her. “I was
sure I’d catch up with you before you reached the camp. However, you outran
me.”

“You taught me well,” she replied with a wan smile
that faded under his glare. He had not been complimenting her, and the force of
his anger made her break eye contact and stare down at the ground.

“Good evening, Wilfrid,” the Prince of Powys
greeted Merwenna’s father, his tone neutral.

“Greetings, Lord Cynddylan,” Wil answered with a
curt nod. However, his attention was still firmly fixed upon his daughter.

“So you felt compelled to warn the prince. Why is
that?”

“
Fæder
, I’m sorry,” Merwenna replied, still
avoiding his gaze. “I had to warn him – he’s in danger.”

“And why does that matter to you?”

The tension between father and daughter stretched
taut. Looking on, the prince remained silent. Around them, a crowd of men
gathered, watching the scene unfold.

“Because… it does. He deserves to know.” Her
response sounded feeble, even to her own ears. Yet, it was the truth – why did
no one believe her?

Wil let out a sigh and ran a hand over his tired
face. “This is my fault. I married a headstrong woman, and I’ve indulged you
all your life.”

“Please
fæder
, I didn’t intend to deceive
you, or to do anything wrong,” Merwenna replied, her voice trembling as tears
threatened. “I didn’t want to alarm you, so I said nothing.”

“That’s only the half of it,” Wil replied, his grim
expression returning. “Beorn’s ashes are barely cold and here you are chasing
after another man. You’re in love with Cynddylan, aren’t you? Why else would
you ride here, as if pursued by demons, to warn him?”

Merwenna flinched. Humiliation coursed through her
in a hot wave.

“No!” she croaked. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it. By the look on your face I’d say you are
lovers already.”

“You’re wrong!” she choked out – but her father had
already dismissed her. He turned to Cynddylan, and their gazes locked.

The Prince of Powys exhaled slowly, plainly
irritated that he had been dragged into this mess. He glanced around him, at
where his men worked to secure the camp for night. Clearly, he had more
pressing issues to deal with.

“No, we are not lovers,” he replied coolly.
“Although I wouldn’t wade in here hurling accusations if I were you – I’m not
the one who can’t control my daughter.”

Wil glared at him, a nerve flickering in his jaw as
he sought to control his temper. Merwenna shifted nervously. Her father was not
a violent man, but he was fiercely protective of his family. There was no
telling how he would react.

Moments passed before Cynddylan shattered the
tension with an unexpected smile. “You can’t be blamed entirely. After traveling
with your daughter, I know how headstrong she is.”

When Wil did not answer, the prince motioned to the
crackling fire behind him, where his men were roasting a brace of conies.

“Come. Take a seat at my fire and fill your belly.
We will speak later. Rodor and his men draw close. I need to prepare for them.”

 “I would speak of my daughter now,” Wil insisted.

The prince’s smile faded, and his face hardened. He
was a man accustomed to giving orders, not receiving them.

“You forget yourself Wilfrid,” he replied, his
voice soft with an unspoken threat. “I have an attack to get ready for – your
grievances will have to wait.”

***

Merwenna and Wil had finished their meal, having
picked their rabbit carcasses clean of meat, when Wil and his men finally
joined them at the fire.

A chill wind buffeted the camp, causing the flames
to gutter in the fire pit. Dark purple clouds scudded across the night sky,
obscuring the moon and stars intermittently.

Cynddylan had just sat down, when Owain brought him
news.

“Madog has died,” the slender young man crouched
next to Cynddylan, his attention focused upon his lord. “He went peacefully in
the end.”

The prince nodded, his expression shuttered. “We
shall build him a pyre before we move on from here – so that he may reach his
forefathers without delay.”

“Did you know him well?” Merwenna asked Owain. She
and the warrior had become friends during the journey to Weyham, and she was used
to conversing with him. However, under her father’s baleful stare she wished
she had not spoken.

In contrast, Owain did not seemed to mind.

“I did. We grew up together. He has a wife and five
children awaiting him in Pengwern.”

This sobering news caused a pall of melancholy to
settle over the group. Unsettled, Merwenna looked down at the glowing embers.
How many more children had lost their fathers at Maes Cogwy?

Silence fell around the fire, the mood subdued.
Eventually, it was Gwyn who broke it. He turned his attention to Merwenna’s
father.

“How many men does Rodor bring with him?” Gwyn
asked.

“I saw eight of them in the mead hall,” Wil
replied, “I know not if there are others.”

“Do you know anything that might help us?” Gwyn
pressed.

“Only that they are Penda’s best fighters –
handpicked by Rodor.”

Across the fire, Cynddylan frowned at that
warrior’s name. “Traitorous bastard.”

Wil regarded the prince, his brow creased in
thought. “Will Rodor and his men attack in the night?”

Cynddylan nodded. “Near dawn, I’d say.”

“Shall you lie in wait for them? Let them come to
your tent before you act?”

Cynddylan shook his head. “Too risky. They will
kill sentries in order to gain access to the camp. I’d rather not sacrifice
more men for Mercian dogs.”

“What then?”

Cynddylan favored Wil with an enigmatic smile. “We
have a plan. It’s not a traditional approach. Yet, it might just work.”

Chapter Twenty-five

A
Lament for Cynddylan

In the quiet of pre-dawn, something stirred amongst
the trees.

Men, moving like shadows up the hill, slipped from
tree to tree. Although many of them were big men, they had stripped themselves
of anything encumbering. The only weapons they carried were long bladed knives;
easier to strike and kill with in the dark. Arrows, axes, spears and swords
would only hinder them.

Rodor moved near the front, his sharp gaze flicking
from side to side, checking that the way was clear. He had expected to come
across a sentry before now. The fact that they had not yet found anyone
guarding the perimeter made Rodor wary. He raised a hand, signaling to his men
to proceed cautiously.

They had traveled swiftly from Weyham, closing in
quickly on their prey now that they knew Cynddylan’s army traveled just a day
ahead of them. They had left Weyham before the dawn and journeyed hard. Rodor
had pushed his men mercilessly, allowing them only a short sleep before they
continued on their way through the night.

Now, they were all tired, but the excitement of the
chase had sharpened their senses. Rodor could smell their bloodlust. Each man
who followed Rodor was alert, and ready to play the part their leader had spent
days rehearsing.

The sky was just starting to lighten in the east,
the faintest stain on the edge of the indigo blanket of night. They had to move
quickly, before the camp awoke.

Despite the whispering wind, it was eerily quiet
this morning. The lack of sentries now alarmed Rodor. They should have
encountered at least two by now. Sensing a trap, he signaled to his men,
motioning for them to follow him. He did not want to ruin his carefully
considered plan; they would have to proceed carefully.

The camp was just before them now, he could see the
outlines of tents and standards against the sky. Just a few yards more and they
would be at the edge of it.

Rodor led his men up the final stretch, weaving in
and out of the tightly-packed trees, till he came to a clump of broom that
shielded them from the camp. It was a good spot to take stock of the layout of
the encampment. He knew the prince’s tent would stand at the heart of it, but
wanted to survey the camp first.

Rodor gently parted the broom before him and peered
out.

Then, he drew breath quickly, his body going still.

He had expected to see the encampment slumbering at
this hour – a carpet of tents with smoking fires and huddled figures around
them. Instead, he saw that the entire camp was awake, and that most of it was
gathered around a great funeral pyre.

Confused, Rodor’s gaze swept around the massed
crowd of warriors. Torches flickered, illuminating grief-stricken faces. They
were all strangely silent, as if some terrible weight lay upon them.

Then, Rodor saw four warriors carry a man out on a
bier. The crowd parted before them and Rodor stretched forward through the
broom, peering to get a glimpse of the dead man’s face.

It was hard to make out his features in the gloom,
but Rodor could see he was a tall, lithe man with dark hair. And upon his head,
he wore a silver circlet.

Rodor’s breath hissed out between clenched teeth.
No, it was not possible. He had never seen Cynddylan wear such a jewel, but he
knew what a prince’s circlet looked like. Penda’s sons wore them on ceremonial
occasions.

The warriors had reached the pyre. There, they
lifted the bier onto the mass of branches and kindling, before stepping back.
Among the men who had carried the bier, Rodor recognized the big, wild-haired
man who was the prince’s captain: Gwyn.

The warrior’s face was crumpled in grief. He let go
of the bier and stepped back from the funeral pyre.

Long moments of silence passed, and then Gwyn began
to sing. His voice – strong, deep and tuneful – filled the clearing. And
despite that he was not a man given to emotion, Rodor felt a chill prickle his
skin.

It was a haunting lament, in Cymraeg, and although
Rodor did not understand the words, he caught Cynddylan’s name.

Ef cwynif oni
fwyf i’m derwin fedd,

o leas
Cynddylan yn ei fawredd.

“Caedmon,” Rodor whispered to the lanky young man
standing to his right, who was also listening attentively to the lament.
“What’s he saying?”

Caedmon, whose mother had been a slave from Powys,
stirred uneasily, as if unwilling to reply, and fingered his stubbly blonde
beard. After a few moments, he complied, his voice a low whisper.

I shall lament until I lie in my
oaken coffin

for the slaying of Cynddylan in
his grandeur.

Slain.

Rodor looked back at the pyre, where Gwyn had just
finished his lament. Then, he watched as the warrior took a torch and stepped
forward to light the pyre.

Full of dry wood and twigs, it caught alight
quickly.

Slain – but how?

The wind fanned the flames, and the sound of
crackling wood and hiss of devouring flames filled the dawn. The pain-filled
sound of men’s sobs echoed across the clearing.

Rodor turned away – he had seen enough.

***

Rodor and his men traveled east without pause,
until the sun cleared the tree tops and warmed their backs. Only then, did he
allow them to rest.

They collapsed, under two ancient oaks, upon a bed
of fallen leaves, and drank deeply from their water bladders. After a long,
sleepless night, they were exhausted. The men spoke little amongst themselves,
relieved to finally be able to stretch out their weary bodies.

Rodor sat, with his back against the trunk of one
of the oaks, and took the first watch as his men stretched out to rest. Like
them, his body cried out for sleep, but he fought it. Instead, he brooded over
what they had witnessed at dawn.

Cynddylan was dead – slain, it seemed – and
although Rodor’s men had rejoiced to know it, their leader had been in an
ill-mood ever since.

Whoever had killed the Prince of Powys, had made
things very easy for them. Even so, Rodor had been looking forward to watching
Cynddylan’s face as he died. He felt cheated.

Still, dead was dead.

Yet, if only it were that simple.

Rodor had always trusted his instincts, and they
told him that something was wrong. Who could have killed Cynddylan? The
question gnawed at him and he went round and round in circles trying to answer
it.

He knew he had witnessed it with his own eyes;
Cynddylan burning upon the pyre. And yet, his gut told him that it was all a
ruse, a lie. He had no evidence, just a conviction that grew stronger with
every furlong they had traveled.

When we are rested, I will turn around
and go back
, Rodor promised himself. His men would not like
it; they all thought their mission had come to a convenient, if slightly
disappointing end.

I have to know if it was a trick,
Rodor
brooded.
I cannot return to Penda until I am absolutely sure.

The warmth of the sun filtered through the branches
and caressed Rodor’s face. Despite that it was growing late in the year, the
sun still had some heat to it.

He was exhausted. His muscles ached and his eyes
stung from lack of sleep. Fatigue slowly pulled Rodor down into its embrace,
and after a while he stopped trying to resist it. Sleep claimed him.

He eventually fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Rodor awoke, a while later, with a jolt.

Something was wrong.

He felt a cold blade at his throat, and his eyes
flew open. He reached for his own blade, which lay across his lap, and found it
missing.

Rage flooded through him – but it was too late for
anger. He suddenly realized that he had been tricked. The Prince of Powys had
played him like a lyre. He had known Rodor was coming, and instead of lying in
wait in his encampment, had turned the tables – hunting Rodor, as he himself
had been hunted. Cynddylan had thrown him off course, and waited till his enemy
lowered their guard, before striking.

The last thing that Rodor of Tamworth witnessed
before he died, was Cynddylan’s face staring down at him.

He was smiling.