The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Blood
at Lichfield

“See that roof up ahead,” Cynddylan pointed to the
thatched, gabled roof poking up through trees to the west. “There lies the new
border between Mercia and Powys.”

Merwenna craned her neck and peered over the
prince’s shoulder. It looked to be the roof of an ealdorman’s hall. Smoke
wreathed from a hole in its center, staining the twilight sky. They rode
through beautiful country; flat woodland of ash and elm with the purple outline
of mountains beyond. The settlement of Lichfield lay at the heart of it.

“Lichfield,” Merwenna murmured. “Do folk here know
that it now belongs to Powys?”

“Not yet,” Dylan answered. “But they will shortly.”

Merwenna’s mouth thinned at this news. She imagined
how the folk of Weyham, herself included, would have reacted, if three hundred
Cymry warriors had rode in and informed them that this land was no longer part
of the Kingdom of Mercia and that they would pay taxes to a new lord.

Cynddylan and his men would not be welcome here,
although she thought better of telling him so.

Relations had been strained between them ever since
her father had left. They had ridden together in silence, only conversing when
it was absolutely necessary. Merwenna had little to say to the prince. She had
been humiliated by her father’s refusal to take her home, and the way both he
and Dylan had decided her future as if she were of no consequence. In turn, the
prince’s manner had cooled considerably toward her. He had been generous in
swearing an oath to her father, but she could tell he was not pleased about it.

The prince drew his stallion up then and twisted in
the saddle to speak to her.

“You’d better get down,” he instructed her. “Things
might get difficult up ahead. Stay with my spears until I give the army leave
to enter Lichfield.”

Merwenna did as she was bid, sliding off the
stallion’s back and landing lightly onto the leaf-strewn ground. She watched
Dylan ride away, his purple cloak snapping in the wind. He rode up the column
to join Gwyn at the front.

Merwenna was relieved to be staying behind. She
walked alongside those warriors who traveled on foot, and breathed in the fresh
evening air, laced with wood smoke and roasting mutton. Her stomach growled in
protest, reminding her that she had eaten little since breaking her fast that
morning.

The twilight deepened, the sky turning a deep
indigo, and there was a deathly silence up ahead. The bulk of Cynddylan’s army
had now stopped, Merwenna with them, awaiting news from the front.

Night had almost fallen, before any word came.

Owain rode back, his thin, sharp-featured face
solemn, and shouted orders to the men. With surprised looks and murmurs among
them, the spears moved off.

Not understanding a word, Merwenna hurried up to
Owain.

“What is it?” she called up to him. “Is it safe to
enter Lichfield?”

“Safe enough, now,” Owain replied. “The ealdorman
met with Lord Cynddylan, and things got… heated.”

Despite that she had told herself she cared not
what happened to the prince, especially after his ingratitude toward her,
Merwenna felt a chill go through her.

“Is he harmed?”

“Just one or two cuts,” Owain replied with a
grimace. “Although the ealdorman fared much worse – he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Aye, gutted. He didn’t take kindly to the news
that Lichfield now sits in Powys.”

Listening to Owain’s matter-of-fact account,
Merwenna felt slightly queasy.

“Was it necessary to kill him?”

The warrior gave her a wry grin before answering.
“When a man comes at you swinging an axe it is.”

Merwenna stared at Owain, shocked.

“Climb up,” Owain stretched out his hand toward
her. “Lord Cynddylan has asked me to fetch you.”

Merwenna took his hand and vaulted up onto the
saddle behind him. The warrior urged his horse into a brisk canter and they
entered Lichfield along a road lined with elms. As they rode by the first
houses, Merwenna noted that this settlement was much bigger and more
prosperous, than Weyham. Lichfield was not a town of Tamworth’s dimensions, but
the state of the wattle and daub cottages they passed on the way in, revealed
that Lichfield was a village that did well for itself. They passed a patchwork
of arable fields, with only vestiges of the harvest to bring in, and clattered
across a wooden bridge spanning the wide River Trent. The water’s surface
sparkled with the last rays of the setting sun.

Like Weyham, the ealdorman’s timbered hall sat at
the heart of the village, on the edge of a wide green. Cynddylan’s men had
filled the space, and were erecting tents, unpacking supplies and unsaddling
horses, when Owain drew his horse up before the hall.

Merwenna dismounted and looked about her at the
surrounding industry. In contrast, the village itself appeared deserted. The
folk of Lichfield cowered from sight. Had it not been for the smoke rising from
the thatched roofs, the glow of firelight from within, and the glimpses of
frightened faces peering from doorways, Merwenna would have thought Lichfield’s
inhabitants had fled.

It’s not right
,
she thought as she followed Owain toward the timbered hall,
to terrify folk
so. This is their home.

When she neared the wooden steps leading up to the
oaken doors of the hall, Merwenna skirted the edge of a dark patch in the dirt.

Blood – a great pool of it. Owain had obviously
told the truth. There had been a skirmish between Dylan and the ealdorman.

Merwenna’s queasiness returned and she wished she
did not have to enter this dead man’s hall. She would prefer to have remained
outdoors, and make use of herself by helping to prepare the evening meal.
Judging from Owain’s purposeful stride, there was no chance of that.

Inside the hall, it was dark and smoky. It reeked
of unwashed bodies, stale sweat and overcooked pottage. Dogs skulked in shadows
and a group of women huddled at one end of the hall, weeping. A single fire pit
glowed in the center of the space, casting long shadows across the grimy
interior.

“Merwenna.” Cynddylan called out to her. He sat
upon a stool near the fire, surrounded by his thegns. “Over here.”

Merwenna did as bid. Yet, as she neared him, she
saw the reason he had called for her – he was injured. The leather arm guard
covering his left wrist and forearm, was slick with blood.

“You asked for me, Milord?” Merwenna stopped before
him.

Her eyes had now adjusted to the dimness, although
the sounds of grief that echoed through the hall had stretched her nerves taut.
Over the prince’s shoulder, she saw the women were keening over a man’s body.

The dead man lay upon a bier; a huge, broad warrior
with a thick, black beard. They had covered his torso with a thick cloak,
although even at this distance Merwenna could see that it was soaked through
with blood.

“I did,” The prince sipped from a cup of mead. He
seemed unconcerned that the man he had slain lay just a few yards away. “What
say you of Lichfield so far, Merwenna?”

“It seems a prosperous village,” she replied,
cautious. “Although, I’m not seeing it at its best this eve.”

The prince gave a humorless laugh in reply.

Merwenna bit the inside of her cheek, to stop
herself from saying what she really thought. Instead, she dropped her gaze and
softened her manner. “You’re injured, Milord.”

“I need you to see to this, if you would,” Dylan
motioned to his blood-soaked arm, which he carefully rested across his knees.

“Murderer!” one of the women who had been weeping
over the dead ealdorman interrupted them. She had risen to her feet and was
pointing an accusing finger at the Prince of Powys. She was a matronly woman,
dressed in fine linen with amber brooches in her greying blonde hair. Merwenna
surmised that this was the ealdorman’s wife.

“May the wound he gave you fester!” the woman
shrieked. “May you suffer long and terribly before
Nithhogg
feasts upon
your flesh!”

The woman’s curses were an assault on the ears.
Despite herself, Merwenna shrank back from the verbal assault. Yet, Dylan
appeared unmoved.

“This is a filthy, vile-smelling pit,” he said
before downing the dregs of his cup, “although I’ll admit the mead’s good.”

He rose to his feet, ignoring the ealdorman’s wife
as she continued to shriek at him.

“Do you want me to silence her?” Gwyn growled,
flexing his meaty hands as he savored the thought.

“No need – I think I shall leave the widow to her
grief,” Dylan replied. He then turned and fixed his gaze upon Merwenna once
more. “I’d thought to spend the night here, but on second thoughts I’d be more
comfortable in a tent. You can see to my wound there.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Healing
Hands

Merwenna followed Cynddylan into his tent and
waited for him to seat himself on a pile of furs by the hearth. Truthfully, she
felt nervous about tending to his wounds. Like most women in her village, she
knew how to clean and dress a wound. However, the sight of blood had always
made her ill, a weakness that irritated her mother no end.

She only hoped she would not humiliate herself in
front of the prince.

At her side, Merwenna carried a basket of healing
herbs, unguents and clean strips of linen from the ealdorman’s hall. She had
asked Owain to bring her some wine, for cleansing the wound, and awaited his
return.

Merwenna hovered in the doorway and watched the
prince attempt to unlace his leather arm guard with his opposite hand.

“Can you help me with this?” he asked finally.

“Of course, Milord,” Merwenna knelt down at his
side and placed the basket beside her. Then, she reached out and began untying
the guard with nimble fingers.

“Such formality,” the prince teased. “Call me Dylan
when we’re alone.”

Merwenna nodded but kept her gaze upon her task.
She heard someone enter the tent behind them and looked up to see Owain place a
jug of wine next to the basket.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

“That’ll be all, thank you, Owain,” Dylan replied.
“You can leave us.”

Alone with the prince once more, Merwenna focused
upon removing the guard. She could see the sharp incision in the leather, where
the axe blade had sliced through into his flesh. The blood covering it was
starting to dry and was sticky under her fingers. Merwenna felt her bile rise
as she peeled away the guard.

She heard Dylan’s sharp intake of breath, and knew
she had hurt him.

“Woden,” she murmured, peering at the deep cut that
slashed across the prince’s forearm. It was a nasty gash.

“There should be silk thread in that basket, if it
needs stitching,” the prince told her, his voice tight with pain.

Merwenna nodded and took a deep breath in an effort
to settle her churning stomach. “I will need to clean it first.”

She turned away from him and picked up the jug of
wine. Then, without giving the prince any warning of her intention, she poured
the red liquid onto his outstretched arm.

Dylan hissed a curse in Cymraeg through gritted
teeth but, to his credit, did not yank his arm away. However, he had clenched
his fist so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

“Is that necessary?” he finally managed. Merwenna
glanced at his face then, and saw that he was ashen.

“I’m afraid so,” she replied. “Wine will stop the
cut from festering.”

Merwenna doused the wound once more with wine,
before cleaning around it with a scrap of clean linen. She was relieved to see
that the blood had now been washed away. The wound was still bleeding slightly,
but it was much easier to face when he was not coated, elbow to wrist, in blood.

Next, Merwenna took a bone needle and threaded it
with silk.

“It’s best if you look away while I do this,” she
told her patient. “I’m sorry, but it will hurt you.”

He nodded, and did as she bid. Merwenna worked
quickly. She had been sewing all her life, and wielded the needle with
precision, sealing the wound shut with four neat stitches. As she worked,
Merwenna tried to convince herself she was sewing a jute sack, not digging the
bone needle through a man’s flesh.

Even so, her mouth was full of saliva and her
stomach lurched painfully. She felt light headed by the time she had finished.
Still, she had completed the deed without embarrassing herself; her mother
would have been proud. Perhaps events of late had toughened her up.

The prince’s face was very pale, his skin coated
with sweat. Yet, he had not uttered one word of protest while Merwenna had
stitched his arm, and that impressed her. She put aside the needle and thread
and reached for a pot of honey that had been mixed with herbs. She then smeared
the unguent over the wound and bound his forearm with clean linen.

When she was done, Merwenna sat back on her heels
and washed her hands clean.

“Are you well?” she asked.

Dylan nodded, although he did not look it. “I could
do with some fire in my belly though, to take my mind off my burning arm,” he
replied, his voice hoarse. “Could you fetch me some more of that wine?

Merwenna did as he bid, returning with a large cup
full to the brim of wine. She passed it to the prince, who took a long,
grateful draught. She then busied herself with tidying up the items she had
used to tend his wound.

The silence between them was starting to become
uncomfortable when Dylan broke it.

“Sit with me for a few moments,” he bid her.

Hoping her reluctance did not show on her face,
Merwenna sat down next to the glowing fire pit. After a few moments, she
glanced at Dylan and saw that some of the color was returning to his cheeks.

He gave her a wry grin. “I thank you for your
healing hands, although the fact you no longer meet my eye is slightly
discomforting. Have I offended you?”

Merwenna shook her head.

“Yet, you still won’t look at me.”

She sighed and deliberately held his gaze to prove
him wrong. “I never realized there was such a high price to pay for riding to
warn you,” she admitted, finally.

Dylan raised an eyebrow, as if he did not believe
her. “Do you think your father harsh?”

Merwenna frowned and looked away. “I left him no
choice.”

“I swore him an oath to give you a place in my
hall,” the prince reminded her. “I intend to honor it.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, wishing he would change
the subject. “You are most generous.”

“My generosity isn’t entirely selfless,” Dylan
replied, teasing her once more. She looked up and saw that he was gazing at her
intently. There was a heat in his stare that made it suddenly feel
uncomfortably warm inside the tent. “I’ve grown used to your company, and you
are lovely to look upon.”

Merwenna flushed hot but held his stare. Injured or
not, he was looking at her as he had in the woods outside Weyham. She was aware
of his nearness and the devastating effect it had upon her. Suddenly, she was
desperate to steer their conversation away from its current path.

“What of Lichfield?” she asked lightly,
deliberately changing topic. “Now that you command the village, what do you
intend to do with it?”

 “I will leave a garrison of fifty men here,” he
replied, leaning back on the furs and regarding her under hooded lids, “and
continue on my way home.”

Merwenna nodded but did not comment. She felt the
prince’s gaze upon her for a few moments longer before he spoke.

“What is it, Merwenna? You look displeased.”

“Does this village really mean that much to you
that you would slay its ealdorman to make it yours?” she accused.

“This village was already mine. I gave Aethelred
the chance to speak with me. I did not ride in here looking for a fight. The
ealdorman could have continued to oversee this village under my rule but he
chose to come at me with an axe instead. That was his choice and he paid for
it.”

“But you’ll be hated here now, don’t you see that?”

Dylan shrugged, as if such things were of little
importance to him. “A ruler doesn’t concern himself with whether all his
subjects love him. Lichfield is mine, by order of the King of Mercia, and the
folk here now answer to Powys. That is all that matters.”

Their gazes fused then, and Merwenna felt that same
strange, irresistible pull as before. She felt as if she were drowning. Even
so, his callous approach to the folk of Lichfield galled her. His arrogance was
not that different to Penda’s.

Merwenna finished tidying up and rose to her feet.
She noted that Dylan was still watching her.

“May I go now, Milord?”

“You can, Merwenna. I’ve asked my men to put up a
tent for you next to mine, so don’t worry. You won’t need to breathe the same
air as this beast.”

Merwenna’s turned to him, surprised. “I didn’t say
you were…”

“You didn’t need to – it’s written all over your
face.”

The prince was glaring at her now. His expression
was thunderous and anger gleamed in the depths of his green eyes.

Cynddylan may have been a great lord, a ruler of
men, but it appeared that her opinion of him mattered.

After the humiliation Merwenna had suffered at both
his and her father’s hands, the realization that she was capable of wounding
Dylan gave her a grim sense of satisfaction. She was not sorry for what she had
said; even if she might pay for her rashness later.

Without another word, she ducked out of the tent
and left the Prince of Powys to nurse his wounded arm and his pride.

***

Mouthy wench.

Dylan drained the dregs of his cup and glared into
the fire. What did a naïve girl know about ruling a kingdom?

She thinks me a monster.

Irritation surged through Dylan and he tossed his
cup away. What did it matter what Merwenna thought of him. And yet, it did.
When he had told her in the woods that evening that he was but a moth to her
flame, he had meant it.

Wherever she went, his gaze tracked her.

Need for her burned like liquid fire through his
veins. The lack of guile in her cerulean eyes, her frank, open nature coupled
with her gentle spirit, made him yearn to spend time with her. Merwenna’s soft
voice was beguiling, even if often he did not like what she had to say.

He had never ached for a woman so. Merwenna’s
supple, lush body, evident even in the worn homespun
wealca
she wore,
was slowly driving him mad. Had she not shrunk away from him that night outside
Weyham, he would have had her already.

Had he not have been injured, he would have taken
her tonight.

Enough
, he told
himself as he ran a tired hand over his face.
You can’t go on like this.

He should never have sworn an oath to her father.
At the time, he had been secretly pleased that Merwenna would travel with him.
Now, he realized she was a distraction he did not need – not now. There would
be plenty to command his attention once he returned to Pengwern; a hall to
rule, a crown to receive, an army to gather, and vengeance to be wreaked. The
last thing he needed was to let his desire for a woman pull him away from what
really mattered.

Long had he worked toward this moment. It had not
been easy, growing up in his father’s hall. His uncles, his cousins, and his
brother – they were all adversaries. The old king had told him to trust no one.

His father had spoken true, for Penda had betrayed
him. Although he said little to his men on the subject, the betrayal galled
Dylan more with each passing day. He would not let this lie – Penda would pay
for his treachery.