Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) Read online

  Historical Romances by Jayne Castel

  The Kingdom of the East Angles series

  Night Shadows (prequel novella)

  Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)

  Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)

  The Deepening Night (Book Three)

  The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series

  The Kingdom of Mercia series

  The Breaking Dawn (Book One)

  Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)

  Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ***

  For grandad—your love for East Anglia inspired me to write these books.

  ***

  Contents

  Maps

  Historical background for Dawn of Wolves

  Glossary of Old English (in alphabetical order)

  Cast of characters

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  PART TWO

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  PART THREE

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  Historical Note

  More works by Jayne Castel

  About the Author

  Maps

  Historical background for Dawn of Wolves

  In the seventh century, England was not as we know it today. The Anglo-Saxon period lasted from the departure of the Romans, from around 430 AD, to the Norman invasion, in 1066 AD. My novels focus on the period in between the departure of the Romans, and the first Viking invasion in 793 AD—a 300 year period in which Anglo-Saxon culture flourished. The British Isles were named Britannia (a legacy of the Roman colonization) and split into rival kingdoms. For the purposes of this novel, we focus on two of them: Mercia and Kent.

  Glossary of Old English (in alphabetical order)

  béagas: arm rings

  Blod monath: Blood month (November)

  ealdorman: earl

  Ēostre: Easter

  Englisc: English (language)

  fæder: father

  fyrd: a king’s army, gathered for war

  handfasted: married

  heah-setl: high seat (later called a “dais”) for the king and queen

  hōre: whore

  Hwæt?: What?

  Lindisfarena: Lindisfarne Island (Holy Island)

  mōder: mother

  Nithhogg: a fire-breathing dragon that lived in the underworld

  nón-mete: midday meal (literally “noon-meat”)

  Powys: Wales

  thegn: a king’s retainer

  Thrimilce: May (month) (literally “the month of three milkings,” when livestock were often so well fed on fresh spring grass that they could be milked three times a day)

  thrymsas: Anglo-Saxon gold shillings

  Thunor: Thor

  “Wes hāl”: “Greetings” in Old English

  Winterfylleth: Anglo-Saxon Halloween

  Woden: the Anglo-Saxon father of the gods (Odin in Viking mythology)

  wyrd: fate

  Cast of characters

  Aeaba and Burghild: thegn’s wives at Tamworth

  Aethelred: Prince of Mercia

  Aethelthryth of Ely: Ermenilda’s aunt, Seaxburh’s sister

  Cyneswide: Wulfhere’s mother, now a nun at Bonehill

  Elfhere: Mercian warrior

  Eorcenberht of Kent: Ermenilda’s father, King of the Kentish

  Eorcengota: Ermenilda’s sister

  Ermenilda: Princess of Kent/Queen of Mercia

  Glaedwine: cunning man (healer)

  Oswiu: King of Bernicia (Northumbria)

  Paeda: Wulfhere’s brother (dead)

  Penda: Wulfhere’s father (dead)

  Seaxburh of Ely: Ermenilda’s mother

  Seaxwulf: monk

  Tondberct of Ely: East Angle ealdorman

  Wada and Alfwald: King Oswiu’s stewards

  Werbode: Mercian warrior, Wulfhere’s chief counsellor

  Wulfhere: Prince/King of Mercia

  Wynflaed: Ermenilda’s handmaid

  Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.

  —Lord Byron

  Speak of the wolf and you will see its teeth.

  —Unknown

  Prologue

  The Winter Meeting

  Cantwareburh, the Kingdom of the Kentish, Britannia

  Winter, 657 AD

  Ermenilda watched the snow fall. The delicate flakes fluttered down from a darkening sky like apple blossoms caught by a gust of wind. An ermine crust covered the garden’s gravel paths and frosted the plants that had not died away over the winter.

  Damp, gelid air stung Ermenilda’s throat, and her fingers were numb, but still she lingered. As always, she was reluctant to leave her refuge. She circuited the path between the high hawthorn hedge and the frosted sage and rosemary, her boots sinking deep into the snow.

  Despite the cold, she had ventured out here to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the king’s hall, which was full of greasy smoke and the reek of stale sweat. Outdoors, the air tasted like freshly drawn cider. Better yet, she did not have to listen to the prattle of women, the booming voices of men, and the squeals of children bored with being cooped up indoors.

  Ermenilda loved this secret spot; it was her sanctuary. Her father had told her the Romans built this garden, and that it was a crumbling ruin when he had first come to live in Cantwareburh. Since then, his wife had poured her energy into restoring the secluded space. As soon as she could walk, Ermenilda accompanied her mother to the garden, as did her younger sister. Even over the winter, the three women spent most afternoons out here—the garden was a passion they all shared.

  At the far end of the garden, Ermenilda paused. The
re, she admired the snowy branches of her mother’s prized quince tree. As she gazed upon it, a veil of melancholy settled over her.

  Soon, I will have to leave this place.

  Nervousness fluttered just under her ribs, replacing the sadness, before giving way to a lingering excitement.

  Ermenilda had heard that Eastry Abbey also had a magnificent garden. Once settled there, she would no longer miss this one. She was hoping that her father would let her take her vows at Eastry in the spring. He had been noncommittal whenever she raised the idea, but she had time to convince him yet.

  Dusk closed in, but still Ermenilda lingered. It was only when a shadowy figure emerged from the arbor, at the opposite end of the garden, that she realized she had been missed. Cloaked head to foot in fur, her younger sister hurried down the path toward her, her face rigid with purpose.

  “I was beginning to think you had frozen to death out here! Come inside, Erme!”

  Ermenilda sighed, irritated that her sister had shattered her solitude.

  “I’ll come in soon enough,” she replied, waving Eorcengota away.

  “You must come now,” her sister insisted, her eyes shining. A mixture of cold and excitement had flushed Eorcengota’s impish face. “We have guests this evening, and Fæder insists we join them for supper!”

  “Guests?”

  Ermenilda’s irritation grew. She hated it when strangers arrived at her father’s hall—especially if they were ealdormen, for she did not like how some of them leered at her.

  “Yes, an exiled prince from Mercia,” Eorcengota enthused, virtually hopping up and down on the spot with eagerness. “He and his men are stabling their horses as we speak. Fæder wants us indoors to greet him!”

  A knot of apprehension formed in Ermenilda’s belly. Unlike her silly goose of a sister, she did not like the sound of this visitor. Her father would be delighted of course; they rarely hosted royalty from Britannia’s other kingdoms. The Kingdom of the Kentish often appeared of little importance in the wars, politics, and intrigue among the others who ruled.

  Ermenilda reluctantly fell into step with Eorcengota, following her out of the garden and through the apple orchard. The trees were naked this time of the year, their bare, spidery branches dark against the swirling snow. Ahead, the outline of the Great Hall loomed. A high, timbered structure with a straw-thatched roof, it sat raised above the surrounding garden, orchard, and stables on great oak foundations. The hall cast a long shadow in the gathering dusk.

  Shaking snow off her cloak, Ermenilda climbed the wooden steps to the platform before the doors. She nodded to the spearmen guarding the entrance and pushed the heavy oaken door open. Then she entered, with Eorcengota following close at her heels.

  Just inside the door, she almost collided with a group of men who were in the process of removing their cloaks and weapons. Ermenilda realized with a jolt that these must be the Mercians. They were dressed for traveling in thick fur cloaks, leather jerkins, woolen tunics, and heavy boots. It appeared they had tended to their horses swiftly and entered the hall just ahead of the princesses.

  Fæder will be cross.

  Ermenilda feigned calm, shrugged off her fur cloak, and handed it to a waiting servant, aware that curious male gazes had settled upon her. She did not want to look their way but, against her own will, felt her gaze drawn to one of the men.

  He stood near to her, little more than an arm’s length away. The moment their eyes met, her breath rushed out of her—as if she had just tripped.

  She had never seen a man so striking, so coldly beautiful. His eyes, ice blue, held her fast. His face was so finely drawn it appeared chiseled, and his long, white-blond hair fell over his broad shoulders. He was a big man, and she had to raise her chin to meet his gaze. The newcomer was dressed in leather armor and had just finished unbuckling a sword from around his waist, which he handed to a servant.

  “Good eve, milady,” he murmured.

  The sound of his voice, low and strong, stirred something in the pit of Ermenilda’s belly—a sensation she had never felt before—an odd kind of excitement mingled with fear.

  “Wes þū hāl,” she responded formally, trying to ignore the fact that her breathing had quickened. The man’s gaze remained boldly upon her face, an arrogant smile curving his lips. Her father’s booming voice saved her from having to converse with him further.

  “Ermenilda!”

  King Eorcenberht of Kent strode across the rush-strewn floor, sending servants scattering in his wake. He was a huge man, in both height and girth, a great fighting man in his youth. A thick beard, the color of hazelwood, covered his face—the same shade as the unruly mane, streaked through with gray, that flowed over his broad shoulders. Physically, his daughters—both slender and blonde like their mother—bore no resemblance to Eorcenberht.

  “Apologies, Lord Wulfhere,” Eorcenberht called as he approached. “My daughters were supposed to be here to greet you.”

  The blond man tore his gaze from Ermenilda and favored the Kentish king with a cool smile.

  “And they are, Lord Eorcenberht. I have just been welcomed by one of them.”

  Something in the way the man spoke the words made Ermenilda feel flustered, as if she had done something wrong.

  “Sorry, Fæder,” she murmured before quickly sidestepping the Mercian lord. “I was in the garden and lost track of time.”

  “Join your mother,” the king grumbled, “and help pour mead for our guests.”

  “Yes, Fæder.”

  Glad to be free of the Mercian’s penetrating stare, Ermenilda cast her gaze downward and hurried away.

  As always at this hour, the king’s hall bustled with activity. A handful of servants were finishing preparations for the light evening meal—a supper of griddle bread, pickled onions, salted beef, and cheese—as the household ate their largest meal at noon. The servants had put out long tables where the king’s thegns would take their meal, while the king and his kin dined upon the high seat.

  Eorcengota caught up with her sister. They made their way toward a long worktable next to the nearest of the two fire pits.

  “That must be Prince Wulfhere of Mercia,” she whispered. “He’s handsome, don’t you think?”

  “No,” Ermenilda lied.

  They joined their mother, Queen Seaxburh, upon the high table where she was pouring mead into cups.

  “Fæder’s guests are here,” Ermenilda announced. She picked up another clay jug and began helping her mother.

  “Yes, so I’ve seen.”

  There was no missing the acerbity in their mother’s voice. Ermenilda saw her glance in the direction of the newcomers and glimpsed a flash of hostility in her mother’s usually serene eyes.

  “Mōder, what is it?”

  “I have no wish to dine with Penda’s whelp,” the queen replied, her attention returning to her task. “Penda killed my father and brother. I would rather not break bread with his son.”

  Ermenilda glanced back at the blond man, who was now making his way across the floor. He appeared to be listening attentively while her father talked to him. She knew that her grandfather—King Annan of the East Angles—and her uncle, Jurmin, had both fallen three years earlier in battle against the Mercians. It had taken place in the marshes at Blythburgh, in the borderlands between Mercia and East Anglia. Her mother, who adored her father, had been inconsolable when she learned the news.

  Seeing the look on her face now, Ermenilda saw that the grudge her mother bore Mercia ran deep. Not that Ermenilda blamed her. She cast a dark look at Prince Wulfhere and prayed her father send him quickly on his way.

  Ermenilda had listened to many a tale about ruthless King Penda around the fire pit at night. The violent pagan, who would stop at nothing to expand his borders, had died in battle against Northumbria two years earlier, but that had not stopped the stories about him.

  At least Fæder will not wed me to a pagan, Ermenilda assured herself as she finished filling the cups. Eorcenber
ht was a god-fearing man who, just a year earlier, had overseen the destruction of all the pagan idols in Cantwareburh. He also had insisted that the town observe Lent, the period of fasting after Ēostre.

  Ermenilda sneaked a glance at the Mercian prince as he stepped up on the high seat. Frankly, despite his good looks and charisma, this man frightened her. He was different from her father, who was loud, bluff, and easy to read. The prince appeared to be a man who said little and thought much—she did not trust such men.

  Taking a seat at the table upon the high seat, to the left of her mother, Ermenilda was disconcerted to see that their guest had sat down at her father’s right—the spot usually reserved for his eldest son, Ecgberht. Prince Wulfhere was sitting directly opposite her, and she realized there would be no escaping his gaze during the meal.

  Servants placed wooden boards, piled high with food, upon the table. Ermenilda watched Prince Wulfhere help himself to a generous serving of bread, cheese, and salted pork. The king watched him, smiling.

  “I am glad you have come to dine at our table, Lord Wulfhere.”

  “And I am thankful for your hospitality,” the Mercian replied. “You welcome an exiled prince into your hall on a cold night. For that, I am grateful.”

  Ermenilda stole a glance at her mother. The queen sat still and silent, hardly touching her food. The joviality on her husband’s face was absent upon Seaxburh’s.

  “Not exiled for much longer, if I have anything to do with it,” Eorcenberht replied, raising his cup high into the air.

  The prince fixed him with a cool, level gaze.

  “So you will help me regain the Mercian throne?”

  “Aye, I have no wish to have Northumbrians preying upon my borders. Mercia has always been good to the Kentish people. I will not abandon you now.”

  The queen visibly paled at this, her grip on her bronze cup tightening. Ermenilda had never seen her mother so incensed. Yet, the king appeared oblivious to it. Heedless, he continued.

  “I will gift you one hundred Kentish spears—my bravest warriors—to help you retake Tamworth.”