Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) Page 13

  Their differences still lay heavy between them, unspoken. Tension filled Ermenilda whenever she sat down next to her husband upon the high seat. In the past, Wulfhere had attempted to converse with her at mealtimes. Now he let her eat in silence while he discussed tactics with his men.

  On the morning of Wulfhere’s departure, Ermenilda was withdrawn as Wynflaed helped her dress. They stood in the small alcove that housed the iron bathtub. Seeing one’s husband off on a military campaign was a great occasion, and folk expected to see the queen in all her finery.

  Wynflaed laced Ermenilda up in a dove-gray gown with bell sleeves and fastened the delicate amber necklace the king had gifted his wife around her mistress’s neck.

  “Are you unwell, milady,” Wynflaed asked with a frown.

  Ermenilda shook her head. “I’ve spent the morning praying. I’m weary both in body and soul.”

  “I wish there was something I could do,” Wynflaed said, her green eyes clouding in sadness. “I do not like to see you so melancholy.”

  Ermenilda sighed and favored her maid with a wan smile.

  “I dared to hope my husband was not the brute I initially believed,” she replied quietly. “There is little joy in being proved right.”

  Wynflaed shook her head.

  “He is taking a dark road. Your father will be angry when he hears of the attack.”

  Ermenilda shook her head, bitterness stinging the back of her throat.

  “My father will say nothing. He, like other rulers of lesser kingdoms, would never risk angering the King of Mercia.”

  A crowd had gathered in front of the Great Tower, when Ermenilda emerged to bid her husband farewell.

  To her surprise, Werbode—clad head to foot in leather—was waiting for her at the door. He insisted on escorting her down the steps to where Wulfhere had almost finished saddling his stallion.

  “You look ravishing, milady,” Werbode said, leaning in close and breathing in the rose scent she wore, “and you smell good enough to eat.”

  Ermenilda drew back from him in shock. Usually, the thegn kept his distance from her, his admiration consisting of hungry looks. His departure had made him bold.

  Too bold.

  Ermenilda cast him a look of cold disapproval, but that only caused Werbode to smile.

  “Aye, and too haughty by half,” he murmured.

  At the base of the steps, Werbode stepped away from her and bowed. Ermenilda saw the mockery in his face and wished she could have a quiet moment alone with Wulfhere, to tell him of his thegn’s disrespect.

  Of course, Werbode had known she would not have the chance to tell the king—that was why he had done it. Ermenilda was only grateful that the warrior was marching to war with Wulfhere, and would not be left behind to protect her.

  Wulfhere finished tightening his horse’s girth and turned, his gaze settling upon her.

  “You are late in coming to see me off,” he told her. His voice was gruff, although his gaze was softer than usual.

  “Wynflaed took an age with my hair,” Ermenilda replied, motioning to the elaborate pile of curls and braids atop her head. “She wanted me to look my best today.”

  “Aye,” Wulfhere stepped close to her, “and you do.”

  He looked down at her, and the heat of his gaze made Ermenilda feel as if she were standing in the noon sun, even though there was a cool breeze this morning.

  “I know you do not give this battle your blessing,” he said quietly, “but surely you wish me to come home unharmed.”

  Ermenilda stared at him, conflicted. Part of her wanted never to see him again—that way she could take the veil and live out the rest of her days in peace. Still, another—traitorous—part of her twisted at the thought of this man coming to any harm. She had not even thought of the possibility that this campaign might claim his life.

  She hated what he was setting off to do, and she despised him for ignoring her pleas to abandon his quest for vengeance. It was this anger that she clung to now, as she faced him.

  “I wish you a safe return, milord,” she told him, “but only if you do not harm a soul during this campaign.”

  “There is no battle without death,” he replied, faintly mocking.

  Ermenilda held his gaze, resisting the urge to lash out and slap him. His arrogance galled her. Inhaling deeply, she took a step back from him, creating a gulf between them, before answering.

  “Then, I will pray to god that it ends in yours.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  In the Marshes

  The sky was immense here. The earth a mere strip of dirt, swamp, and reeds against its vastness. Wulfhere did not like it. He preferred the soft green of Mercia, with its cool forests and rolling hills. The Kingdom of the East Angles looked like a land fit for frogs, and little else.

  He swatted at the cloud of midges whining around his head and glanced at where Werbode rode silently beside him.

  “How can folk live here?”

  Werbode grunted, his dark gaze sweeping over the waterlogged fens.

  “Forsaken by the gods,” he agreed. “There is a reason why folk named our destination Eilig—Isle of Eels.”

  “What manner of morning gift is an island in the midst of stinking swamp?” Wulfhere muttered.

  To his left, Elfhere gave a humorless chuckle. “I heard that Lady Aethelthryth was so delighted with Tondberct of Ely’s gift that she immediately insisted they move there.”

  “The woman must be mad, as well as conniving,” Werbode commented sourly.

  Wulfhere was inclined to agree with him.

  They were drawing close to Ely now. After days of traveling through fenland, Wulfhere knew the island was near. They rode upon a narrow causeway. The road was in need of repair—boggy and crumbling in places. The Romans had built this dike, and it had not been touched since.

  It was a hot day, and the humidity in the fens made Wulfhere’s skin itch. Under his leather armor, he was sweating heavily. His mood, like every day since departing from Tamworth, was dark.

  Ermenilda’s last words to him still rang in his ears, as did the dislike on her face. For a moment, he had truly believed she never wished to see him again, that she hated him. Then, he remembered how she welcomed him in the furs, and the passion they shared every night, and told himself her anger would pass.

  By the time he returned to Tamworth, she would have missed him.

  Fæder always insisted that women would never understand warfare or a man’s need to do battle with his enemies.

  Queen Cyneswide had never challenged the king on his decisions to go to battle. In truth, she had never shown the slightest interest in her husband’s campaigns—but Ermenilda was different. Although he tried to deny it, Wulfhere knew his conflict with his bride would not end here.

  “Brooding again, milord?”

  Wulfhere glanced right, to see Werbode observing him.

  “Aye, what of it?” he replied moodily.

  The thegn gave him a shrewd look.

  “A wife should not trouble a man so.”

  “Leave it, Werbode,” Wulfhere growled. “My marriage is my own business.”

  Werbode shrugged, as if he could not care less, although his parting comment had a sting.

  “A wife should know her place. If you do not teach Ermenilda hers, you will have no end of trouble.”

  Wulfhere turned on him, and was about to respond harshly, when Elfhere interrupted.

  “Milord! Ely is before us.”

  With Werbode’s impertinence cast aside, Wulfhere’s gaze shifted to the northeastern horizon, where the tip of straw-thatched roofs thrust skyward, and smoke rose lazily, dirtying the pale-blue sky.

  An island of clay and gravel sat among glittering fenland, joined to firmer ground by a narrow causeway. As they approached, Wulfhere spied the wooden ramparts encircling the settlement, with guard towers at each corner. The East Angle flag—a red cross upon a field of white with a blue shield and three golden crowns in the foreg
round—hung limply from one corner, for there was no trace of breeze this morning.

  The tallest roof within the ramparts did not appear to belong to ealdorman Tondberct’s hall but to a great church. It perched upon the island’s highest ground, dominating the surrounding landscape for furlongs.

  Wulfhere reined in his stallion and took in every detail of the scene before him.

  “What now, milord?” Werbode asked. “Shall we attack?”

  “Not before I hear what the ealdorman has to say,” Wulfhere replied. “I shall have his guilt confirmed before I deal with him.”

  “Does it matter? You know he did it.”

  “Aye, but I’m curious to see what he will do, now that the consequences of his actions have come calling.”

  Wulfhere turned his full attention upon Werbode. The warrior had worn upon his nerves for days, and he decided it was time Werbode learned to mind his tongue. They had fought shoulder to shoulder many times, and he trusted the warrior with his life. However, of late, Werbode seemed to forget who the lord was, and who the servant.

  “Ride into Ely on my behalf,” he ordered. “Tell Tondberct that if he offers himself and his wife up to me, I will spare the lives of those in Ely.”

  Werbode glowered at him, and Wulfhere could see he chafed under the order. With the eyes of many—including his rival Elfhere’s upon him, he swallowed his resentment and nodded curtly.

  Wulfhere watched the dark-haired warrior kick his horse into a trot and ride up the column toward the town. He saw Werbode approach the gates and hesitate there for a moment, before they opened to admit him.

  “What now, milord?” Elfhere asked beside him.

  “The fox is now among the fowls,” Wulfhere replied, smiling grimly. “Now, we must wait.”

  ***

  “Tondberct, there is an army outside our walls!”

  Aethelthryth of Ely swept into the hall, her skirts billowing behind her. Her pretty face, framed by a white headrail, was pinched. Her eyes were huge.

  “Hwæt?”

  Tondberct looked up from where he had been playing hnefatafl with his brother. Between them lay a wooden board, marked out into twenty-six squares. He put down the carved figurine of his king and stared at his wife.

  Aethelthryth had stopped before him. She was a small woman, with delicate features. Beneath her headrail, her hair was dark as a raven’s wing—like her mother’s—although her eyes were dark blue as her father’s had been. Despite her tiny frame, she was a force of nature. She placed her hands on her hips and regarded Tondberct, her eyes turning hard.

  “What will you do about it?”

  Tondberct rose to his feet. Although he towered above his diminutive wife, she did not appear the least intimidated.

  “Who is it?”

  “I know not,” she replied, “but they have sent a man to us. I just saw him pass through the gates.”

  Tondberct muttered a curse under his breath and glanced across at his brother, Cedric.

  “Satan’s spawn,” he spat.

  Cedric’s sea-blue eyes widened. “Wulfhere?”

  “Aye, who else?”

  The ealdorman turned to Aethelthryth and met her eye. “Did I not warn you’d bring doom upon us?”

  She did not reply, although the hardness of her gaze told him she was not remotely sorry.

  Tondberct strode out of the hall, his wife and brother at his heels. Aethelthryth had to run to keep up, but the ealdorman did not slow his pace for her. He would have preferred her to stay behind; yet, it was futile to try to impose his will upon her.

  They had just emerged from the hall when a man rode into the market square before them. He was a big warrior, with a thick mane of dark hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. His gaze was hard as it settled upon him.

  “Ealdorman Tondberct of Ely?”

  Tondberct nodded. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Werbode. I am thegn and chief counsellor to King Wulfhere, son of Penda.”

  The newcomer’s hard gaze shifted to Tondberct’s left, where Aethelthryth stood.

  “And is this your wife?”

  “What does it matter to you?” Tondberct asked, his temper rising.

  “It matters, for what I have to say is for both of you to hear.”

  “Go ahead,” Aethelthryth spoke up, her voice cold and clipped. “Speak your missive.”

  The warrior raised a dark eyebrow, his gaze lingering upon Aethelthryth a moment longer, before he replied.

  “King Wulfhere would have you confirm that you ordered the attack upon us three months ago.”

  When neither Tondberct nor his wife replied, Werbode continued.

  “Sigric of Ely and his band attacked us upon a bridge on East Saxon lands. He claimed that you sent him. Do you deny this?”

  Indeed, Tondberct was tempted to deny it. He had argued with his wife for nearly a year over her insistence that he avenge her father’s and brother’s deaths. He had warned her that attacking the King of Mercia would bring trouble upon him, but she had not listened.

  He had sacrificed his men to please her. Sigric had known that attacking Wulfhere of Mercia would likely result in his death, but he had departed without a word of bitterness. Tondberct had sometimes wondered if his most trusted retainer had been secretly in love with his wife. He did not blame him—Aethelthryth had a way of making men do her bidding.

  I’ve never been able to deny her anything, the ealdorman thought. I should have known she would one day bring doom upon me.

  In the years they had been married, Aethelthryth had always gotten what she wanted. Even if he initially resisted her, she always persuaded him in the end. She had even convinced him on their wedding night that she should remain forever chaste, in preparation for one day serving god as a nun. Initially, he had been furious, although she had finally convinced him to leave her a virgin.

  Over the years, he had shared the furs with many women—none of them his wife.

  “It is true,” Aethelthryth answered for him, filling the weighty silence.

  Tondberct wheeled toward her, furious. “Aethelthryth!”

  “I will not lie and cower before these men,” she told him, raising her chin imperiously. “Sigric was loyal to us, and I will not pretend I did not know him.”

  Werbode was watching them keenly.

  “Now that your wife admits it, I have a choice for you both,” he continued. “Wulfhere will not let your crime go unpunished. Either come with me now, as prisoners of the King of Mercia, or we will lay waste to Ely and every soul residing within it.”

  “Monsters!” Aethelthryth cried. “Seeking reckoning for my father’s and brother’s deaths was no crime. Why should we, or the folk of Ely, be punished for it?”

  Werbode grinned, and his gaze met Tondberct’s.

  “Does Lady Aethelthryth rule here? It appears you have lost your tongue.”

  “I rule Ely,” Tondberct ground out. Anger had rendered him temporarily mute, “but I agree with my wife. You have no right to come here, into another kingdom, and issue threats. Be gone!”

  “If you refuse to come with me, we will raze this pile of twigs to the ground.” Werbode gestured to the surrounding hall, church, and low-slung thatched dwellings surrounding them. “Choose wisely, ealdorman.”

  Folk had now gathered to listen to the argument. Tondberct could see the fear on their faces, and he felt impotent rage swell within him. This was his town, his people, and he had sworn to protect them.

  “I will go with you,” he said finally, “but my wife remains here.”

  Werbode shook his head. “Both of you must come with me—or we attack Ely.”

  Tondberct glanced at Aethelthryth. Her delicate face had gone hard, and her eyes glittered with fury as she glared at Wulfhere of Mercia’s emissary. Not for the first time, Tondberct marveled at her strength, her courage. Aethelthryth should have been born a man; she was too strong-willed to make a good wife. Nevertheless, he loved her and would do anything
to protect her.

  His gaze met hers, and he saw her iron resolve. She would not bend to Wulfhere’s demands, and neither would he. Tondberct turned back to Werbode, who was watching them both keenly.

  “Tell Wulfhere that if he wants us, he will have to take us by force.”

  Werbode’s lip curled at his answer.

  “Leave us now.” Tondberct took a menacing step toward him, unsheathing the sword at his waist. “Scurry back to your master, or I’ll send your head back to him and feed the rest of you to my dogs.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  A Woman’s Lot

  “More bread, Lady Ermenilda?”

  “No, thank you, Aethelred.”

  Ermenilda took a sip of watered-down wine and regarded her brother by marriage over the rim of her cup. The prince had been exceedingly polite to her ever since Wulfhere’s departure. However, the frosty edge to his voice did not escape her.

  They sat alone upon the high seat this noon, as they had since the king and his warriors had departed. The other residents of the Great Hall ate their meal at the two tables running along either side of the fire pits. The rumble of voices, punctuated by laughter and good cheer, surrounded Ermenilda and Aethelred’s table, only serving to highlight their forced civility. Aethelred eventually broke the weighty silence between them.

  “It is ten days since Wulfhere left. I wonder how he has fared.”

  Ermenilda could think of no polite response to that, so she made a noncommittal murmur and took a mouthful of mutton, onion, and turnip stew. Another awkward silence stretched between them before she finally ventured a question.

  “Did you not want to go with him?”

  Aethelred snorted and took a deep draft from his cup.

  “And leave Tamworth undefended against our enemies?”

  “But surely one of his ealdormen can protect the hall while you’re away?”