The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) Page 8

  “Remind me of your name?” he met her tear-filled gaze before his own gaze shifted to her full lips.

  By the gods, she is a lovely creature.

  “Merwenna of Weyham,” the girl replied, her voice husky from the effort she was making to hold in her tears.

  “And what are you doing out here?”

  The young woman dropped her gaze to the ground. Dylan noted that she was still trembling.

  “I was traveling home.”

  “Alone?”

  “The queen was supposed to provide me with an escort,” Merwenna replied, keeping her gaze downcast, “but when the time came, she didn’t.”

  Dylan glanced across at Gwyn, who gave him a wry look and shook his head.

  “Well, fortunately for you, we are traveling the same road. We’ll camp here tonight. You will be our guest at the fireside.”

  Merwenna’s head snapped up, alarm in her eyes. “I thank you for helping me,” she said hurriedly, taking a step back from him, “but there’s no need. I’ll be on my way.”

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Dylan asked, incredulous. “Drefan of Chester won’t have gone far – he’ll be waiting for you.”

  She stared back at him, clearly unconvinced.

  “Fear not,” Dylan drawled, gesturing for Gwyn to order the men to make camp. “You will be safe with us.”

  ***

  The fire hissed gently as the flames did their best to devour the damp wood. It was a cool, still night but dry enough to sit outdoors. A brace of conies roasted on a long spit at one end of the fire pit, where embers glowed bright. This was just one of many fires that ringed the heart of the Cymry camp – where around three hundred men, horsemen and spears, had constructed a makeshift township for the night.

  The aroma of roasting meat drifted across to where Merwenna sat close to the fire’s edge warming her fingers.

  The smell made her stomach growl in protest. Despite it all, she was ravenous. After her ordeal she felt chilled to the bone. Her left side ached dully where Drefan had kicked her; she would have a livid bruise there in the morning.

  Even now, her heart still raced when she recalled the terror that had coursed through her – the blind panic that had consumed her – as she ran. If Cynddylan and his men had not been riding through this valley and intercepted her flight, she shuddered to think of the state she would be in now.

  She had looked into Drefan of Chester’s eyes and had seen killing rage there. He would not have been content with rape, not after she had fought him and made him chase her down.

  She shuddered at how close she had come to dying at that man’s hands.

  “Cold?”

  Cynddylan’s voice sounded in her ear before the man sat down with loose-limbed grace beside her.

  “Not really, just tired and shaken.”

  “Here,” he handed her a wooden cup. “Some mead ought to warm your belly.”

  Merwenna accepted the cup warily and took a cautious sip. The mead was hot and pungent, with the deep flavor of honey. As she swallowed the first two sips, she felt some of the chill leave her.

  “The rabbits will be roasted soon,” Cynddylan told her.

  She nodded. “Thank you, Milord.”

  He stretched out his legs before him and she could feel his gaze upon her.

  “So, Merwenna of Weyham,” he said finally, his tone bordering on offhand. “Tell me of that man who was chasing you.”

  She stiffened and glanced nervously at the prince. “What of him?”

  “Drefan of Chester,” he prompted. “There was more to him than appeared.”

  Merwenna glanced away, her gaze resting on the dancing flames before her.

  “I met him when my brother and I arrived in Tamworth,” she admitted finally. “He offered us passage, on the back of his wagon, into town. He’s a cloth merchant and was traveling to sell his wares at Tamworth market. At the journey’s end, we thanked him but he wanted payment for passage, and when we could not pay him in thrymsas, he demanded a different kind of payment.

  My brother, Seward, intervened, and things were about to get out of hand when Queen Cyneswide came to our aid. She offered to shelter us in the Great Tower until I could discover the fate of my betrothed. The merchant was furious – especially when the queen told him she would not buy cloth from him.”

  “And your brother? You were alone at Tamworth – where is he?”

  Merwenna dropped her gaze to her lap. She did not want to tell the rest of this tale.

  “He went home.”

  “And left you unchaperoned in the King’s Hall?”

  Merwenna sighed.

  She was tired of this conversation. Why could he not leave her be?

  “He fell out of favor the first night we stayed in the Great Hall,” she replied. She refused to meet the prince’s eye as she continued. “He was found with one of the king’s female slaves. He was whipped and banished from Tamworth the next morning.”

  Silence fell between them then, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire, and the rumble of voices of the men around them. Merwenna could feel her cheeks burning. Told so directly, the whole incident sounded even worse than she remembered.

  When Merwenna looked at Cynddylan, she saw that he was watching her under hooded lids. Merwenna grew even hotter under the intensity of his stare.

  “That’s quite a tale of misfortune,” he said with a wry smile. “Abandoned by both your lover and your brother.”

  “Beorn was not my lover, he was my betrothed,” Merwenna replied stiffly. Her embarrassment was swiftly turning to anger; she did not like to be mocked. “He died serving his king, and protecting our land.”

  “I expect that’s cold comfort to you now,” the Prince of Powys replied, rising to his feet and throwing the dregs from his cup into the fire. “He ran headlong into battle, desperate for glory. Only a fool offers up his life so cheaply.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  An Honorable Man

  A full moon was riding high in the night sky when the army finally bedded down for the night.

  Merwenna watched them nervously. Many of the men stretched out around the smoldering fires, while others took their places around the perimeter of the camp, for the first watch. Cynddylan’s men had erected a cluster of tents made out of goat-hide, for the prince and his highest ranking warriors.

  Not knowing where she was supposed to sleep, Merwenna wrapped her cloak tightly around her and tried to get comfortable on the hard ground beside one of the fires.

  “You’re not sleeping there, wench,” a gruff, heavily accented voice roused her.

  Merwenna looked up into the face of Gwyn – the hulking warrior who appeared to be the prince’s captain. “There’s space for you in the prince’s tent.”

  “Excuse me?” Merwenna sat up abruptly. “I can’t sleep there.”

  “It’s safer than out here.”

  “But, I can’t share that man’s tent.”

  “Go on,” Gwyn hauled Merwenna to her feet and propelled her in the direction of the largest tent at the heart of the cluster. “You can trust him.”

  Merwenna threw Gwyn a resentful look, but reluctantly did as she was bid, making her way across to the prince’s tent.

  She stepped across the threshold, ducking through the narrow opening, and was relieved to see that the tent was empty. A small fire burned in a pit in the center of the space, smoke escaping from a slit in the conical roof. No beds had been made up; only a large pile of furs had been dumped in one corner.

  Merwenna helped herself to two of the furs and arranged them on the far side of the tent. She had just seated herself upon them, and was unlacing her fur boots, when Cynddylan entered the tent. He was carrying a jug of water and two wooden cups.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Your captain insisted I sleep in here,” she replied stiffly.

  “It’s for your own good.” The prince untied a flap of leather from where it was rolled above the doorway and
let it fall, sealing them inside the tent. “Drefan is likely to be nearby. He’ll nurse a grudge for a long while – better if you stay out of sight.”

  “He wouldn’t try and attack me here,” she replied, stacking her boots at the foot of her furs. She then pulled her cloak tightly about her and snuggled down into her surprisingly comfortable bed. “Not in the middle of your camp.”

  “Never underestimate a man like that,” Dylan replied tersely. “If you ever stumble across Drefan again, he’ll slit your throat from ear to ear.”

  The prince placed the jug and cups near the hearth before crossing to his furs. There, he shrugged off his plush purple cloak and began to remove the heavy mail vest he wore beneath. He finally managed to shrug the heavy vest off his shoulders. It fell clinking to his feet, revealing a sleeveless linen tunic underneath.

  Merwenna watched as the prince stripped off his tunic, revealing a lithe, finely muscled torso beneath. The firelight played across his broad shoulders and long back. Realizing that she was staring, she stifled a gasp and turned her back upon him.

  “Very well,” she said meekly, desperately wishing she had remained outdoors by the fire pit. “I will stay out of sight.”

  “Good. Tomorrow, we will escort you home.”

  “Hwaet!” Merwenna abruptly turned to face Cynddylan once more.

  She instantly regretted the action, for he was now facing her. The sight of his naked chest, and the whorls of dark hair that dusted it, tapering down to the waist-band of his breeches, caused Merwenna’s mouth to go dry and her heart to start racing. However, she ignored her body’s traitorous reaction and focused on her anger instead.

  “I don’t need an escort!”

  “Yes you do,” he contradicted her smoothly. “And fortunately for you, Weyham is but a short detour on our way back to Powys.”

  “Thank you for the kind offer,” she replied through clenched teeth, “but tomorrow I will go my own way.”

  “That wasn’t an offer, Merwenna.”

  Rage rendered her momentarily speechless.

  “You are insufferably conceited,” she finally choked out. “How dare you make decisions on my behalf! You’re not my father, my brother or my husband. I’m not your property.”

  “No,” Dylan cocked an eyebrow and started to undo the laces of his breeches, “but I will do my best to ensure you are delivered safely back to your family. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Merwenna stared at him, her anger simmering, before realizing that he had almost finished unlacing his breeches. In a moment, he would be standing naked before her.

  “Stop,” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

  “Undressing. I always sleep naked. Don’t you?”

  “Not here,” she replied, feeling herself shrink under his amused gaze.

  “If my naked body offends you then I suggest you turn away,” the prince continued. “Or, you can continue staring – I don’t mind.”

  “Nithhogg take you!” she snarled, before turning her back to him once more. She was not in the mood to be tormented. After everything she had endured today, this was too much.

  She had expected him to take offense. Cursing him to the underworld, where his corpse would be feasted upon by the fire-breathing dragon that dwelt there, would usually rouse a man’s anger. Instead, Cynddylan merely laughed.

  “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to enrage me, cariad.”

  She refused to answer him. Instead, she stared at the weather-stained goat hide wall of the tent. She listened to the rustle of Dylan undressing behind her, and squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to erase the image of his lean, virile body, caressed by firelight.

  He might have been mesmerizingly handsome, but the Prince of Powys only made her yearn for Beorn. Her betrothed had been a good, honorable man – and she would never forgive Cynddylan for insulting him this evening.

  Mercifully, Cynddylan appeared to have tired of tormenting her. She heard him climb into his furs, and silence settled over the tent, broken only by the gentle pop of embers in the dying hearth.

  Merwenna lay there, staring into the darkness, listening as the prince’s breathing gradually deepened and slowed. A man who fell asleep that quickly had a clear conscience indeed.

  In contrast, despite her exhaustion, Merwenna was wide awake. Her body was taut, her senses attuned to any movement behind her. She did not trust this man.

  What if he tried to maul her during the night?

  She rolled over, facing him across the fire pit. She intended to keep watch, and if she saw him make a move toward her, she would be up and out of the tent in a heart-beat.

  ***

  Cynddylan’s men broke camp at first light, packing up the tents, dousing campfires and saddling their horses with practiced swiftness. A grey dawn stole across the world, bringing with it a chill mist that snaked between the trees like crone’s tresses.

  Merwenna wrapped her fingers around a mug of hot broth and watched their industry with awe. After a sleepless night, the delicious broth, had a restorative effect on her. Even so, the sight of the Prince of Powys, striding toward her across the camp, from where he had been saddling his horse, made her stomach clench nervously.

  “Ready to move on?” he greeted her.

  Merwenna nodded, and took one last gulp of broth before pouring the dregs out onto the ground. “How long till we reach Weyham?”

  “Three days if we ride fast.”

  “Ride – but I don’t have a horse.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” the prince gave her one of his infuriating slow smiles. “You’ll be riding with me.”

  Panic flared in Merwenna’s breast. She glanced nervously at where the heavy-set, bay stallion pawed at the ground and jangled his bit, impatient to be off.

  “Can’t I just walk?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Merwenna did not like the idea of spending three days in the saddle with this man. However, there seemed little point in refusing him. The Prince of Powys was used to getting his own way.

  She refused to meet Cynddylan’s eye as he sprang up onto the saddle and reached down to help her mount. She reluctantly took his hand, noting the warm strength of his fingers, and settled into place behind him. Her skin tingled from where she had touched him.

  Layers of clothing separated them, and the Prince of Powys had donned his mail vest and cloak, but even so Merwenna could feel the heat of his body pressed up against hers.

  Her throat constricted, and tears filled her eyes.

  Curse him, and curse her own traitorous reaction to him. She was grieving for Beorn, and she just wanted to be left alone.

  A short while later, the small army of around three hundred men rode through the encircling mist. They followed the meandering course of the stream down the shallow valley. The thud of hooves on the soft ground, and the snorts of the horses, were the only sounds in the still morning.

  Dylan looked down at the pale, slender hands loosely clasped around his waist, and silently admired their delicacy. The feel of the girl – for despite her luscious breasts, now pressed against his back, and sultry gaze, that was what she was – came as a pleasant distraction.

  He knew he should not have taunted her last night, but he had not been able prevent himself. Still the sight of her pale face this morning, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, had given him a pang of guilt. He should not have insulted her betrothed.

  What does it matter to me if she thinks that lad was the greatest warrior that ever lived?

  Mist still shrouded them in a shadowy world, where trees emerged like the tattered spears and standards of a ghost army. It was a vaguely threatening scene, reminding Dylan of the recent battle against the Northumbrians. That memory brought him to the reluctant agreement Penda had made.

  Fortunately, due to the pact that Penda had now honored, Powys was considerably closer. Lichfield, which now straddled the border between Powys and Mercia, was barely two days ride from Weyha
m.

  Dylan had forced Penda’s hand in the end, but victory was his.

  He had been away from Powys for many months, and delayed his crowning in order to go to war. It had been risky to do so, for had he not returned his brother would have been made king instead, but in the end it had worked in his favor. Now, he would return to Pengwern victorious, the first ever ruler of his land to unite Mercia and Powys against a common enemy.

  Dylan gave a grim smile and urged his stallion into a brisk trot, making his way up to the head of the column. He was returning home with just over three hundred men – barely half of the number he had taken to Maes Cogwy. He thought about the years it had taken to reach this point. Powys and Mercia had been enemies for a long while; so long that the new alliance between them was as brittle as spring ice.

  He only hoped it would last.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Temptation

  Merwenna slid to the ground. She clenched her teeth as the impact jarred, sending pain up through her ankles. It had been a while since she had ridden.

  On the morrow, I’ll be suffering for it.

  The day had been long and tiring. Relieved to be on the ground once more, Merwenna stretched her back and looked about the gentle slope where the men were making camp. They had left the wooded valley far behind, and where now traveling through grassy hills, interspersed with beech thickets. She stood at the midst of the army, and watched the men with interest as they unsaddled and rubbed down horses, built fires and raised tents.

  Nearby, Cynddylan was rubbing down his horse, his back to her. Against her will, her gaze rested upon him, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, and the flex of his muscles as he worked. He had offended her yesterday, but that did not stop her from being a little in awe of him. It was not every day she rode with a prince.

  Yet, there was something about him that made her wary. He had looked at her with a hungry, almost predatory look in his eye last night. She felt flustered and nervous whenever he stood too close. Riding behind him, her breasts jiggling against his back with every stride of his horse, had been slow torture. The feel of his strong body pressed up against hers had distracted her for most of the day.