Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) Read online

  Behind the two women and priest, four of the king’s guard followed: Werbode, Elfhere, and two other men, whom Ermenilda did not recognize. Wulfhere obviously had no intention of letting his betrothed go about unescorted, especially this close to their handfasting.

  Tamworth’s church sat at the top of the rise. Although not nearly as striking as Cantwareburh’s great church, it was a handsome structure of oak and local gray stone. Ermenilda picked up her skirts and followed the priest inside.

  The moment she stepped within the silent, yawning space, her spirits lifted.

  Wooden rafters formed the ceiling of the church, and high, narrow windows let in the watery late-afternoon light. Slate tiles covered the floor, and her boots whispered upon them as she followed Seaxwulf across to the altar.

  Although Wynflaed and Wulfhere’s men had entered, they stopped just inside the entrance, leaving her in peace. Grateful for the moment of silence and relative solitude, Ermenilda knelt on the fur rug.

  “I would like to pray for a few moments,” she told Seaxwulf. “If I may?”

  “Of course, milady,” the priest replied, giving a gentle smile. “You never have to ask permission. You are always welcome here.”

  His kindness made Ermenilda’s throat constrict. She returned his smile and turned to the altar. Clasping her hands and closing her eyes, she began to pray.

  Lord, please give me the strength to wed this warlord, she began. I’m sorry but I feel so lost, so alone—please guide me.

  Nothing but silence echoed around her, making her feel even lonelier, even more lost. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, for she could feel tears welling behind her eyelids.

  I do not want to wed this ruthless, pitiless man, she continued, but every time he looks my way, my pulse quickens.

  My body is weak.

  Forgive me for it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Man and Wife

  Ermenilda sank with a sigh into the iron tub of steaming water. It had been difficult to keep clean during the journey to Tamworth, and no amount of cold washes with a bowl and cloth could compare to a soak in a bath.

  She had never bathed in a tub this large before. She could soak right up to her armpits in it. The tub she used at home had been cramped and uncomfortable to sit in, whereas she could have luxuriated in this one all evening—or she could have, had she not felt sick with nerves.

  The scent of lavender, from the oil her maid had added to the water, wafted through the space, a tiny bower hidden from the main hall by a heavy tapestry. The perfume went some way to calming her, although the rumble of men’s voices behind the arras was a constant reminder of what was to come.

  “Come, milady.” Wynflaed had opened a pot of lye soap and was smearing some on a wet cloth. “We had better hurry, if you want me to wash your hair as well.”

  Ermenilda nodded before leaning forward and letting her maid wash her back. She closed her eyes, enjoying the heat of the water as Wynflaed poured it over her head and began to soap her hair.

  “I have laid your dress out,” Wynflaed told her. “It was the blue one?”

  “Aye,” Ermenilda murmured. “Thank you.”

  Once her hair was washed and Wynflaed had wrung it out so that it could start drying, Ermenilda took the cloth and washed the rest of her body. She glanced down at her pale, strawberry-tipped breasts, which bobbed like two small apples in the soapy water. Like her mother, she was slender and somewhat lacking in womanly curves.

  What will he think when he sees me naked?

  The rush of heat that followed this thought immediately made Ermenilda regret it.

  Who cares what he thinks, she told herself, angrily scrubbing at her arms with the rough cloth. She only hoped that Wulfhere was the sort of man who preferred to couple in darkness.

  It would make this whole ordeal much easier to bear.

  “That’s the last lace tied, milady,” Wynflaed informed her, before stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You look radiant.”

  Ermenilda turned to face her handmaid, arranging her features into a calm mask. Inside, her innards were churning. She felt on the verge of tears, and panic was clawing its way up her throat. Yet, Wynflaed thought she looked radiant.

  Indeed, the dress was lovely. It was low-cut, pushing Ermenilda’s breasts together and, for once, creating a cleavage. The gown’s cloth was a pale-blue heavy silk, a fabric that her mother had purchased from merchants who had brought exotic clothes and threads from the East. A gold chain girded her hips, and the dress had long bell sleeves hemmed with gold thread. On her feet, she wore slippers made of the same blue silk as her dress.

  “Thank you,” she replied, attempting to be gracious. Wynflaed was only trying to be kind.

  “I think we should leave your hair unbound,” Wynflaed continued. “It’s prettier.”

  “It matters not,” Ermenilda assured her with a brittle smile. “I’m sure that I’m presentable enough.”

  Wynflaed’s brow creased at that, and she glanced down at her own dress—a sleeveless green tunic. Around her right bicep, the maid wore a bronze arm ring.

  “I hope I am presentable,” she muttered. “I feel shabby. I wish I had brought another dress with me.”

  Ermenilda smiled before shaking her head. Women were so critical of themselves. Wynflaed was even more striking than usual in that tunic, which showed off her enviable curves. Ermenilda was sure Elfhere would seek her out for a dance during the evening.

  “You look lovely, Wynflaed,” she assured her. “That tunic matches your eyes. You have no need to worry.”

  “Thank you, milady.” Wynflaed flashed her a grateful smile. She picked up a vial of rosewater and unstoppered it. “Just one more touch, and you will be ready for your handfasting.”

  Ermenilda took a deep, steadying breath and prayed—once more—for the strength to see her through this evening, and the night to follow.

  ***

  The ealdormen’s wives had worked miracles in the short space of time Wulfhere had given them. They had spent the afternoon decking out the walls with ivy, sunny-yellow witch hazel flowers, and creamy-white winter honeysuckle.

  A venison haunch was roasting over one of the fire pits, laboriously turned by a slave boy, while mutton roasted over the other. Other slaves were bringing in baskets of treats, baked in the ovens outside the hall: breads, pies, and honey seedcakes—the traditional handfasting sweet.

  Two musicians, playing a sweet tune upon a lyre and a bone whistle, stood at the back of the high seat. A crowd of excited men and women—ealdormen, thegns, and their wives—almost drowned out the music with their chatter as they clustered around the high seat, where the handfasting was about to take place.

  Eventually, both the music and the conversation stopped, and all gazes shifted to the man and woman about to be joined.

  Wulfhere and Ermenilda knelt before Seaxwulf. The priest wrapped a ribbon around their clasped hands. He blessed them in the name of god and bid them both to pledge their loyalty to each other.

  Ermenilda felt as if her throat was full of sand, but she did her best to speak clearly. Apart from the first glimpse of her betrothed, she had not looked Wulfhere’s way since kneeling next to him. That first look had done nothing to still her pitching stomach. Wulfhere was breathtakingly handsome this evening, dressed in black leather breeches and a black quilted vest studded with amber and embroidered with gold. On his naked arms, he wore béagas—arm rings—of gold, silver, and bronze. His hair was loose, its silvery hue contrasting with the darkness of his clothing.

  Kneeling next to him, Ermenilda caught the faint scent of lye soap. He had obviously also bathed in preparation for his wedding night.

  Once they had completed their vows, Seaxwulf smiled down at the man and woman kneeling before him.

  “May you be made one.”

  The priest gently unwound the ribbon that joined them. Wulfhere and Ermenilda completed the ceremony by sharing a small cup of mead and a bite of seedcake
, as tradition dictated.

  Wulfhere rose to his feet and, reaching down, pulled Ermenilda to hers. He leaned down and kissed her, and the Great Hall erupted in cheers and applause.

  Once the kiss ended, Ermenilda stepped back from Wulfhere, grateful he had been gentle this time. He had barely brushed her lips with his, unlike that day in front of his men when his kiss had been possessive, demanding, and humiliating.

  Wulfhere met her gaze. He smiled, his eyes glittering in the torchlight.

  “Ermenilda, Queen of Mercia,” he murmured, his voice low so that only she could hear. “My patience has been rewarded. Finally, you are mine.”

  The feasting and reveling went on late into the night.

  Wulfhere and Ermenilda sat at the head of the table, upon the high seat, where slaves brought the dishes for them to try first. Wulfhere filled Ermenilda’s trencher with the choicest cuts of meat and delicacies. He insisted on feeding her morsels from his own trencher—a sliver of aged cheese and a pickled quail’s egg.

  It took all Ermenilda’s will to swallow the food he offered without complaint, for her stomach had closed. Between bites, she reached for her cup of sloe wine, draining it quickly. She held it up for a passing slave to refill, hoping that the wine would dull her senses.

  Wulfhere offered her a piece of bread studded with fruits and nuts. She wordlessly took it, and he responded with a wry smile.

  “The only pleasant memory I have of my brother’s wedding was the handfasting feast,” he admitted. “He spent the evening feeding his bride morsels and attending to her every need. It was the only occasion I saw Paeda pay Alchflaed any attention.”

  Surprised by his candor, Ermenilda gave Wulfhere her full attention.

  “They were not happy together then?”

  “Miserable,” he replied, “although any woman wedded to Paeda would have been.”

  His words worried her. She wanted to ask more about his brother but was afraid that she would not like his answers. Instead, she looked down at her full trencher and forced herself to pick up a piece of venison.

  Her second cup of wine emptied almost as fast as the first, and she held it out to be refilled. This time, Wulfhere put his hand over the brim, preventing the slave from obeying her.

  “Bring my wife milk instead,” he told the girl.

  Ermenilda glanced over at Wulfhere, affronted, only to find him smiling. He leaned in close to her, so that no one else at the table could hear him. His breath tickled her neck, causing a shiver of heat to pass through her.

  “I don’t want your senses blunted tonight,” he murmured. “I want you to remember every detail.”

  His words caused a wave of mortification, mixed with dizzying desire, to sweep over Ermenilda. Her breathing quickened, and she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself.

  Without saying anything more, Wulfhere pulled away from her and resumed his meal. When Ermenilda had managed to master herself, she glanced at him. Her husband was now talking to his brother. He responded to something Aethelred had just said. Then, he laughed, and the expression transformed his face. The warmth of his laughter embraced her, as if she sat up to her neck in a heated bath.

  God forgive her, she did not want to be this man’s wife. Everything he stood for offended her. Yet, the sound of his voice and the feel of his gaze upon her skin melted her from the inside out.

  And there was nothing she could do about it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Another World

  Wulfhere and Ermenilda were the first to dance once the feasting ended. The king led his wife out onto the floor, and they faced each other. He released her hand, stepped back, and bowed to her.

  Ermenilda curtsied, bowing her head as she had been taught. She then picked up her skirts with her left hand and placed her right on top of his. They circled each other, shoulder to shoulder, their gazes holding.

  Around them, Wulfhere’s retainers cheered and clapped, caught up in the romance of the moment. Indeed, Ermenilda realized they made a striking couple—both blond and aloof.

  It was just a dance, but the intensity of Wulfhere’s gaze upon hers drew Ermenilda into another world, causing her to forget about their surroundings. For once, she did not care who watched her or that she was the center of attention. She had not consumed more than two cups of wine earlier in the evening, yet her senses reeled and she felt lightheaded.

  Wulfhere never took his gaze from hers, and she drowned in the cool depths of his eyes.

  The musicians played a gentle, lilting tune that forced the couple into a slow rhythm. The dance was formal, each movement precise. It was the dance of a lord and lady, with every step measured. The restraint of it only served to draw Ermenilda’s attention to the heat that smoldered between her and Wulfhere. Her body’s reaction to him both frightened and intrigued her.

  When the dance finally ended, Ermenilda was almost sorry. Wulfhere led her back to the high seat, where they sat in silence. The musicians struck up a lively tune, and other couples took to the floor.

  As she had predicted, Ermenilda saw Elfhere approach Wynflaed for a dance. Her handmaid sat at one of the long tables that ran on either side of the two fire pits. To Ermenilda’s surprise, the young woman did not appear keen to dance.

  Her face flushed pink, and she kept shaking her head. However, the handsome, blond warrior did not give up, and eventually Wynflaed allowed herself to be led out onto the floor. Ermenilda watched her maid curiously. Wynflaed was full of contradictions. During the journey here, she had appeared so confident and at ease with herself, yet she had clearly not wanted to dance.

  As soon as the song ended, Ermenilda watched Wynflaed make a hurried excuse to Elfhere and hurry back to her place at the table.

  The dancing went on for a while, and more mead and wine flowed. Still, Ermenilda and Wulfhere did not speak. She was aware of him seated next to her and the rumble of his voice as he conversed with Aethelred, but she deliberately did not look his way.

  Eventually, the churning mixture of anxiety and excitement in the pit of her belly gave way to dread. It was now getting late, and the moment she had tried not to dwell upon approached.

  When Wulfhere took her hand and rose to his feet, her mouth went dry.

  “The queen and I will retire now,” he announced to his retainers.

  Cheers and ribald shouts of encouragement from drunken men met Wulfhere’s words. Many of his warriors were now well into their cups, and some had drunk so much that they could barely stand.

  Wulfhere ignored their shouts. Instead, he led Ermenilda off the high seat, and they crossed the floor together.

  “Our quarters are in the ‘King’s Loft,’” he told her, motioning to the platform above. Ermenilda nodded dumbly, her heart thudding erratically against her ribs.

  She climbed the wooden ladder, before Wulfhere, and was distraught to realize that her hands were slippery with sweat. By the time she reached the top of the ladder, she felt sick with nerves. Moments later, Wulfhere appeared, although the cheering and shouting from below continued.

  “They’ll tire soon enough,” Wulfhere told her. “As soon as they open another barrel of mead, we shall be forgotten.”

  Ermenilda nodded, her gaze shifting around the platform in an effort to avoid looking at him. In her panicked state, she was having trouble taking note of her surroundings, although she could see the loft was warm and comfortable.

  She stood upon a thick fur. Plush tapestries covered the damp stone walls around them. There also appeared to be a privy, protected from view by a hanging. Leather trunks lined the far wall, and Ermenilda recognized her own belongings among them.

  However, the pile of furs in the center of the platform drew her attention. This was where she and Wulfhere would spend their nights. As if reading her thoughts, her husband stepped close to her.

  “Finally . . . ,” he murmured. “I thought I was a patient man, but this wait has tested me to my limits.”

  Ermenilda looked d
own at her slippered feet and pretended she had not heard him.

  “So fair,” he said, gently taking hold of her chin and tilting her face upward so that their gazes met, “yet not as cold nor as demure as you feign.”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stuttered, trying to ignore how close he was standing.

  He smiled at her weak denial and, reaching out, stroked her face. “You fascinate me, Ermenilda of Kent,” he said. “There are hidden depths to you that I look forward to discovering.”

  He was stroking her hair now, tangling its fine strands in his fingers. “I’ve wanted to do this since the first day we met,” he told her. Ermenilda noticed his voice had roughened slightly, and she realized that she had stopped breathing.

  Without another word, he leaned down and kissed her. It was gentle, his lips soft and warm upon hers. He pulled her into his arms and deepened the kiss. Ermenilda’s lips parted, an involuntary gasp escaping her as his tongue sought entry. A heartbeat later, he was exploring her mouth, with such exquisite gentleness that her limbs dissolved. Their bodies were pressed against each other. His body felt hard and strong, in contrast to the softness of his kiss.

  When Wulfhere ended the kiss, he was breathing hard, and his eyes had turned the color of a stormy sky.

  “Turn around,” he rasped, “so that I can unfasten your gown.”

  Ermenilda obeyed, although her limbs were barely able to hold her up. She had started to tremble and tried to stop it, but with no success. Her breathing stilled as she felt her husband undo the ties down the center of her back. While he did so, she was vaguely aware that the music had restarted in the hall below; laughter and drunken singing echoed up into the rafters.

  When Wulfhere had finished undoing her gown, he pushed it off her shoulders. Ermenilda exhaled as the silken material slid to her feet, pooling around her ankles. She wore a filmy, sleeveless tunic beneath her gown, although she felt as vulnerable as if she stood before Wulfhere naked.