The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

Rodor looked her up and down speculatively. “Perhaps you are.”

  Merwenna was horrified by his words, but tried her best not to show it.

  “It was too hot in the hall,” she replied, pretending that she had not understood.

  Rodor’s gaze flicked to the pole that stood in the center of the yard.

  “Your brother wept like a maid while I whipped him,” he murmured. “I’d wager you would have whimpered less.”

  Merwenna felt the sweat that coated her skin turn cold. Her stomach balled in sudden anger. Not for the first time in her twenty winters, she wished she had been born a man. She would have punched that leer off his face.

  She was saved having to respond, when one of the guards at the gate turned and waved to Rodor.

  “The King returns!” he shouted. “His fyrd approaches!”

  Rodor strode forward, Merwenna forgotten. “Open the gates,” he ordered. “Let them in!”

  The ground started to tremble, and Merwenna heard the thunder of the approaching army. Her heart leaped.

  Beorn!

  Moments later, a stream of lathered horses and sweat-soaked, armored men poured into the yard. Merwenna stayed put, her back against the sun-warmed stone, as to run out to greet them would be to risk being trampled. Her gaze frantically searched the faces of the men that surged into the yard, filling the wide space.

  Where is he?

  The din was incredible. The horses kicked up clouds of dust and the stillness of the sultry afternoon shattered. Merwenna imagined that this was only a fraction of the king’s army – the rest of his fyrd would stretch down the street outside, and beyond to the market square.

  Merwenna’s chest ached with longing as she continued to search the crowd for Beorn’s handsome face. Next to her, the dogs had risen from their slumber and were standing, eager-eyed, their tails wagging.

  How will I find him in this crowd?

  Eventually, Merwenna realized that it was unlikely that Beorn would be here. She would not find him at the head of the fyrd, amongst the king’s ealdormen and thegns.

  She was just about to dive into the crowd of milling men and horses, in search of her betrothed, when her gaze was drawn to an imposing figure that could only be the King of Mercia himself.

  She had heard many tales of Penda of Mercia. Throughout the kingdom he was a god amongst men: tall, blond and merciless.

  The tales did not exaggerate.

  A man that towered above all around him swung down from a grey stallion. He was finely dressed in leather, mail and a thick blue cloak. His face was shielded by an iron helm and when he removed it, the face underneath was no softer.

  A cruelly handsome face, and eyes the color of a winter’s sky, surveyed the yard. Long ice-blond hair, streaked with grey, streamed over his broad shoulders. Penda of Mercia was indeed striking, as would be his sons when grown. Merwenna instinctively feared him.

  The king threw his reins to a slave and cast a cool glance about him.

  Merwenna looked away from the king and squared her shoulders. The thought of combing Tamworth in search for Beorn frightened her, but she would do it nonetheless. This was why she had come here; this was why she had not left with her brother. Merwenna crossed the yard, ducking out of the way of a horse that kicked out as she passed behind it.

  That was close. Merwenna’s heart started to hammer against her ribs but she pressed on.

  She would search the king’s army, from one end to the other, until she found her betrothed.

  ***

  The Prince of Powys watched the slave pour his cup full of mead. She was a dark-haired wench that he would wager was of Cymry blood. Her pretty face was pinched and drawn, and she avoided his gaze as she went about her task.

  Dylan watched her go, before his gaze shifted to the huge platters of food that slaves and servants were laying out on the long tables lining either side of the Great Hall’s fire pits.

  After days of travel and a frugal diet of stale seed cakes and hard cheese, his belly growled at the sight of the feast before him. Spit-roasted wild boar dominated the table, surrounded by apples roasted with walnuts and honey. There were platters of braised leeks and buttered carrots, and tureens of rich mutton stew – all accompanied by mountains of griddle bread.

  Beside Dylan, Gwyn gave a grunt of pleasure and started helping himself to the roast boar and apples.

  “A good feast this,” he acknowledged with his mouth full. “Penda has fine cooks.”

  Dylan gave a shrug before filling the trencher before him with mutton stew. “It is impressive. Let us hope that Penda is as generous with his gifts, as he is with his stores.”

  Gwyn nodded, his eyes glinting at Dylan’s meaning. Powys had made a pact with Mercia before Dylan marched his men to war, but Penda had yet to honor it. Still, now that they had reached Tamworth, there would be plenty of time to talk of such things. This eve, Dylan was in no hurry.

  Dylan’s gaze shifted to the other end of the table, where the king and queen dined together. Their offspring – a fine looking brood – flanked them; the two adolescent girls to the right and the three boys on the other side.

  The king and queen spoke little, but Dylan noticed the ease between them; the frequency with which their gazes met. Queen Cyneswide was entering her fourth decade but she was still a beautiful woman. Dylan could see, by the softness of her face every time she looked in Penda’s direction, that she plainly adored her husband.

  No accounting for taste.

  Dylan took a draught of mead and turned his attention back to the feast. He sampled a bit of everything, and was beginning to feel uncomfortably full when servants brought honey cakes, plum tarts and apple pies to the table. The feasters fell upon the sweets, as if they had not already consumed a king’s share of food, drizzling the cakes with thick cream.

  It was then, as Dylan sat considering whether it was prudent to eat anything else, that one of the girls serving the sweets, caught his attention.

  It was uncomfortably hot in the hall and the young woman’s face and arms gleamed with sweat. She wore a pretty green wealca that hugged her lissome form. She was small and slender but with a swelling bosom that made her look ripe and womanly. Her thick mane of brown hair was tied back, revealing a long neck. When she turned in Dylan’s direction, he saw the girl had a plump, rosebud mouth and startling blue eyes.

  Desire lanced through Dylan, making him catch his breath.

  Months without a woman made him suddenly hungry for one. A night with such a girl would definitely put a smile on a man’s face. The slave he had been admiring earlier was forgotten as his gaze devoured the lovely serving wench. Consumed by lustful thoughts, Dylan looked away and held out his cup to be filled by a passing slave.

  When he looked back in the girl’s direction, she had gone.

  Chapter Seven

  Ill-tidings

  “Let the dancing begin!”

  The feasting had ended, and the mountains of food scraps tidied away. Servants had pushed the long feasting tables back against the walls, to make way for the musicians – two playing bone whistles, and one on a lyre – and the throng of dancers.

  The king and his family looked down upon the revelry from a heah-setl, high seat, at the far end of the hall, watching as the ealdormen and thegns led their wives out onto the center of the floor to dance.

  Merwenna leaned over a water barrel, at the opposite end of the hall, and sipped from a long-handled ladle. She drank thirstily. The water tasted stale but was a balm in the airless heat of Penda’s Great Hall.

  The musicians had struck up a lively tune. Men and women whirled around the center of the hall. Merwenna stepped back from the water barrel and let her gaze travel over them. There was joy and revelry on their faces – but she could not share their gaiety. She would not rejoice for Mercia’s victory until she found Beorn.

  Merwenna’s vision blurred with tears of frustration.

  She had spent the afternoon scouring Tamworth for her betroth
ed, but had not found him. She had asked many men if they had seen Beorn, or knew him, but none had. Some of the men she had asked had been rude to her, others lecherous and frightening. She had returned to the tower, weary and tearful, only to have an ealdorman’s wife – a bossy, shrill woman named Hild – inform her that Merwenna could earn her keep by serving at the evening’s feast.

  Merwenna had not minded the task; it kept her busy and stopped her worrying about Beorn. However, as the evening progressed, anxiety wove itself into a tight ball in the pit of her belly.

  I must speak to the king, she finally decided. Her worry was eating her up inside, she had to take action. Only he can help me. How else will I know if Beorn has survived?

  Straightening her back with resolve, Merwenna stepped away from the wall and started to make her way around the edge of the hall. It was slow progress. The Great Hall heaved with the press of sweating bodies. It was so hot in here that Merwenna started to feel light-headed.

  She longed to escape into the cool evening, to breathe fresh air – but first she had to speak to the king.

  Through the press, she caught glimpses of the king and his entourage. Now that the feast had ended, and the tables had been shifted, Penda’s most favored ealdormen sat at the foot of the high seat – as did a striking dark-haired man.

  The stranger was dressed in a mail vest and leather breeches. A plush purple cloak hung from his broad shoulders. The man stood out from those seated around him. He had chiseled features, a lithe build and raven hair; marking him as one of the Cymry. He lounged back on cushions, watching the dancing, his expression slightly bored.

  This must be Cynddylan son of Cyndrwyn of Powys; the man who had brought his army to aid the Mercians in their victory.

  The prince looked as if he would have rather been elsewhere than in this hall full of noisy high born Mercians. Merwenna was about to refocus her attention upon King Penda, when Cynddylan’s gaze met hers.

  She gasped, her step faltering, and was grateful when the swirling dancers obscured his view of her. No man had ever looked at her like that, not even Beorn. The heat of this stranger’s gaze had made her body prickle as if she stood naked in a draft. The sensation was unnerving.

  Refocusing her thoughts, Merwenna edged closer to the high seat. She would not be distracted; there was too much at stake.

  I must find Beorn. The king will help me.

  She gathered her courage as she went, and mentally rehearsed the request she would make before the king. The dancers moved aside and Merwenna once more had a view of the royal family. She reached the foot of the high seat and, not hesitating – lest her nerve fail her – she stepped up to address the king.

  “My Lord, Penda,” she addressed him tremulously, curtsying low. “Please, may I have a moment of your time?”

  Penda looked up from where he had quietly been conversing with his wife. His gaze focused upon Merwenna, and then narrowed.

  “What is it wench? Why do you interrupt your king?”

  “I apologize,” Merwenna bowed her head, “but there is something I must ask. There was a young warrior named Beorn who rode with you to war – Beorn of Weyham. Do you know of his fate?”

  The king’s gaze narrowed further.

  “Bold wench,” he addressed her coldly. “How did you gain entrance to my hall? How dare you badger me. Be gone before I give you to my men.”

  “Penda,” Cyneswide interjected gently, placing a restraining hand on her husband’s forearm. “Merwenna is my guest. She should not have approached you so boldly but she is plainly desperate to know the fate of her betrothed.”

  The king inclined his head and gave his wife a bemused look.

  “Your guest?”

  Cyneswide nodded, flushing slightly. “Please help her, for my sake.”

  Penda glanced back at Merwenna, his gaze hewn from stone. “I know not if your betrothed survived the battle or not,” he admitted. “Thousands of men serve me. I do not know the names of most of them, let alone this Berthun.”

  “Beorn, Milord. He was tall and blond, with a short beard. He had blue eyes.”

  “That description could fit many of my warriors,” Penda’s mouth twisted in scorn. “Stop wasting my time.”

  “Beorn of Weyham did serve you, Penda.”

  A man’s voice, deep and lightly accented, sounded behind her. Merwenna swiveled, and her gaze met that of the Prince of Powys once more. Cynddylan ap Cyndrwyn remained seated, lying back indolently on cushions.

  Merwenna stiffened. Prince or not, he should rise to his feet when addressing Penda.

  As if thinking upon the same lines, the King of Mercia’s cruelly handsome face grew harder still. His gaze upon the Prince of Powys was wintry.

  “Do you not remember him?” Cynddylan asked, seemingly unmoved by the king’s cold stare. “The lad who followed you around for days before the battle. The one who personally asked to fight in the shield wall to show his loyalty to you.”

  Penda’s gaze narrowed as if taking the measure of the man seated below him.

  Merwenna glanced from the King of Mercia’s face, to that of the Prince of Powys. She was aware of the tension between them that had nothing to do with her presence. There was an unspoken challenge in Cynddylan’s eyes.

  “Perhaps,” Penda’s gaze flicked back to Merwenna. “Blond, bearded and handsome, you say?”

  Merwenna nodded, feeling sick to the stomach.

  “Then I do remember him. The Prince of Powys speaks true. The lad was eager to please. A young warrior who thought war was a game. After I told him he could fight in the shield wall, I never saw him again. I know not if he lives.”

  “He does not,” Cynddylan’s words echoed in the sudden hush.

  Merwenna was aware that the music and dancing had stopped and that many were staring at her. She turned to meet the Prince of Powys’ gaze. There was pity in his moss-green eyes that made her legs start to tremble.

  Suddenly, she did not want to hear any more.

  “How do you know this?” she finally managed, her voice hoarse with the effort it was taking for her to keep her composure.

  “I saw his body among the dead, after the battle,” he replied, his tone gentling. “Your betrothed died with honor, fighting for his people – for his king.”

  Chapter Eight

  Nón-mete

  Not again.

  Merwenna stared down at the hem she was embroidering and watched her tears drop onto the linen.

  Blinking furiously, she swallowed the rising sobs and took deep, steady breaths. Eventually, her tears stemmed and she picked up her bone needle to resume her work, keeping her gaze downcast lest anyone attempt to make eye-contact with her.

  Two days had passed since the king’s return. The two longest days of Merwenna’s life.

  She had received news of Beorn’s death so publically, for Cynddylan’s interruption had drawn the attention of all. However, grief had overridden embarrassment and, after the Prince of Powys had told her of her betrothed’s end on the battlefield, she had dissolved into tears and fled the hall.

  No one had come after her, and Merwenna was glad for it. Away from prying eyes, she had curled up in the shadow of one of the outbuildings, and had wept until exhaustion. Alone, she nursed her pain in the long twilight. Suddenly, she wanted the comfort of her family around her. For the first time since leaving Weyham, she longed for her mother’s embrace.

  Beorn. Every time she thought of him, the tears flowed afresh. He had been so young, so earnest – so brave. She had tried to warn him that war was not like the songs that the older men sung around the fire pit, but he had merely humored her.

  Now she would never hear his voice, look into his eyes, or kiss him – ever again.

  Merwenna could not think upon Beorn without raging against fate. The likes of Penda and Cynddylan lived, so why could not have Beorn?

  Merwenna stabbed her bone needle into the linen and did a quick, neat stitch.

  Anger was so
much easier to tolerate than grief.

  As always it had been a lonely morning, sitting apart from the other women as she worked. She was a guest in the King’s Hall but even so was expected to earn her keep. This did not bother Merwenna. Industry kept her sadness at bay.

  Even so, it was time to leave Tamworth.

  She felt much stronger today. Ever since the news of Beorn’s death, she had hidden from the world. Yet, this morning she could see beyond the cloak of grief. She needed to go home, to face her parents – and Seward – and to help bring in the last of the harvest.

  The aroma of mutton pie reached Merwenna then, causing her belly to growl. She looked up to see the inhabitants of the Great Hall were taking their places at the long tables for nón-mete, ‘noon meat’. Merwenna put aside her embroidery, rose to her feet, and moved to join them.

  I will speak to the queen this afternoon, she made herself a silent promise as she took a seat on one of the low benches. I will ask her for an escort home tomorrow.

  Merwenna had just taken a seat when she felt someone’s gaze upon her. She glanced up and looked straight into the eyes of the Prince of Powys. He was walking past, on his way farther up the table, to where he would take his seat.

  The prince gave her a slow smile in greeting.

  Flustered, Merwenna looked away. She did not look up again until he had moved on. She was not sure why, but there was something about that man that unnerved her. Yet, part of her hated Cynddylan for revealing that Beorn was dead. His blunt words had crushed any hope.

  Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, the royal family took their places.

  Penda and Cyneswide sat at the head, flanked by their children to the left and Penda’s most trusted ealdormen down the right. The three boys had pushed and shoved their way to the table, elbowing each other for the chance to sit next to their father. However, one quelling look from Penda calmed them. Giving his younger brothers a superior look, Paeda took his place closest to the king.

  Servants circulated the hall, filling cups with milk, ale or mead, or placing wooden platters of braised leeks on the table. The mutton pie arrived, and Merwenna’s mouth watered at the sight of it. She was just beginning her slice, tearing into the crumbly pastry with her fingers, when she heard one of the princes – the middle one, Wulfhere – address his father.