by Jayne Castel
“Fæder,” the boy began, his handsome face earnest with purpose. “One of the town smiths has a litter of pups he is giving away. They’re hunting dogs. May I have one?”
Penda swallowed a mouthful of pie, and washed it down with a gulp of ale, before answering. "We have plenty of dogs in the tower, Wulfhere. Choose one of them.”
“But they’re all grown – and they all belong to others,” Wulfhere insisted, his voice quavering slightly as he sought to control his nervousness. Merwenna did not blame him. Penda’s mere presence was enough to chill the blood. “I promise I will look after it, fæder,” the lad finished, his face hopeful.
“No,” Penda’s tone was dismissive as he turned back to his meal. “You’ll have a dog of your own to train when you’re grown – when you’ve earned it. I have enough beasts skulking about the hall as it is without a whelp under my feet.”
“But, fæder,” Wulfhere did not back down. He stared at his father, his eyes glittering. “I promise it wouldn’t be any trouble. I would…”
“Enough,” the word came out in a low growl, but its menace caused Penda’s son to pale. “You whine like a maid. One more word and I’ll take my belt to you.”
Merwenna watched the lad hang his head, hiding his expression under a cascade of white-blond hair. To his left, the eldest brother, Paeda, smirked; while to his right, the youngest, Aethelred, sniggered.
Merwenna, who had always not only felt her own emotions deeply, but also those of others, longed to go to the boy and comfort him. Her gaze flicked to Cyneswide – and she was surprised to find the queen’s expression composed. But, when she looked more closely, Merwenna caught the flicker of sadness in her eyes.
Glancing back at Prince Wulfhere’s stricken face, Merwenna counted herself lucky that she had not been born into such a family.
Farther up the table, Dylan also watched the exchange between father and son.
He remembered that at the same age as Wulfhere, he too had pestered his father for a dog. Unlike Penda of Mercia, Cyndrwyn of Powys had eventually relented. That pup – a tiny creature that had once fitted in the palm of his hand – had grown into a huge, shaggy beast. They had grown up together. Taranau – ‘thunder’ in his tongue – had become his shadow, his friend.
Dylan’s father, who had died the winter before, had been a stern, inflexible man in many ways. Yet, seeing Penda’s treatment of his son, made Dylan see his own father in a new light.
He will make his sons the image of him, Dylan thought wryly.
Dylan turned his attention back to his pie. Like the rest of the fare that Penda’s cooks prepared, it was delicious. Yet, now that the weariness of the journey back from Maes Cogwy had abated, Dylan was too restless to enjoy it.
He pushed aside the remnants of his meal, took a deep draught of mead, and cast another glance in Penda’s direction.
Enough. The battle was done. The Northumbrians had been defeated, and yet Penda continued to deflect any talk of compensating his allies for their losses. He had been a guest under Penda’s roof for over two days – long enough, in his opinion – and was eager to begin the march back to Powys.
He had a kingdom to rule, and would be crowned upon his return to Pengwern, the capital of Powys. Dylan and his men were guests in Tamworth, but Penda’s hospitality was a thin veneer. Last night, there had been a brawl outside the mead hall, between Dylan’s men and Mercian warriors. If they stayed much longer, the truce between Powys and Mercia would be at an end.
Penda, it’s time for us to talk.
Chapter Nine
Cyneswide’s Word
Merwenna approached the group of high born women. They were working industriously at their distaffs and looms. The queen was among them, seated at her loom, and flanked either side by her daughters. She looked up as Merwenna approached, as did Cyneburh and Cyneswith.
Merwenna ignored the girls’ haughty stares. Instead, she focused upon the queen, who at least was smiling at her.
“Good afternoon, Merwenna. I have not seen you all day. Are you well?”
“Yes, Milady,” Merwenna returned the smile and dipped into a low curtsey. Then, she took a deep breath and pushed on, before she lost her nerve. “I am well, but anxious to return to my kin. Now that I know Beorn’s fate, I cannot remain here.”
Cyneswide nodded her blue eyes clouding slightly. “You are grieving. I am sorry your betrothed did not survive the battle – I had so hoped he would.”
“Thank you,” Merwenna dropped her gaze to the floor, feeling her throat tighten at Beorn’s name. “You are most kind.”
She paused then, struggling to compose herself, while aware that the other women all watched her. Some of them enjoyed seeing her grief, especially after the dishonor that Seward had brought upon her.
Taking a deep breath, Merwenna looked up and met Cyneswide’s gaze.
“Milady, you promised me an escort home, when I was ready. I would like to depart tomorrow. Can you provide me with one?”
Even as she spoke these words, Merwenna was painfully aware of her boldness. She knew that the queen had made a promise. Yet, to actually stand before her and demand she make good on it, was another thing entirely.
The queen held her gaze for a moment before her smile faded. Her expression changed to one of regret.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I have tried to speak to the king about you, but he will not hear of sparing one of his men to escort you home.”
But you promised!
Merwenna choked back the words, panic flaring in her breast, her palms breaking out into a cold sweat.
“Perhaps you can ask at the market?” the queen continued gently. “There are bound to be merchants traveling in the direction of your village. Perhaps you can journey with one of them?”
One like Drefan of Chester, Milady?
Anger surged within Merwenna’s breast. Queen or not, this woman had given her word. While her husband had been absent, Cyneswide had been strong, capable, and decisive. Now that Penda had returned, she was but a shadow of that woman.
Merwenna managed a sickly smile, although inside she was in turmoil. She was so annoyed that she had to clench her fists to stop it from showing on her face.
“Thank you for at least trying on my behalf,” she eventually replied, hoping her ingratitude was not showing on her face, “and for your hospitality. I shall take my leave now.”
The queen’s eyes widened. “There’s no need to rush off, Merwenna,” she admonished. “You can wait till morning at least.”
Merwenna shook her head. Then she stepped back, curtsying once more as she did so.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m going home today.”
Merwenna crossed the Great Hall to the small bower she had been sharing with the princesses for the last few nights. It had been an uncomfortable spot, lying pressed up against the damp stone wall, but ever since Seward’s departure, the queen had deemed it the safest place for her young guest to sleep.
Inside, she retrieved her satchel and stuffed her traveling cloak into it. Then, slinging it across her front, she emerged back into the hall.
The hall was in chaos. Slaves wove their way through the mass of leather-clad warriors, in last-moment preparations for the meal. The rumble of men’s voices echoed like thunder in the lofty space.
It was nearing meal time and the king’s men, rowdy and high-spirited as usual, flooded the hall. They were an intimidating group – tall, broad and loud. They groped the serving girls, kicked dogs out of their way and strode toward the long tables either side of the two fire pits, roaring for cups of mead as they went. The victory had put Penda’s men in good spirits; but it had also made them insufferable. Merwenna was wary of them.
Fortunately, no one paid her any mind as she edged her way around the wall and slipped out the doors.
Outside, despite that it was not yet near dusk, the light had faded considerably, for dark clouds had rolled in from the north. The air crackled with the prom
ise of an approaching storm. Thunor was preparing to ride his chariot, drawn by his two goats – Gap-tooth and Gnasher – across the sky.
Merwenna took a deep breath of the humid air, squared her shoulders and stalked away from the Great Tower of Tamworth. She crossed the yard, passed under the stone arch, and stepped out into the pot-holed street beyond.
Despite her purposeful stride, Merwenna’s stomach felt twisted in knots. Anger had propelled her out of the Great Hall and into Tamworth, but now the reality of matters hit her.
She was about to face a five-day journey alone.
Tamworth stank of urine, rotting food and animal droppings, and Merwenna’s memory of the incident in the market square was still fresh in her mind. She breathed shallowly and kept her gaze downcast as she hurried through the network of narrow streets.
She had to hurry. Soon, the town gates would be closing for the night. She wanted to make sure she was outside Tamworth’s walls when they did.
***
“Storm’s brewing,” Gwyn muttered as he and Dylan crossed the stable yard.
The Prince of Powys glanced up at the sky and felt the first drops of cool rain splatter onto his upturned face. “A violent one by the looks of it,” he replied.
They had spent most of the afternoon with their men, who were camped outside Tamworth’s walls, checking on those who were injured and readying the others for their imminent departure. With a tempest on its way, it was time to return inside.
Impatience had needled at Dylan for most of the day; this eve, he planned to remind Penda of his oaths.
Most of the king’s men were already seated when Dylan and Gwyn entered the Great Hall. As always, there was a great deal of activity and noise inside. A pall of greasy smoke hung in the air.
Letting Gwyn go on ahead, Dylan paused on the threshold. His gaze swept the hall, and rested upon where Penda had just taken a seat at the head of the king’s table.
The Prince of Powys set off across the hall toward him.
Rodor had been about to take his place at the king’s right, when Dylan slid onto the bench next to Penda. Taken aback by the prince’s sudden appearance, Rodor cursed under his breath and stood threateningly over him. He clearly expected Dylan to rise and give him back his place.
Dylan glanced up and met Rodor’s glare. “I’m feasting here this eve,” he informed him. “Find somewhere else to sit.”
With that, Dylan turned to face the king, dismissing Rodor. He could feel the warrior’s glare blister him between the shoulder blades. Dylan ignored him, although he could feel his own anger rising.
Rodor would pester him again at his peril.
Penda regarded Dylan with thinly veiled amusement. The Mercian King had just taken a sip from a large bronze goblet, studded with amber and garnets. Next to him, his queen was daintily picking at a leg of marsh hen. She glanced Dylan’s way, and favored him with a gentle smile.
Dylan acknowledged her with an answering smile. “Milady.”
“Good evening, Cynddylan,” Penda rumbled. “It appears you are eager to speak to me. Rodor looks displeased. I’d warn you against annoying him too greatly, for he has a long memory.”
Dylan shrugged, fixing Penda in a level gaze. “The day I shall concern myself with Rodor, is the day I return to my mother’s tit. I am seated here to talk of more kingly matters. It is time we spoke of the alliance between our kingdoms.”
Penda raised his eyebrows at that before taking another draught of mead. “Speak your piece then.”
“You remember the agreement,” Dylan regarded Penda coolly. “If Powys helped Mercia win the battle against the Northumbrians, you would grant us rule over the area east of our current border. Do I have your word that this land is now ours?”
Penda’s face went still, as cold and hard as one of the statues the Romans had left behind. Only his eyes showed any response, glittering coldly in the firelight.
“That land belongs to me.”
“It belongs to whomever earns it.”
Penda’s gaze narrowed slightly, before his mouth curved into a tight smile.
“Very well,” he drawled, finally. “You can have as far east as Hanbury.”
Dylan took a deep breath, controlling the anger that flared in the pit of his belly. The king’s offer was an insult, and everyone within earshot knew it.
Penda knew the Prince of Powys had a fiery temper. He wanted Dylan to lose control, to lash out. He was counting on it.
“Hanbury lies barely a morning’s ride from our eastern border,” Dylan said, making sure to keep his voice even and emotionless. “That is no prize for the deaths of fine Cymry warriors. Give us as far east as Lichfield, and we will be content.”
“Lichfield,” Penda ground out the name like a curse. “You demand much.”
“I demand only our due,” Dylan replied. “The promise our alliance was founded upon. Powys is a great ally for Mercia. We rallied to your side against the Northumbrians, and we would do so again. However, you must recompense our losses or next time your neighbors march on your borders you will do so alone.”
They were strong words – but they had the desired effect. The rumble of conversation around them had died, and Dylan was aware of gazes, many of them hostile, upon him. He paid them no heed, his own gaze riveted upon the King of Mercia’s face.
Much depended on Penda’s next words.
Penda’s fist clenched around the stem of his goblet. His face, however, gave nothing away. A long pause stretched between them before the king finally spoke.
“Very well – you may have the land.”
A thrill of victory surged through Dylan, although he was careful to keep his face neutral. He was aware of the aura of danger that suddenly crackled around him. Penda had agreed to his terms but he felt as if he were standing in the center of a frozen lake, upon very thin ice. One misstep and he would plunge to his death.
“Thank you, Lord Penda,” he nodded, rising to his feet to find Rodor still standing behind him.
If the king looked coldly furious, Rodor looked fit to explode. His face was contorted with rage, his cheeks flushed.
“Your man may have his place back,” Dylan smiled at Rodor, showing him his teeth. “Now that I have my answer, I will abuse your hospitality no longer. I shall ready my warriors to leave with the breaking dawn.”
Dylan moved away from the long table, but had only distanced himself a couple of yards when Penda’s cold voice hailed him.
“Lord Cynddylan.”
Dylan turned. “Yes?”
“You have the land as far east as Lichfield for now, but do not think it will belong to Powys forever. There will come a day when Mercia will reclaim its territory – remember that.”
Dylan inclined his head, and returned Penda’s gaze. “And there will come a day when Powys does not answer Mercia’s call – remember that.”
Dylan turned from the Mercian King then, and strode from the hall without a backward glance. His hand itched to reach for his sword, but it awaited him in the entrance way beyond the doors. All the same, he could feel Mercian stares knifing him between the shoulder blades and hoped Gwyn was watching his back.
It was done. He had received the gift he had been waiting for – now it was time to be gone from Tamworth.
Chapter Ten
Rodor Makes a Pledge
“The Prince of Powys and his men have departed.”
Rodor stopped before the heah-setl and fixed the king with a penetrating stare.
The king grunted, but did not bother to look his way.
Penda leisurely reclined in his high-back wooden chair, watching his sons play-fight with wooden swords. It was a magnificent throne – with arm-rests that had been elaborately carved to resemble two dragon heads.
“Milord,” Rodor began again. “Are you just going to let Cynddylan leave?”
Penda ignored him. His gaze remained upon Paeda and Wulfhere. The boys were sparring, and the play-fight had suddenly turned serious. Wu
lfhere, a year younger than Paeda, was starting to gain the upper-hand – a move which had caused his older brother to snarl insults at him.
“Arse-licking little shit,” Paeda spat, his face red with the effort to keep his brother at bay. “You seek to ingratiate yourself with fæder. I’ll beat you senseless for this later.”
“Not if I get you first!’ Wulfhere snarled back, before clubbing his brother on the side of the head with the blade of his wooden sword.
Paeda’s howls echoed up into the rafters.
The queen rose to her feet, sweeping down from the high seat to prevent the fight from deteriorating into a bloody brawl.
“My Lord Penda,” Rodor’s patience had reached breaking-point. “Cynddylan insulted you, before your entire hall. Will you let that lie?”
Those words drew the king’s attention. As Rodor has suspected, Penda was out of sorts this morning. His face grew taut and his head swiveled to his thegn.
“You forget your place, Rodor,” he rumbled. “If he had truly insulted me, his head would be on a pike outside Tamworth’s gates.”
“Apologies, Milord,” Rodor bowed his head. “I spoke hastily out of anger. Cynddylan’s arrogance galls me. He behaves as a base-born mercenary. His demand was outrageous – surely you do not mean to let Powys rule as far east as Lichfield?”
Penda stretched his long legs out before him, and crossed them at the ankles. He fixed Rodor with a level gaze.
“I made a pact with Powys. In this instance, I thought it prudent to uphold our promises. We may need Cynddylan’s assistance in the future.”
Rodor frowned. It was unlike Penda to care about keeping oaths, or to bow to the demands of others.
“Mercia does not need the help of those Cymry dogs,” Rodor replied, his lip curling.
