by Jayne Castel
Merwenna turned her back on Cynddylan, cursing herself for being so easily seduced. Vowing to keep her distance from him from now on, she moved across to the largest of the fires that had just been lit. A young man had just sat down to skin a pile of conies they had trapped the night before.
“Can I help?” Merwenna asked shyly, aware that she was the only one in the camp that appeared to be idle.
The warrior, only a couple of years older than her, glanced up and smiled. He was slightly built, compared to the men she had grown up with. Lean and sharp featured, he had a mop of dark hair that kept falling in his eyes.
“Sit down,” he gestured to the rock beside him. “I could use a hand.”
He spoke Englisc haltingly, with a very thick accent. Yet, since Merwenna knew no more than a handful of words of Cymraeg, she was grateful.
She perched on the rock and took the bone-handled knife the warrior handed her. Then, she plucked a dead rabbit from the top of the pile and began to skin it with practiced ease. Over the years, Merwenna had lost count of the evenings she had spent beside the hearth, skinning rabbits with her mother and sister at her side.
The act brought back memories that made her smile, and caused a wistful pang of homesickness for Weyham, and for her kin. Yet, fear of what awaited her there, caused her nostalgia to fade.
“My name’s Merwenna,” she said eventually, after skinning and gutting her fifth rabbit. “What’s yours?”
“Owain,” he replied.
“You must be looking forward to returning home.”
The man nodded.
“How long have you been away?”
“Since last winter,” Owain replied. “Many months.”
Merwenna nodded, trying to imagine the life he would have left behind.
“Do you have a wife and children waiting for you?”
He nodded. “My wife and son. Ifan will be walking now; he was just a babe when I left.”
Merwenna smiled. The love and pride on Owain’s face were evident.
“Do they know you survived the battle?”
Owain shook his head, his expression growing grim. “There’s been no time to send word. My wife, Eira, will be worrying.”
Merwenna’s smile faded. She remembered the gnawing worry that had gripped her upon waking, every morning after Beorn’s departure. In the end, it had become unbearable.
“It’s the waiting that’s the worst,” she replied softly, “and yet, it is a woman’s lot.”
***
Merwenna picked the last scraps of meat off her rabbit carcass and threw the bones on the fire. The flames hissed and popped as they devoured them. Licking grease off her fingers, she sat back from the fire and stretched out her legs in front of her.
It was a mild evening without a hint of a breeze. Autumn was not far off, yet the air still held summer’s warmth tonight. Night had fallen and the sky was a curtain of black. The stars twinkled in sharp relief overhead.
Merwenna sat back on her hands and craned her neck back so that she could study the stars more closely. Their majesty made her feel so small.
Suddenly, she was aware of a man’s gaze upon her.
She inclined her head, her own gaze traveling across the faces of the men who sat nearby. It came to rest upon Cynddylan. The Prince of Powys was staring at her, the firelight playing across the chiseled contours of his face.
He was used to having his way with women. She had never lain with a man, but knew the gaze of one who stripped her naked with his eyes. The heat of his gaze caused her breathing to quicken. She struggled to keep her face expressionless, although inside she was churning with a wild, dangerous excitement. He looked at her in a way that made her skin ache to be touched, her mouth burn to be kissed.
Merwenna gasped at her body’s betrayal and tore her gaze away from the prince’s. He cared not that she grieved for her betrothed. Instead he wielded his devastating charm like a weapon, drawing her in against her will.
How many women had melted under that stare?
Merwenna took a slow, shuddering breath and glanced back up at the heavens. Was Beorn looking down on her right now? Did he despise her for her weakness?
I’ll not betray you, my love, she vowed silently. You were everything to me.
Those words were true. She had loved Beorn. Why else had she run away to Tamworth? She had risked much in doing so – for her family would not be quick to forgive her behavior. He was the man she had planned to spend the rest of her life with. The only man for her.
Yet, if that was the case, why did her body burn under the gaze of another?
Chapter Fifteen
Drefan of Chester
Sunlight on his face woke Drefan of Chester from a deep slumber. He slowly opened his eyes, struggling to gain his bearings for a moment or two, till the fog of sleep lifted.
Cursing foully, he struggled to his feet.
Dawn had broken some time ago. He should have already been on his way, not snoring by the fire as if he had all the time in the world. He would never keep up with Cynddylan and his rabble at this rate.
Drefan’s head felt twice its size this morning, and his mouth tasted like rank, old leather. He had downed two large skins of mead last night, and was now paying the price. Ever since Cynddylan had ripped his prize from him, and humiliated him in the bargain, Drefan had been in an evil mood. Before running into Merwenna in the woods, he had been planning to travel south, to trade his wares in the Saxon settlements.
Now, he had changed his direction to the west.
That bitch had made a fool of him twice now, and she would have to pay. Thanks to her, the Queen of Mercia would no longer buy his cloth; something that could potentially ruin him. Tamworth had always been his most lucrative stop on the way north.
Merwenna of Weyham had made him a leper in Tamworth.
Drefan was not a man who easily forgave – and he never forgot. He would follow Cynddylan’s army, and when the chance presented itself – for one day it would – he would take Merwenna from her new protector and make her rue the day her mother birthed her.
Drefan unloosed the ties on his breeches and relieved himself on the smoldering embers of last night’s fire. His urine, dark and stinking of mead, hissed on the hot coals. As he pissed, Drefan closed his eyes, imagining what he would do to Merwenna, once he caught her. He was just retying his breeches, when a sound behind him made him start.
The tread of a heavy foot on the leaf-strewn ground.
Drefan whirled to find a group of men gathered at the edge of the small clearing, watching him.
His gaze traveled across their faces. They were big men, dressed in leather armor and fur cloaks. They were also well-armed. Swords hung at their sides, shields from their backs, and most of them carried quivers of arrows and longbows. He would have thought them a hunting party, but his well-honed instincts told him that was not the case.
Drefan’s gaze rested on the face of the biggest warrior among them – a good-looking man with shaggy brown hair and a wintry gaze – and his breath stilled. He recognized that face; the sight of it bringing him back to his humiliation in Tamworth’s market square. This man had been one of Queen Cyneswide’s guards. The one she had called Rodor. It was he who had placed the coins in Drefan’s outstretched palm.
The recognition was mutual, for Rodor smiled under Drefan’s scrutiny. Then he stepped forward, unsheathing his sword in one smooth movement. The sound of iron scraping against leather echoed across the still clearing, and Drefan’s bowels loosened.
“Taking your cloth elsewhere?” Rodor motioned to the small cart sitting a few yards away, and the stocky ponies hobbled next to it.
“Well, I won’t be selling it in Tamworth, will I?” Drefan replied with a sneer.
“No,” Rodor stepped forward, his sword blade glinting in the pale morning light. “I’m afraid you won’t be peddling it anywhere.”
Panic flared, and Drefan backed away from the warrior.
“What d
o you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you about to kill me?”
“Because you recognize me – and I can’t have that.”
“I won’t tell anyone you were here.” Drefan’s gaze locked on the blade that was slowly advancing toward him. “There’s no one to tell.”
“Have you not seen anyone on your travels then, merchant?”
“My name’s Drefan – and yes, I’ve seen plenty of folk of late. That little whore you paid me for in Tamworth for one.”
Rodor went still at that. “Really?”
“I ran into her just over a day ago,” Drefan rushed the words out, taking advantage of Rodor’s pause. Drefan was unarmed, save for the boning knife at his belt. He was a worthy opponent, and knew how to fight with low cunning. However, faced by this warrior with eyes the color of ice, wielding his sword as if he had been born with it, he did not rate his chances.
If Drefan did not talk his way out of this, he was dead.
“And where’s Merwenna now?”
“She ran off.”
“Did she?” Rodor cocked an eyebrow and continued his path across the glade toward Drefan. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“Actually, there is more to it than that,” Drefan swallowed, feeling sweat slide down his back. “She did run off, and I followed. However, she ran straight into the path of the Cymry army, and their prince rescued her.”
“You saw Cynddylan of Powys?” Rodor stopped once more, his expression hardening. “How far ahead are they?”
“No more than a day. I overslept this morning or I would already have been on their trail.”
“You’re following them?”
Drefan licked his lips, considering whether to tell this man the truth. Rodor was watching him closely, and he could see he was no idiot. It was perilous to lie to clever men.
“Yes – that wench made a fool of me once again and I’m not having it. I’d wager they are escorting her home, on their way back to Powys. I intend to follow them there.”
“She is from Weyham, is she not?”
Drefan nodded, his gaze flicking from Rodor’s sword to his face. “You’re tracking Cynddylan’s army, aren’t you?”
Drefan saw Rodor’s gaze narrow at that, and so he rushed on, aware that he only had moments to convince this man he was not worth killing.
“Let me come with you. I know these lands well – and I know a short cut to Weyham. If you’re wanting to catch up with Cynddylan and his men, I can help you.”
Rodor gave a chilling smile. “Is that right?”
“Look,” Drefan raised his hands pleadingly. “I don’t know why you’re after him, and I don’t care. I only hope it’s to slit his throat. You can trust me, I have no love for the Cymry – least of all that whoreson.”
“That may be the case,” Rodor replied, “but I trust no man unless he proves himself worthy of it.”
“I can prove myself. If you want to kill Cynddylan of Powys, I’ll help you. Just let me have Merwenna.”
Rodor glanced back at his men. They were all silent, observing the scene with obvious amusement. Some were openly sniggering, while others stood there smirking.
“What do you think boys? Shall we let him live?”
“Don’t think so,” one of them – a tall, lean warrior with lank blond hair and a stubbly beard – replied with a grin. “I’d say he’s lying to save his hide.”
Rodor smiled back. “Well said, Caedmon. Of course he is.”
Drefan watched, cold dread washing over him, as Rodor closed the gap between them in two long strides.
“Wait!” he choked out, stumbling back. “I can help you.”
Yet, Rodor had finished talking.
Drefan of Chester saw the glint of Rodor’s blade – as it swung toward him – and knew his end had come.
Chapter Sixteen
The Kiss
Merwenna added another stick to her armload of kindling. The wood was damper than she would have liked. She had been forced to venture into the trees, away from the fringes of the woods, to find anything worth burning.
It had been drizzling for most of the day, and around her the daylight was slowly fading into a murky twilight. She would not linger out here for much longer, for it was becoming difficult to see. She picked up one final piece of kindling and was about to retrace her steps back to camp, when she heard footsteps behind her.
She whirled around, and in her fright, dropped the wood she had been carrying.
Cynddylan was standing a few feet behind her.
Merwenna stared at him, her heart hammering. “What are you doing here, Milord? You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he gave an apologetic smile. “You were gone awhile, so I thought I’d better come find you.”
“Well, as you can see I’m unharmed,” Merwenna’s face flamed as she bent to retrieve the sticks. “I thank you for your concern.”
“It was well meant, Merwenna,” he replied. “I’ve seen the way my men look at you. Many of them are hungry for a woman. Seeing you wander off alone into the woods is too much temptation.”
I’ve seen the way you look at me, Merwenna tried to ignore her palpitating heart. It’s you I need to be wary of.
The only man she feared in the Cymry encampment was the one standing before her.
“I don’t need your protection,” she insisted, lifting her chin stubbornly. “Please leave me be.”
“We both know that’s not true,” he raised an eyebrow. “Drefan of Chester may have followed us. Such a man does not abandon his quarry without a fight.”
The mention of the cloth merchant’s name caused a shiver of dread to run down Merwenna’s spine. She cast a nervous glance around her, as if she expected Drefan to leap at her from the shadows.
“Well then,” she clutched the wood to her breast, feigning courage. “Escort me back to the camp, if it pleases you.”
The Prince of Powys nodded, but instead of turning and leading the way back through the trees – he slowly walked toward her. He stopped, so close that they were barely touching.
“It pleases me to look upon you,” he murmured.
Merwenna swallowed, her mouth was suddenly dry and her heart was racing as if she had finished a sprint.
Gods, no.
“Please don’t,” she finally managed, gripping the twigs as if they were keeping her afloat.
“Don’t what?” he asked, his gaze roaming over her face.
“Stare at me.”
“But, I can’t help myself. You are lovely, Merwenna.”
“Well, you should stop,” Merwenna’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s wrong. I am grieving for Beorn. I just want to go home.”
Even to her own ears, the words sounded hollow.
He stepped closer still, his hand reaching out to lightly caress her cheek. Merwenna trembled under his touch and hated herself for it.
“I can’t stop,” he said simply. “You are too lovely. I am but a moth to your flame.”
“But I…”
The prince’s mouth came down over hers, cutting off her protest. The shock of his lips against her own caused her to gasp. The twigs slid from her arms and fell to her feet.
With a groan low in his throat, Cynddylan pulled her hard against him. In moments, his kiss changed from a gentle caress, to hungry, hot and demanding.
Merwenna struggled against him at first – but, a moment later, she was lost. The feel of his lips on hers caused all rational thought to cease. Her body and senses betrayed her completely. She melted into his arms, her mouth opening under his.
He kissed her hungrily, pulling her body against the length of his. The hardness of him, the musky scent of his skin, the roughness of his new growth of beard, the taste of him – together unleashed something within Merwenna.
With a groan of surrender, she gave herself up to the kiss.
Cynddylan’s hands slid up the length of her back, up her neck, and tangled in her hair. He
then deepened the kiss further, exploring her mouth with his tongue. Merwenna’s knees gave, and had he not been holding up upright, she would have crumpled to the ground.
The kiss drew out. Yet – eventually – it was the prince who broke it.
Merwenna’s pulse was throbbing in her throat, and her head spinning. Cynddylan was breathing heavily. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes had gone dark. His gaze still locked with hers, the prince released Merwenna and stepped back from her.
Around them, the rain fell in a gentle, silent mist.
Mortification slowly crept across Merwenna’s body. The desire that had momentarily overtaken her was seeping away; replaced with burning shame.
What had she done? Beorn’s ashes were barely cold and here she was kissing another. Not only that, but she had enjoyed it.
A sob rose in Merwenna’s chest. She had not deserved Beorn, and it was for that Tiu, God of war and the sky, had taken him from her. This was her punishment.
“Leave me be,” she gasped, hating herself as much as him in that moment.
The firewood forgotten, she pushed past Cynddylan and, without another word, fled back to the camp.
Chapter Seventeen
Homecoming
“I’m walking today,” Merwenna informed the prince coldly.
They had not spoken since their kiss the night before. Dawn had just broken, and the army were packing up. Cynddylan had been in the midst of saddling his horse when she strode up to him.
“Excuse me?” he turned and regarded her, clearly amused.
Merwenna wished she had the courage to strike him. “You heard. I’m not riding with you. I will travel on foot.”
Merwenna clenched her fists by her sides as she finished speaking and braced herself for his refusal. However, she would not be swayed. She had spent most of the night in tears, but had woken ready for a fight. The only way he would get her to ride with him today would be to tie her up.
