The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  Merwenna sat, clutching the tunic with numb fingers, her heart hammering against her ribs, and waited for Seward to respond.

  Although she feared her father’s reaction when he heard the truth about Tamworth, she was still reeling from the news that Penda planned to murder Cynddylan. All she could think about was that the prince had no idea of the danger stalking him.

  “We… I had a problem in Tamworth,” Seward reluctantly admitted. He hesitated then, the only sound in the dwelling the crackle and pop of the hearth. When he continued, his shoulders had slumped in defeat, his manner far less defensive.

  Merwenna listened intently as Seward recounted the tale of what had occurred upon their first night in the Great Tower of Tamworth. When her brother finished speaking, Wilfrid’s face was thunderous.

  A tense silence followed, and Merwenna found herself holding her breath.

  “Take off your shirt, Seward,” Cynewyn broke the silence. “Let me see your back.”

  The young man rose to his feet and did as she bid. He winced as he pulled his sleeveless tunic over his head.

  Merwenna let out her breath in an explosive gasp. Her brother’s back was crisscrossed with livid, scabbed marks. He would carry those scars with him for the rest of his life.

  “I did not bring you up to abuse the hospitality of others,” Wil finally spoke, his voice hoarse with anger. “The Queen of Mercia invited you into her hall and this how you repay her?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Seward replied, his defensiveness returning. “I’d had too much mead, and the slave was willing. The next thing I knew…”

  “Enough!” Wil roared, his temper finally snapping. “You have shamed our family!”

  “I haven’t shamed anyone!” Seward shouted back, his face turning red. “It was a mistake and I’ve paid for it.”

  “You haven’t finished paying for anything! You’re a fool! A selfish clod!”

  Merwenna rose to her feet, backing away from where her father and brother stood, nose to nose, roaring at each other. Little Aeaba was weeping, clinging to her mother’s skirts. Cynewyn tried to intercede but Wil and Seward’s shouting drowned out her protests.

  Unnoticed, Merwenna slipped outside. Her brother and father’s angry shouts following her.

  “You always think the worst of me!”

  “And with good reason – you’re a dolt!”

  The darkness enveloped Merwenna like a soft cloak; the cool air a balm after the smoky interior of her home. The moon was rising above the trees and all was quiet save for the muffled argument inside.

  Merwenna was in turmoil. The news that Rodor and his men were on their way to kill Dylan had been like a punch to the stomach. Yet, it was her own reaction to these tidings that shocked her, as much as the news itself. It had been instinctive – there was no question in her mind about what she must do.

  She had to warn him.

  She had little time. The argument, as explosive as it was, would burn itself out soon enough. They would soon notice her absence.

  It was time to go.

  Merwenna crossed to the store house and unbarred the door. Inside, she worked by feel, knowing what she would find. The ripe smell of cheese assailed her nostrils as her fingers curled around the bone handle of a knife that hung from the wall. She cut herself a wedge from one of the wheels of cheese her mother had left to cure. She then stuffed the cheese and an apple into the deep pocket of her skirt. It was not much, but it would have to do.

  Moving like a shadow, quiet and fleet, she left the store house, and skirted the edge of the yard before her home and made her way toward the fields.

  To one side, sheltered by oaks, was a fenced area where her father kept his two horses. They were cantankerous beasts, both shaggy and jet-black. Her father had named them Huginn and Muninn – the names of Woden’s ravens. Huginn represented ‘thought’, and Muninn ‘memory’. The birds perched on the King of the God’s shoulder and whispered to him about the goings-on of the world below.

  Merwenna crept down to the enclosure and caught Huginn. He was slower, but far more biddable than his brother; a safer choice if she did not want to be thrown off mid-journey. There was no time to saddle her mount, she would have to ride bare-back. She slipped on Huginn’s bridle, led him out of the enclosure and vaulted up onto his broad back.

  Then, she dug her heels into his flanks, and they were off.

  They skirted the edge of the fields, avoiding the village itself. Instead, they made for the woods. Merwenna guided Huginn in and out of the trees and, a short while later, they emerged from the woods onto the meadows where the Cymry army had camped. Cynddylan would be some distance ahead by now. She would have to ride all night, and most of the day to catch him up.

  Merwenna clenched her jaw in determination. She had time. Rodor and his friends were likely to leave at first light. If she rode fast, she would keep ahead of them.

  “Are you ready?” she whispered to Huginn, reaching forward and stroking his furry neck. “We have a long ride before us.”

  BOOK TWO

  Powys

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Long Ride West

  They followed the road west, traveling under the incandescent light of the moon.

  Huginn’s unshod hooves beat a steady rhythm on the dirt road. It was rough going, for the way was little more than a rutted track in places. Merwenna crouched low over the horse’s bristling mane, her eyes watering as the cold night air whipped past.

  She focused on nothing but what lay ahead. In truth, had she stopped to consider her actions, she may never have done it. Instead, she clamped down on any wayward thoughts and told herself it was too late to turn back, too late for second thoughts. They were now far from Weyham, and gaining upon Cynddylan’s army with every stride.

  I have to reach him before Rodor does.

  The first rays of sun were peeking through the trees to the east when she stopped briefly, next to a babbling brook. Here, she let Huginn rest and take a light drink of water. She too drank from the brook. There had been no time to bring a water bladder with her, something she now regretted. She only hoped they would find water along the way.

  Although she was exhausted, and her body cried out for sleep, Merwenna did not linger by the brook long. Rodor and his men would have left Weyham by now. Soon, they would be breathing down her neck.

  A chill wind blew in from the north as they continued west. Merwenna was grateful for it, for the sting of the wind on her cheeks kept her alert. Huginn revealed his tough breeding and stubborn will, ploughing on through the morning without showing signs of tiring. Merwenna, having been taught well by her father, took care to rest him every so often. She left the reins loose, allowing the horse to pick his way over the rough ground.

  Gradually, moving ever farther west, the land grew more hilly and the woods thicker. The way grew harder to follow, narrowing to something resembling a goat path in places. Yet, Merwenna knew this was the road the band had taken. She saw signs of horses and men – trampled undergrowth, as well as dung and grooves in the dirt. The army had recently passed this way.

  The morning gradually turned into afternoon and still horse and rider pressed on. This day was the longest one that Merwenna had ever known. Exhaustion dragged at her, obliterating all thoughts except for one.

  I have to warn him.

  It was growing late in the day, and the light was beginning to fade, when Merwenna and Huginn caught up with Cynddylan’s army at last.

  She was so thirsty that it was painful to swallow. They had not passed a water way since noon and both horse and rider were beginning to suffer the effects of dehydration. Huginn’s head hung low, his flanks slick with sweat. Merwenna slumped on his back, her eyes stinging, and her body aching.

  The Cymry had camped on the brow of a low hill, on a south-facing slope. The road skirted the base of the hill at this point. Looking up the hill, Merwenna could see the outline of tents and standards, flapping in the wind,
outlined against the darkening sky.

  Relief rushed through her and she drew Huginn to a halt. Any farther, and a sentry would spot her. It was time to dismount and travel the last stretch on foot. Sliding to the ground, Merwenna gave a loud groan of pain.

  It had not been a clever idea to dismount. She could barely walk. However, Huginn gave a great sigh of relief, and to her surprise, nuzzled her side. Huginn had lost his ill-temper half-way into the journey, and had been a pleasant companion for the rest of the day. His endurance had humbled her.

  “You did well, boy,” she stroked his velvety nose, reaching up to tussle his fluffy forelock. “We’re almost there. Just a few steps more.”

  Moving stiffly, Merwenna led the horse off the road and up the hillside toward the camp. A few moments later, she encountered two warriors who were keeping watch.

  One of them shouted something in Cymraeg and raised his spear threateningly. Merwenna stopped, fear involuntarily rising in her breast.

  “I’m here to see Cynddylan ap Cyndrwyn of Powys,” she called to them.

  The two warriors exchanged looks. Then, the one who had shouted out approached her cautiously, spear still raised.

  “You’re the girl we escorted to Weyham,” he observed in halting Englisc.

  “My name is Merwenna. Please, I must see the Prince.”

  The warrior’s companion joined them, and the two men grinned at each other. Merwenna recognized neither man and dearly wished it had been Owain out here, guarding the perimeter – a man she liked and trusted. She hoped these two men were more honorable than they appeared.

  “You’re a foolish girl,” the warrior lowered his spear, still grinning. “Running after a man so desperately. Are you looking for trouble?”

  Merwenna’s stomach churned. Her fears were becoming real. At this rate, she would not even be able to speak with Dylan. To travel all this way and fail now would be a cruel twist of fate. Worse than that, she knew she was in danger of being raped.

  “No, I’m not looking for trouble,” she replied, forcing herself to meet the warrior’s gaze. Her skin crawled at the heat of his stare.

  “No? Well, I’d say you’ve found it all the same.”

  “Look here,” Merwenna snapped. Anger flooded through her, drowning her fear. “I haven’t ridden like night and day to be treated like a half-witted slut. Your leader is in grave danger – and I’m here to warn him.” She glared at the men, enjoying the look of surprise on their faces. “Take me to him!”

  ***

  “How long has he been like this?”

  Dylan looked down at the man who lay on the ground before him. The warrior was feverish, his eyes unfocused. He was tall and dark-haired; the flesh now hung off what had once been a muscular frame.

  “He took a wound at Maes Cogwy, although he only started to noticeably weaken in the last few days.” Owain replied from where he crouched at the injured man’s side.

  Then, Owain peeled up the wool tunic, revealing the warrior’s torso – and the puncture wound on his side. The injury was not large, but it was swollen, red and angry, with livid marks running out from it. The sickly sweet odor it emitted made Dylan’s bile rise.

  He had seen enough war wounds to know that this one had turned septic, and had poisoned the man on the inside. He let out a frustrated hiss between clenched teeth.

  “Did he not see a healer in Tamworth?”

  “He did – but it was obviously too late. The wound had already started to fester.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Madog.”

  “Can he hear us?”

  Owain shook his head.

  Dylan sighed and knelt down at Owain’s side, staring down at the contorted face of the young man who had loyally followed him into battle. He stared at Madog’s face for a few moments more before he turned to Owain.

  “He has little time left. Make him comfortable.”

  Owain nodded, resigned. Like his leader, the warrior knew the signs. Madog would be dead by morning.

  A chill wind buffeted against Dylan as he rose to his feet. It was more exposed here than he would have liked, but it was the only spot flat enough for the army to comfortably make camp. Around him, a sea of tents was being erected, and to the west, the shadowy outlines of the mountains of his homeland were now visible.

  Just one more day till the border.

  After months away from Powys, Dylan was looking forward to setting foot on friendly soil once more. He also looked forward to being welcomed back to Pengwern, a hero to his people, and to receiving the crown he had rightly earned. He had never been prouder of the men who had followed him than at the end of the battle at Maes Cogwy. Songs would be composed about their valor, and sung for generations to come.

  Still, his mood was flat this evening, as it had been since riding from Weyham. Victory was sweet, but it could not fill the sudden emptiness that visited him at unexpected times – like now.

  Dylan strode back toward his tent and the large fire pit that burned before it. The prince reached the fire and saw his men were already roasting a brace of conies. The aroma of roasting meat wafted across the camp. He stood near the fire for a while, staring at the glowing embers, lost in thought.

  “Milord!”

  A voice behind him, roused Dylan from his brooding. He swiveled round to see two of his men making their way toward him. One of them hauled a slight figure wearing a home spun wealca behind him.

  Dylan’s breathing stilled for a moment. He would know her walk, her creamy skin, her mane of light brown hair, and those piercing blue eyes, anywhere. The sight of her came as a shock. He had put this woman out of his thoughts. He had left her in the past, where she belonged. Yet, here she was, returning to torment him.

  “Merwenna!”

  The young woman’s gaze met his, and held. He could see the lines of fatigue, the dark smudges under her eyes. Irritation swiftly followed surprise. He could not believe she had been foolish enough to follow him. He had credited her with more intelligence.

  He stepped forward to meet her, his expression hardening. “What in the gods are you doing here?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  By the Fireside

  Dylan and his men listened to Merwenna in grim silence.

  She finished her tale and felt anger stir around her. News that King Penda had betrayed them, and was planning to murder his ally, rippled around the camp.

  “There will be reckoning for this treachery,” Gwyn muttered, his craggy face dark with rage.

  “There will,” Dylan replied with surprising calm. Merwenna watched his face, and searched for some clue as to his thoughts, but found she was looking into a handsome mask that gave nothing away. “Make sure the camp is secure and tell the men to keep their heads. Then, return here – we have much to discuss.”

  Gwyn nodded, before striding off to do his lord’s bidding. Then, Dylan turned, his gaze meeting Merwenna’s once more. His gaze was suddenly hard and she felt a pang of misgiving. Till now, her focus had been entirely on reaching her destination, and delivering her warning. She had deliberately avoided thinking about how Dylan would react to her arrival – now, she realized why.

  “Come with me,” he instructed her.

  Merwenna followed him to his tent, her stomach fluttering nervously. The moment they were inside, out of sight of his men, the prince rounded on her.

  “You should not have come.”

  “But I had to warn you,” she replied, flustered by his anger.

  “Then, send someone else. You did a foolish thing, coming here on your own. Have you forgotten Drefan of Chester? At the very least, your father or brother should have escorted you.”

  Merwenna lifted her chin, her own anger rising. “I don’t need an escort. I can ride as well as any man. You needed to be told – there was no time to ask anyone for help.”

  “That might be the case, but you’ve put yourself in danger. I’d send you on your way right now but it’s not safe. Rodor a
nd his men will be close by now.”

  Merwenna stared at him, trying not to show how hurt she was. “You could show some gratitude,” she finally managed. “I only came to help you.”

  They stood there, gazes fused. Merwenna’s breathing was coming in spasmodic gasps as she forced back tears. The last thing she wanted to do was cry before this man. His lack of thanks stung.

  Suddenly, a man’s cough intruded, followed by a voice outside the tent.

  “Fy arglwydd!”

  At the sound of one his men hailing him, Dylan’s gaze shifted to the doorway.

  “Beth?” he called back.

  A short answer in Cymraeg followed and Dylan’s face went taut as he listened.

  “What is it?” Merwenna asked.

  “We have a visitor,” he replied, his exasperation clear. “Your father is here.”

  ***

  Wilfrid was standing next to the fire pit, awaiting them, when Dylan and Merwenna emerged from the tent.

  Feeling as if her father had caught them in an illicit act, Merwenna’s face burned. She cursed her blush, for it incriminated her even more. Yet, when she saw the expression on her father’s face, her embarrassment turned to dread.

  Wil’s narrow gaze, clenched jaw and steely expression spoke volumes – he was furious.

  “You ride fast, Merwenna,” he greeted her. “I was sure I’d catch up with you before you reached the camp. However, you outran me.”

  “You taught me well,” she replied with a wan smile that faded under his glare. He had not been complimenting her, and the force of his anger made her break eye contact and stare down at the ground.

  “Good evening, Wilfrid,” the Prince of Powys greeted Merwenna’s father, his tone neutral.

  “Greetings, Lord Cynddylan,” Wil answered with a curt nod. However, his attention was still firmly fixed upon his daughter.

  “So you felt compelled to warn the prince. Why is that?”

  “Fæder, I’m sorry,” Merwenna replied, still avoiding his gaze. “I had to warn him – he’s in danger.”