The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  “And why does that matter to you?”

  The tension between father and daughter stretched taut. Looking on, the prince remained silent. Around them, a crowd of men gathered, watching the scene unfold.

  “Because… it does. He deserves to know.” Her response sounded feeble, even to her own ears. Yet, it was the truth – why did no one believe her?

  Wil let out a sigh and ran a hand over his tired face. “This is my fault. I married a headstrong woman, and I’ve indulged you all your life.”

  “Please fæder, I didn’t intend to deceive you, or to do anything wrong,” Merwenna replied, her voice trembling as tears threatened. “I didn’t want to alarm you, so I said nothing.”

  “That’s only the half of it,” Wil replied, his grim expression returning. “Beorn’s ashes are barely cold and here you are chasing after another man. You’re in love with Cynddylan, aren’t you? Why else would you ride here, as if pursued by demons, to warn him?”

  Merwenna flinched. Humiliation coursed through her in a hot wave.

  “No!” she croaked. “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it. By the look on your face I’d say you are lovers already.”

  “You’re wrong!” she choked out – but her father had already dismissed her. He turned to Cynddylan, and their gazes locked.

  The Prince of Powys exhaled slowly, plainly irritated that he had been dragged into this mess. He glanced around him, at where his men worked to secure the camp for night. Clearly, he had more pressing issues to deal with.

  “No, we are not lovers,” he replied coolly. “Although I wouldn’t wade in here hurling accusations if I were you – I’m not the one who can’t control my daughter.”

  Wil glared at him, a nerve flickering in his jaw as he sought to control his temper. Merwenna shifted nervously. Her father was not a violent man, but he was fiercely protective of his family. There was no telling how he would react.

  Moments passed before Cynddylan shattered the tension with an unexpected smile. “You can’t be blamed entirely. After traveling with your daughter, I know how headstrong she is.”

  When Wil did not answer, the prince motioned to the crackling fire behind him, where his men were roasting a brace of conies.

  “Come. Take a seat at my fire and fill your belly. We will speak later. Rodor and his men draw close. I need to prepare for them.”

  “I would speak of my daughter now,” Wil insisted.

  The prince’s smile faded, and his face hardened. He was a man accustomed to giving orders, not receiving them.

  “You forget yourself Wilfrid,” he replied, his voice soft with an unspoken threat. “I have an attack to get ready for – your grievances will have to wait.”

  ***

  Merwenna and Wil had finished their meal, having picked their rabbit carcasses clean of meat, when Wil and his men finally joined them at the fire.

  A chill wind buffeted the camp, causing the flames to gutter in the fire pit. Dark purple clouds scudded across the night sky, obscuring the moon and stars intermittently.

  Cynddylan had just sat down, when Owain brought him news.

  “Madog has died,” the slender young man crouched next to Cynddylan, his attention focused upon his lord. “He went peacefully in the end.”

  The prince nodded, his expression shuttered. “We shall build him a pyre before we move on from here – so that he may reach his forefathers without delay.”

  “Did you know him well?” Merwenna asked Owain. She and the warrior had become friends during the journey to Weyham, and she was used to conversing with him. However, under her father’s baleful stare she wished she had not spoken.

  In contrast, Owain did not seemed to mind.

  “I did. We grew up together. He has a wife and five children awaiting him in Pengwern.”

  This sobering news caused a pall of melancholy to settle over the group. Unsettled, Merwenna looked down at the glowing embers. How many more children had lost their fathers at Maes Cogwy?

  Silence fell around the fire, the mood subdued. Eventually, it was Gwyn who broke it. He turned his attention to Merwenna’s father.

  “How many men does Rodor bring with him?” Gwyn asked.

  “I saw eight of them in the mead hall,” Wil replied, “I know not if there are others.”

  “Do you know anything that might help us?” Gwyn pressed.

  “Only that they are Penda’s best fighters – handpicked by Rodor.”

  Across the fire, Cynddylan frowned at that warrior’s name. “Traitorous bastard.”

  Wil regarded the prince, his brow creased in thought. “Will Rodor and his men attack in the night?”

  Cynddylan nodded. “Near dawn, I’d say.”

  “Shall you lie in wait for them? Let them come to your tent before you act?”

  Cynddylan shook his head. “Too risky. They will kill sentries in order to gain access to the camp. I’d rather not sacrifice more men for Mercian dogs.”

  “What then?”

  Cynddylan favored Wil with an enigmatic smile. “We have a plan. It’s not a traditional approach. Yet, it might just work.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A Lament for Cynddylan

  In the quiet of pre-dawn, something stirred amongst the trees.

  Men, moving like shadows up the hill, slipped from tree to tree. Although many of them were big men, they had stripped themselves of anything encumbering. The only weapons they carried were long bladed knives; easier to strike and kill with in the dark. Arrows, axes, spears and swords would only hinder them.

  Rodor moved near the front, his sharp gaze flicking from side to side, checking that the way was clear. He had expected to come across a sentry before now. The fact that they had not yet found anyone guarding the perimeter made Rodor wary. He raised a hand, signaling to his men to proceed cautiously.

  They had traveled swiftly from Weyham, closing in quickly on their prey now that they knew Cynddylan’s army traveled just a day ahead of them. They had left Weyham before the dawn and journeyed hard. Rodor had pushed his men mercilessly, allowing them only a short sleep before they continued on their way through the night.

  Now, they were all tired, but the excitement of the chase had sharpened their senses. Rodor could smell their bloodlust. Each man who followed Rodor was alert, and ready to play the part their leader had spent days rehearsing.

  The sky was just starting to lighten in the east, the faintest stain on the edge of the indigo blanket of night. They had to move quickly, before the camp awoke.

  Despite the whispering wind, it was eerily quiet this morning. The lack of sentries now alarmed Rodor. They should have encountered at least two by now. Sensing a trap, he signaled to his men, motioning for them to follow him. He did not want to ruin his carefully considered plan; they would have to proceed carefully.

  The camp was just before them now, he could see the outlines of tents and standards against the sky. Just a few yards more and they would be at the edge of it.

  Rodor led his men up the final stretch, weaving in and out of the tightly-packed trees, till he came to a clump of broom that shielded them from the camp. It was a good spot to take stock of the layout of the encampment. He knew the prince’s tent would stand at the heart of it, but wanted to survey the camp first.

  Rodor gently parted the broom before him and peered out.

  Then, he drew breath quickly, his body going still.

  He had expected to see the encampment slumbering at this hour – a carpet of tents with smoking fires and huddled figures around them. Instead, he saw that the entire camp was awake, and that most of it was gathered around a great funeral pyre.

  Confused, Rodor’s gaze swept around the massed crowd of warriors. Torches flickered, illuminating grief-stricken faces. They were all strangely silent, as if some terrible weight lay upon them.

  Then, Rodor saw four warriors carry a man out on a bier. The crowd parted before them and Rodor stretched forward through the broom, p
eering to get a glimpse of the dead man’s face.

  It was hard to make out his features in the gloom, but Rodor could see he was a tall, lithe man with dark hair. And upon his head, he wore a silver circlet.

  Rodor’s breath hissed out between clenched teeth. No, it was not possible. He had never seen Cynddylan wear such a jewel, but he knew what a prince’s circlet looked like. Penda’s sons wore them on ceremonial occasions.

  The warriors had reached the pyre. There, they lifted the bier onto the mass of branches and kindling, before stepping back. Among the men who had carried the bier, Rodor recognized the big, wild-haired man who was the prince’s captain: Gwyn.

  The warrior’s face was crumpled in grief. He let go of the bier and stepped back from the funeral pyre.

  Long moments of silence passed, and then Gwyn began to sing. His voice – strong, deep and tuneful – filled the clearing. And despite that he was not a man given to emotion, Rodor felt a chill prickle his skin.

  It was a haunting lament, in Cymraeg, and although Rodor did not understand the words, he caught Cynddylan’s name.

  Ef cwynif oni fwyf i’m derwin fedd,

  o leas Cynddylan yn ei fawredd.

  “Caedmon,” Rodor whispered to the lanky young man standing to his right, who was also listening attentively to the lament. “What’s he saying?”

  Caedmon, whose mother had been a slave from Powys, stirred uneasily, as if unwilling to reply, and fingered his stubbly blonde beard. After a few moments, he complied, his voice a low whisper.

  I shall lament until I lie in my oaken coffin

  for the slaying of Cynddylan in his grandeur.

  Slain.

  Rodor looked back at the pyre, where Gwyn had just finished his lament. Then, he watched as the warrior took a torch and stepped forward to light the pyre.

  Full of dry wood and twigs, it caught alight quickly.

  Slain – but how?

  The wind fanned the flames, and the sound of crackling wood and hiss of devouring flames filled the dawn. The pain-filled sound of men’s sobs echoed across the clearing.

  Rodor turned away – he had seen enough.

  ***

  Rodor and his men traveled east without pause, until the sun cleared the tree tops and warmed their backs. Only then, did he allow them to rest.

  They collapsed, under two ancient oaks, upon a bed of fallen leaves, and drank deeply from their water bladders. After a long, sleepless night, they were exhausted. The men spoke little amongst themselves, relieved to finally be able to stretch out their weary bodies.

  Rodor sat, with his back against the trunk of one of the oaks, and took the first watch as his men stretched out to rest. Like them, his body cried out for sleep, but he fought it. Instead, he brooded over what they had witnessed at dawn.

  Cynddylan was dead – slain, it seemed – and although Rodor’s men had rejoiced to know it, their leader had been in an ill-mood ever since.

  Whoever had killed the Prince of Powys, had made things very easy for them. Even so, Rodor had been looking forward to watching Cynddylan’s face as he died. He felt cheated.

  Still, dead was dead.

  Yet, if only it were that simple.

  Rodor had always trusted his instincts, and they told him that something was wrong. Who could have killed Cynddylan? The question gnawed at him and he went round and round in circles trying to answer it.

  He knew he had witnessed it with his own eyes; Cynddylan burning upon the pyre. And yet, his gut told him that it was all a ruse, a lie. He had no evidence, just a conviction that grew stronger with every furlong they had traveled.

  When we are rested, I will turn around and go back, Rodor promised himself. His men would not like it; they all thought their mission had come to a convenient, if slightly disappointing end.

  I have to know if it was a trick, Rodor brooded. I cannot return to Penda until I am absolutely sure.

  The warmth of the sun filtered through the branches and caressed Rodor’s face. Despite that it was growing late in the year, the sun still had some heat to it.

  He was exhausted. His muscles ached and his eyes stung from lack of sleep. Fatigue slowly pulled Rodor down into its embrace, and after a while he stopped trying to resist it. Sleep claimed him.

  He eventually fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  Rodor awoke, a while later, with a jolt.

  Something was wrong.

  He felt a cold blade at his throat, and his eyes flew open. He reached for his own blade, which lay across his lap, and found it missing.

  Rage flooded through him – but it was too late for anger. He suddenly realized that he had been tricked. The Prince of Powys had played him like a lyre. He had known Rodor was coming, and instead of lying in wait in his encampment, had turned the tables – hunting Rodor, as he himself had been hunted. Cynddylan had thrown him off course, and waited till his enemy lowered their guard, before striking.

  The last thing that Rodor of Tamworth witnessed before he died, was Cynddylan’s face staring down at him.

  He was smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Dylan Swears an Oath

  The pyre had burned down to embers when Cynddylan and his most trusted warriors returned to camp. Nothing remained but hot coals and drifting smoke. Madog had left this world, both in body and in spirit, and was now with his forefathers.

  Merwenna and her father awaited the returning warriors. She watched as the Prince of Powys strode across the clearing toward them. His purple cloak billowed out behind him as he walked. Gwyn followed close behind.

  “Did you find them?” Wilfrid asked, when the prince stood before them.

  Cynddylan nodded. “They are all dead.”

  Merwenna’s rush of relief was mingled with an underlying horror. So much death. It seemed the whole world was awash with blood.

  “What will you do now?” her father continued his questioning. “Return to Tamworth and demand answers?”

  “And give Penda another chance to part my head from my shoulders?” Dylan gave a cool smile. “I think not. Vengeance is best delivered cold. Once I reach Pengwern, I will plot my reckoning – not before. We shall remain here for the rest of today and continue west at dawn.”

  “And what of my daughter?” Wil folded his arms over his chest. Merwenna recognized his stubborn expression and felt her fragile hopes dissolve. Her father had no intention of letting her get away with defying him.

  “What of her?” the prince raised a dark eyebrow. “She’s your responsibility, not mine.”

  “This is the second time she has run away, with no thought to the consequences. There will not be a third.” Wil then turned to Merwenna, ignoring her horrified expression. “You are staying here. I’m not taking you home.”

  “Fæder!” Merwenna choked out, barely able to believe her ears. “You can’t do that!”

  “I can – once I can forgive, but not twice. I’ve had to leave your brother, mother and sister behind to do backbreaking work while I chased after you. You told me you were sorry for running off to Tamworth. I see now that you didn’t mean a word of it.”

  Merwenna stared at him, her stomach clenching sickeningly. She had never imagined her kind, loving father could be so cruel. She had forgotten that he was a warrior at heart, and had the capacity to be ruthless when pushed.

  “I gave you all,” he continued, his hazel eyes deepening to green with the force of his anger, “and this is how you repay me. There is no longer a place for you under my roof. You seem so intent in following your own path – now is your chance. Go with your lover.”

  “Those are harsh words, Wilfrid,” Cynddylan spoke up. “Yet, you must realize that I owe you nothing. I don’t have to take your daughter with me.”

  “You owe her your life,” Wil rounded on the prince. “Take her back to Pengwern, make her a servant in your hall. You owe her that much.”

  “You would abandon her to people you do not even know?”

  “You
brought her home safely to Weyham. I know that you are not without honor.”

  Cynddylan’s lip curled. “Thank you, I am humbled by your high opinion of me.”

  “But I don’t want to go!” Merwenna found her tongue at last. Panic replaced numbing shock. “Please, fæder, don’t do this!”

  She stepped toward him, arms outstretched, but he raised a hand to ward her off. Wil’s gaze was still fixed upon the prince.

  “Will you take her into your hall?”

  Cynddylan’s mouth thinned slightly, and his gaze flicked from Wil’s face, to Merwenna’s stricken one. “I suppose she can serve in my hall. My sister, Heledd, requires a hand-maid. Her cousin, who used to serve her, wed in the spring. Merwenna can replace her.”

  “Do you swear an oath on this?”

  The prince’s expression darkened. He glowered at Wil, but the older man’s gaze did not waver.

  “You want rid of your daughter,” Cynddylan reminded him. “What does it matter if I swear an oath, or not?”

  “She dishonored her family and threw away her future for you.”

  “I never asked it of her.”

  “That matters not. She has chosen where her loyalties lie.”

  Cynddylan continued to hold Wil’s gaze for a few moments longer. Then, he glanced back at Merwenna, who watched the exchange with tears streaming down her face. Never had she felt so insignificant. She saw from the look on Dylan’s face that he regretted ever setting eyes on her.

  “Very well,” Cynddylan replied, although he was clearly displeased. “I swear that I will take Merwenna with me, and that she will be my sister’s hand-maid. I swear it upon my honor.”

  Wil nodded, satisfied at last. “And I shall hold you to it.”

  ***

  “How could you, fæder? You humiliated me!”

  Merwenna faced her father in the small tent Cynddylan’s men had erected for them. It was like looking into the face of a stranger. For the first time, she realized just how bitter betrayal tasted.