by Jayne Castel
“It’s no more than you deserve,” he countered. “You have to learn there are consequences to your actions, Merwenna.”
“But, I haven’t lain with him,” Merwenna’s throat was raw from shouting. “All I did was ride to warn him.”
“A rash and ill-considered act,” he replied, before sitting down on the furs beside the fire and beginning to unlace his boots. “You’ve made a fool of me again.”
Merwenna glared at him, ignoring the tears that coursed down her cheeks. She could still not believe how harsh he was being. She kept thinking he would reconsider, but hours had passed since Cynddylan had sworn his oath, and her father showed no signs of relenting. If anything, he appeared more resolute.
Exhausted, Merwenna flopped down on to her furs. She shot her father a mutinous look and decided to try another approach.
“Mōder will be furious,” she said. If her feelings did not matter, perhaps her mother’s did. “She will never forgive you for leaving me here.”
His gaze narrowed at that. “Perhaps, but she will be reassured when I tell her the Prince of Powys has sworn to look after you.”
Merwenna buried her head in her hands, defeated. Never had she felt so alone. Her father had been her anchor, the one man whose love had been unquestioning. She had never known he was capable of dealing out such harsh punishment.
“You have an independent spirit, Merwenna,” Wil spoke finally, shattering the weighty silence between them. “So much like your mother at the same age. But, like her, you have a lot to learn about life – and people.”
Merwenna winced under his brutal appraisal of her character. Never, had her father spoken so directly to her. It was true, he had always indulged her – but those days were clearly at an end.
“You don’t belong in Weyham,” he continued, his tone softening. “With Beorn gone, there is no future for you there. Wyrd is pushing you from the nest – now it’s time to fly.”
“But I don’t belong in Pengwern either,” Merwenna looked up and her gaze met her father’s once more. “What kind of future awaits me there?”
“Hand-maid to a princess is an honor,” Wil pulled off his boots and tossed them into the corner of the tent. “The prince could have made you a lowly servant – shoveling night soil and scrubbing floors. Be grateful he did not.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
A New Beginning
Merwenna watched her father ready his horses for departure, with a heavy ache in the center of her chest.
Despite that she was still furious with him, she did not want Wilfrid to leave.
Suddenly, she could not breathe. She wanted to be back home, in a world that was familiar to her. Instead, she was being forced to embark on a new life in a new land.
“Fæder,” she began hoarsely. She had to ask him one last time. “Please reconsider.”
Wil turned from where he had just finished fastening Huginn’s bridle, and regarded her. Unlike his sternness of the day before, his hazel-green eyes revealed a hint of sadness this morning.
“You know I won’t do that.”
“But I don’t belong in Pengwern, in a king’s hall.”
“Your mother is an ealdorman’s daughter,” Wil reminded her. “Never forget that noble blood runs through your veins. You will not be out of place in Pengwern. It may even be the making of you.”
“But will I never see you again?”
Wil held his daughter’s gaze and Merwenna saw the sadness there intensify. For the first time, she realized he was struggling to hide his own distress. This was not as easy for him as she had thought.
“Your mother and I will pay you a visit in early spring,” he murmured. “As soon as the snow melts we will come, I promise you.”
Merwenna blinked back tears and nodded. “Thank you.”
Wil smiled gently in response. “Stay well, my daughter. Ride swiftly to Pengwern and I shall see you in the spring – you have my word.”
Her father’s word was always one she knew she could depend upon, and so Merwenna nodded, brushing away a tear that had escaped and was trickling down her cheek. There was no point in weeping now. Her father’s mind was made up. She would not be returning to Weyham.
She stepped back, and watched Wil swing up onto Huginn’s broad back. He held the reins in his right hand and led an irascible Muninn with his left.
Merwenna watched her father ride out of the clearing, past the last of the tents, and toward the tree line. He did not look back, and she could see from the set of his shoulders that he was upset. It took all her willpower not to run after him.
Instead, she remained there, rooted to the spot, watching until her father disappeared into the trees and was lost from sight.
***
The fire had a mesmerizing effect on Merwenna.
She sat staring, watching the flames dance, and listening to the lilting rise and fall of Cymraeg around her. She understood only the odd word, and realized that would pose a problem in Pengwern. Language would provide another barrier between Merwenna and her new life.
I will have to learn their tongue, Merwenna resolved, although her mood was such this evening that she could not dredge up any enthusiasm for it.
She felt worn out, a husk. After her father’s departure, she had drifted around the camp like a ghost, eventually retiring to Dylan’s tent where she had slept away the afternoon. The prince had decided to let his men rest for the day, after an exhausting, sleepless night. Merwenna had been grateful not to have to move on just yet.
Even so, she had awoken even more exhausted than before.
“You are tired, Merwenna,” Dylan’s voice interrupted her introspection. “Why don’t you retire?”
Merwenna’s eyes snapped open and she glanced at the man seated beside her. Dylan had been quiet this evening. They had not spoken of the oath he had sworn her father, or what lay ahead. Like her, his gaze had turned inward.
“I’m exhausted,” she admitted. “Yes, I think I shall go to bed.”
Merwenna rose to her feet and brushed off her skirt, before bidding the men seated nearby goodnight in Cymraeg. “Nos da.”
Most of them ignored her, while Gwyn gave a non-committal grunt. Only Owain dignified her with a faint smile. She was not surprised by the lukewarm reception; few of them wanted her here.
Discouraged, Merwenna turned and made her way toward Dylan’s tent. Inside, she was surprised to find that Dylan had already made up their beds – two piles of furs on opposite sides of the fire pit.
That was a relief at least. She had feared that the prince would take his oath to mean she was his property to do with as he wished. The separate sleeping arrangements made it appear that Dylan would leave her be.
Merwenna sat down on the furs and unlaced her boots. She then undressed down to her long linen under-tunic and brushed out her hair, using her fingers to remove the tangles and knots. Yawning, she crawled into the furs and sank into their softness and warmth. Moments later, she fell into a deep sleep.
Dylan bade his men goodnight and made his way to his tent. It was late, and the prince longed to stretch out on his furs. They had an early start the next day, and if they made good time they would reach Lichfield – Powys’ new eastern border – before nightfall.
Pushing aside the tent flap, Dylan ducked inside.
Merwenna was asleep, and the sight of her made his breath catch. She lay on her side, her mane of almond-colored hair cascading over the furs. It was warm inside the tent, and she had kicked the furs aside, revealing that she slept in the ankle length, sleeveless tunic she wore under her wealca. The tunic had ridden up, revealing her shapely legs.
Dylan paused there, his gaze drinking in the sight of her. He could see the outline of her nipples through the thin shift, and the luscious swell of her breast. His mouth went dry and his loins started to ache. It took all his self-control not to join her on those furs, and rip that tunic from her body.
Instead, he crossed to his own furs, and started to und
ress.
Little witch.
Perhaps sharing a tent was not a wise idea. Tomorrow night, he would arrange for his men to erect one next to his for Merwenna for the remainder of the journey. She was too great a distraction to have sleeping next to him, night after night.
I cannot believe I swore that oath to her father.
Dylan lay down on his furs and stared up at the weather-stained hide roof of the tent.
Heledd will not like it.
His sister had a fiery temperament. He did not imagine she would take kindly to having a Mercian hand-maid. Many in his hall would not take kindly to having Merwenna amongst them; they would think he had made her his consort, or that she carried his child. It was likely they would turn on Merwenna and make her an outcast.
He hoped she had the spine to deal with it all, for he would not be able to look out for her.
Dylan rolled on to his side, and his gaze traveled over Merwenna’s prone form, to her face. She looked so young, so vulnerable. He understood her father’s frustration with her; his need to teach her a lesson. He just hoped the price would not be too high.
Life in a king’s hall was not for the faint-hearted.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Blood at Lichfield
“See that roof up ahead,” Cynddylan pointed to the thatched, gabled roof poking up through trees to the west. “There lies the new border between Mercia and Powys.”
Merwenna craned her neck and peered over the prince’s shoulder. It looked to be the roof of an ealdorman’s hall. Smoke wreathed from a hole in its center, staining the twilight sky. They rode through beautiful country; flat woodland of ash and elm with the purple outline of mountains beyond. The settlement of Lichfield lay at the heart of it.
“Lichfield,” Merwenna murmured. “Do folk here know that it now belongs to Powys?”
“Not yet,” Dylan answered. “But they will shortly.”
Merwenna’s mouth thinned at this news. She imagined how the folk of Weyham, herself included, would have reacted, if three hundred Cymry warriors had rode in and informed them that this land was no longer part of the Kingdom of Mercia and that they would pay taxes to a new lord.
Cynddylan and his men would not be welcome here, although she thought better of telling him so.
Relations had been strained between them ever since her father had left. They had ridden together in silence, only conversing when it was absolutely necessary. Merwenna had little to say to the prince. She had been humiliated by her father’s refusal to take her home, and the way both he and Dylan had decided her future as if she were of no consequence. In turn, the prince’s manner had cooled considerably toward her. He had been generous in swearing an oath to her father, but she could tell he was not pleased about it.
The prince drew his stallion up then and twisted in the saddle to speak to her.
“You’d better get down,” he instructed her. “Things might get difficult up ahead. Stay with my spears until I give the army leave to enter Lichfield.”
Merwenna did as she was bid, sliding off the stallion’s back and landing lightly onto the leaf-strewn ground. She watched Dylan ride away, his purple cloak snapping in the wind. He rode up the column to join Gwyn at the front.
Merwenna was relieved to be staying behind. She walked alongside those warriors who traveled on foot, and breathed in the fresh evening air, laced with wood smoke and roasting mutton. Her stomach growled in protest, reminding her that she had eaten little since breaking her fast that morning.
The twilight deepened, the sky turning a deep indigo, and there was a deathly silence up ahead. The bulk of Cynddylan’s army had now stopped, Merwenna with them, awaiting news from the front.
Night had almost fallen, before any word came.
Owain rode back, his thin, sharp-featured face solemn, and shouted orders to the men. With surprised looks and murmurs among them, the spears moved off.
Not understanding a word, Merwenna hurried up to Owain.
“What is it?” she called up to him. “Is it safe to enter Lichfield?”
“Safe enough, now,” Owain replied. “The ealdorman met with Lord Cynddylan, and things got… heated.”
Despite that she had told herself she cared not what happened to the prince, especially after his ingratitude toward her, Merwenna felt a chill go through her.
“Is he harmed?”
“Just one or two cuts,” Owain replied with a grimace. “Although the ealdorman fared much worse – he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Aye, gutted. He didn’t take kindly to the news that Lichfield now sits in Powys.”
Listening to Owain’s matter-of-fact account, Merwenna felt slightly queasy.
“Was it necessary to kill him?”
The warrior gave her a wry grin before answering. “When a man comes at you swinging an axe it is.”
Merwenna stared at Owain, shocked.
“Climb up,” Owain stretched out his hand toward her. “Lord Cynddylan has asked me to fetch you.”
Merwenna took his hand and vaulted up onto the saddle behind him. The warrior urged his horse into a brisk canter and they entered Lichfield along a road lined with elms. As they rode by the first houses, Merwenna noted that this settlement was much bigger and more prosperous, than Weyham. Lichfield was not a town of Tamworth’s dimensions, but the state of the wattle and daub cottages they passed on the way in, revealed that Lichfield was a village that did well for itself. They passed a patchwork of arable fields, with only vestiges of the harvest to bring in, and clattered across a wooden bridge spanning the wide River Trent. The water’s surface sparkled with the last rays of the setting sun.
Like Weyham, the ealdorman’s timbered hall sat at the heart of the village, on the edge of a wide green. Cynddylan’s men had filled the space, and were erecting tents, unpacking supplies and unsaddling horses, when Owain drew his horse up before the hall.
Merwenna dismounted and looked about her at the surrounding industry. In contrast, the village itself appeared deserted. The folk of Lichfield cowered from sight. Had it not been for the smoke rising from the thatched roofs, the glow of firelight from within, and the glimpses of frightened faces peering from doorways, Merwenna would have thought Lichfield’s inhabitants had fled.
It’s not right, she thought as she followed Owain toward the timbered hall, to terrify folk so. This is their home.
When she neared the wooden steps leading up to the oaken doors of the hall, Merwenna skirted the edge of a dark patch in the dirt.
Blood – a great pool of it. Owain had obviously told the truth. There had been a skirmish between Dylan and the ealdorman.
Merwenna’s queasiness returned and she wished she did not have to enter this dead man’s hall. She would prefer to have remained outdoors, and make use of herself by helping to prepare the evening meal. Judging from Owain’s purposeful stride, there was no chance of that.
Inside the hall, it was dark and smoky. It reeked of unwashed bodies, stale sweat and overcooked pottage. Dogs skulked in shadows and a group of women huddled at one end of the hall, weeping. A single fire pit glowed in the center of the space, casting long shadows across the grimy interior.
“Merwenna.” Cynddylan called out to her. He sat upon a stool near the fire, surrounded by his thegns. “Over here.”
Merwenna did as bid. Yet, as she neared him, she saw the reason he had called for her – he was injured. The leather arm guard covering his left wrist and forearm, was slick with blood.
“You asked for me, Milord?” Merwenna stopped before him.
Her eyes had now adjusted to the dimness, although the sounds of grief that echoed through the hall had stretched her nerves taut. Over the prince’s shoulder, she saw the women were keening over a man’s body.
The dead man lay upon a bier; a huge, broad warrior with a thick, black beard. They had covered his torso with a thick cloak, although even at this distance Merwenna could see that it was soaked through with blood.
“I did,” The prince sipped from a cup of mead. He seemed unconcerned that the man he had slain lay just a few yards away. “What say you of Lichfield so far, Merwenna?”
“It seems a prosperous village,” she replied, cautious. “Although, I’m not seeing it at its best this eve.”
The prince gave a humorless laugh in reply.
Merwenna bit the inside of her cheek, to stop herself from saying what she really thought. Instead, she dropped her gaze and softened her manner. “You’re injured, Milord.”
“I need you to see to this, if you would,” Dylan motioned to his blood-soaked arm, which he carefully rested across his knees.
“Murderer!” one of the women who had been weeping over the dead ealdorman interrupted them. She had risen to her feet and was pointing an accusing finger at the Prince of Powys. She was a matronly woman, dressed in fine linen with amber brooches in her greying blonde hair. Merwenna surmised that this was the ealdorman’s wife.
“May the wound he gave you fester!” the woman shrieked. “May you suffer long and terribly before Nithhogg feasts upon your flesh!”
The woman’s curses were an assault on the ears. Despite herself, Merwenna shrank back from the verbal assault. Yet, Dylan appeared unmoved.
“This is a filthy, vile-smelling pit,” he said before downing the dregs of his cup, “although I’ll admit the mead’s good.”
He rose to his feet, ignoring the ealdorman’s wife as she continued to shriek at him.
“Do you want me to silence her?” Gwyn growled, flexing his meaty hands as he savored the thought.
“No need – I think I shall leave the widow to her grief,” Dylan replied. He then turned and fixed his gaze upon Merwenna once more. “I’d thought to spend the night here, but on second thoughts I’d be more comfortable in a tent. You can see to my wound there.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Healing Hands
