The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

Merwenna followed Cynddylan into his tent and waited for him to seat himself on a pile of furs by the hearth. Truthfully, she felt nervous about tending to his wounds. Like most women in her village, she knew how to clean and dress a wound. However, the sight of blood had always made her ill, a weakness that irritated her mother no end.

  She only hoped she would not humiliate herself in front of the prince.

  At her side, Merwenna carried a basket of healing herbs, unguents and clean strips of linen from the ealdorman’s hall. She had asked Owain to bring her some wine, for cleansing the wound, and awaited his return.

  Merwenna hovered in the doorway and watched the prince attempt to unlace his leather arm guard with his opposite hand.

  “Can you help me with this?” he asked finally.

  “Of course, Milord,” Merwenna knelt down at his side and placed the basket beside her. Then, she reached out and began untying the guard with nimble fingers.

  “Such formality,” the prince teased. “Call me Dylan when we’re alone.”

  Merwenna nodded but kept her gaze upon her task. She heard someone enter the tent behind them and looked up to see Owain place a jug of wine next to the basket.

  “Do you need anything else?” he asked.

  “That’ll be all, thank you, Owain,” Dylan replied. “You can leave us.”

  Alone with the prince once more, Merwenna focused upon removing the guard. She could see the sharp incision in the leather, where the axe blade had sliced through into his flesh. The blood covering it was starting to dry and was sticky under her fingers. Merwenna felt her bile rise as she peeled away the guard.

  She heard Dylan’s sharp intake of breath, and knew she had hurt him.

  “Woden,” she murmured, peering at the deep cut that slashed across the prince’s forearm. It was a nasty gash.

  “There should be silk thread in that basket, if it needs stitching,” the prince told her, his voice tight with pain.

  Merwenna nodded and took a deep breath in an effort to settle her churning stomach. “I will need to clean it first.”

  She turned away from him and picked up the jug of wine. Then, without giving the prince any warning of her intention, she poured the red liquid onto his outstretched arm.

  Dylan hissed a curse in Cymraeg through gritted teeth but, to his credit, did not yank his arm away. However, he had clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

  “Is that necessary?” he finally managed. Merwenna glanced at his face then, and saw that he was ashen.

  “I’m afraid so,” she replied. “Wine will stop the cut from festering.”

  Merwenna doused the wound once more with wine, before cleaning around it with a scrap of clean linen. She was relieved to see that the blood had now been washed away. The wound was still bleeding slightly, but it was much easier to face when he was not coated, elbow to wrist, in blood.

  Next, Merwenna took a bone needle and threaded it with silk.

  “It’s best if you look away while I do this,” she told her patient. “I’m sorry, but it will hurt you.”

  He nodded, and did as she bid. Merwenna worked quickly. She had been sewing all her life, and wielded the needle with precision, sealing the wound shut with four neat stitches. As she worked, Merwenna tried to convince herself she was sewing a jute sack, not digging the bone needle through a man’s flesh.

  Even so, her mouth was full of saliva and her stomach lurched painfully. She felt light headed by the time she had finished. Still, she had completed the deed without embarrassing herself; her mother would have been proud. Perhaps events of late had toughened her up.

  The prince’s face was very pale, his skin coated with sweat. Yet, he had not uttered one word of protest while Merwenna had stitched his arm, and that impressed her. She put aside the needle and thread and reached for a pot of honey that had been mixed with herbs. She then smeared the unguent over the wound and bound his forearm with clean linen.

  When she was done, Merwenna sat back on her heels and washed her hands clean.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  Dylan nodded, although he did not look it. “I could do with some fire in my belly though, to take my mind off my burning arm,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “Could you fetch me some more of that wine?

  Merwenna did as he bid, returning with a large cup full to the brim of wine. She passed it to the prince, who took a long, grateful draught. She then busied herself with tidying up the items she had used to tend his wound.

  The silence between them was starting to become uncomfortable when Dylan broke it.

  “Sit with me for a few moments,” he bid her.

  Hoping her reluctance did not show on her face, Merwenna sat down next to the glowing fire pit. After a few moments, she glanced at Dylan and saw that some of the color was returning to his cheeks.

  He gave her a wry grin. “I thank you for your healing hands, although the fact you no longer meet my eye is slightly discomforting. Have I offended you?”

  Merwenna shook her head.

  “Yet, you still won’t look at me.”

  She sighed and deliberately held his gaze to prove him wrong. “I never realized there was such a high price to pay for riding to warn you,” she admitted, finally.

  Dylan raised an eyebrow, as if he did not believe her. “Do you think your father harsh?”

  Merwenna frowned and looked away. “I left him no choice.”

  “I swore him an oath to give you a place in my hall,” the prince reminded her. “I intend to honor it.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, wishing he would change the subject. “You are most generous.”

  “My generosity isn’t entirely selfless,” Dylan replied, teasing her once more. She looked up and saw that he was gazing at her intently. There was a heat in his stare that made it suddenly feel uncomfortably warm inside the tent. “I’ve grown used to your company, and you are lovely to look upon.”

  Merwenna flushed hot but held his stare. Injured or not, he was looking at her as he had in the woods outside Weyham. She was aware of his nearness and the devastating effect it had upon her. Suddenly, she was desperate to steer their conversation away from its current path.

  “What of Lichfield?” she asked lightly, deliberately changing topic. “Now that you command the village, what do you intend to do with it?”

  “I will leave a garrison of fifty men here,” he replied, leaning back on the furs and regarding her under hooded lids, “and continue on my way home.”

  Merwenna nodded but did not comment. She felt the prince’s gaze upon her for a few moments longer before he spoke.

  “What is it, Merwenna? You look displeased.”

  “Does this village really mean that much to you that you would slay its ealdorman to make it yours?” she accused.

  “This village was already mine. I gave Aethelred the chance to speak with me. I did not ride in here looking for a fight. The ealdorman could have continued to oversee this village under my rule but he chose to come at me with an axe instead. That was his choice and he paid for it.”

  “But you’ll be hated here now, don’t you see that?”

  Dylan shrugged, as if such things were of little importance to him. “A ruler doesn’t concern himself with whether all his subjects love him. Lichfield is mine, by order of the King of Mercia, and the folk here now answer to Powys. That is all that matters.”

  Their gazes fused then, and Merwenna felt that same strange, irresistible pull as before. She felt as if she were drowning. Even so, his callous approach to the folk of Lichfield galled her. His arrogance was not that different to Penda’s.

  Merwenna finished tidying up and rose to her feet. She noted that Dylan was still watching her.

  “May I go now, Milord?”

  “You can, Merwenna. I’ve asked my men to put up a tent for you next to mine, so don’t worry. You won’t need to breathe the same air as this beast.”

  Merwenna’s turned to him, surprised. “I d
idn’t say you were…”

  “You didn’t need to – it’s written all over your face.”

  The prince was glaring at her now. His expression was thunderous and anger gleamed in the depths of his green eyes.

  Cynddylan may have been a great lord, a ruler of men, but it appeared that her opinion of him mattered.

  After the humiliation Merwenna had suffered at both his and her father’s hands, the realization that she was capable of wounding Dylan gave her a grim sense of satisfaction. She was not sorry for what she had said; even if she might pay for her rashness later.

  Without another word, she ducked out of the tent and left the Prince of Powys to nurse his wounded arm and his pride.

  ***

  Mouthy wench.

  Dylan drained the dregs of his cup and glared into the fire. What did a naïve girl know about ruling a kingdom?

  She thinks me a monster.

  Irritation surged through Dylan and he tossed his cup away. What did it matter what Merwenna thought of him. And yet, it did. When he had told her in the woods that evening that he was but a moth to her flame, he had meant it.

  Wherever she went, his gaze tracked her.

  Need for her burned like liquid fire through his veins. The lack of guile in her cerulean eyes, her frank, open nature coupled with her gentle spirit, made him yearn to spend time with her. Merwenna’s soft voice was beguiling, even if often he did not like what she had to say.

  He had never ached for a woman so. Merwenna’s supple, lush body, evident even in the worn homespun wealca she wore, was slowly driving him mad. Had she not shrunk away from him that night outside Weyham, he would have had her already.

  Had he not have been injured, he would have taken her tonight.

  Enough, he told himself as he ran a tired hand over his face. You can’t go on like this.

  He should never have sworn an oath to her father. At the time, he had been secretly pleased that Merwenna would travel with him. Now, he realized she was a distraction he did not need – not now. There would be plenty to command his attention once he returned to Pengwern; a hall to rule, a crown to receive, an army to gather, and vengeance to be wreaked. The last thing he needed was to let his desire for a woman pull him away from what really mattered.

  Long had he worked toward this moment. It had not been easy, growing up in his father’s hall. His uncles, his cousins, and his brother – they were all adversaries. The old king had told him to trust no one.

  His father had spoken true, for Penda had betrayed him. Although he said little to his men on the subject, the betrayal galled Dylan more with each passing day. He would not let this lie – Penda would pay for his treachery.

  Chapter Thirty

  Survivor

  The warrior stumbled the last furlong toward the gates of Tamworth. Dusk’s long shadows stretched across the soft green hills and surrounding woodland; it would not be long before the guards drew those iron gates closed. He had to reach them first.

  The young man’s leather armor creaked as he ran, his lank blond hair plastered to his skull with sweat. Exhaustion pulled at his weary limbs and his feet stumbled on the road, but he pressed on. His gaze was fixed upon the great stone tower that loomed over the town’s thatched roofs – his destination.

  Caedmon knew his life was forfeit, but he had no choice. He had to go before Penda and tell him what had transpired. He was a hardened warrior, his Cymry mother had once teased him that he had come out of the womb fighting, yet the thought of what awaited him made Caedmon’s bowels cramp in fear. The King of Mercia had been clear before Rodor and his carefully chosen company left Tamworth, that failure had not been a possibility.

  Yet, the assassination had not only failed, but Cynddylan knew of their plan to kill him.

  Penda had to be warned, no matter the consequences.

  It was only a twist of fate that had saved Caedmon from the same fate as Rodor and the others. Had he not stumbled off in the bushes to empty his bowels, he too would have been slaughtered under the trees where they had been resting.

  Caedmon’s guts had been paining him all day. The meal of salted pork and stale bread the night before had not agreed with him – although the others seemed unaffected by it. He had been crouched in the bushes, around twenty yards from where his companions slept, cursing the pork, his breeches around his ankles, when the attack came.

  He remained there, frozen to the spot, listening to the grunts, stifled cries – and the wet sound of iron biting flesh.

  It would be death to venture from his hiding place, and so Caedmon had pulled up his breeches and hid himself in a growth of brambles. Later, when he was sure that Cynddylan and his men had gone, he returned to the camp and found all of his companions slaughtered.

  Somehow, Cynddylan had learned of their plans.

  Caedmon had stood over Rodor’s body, staring down at the warrior’s slit throat, and realized then that the funeral pyre and the lament for the dead prince had been a carefully planned ruse. Cynddylan would know Penda had betrayed him. He had taken off at a run then, and had only rested when his body could go no further.

  Now his exhausting journey was almost over.

  “Wait!” Caedmon gasped.

  He was just a couple of yards from the gates now, and could see that the guards were, indeed, pulling them closed.

  “Let me in!”

  He saw two figures, clad in boiled leather, appear in the gap between the gates. The guards glared into the gathering dusk.

  “Who goes there!” one of them shouted, brandishing his spear.

  “Caedmon, of Penda’s guard,” he called back, barely able to get the words out. His lungs burned and his breath now came in short, painful gasps. At the mention of their king, the guards smartly stepped aside and let him inside without another word.

  A moment later, the great iron gates of Tamworth rumbled shut, sealing him inside.

  ***

  “So you bungled it.”

  Penda leaned back in his carved wooden throne and regarded the warrior before him.

  The young man looked fit to drop. His thin face was gaunt with hunger and exhaustion. He stank of sweat – and fear.

  “Aye, Milord,” the warrior’s pale gaze met his. “Cynddylan knew we were coming, and tricked us into thinking he was already dead.”

  “And yet, you survived.”

  “I did, Milord.”

  Penda took a deep, measured breath and sought to control his temper. He had trusted Rodor to carry out this mission discreetly, and efficiently. Instead, he had completely messed up. Worse still, this fool had – against Penda’s instructions – returned to deliver the news.

  The king had just finished eating and had retired to his throne upon the high seat with his wife, when the ragged warrior had burst into the hall. Caedmon’s arrival had caused quite a stir. He was known to most of the residents here, and the sight of him in such a state, caused activity to cease. Curious gazes had tracked Caedmon across the hall, to the high seat, leaving whispers in his wake.

  Penda had sent his wife away, for he had no wish for anyone to hear what Caedmon had to say. The queen left obediently, joining her daughters next to one of the fire pits, where they were roasting chestnuts.

  Penda glared at Caedmon, letting his fury kindle. To his credit, the young warrior knew the trouble he was in. Yet, he stood before his king, unflinching, awaiting his punishment. He could have run away after the slaughter – instead, he had returned to Tamworth to warn his king.

  The news of Rodor’s failure galled Penda terribly. He had hoped to rid himself of Cynddylan, but instead, the Prince of Powys now had a grievance to nurse against him. Penda steepled his hands before him and viewed Caedmon under hooded lids.

  “I wanted this done secretly,” he said, finally. “Powys is a strong ally. Cynddylan was never supposed to return home, but no one was ever to suspect his death was by my hand.”

  “I understand, Milord,” the young man swallowed hard. “Cyndd
ylan will seek reckoning for this.”

  “He will, indeed – and that is likely to mean war between us.”

  Penda let this sentence hang in the air.

  “If it comes to that, you would defeat him,” Caedmon replied confidently. “Powys does not have the armies to best Mercia.”

  “Perhaps not,” Penda mused, “but his army is large enough to cause us great damage. I have other plans for my fyrd. Going to war against Powys is not one of them.”

  Caedmon dropped his gaze then, while Penda silently fumed. It took all his willpower not to leap from his throne, seize Aethelfrith’s Bane from where the sword hung on the wall behind him, and run the warrior through with it.

  Incompetent, useless dolts. This is what happens when I leave important deeds in the hands of lesser men.

  “Milord,” Caedmon intruded upon his silent rage, his voice cowed. “I did not come here for forgiveness, but to warn you. I wholly take the blame, and any punishment, for this failure. If there is anything I can do to put things right, I will.”

  Penda clenched his fingers around the carved armrests of his throne and glowered at the young man. He had been one of Penda’s best. Rodor had picked him for his quick, cunning mind and adder-like swiftness with a blade. It would be all too easy to kill Caedmon for failing him, but his satisfaction would be short-lived, and it would not ease his current predicament.

  “I have a long memory, Caedmon,” Penda rumbled eventually. “Those who fail me rarely live long enough to regret it. Yet, if you can prevent Powys from marching to war against us, I may show you mercy.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. He had not expected this, and the knowledge that Caedmon had been prepared to die for his news, made Penda’s fury lessen slightly. The lad was a fool, but an honest one. He had told the truth when he said he had not come here to bargain for his life.

  “How may I assist you, Milord?”

  “I will have to offer Cynddylan something to make him reconsider his vengeance. You will travel to Pengwern to deliver a gift in my stead.”

  “But you have already given him land,” Caedmon’s gaze narrowed. “Will you offer him more?”