The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  “I have – and I cannot afford to relinquish any more of our territory to Powys. No, I will not offer him land. I have something else in mind.”

  Penda’s gaze shifted then, to the three females seated around the fire pit. Cyneswide was smiling at something her eldest daughter, Cyneburh had said. Her younger sister, Cyneswith, had just plucked a chestnut from the fire, and was unpeeling its blackened skin with dainty fingers.

  They were so much like their mother, his girls. Blonde, beautiful and biddable. Cyneburh was approaching her seventeenth winter. The time was nearing for him to find her a husband.

  Penda ground his teeth in frustration. He had plans for his eldest daughter – and they did not involve gifting one of them to a Celt. He had intended to wed Cyneburh to the new ruler of Northumbria, to help build an alliance between them; and he was loath to deviate from this plan. His gaze shifted then from his eldest daughter, to his youngest.

  Cyneswith was only eighteen months younger than her sister, and he had not yet made plans for her.

  Sensing her father’s gaze upon her, the princess looked up from where she had just finished peeling the chestnut, and was about to take a bite of the sweet flesh. She smiled, and Penda felt a rare pang of remorse. She was so beautiful, so pure. His wife and daughters were his one weakness, his one indulgence. He did not want to share them.

  Quelling his jealousy with his legendary iron will, Penda turned back to Caedmon, to find the warrior watching him expectantly.

  “What will you offer him, Milord?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Pengwern

  Merwenna peered over Dylan’s shoulder, her gaze fixed upon the cascades of water that surged down the sheer cliffs up ahead. The thundering falls crashed down into a swiftly flowing river, filling the valley with a fine mist.

  “Thor’s hammer!”

  She felt the vibration of Dylan’s soft laugh, in response to her outburst.

  “That, Merwenna, is the way into Pengwern.”

  “Really?”

  Forgetting to be embarrassed, or to mind the fact that the pair of them had been largely silent traveling companions for the past five days, Merwenna craned her neck upwards. Her gaze followed the line of the rocky cliff face. There, she spied the high gabled roof of a great timbered hall, and the thatched roofs of surrounding houses spilling down the cliff beneath it.

  “It’s like something out of a dream,” she whispered. “A hidden kingdom.”

  Pengwern perched high upon the rocky cliff-face like a hawk’s eerie. The seat of the King of Powys sat at the end of a steep valley, at the head of the Hafren River, nestled amongst rocks and greenery. It was an enchanting spot.

  “Don’t let Pengwern’s remoteness fool you,” Dylan told her, his laughter fading. “It may appear as if it cannot be touched by the outside world, but let me assure you we are just as vulnerable as any other settlement in Britannia. War has reached us, even here.”

  Merwenna did not reply, although the prince’s response had dimmed her enthusiasm somewhat. Remaining silent, she turned her attention back to her surroundings. Despite the narrowness of the valley, there were a number of folk living here; small thatched huts sat on the lowest slopes, peasants worked fields of crops, and sheep and goats grazed alongside the river.

  The sight of the approaching army caused quite a stir amongst the valley folk. Those working the land, put down their tools and waved, huge smiles plastered on their faces. Folk emerged from their homes and made their way down to the road. There were grins and shouts of welcome. Merwenna witnessed tears of joy as one of Dylan’s men broke free of the column and ran to his wife.

  Watching their tearful reunion, and the joy on their faces, Merwenna felt her chest constrict. A moment later, a wave of longing broke through her. The naked love on the man’s face made her look away.

  No man has ever looked at me like that – not even Beorn.

  Of course, he might have, if his life had not been tragically cut short. Had he survived the battle and returned home to Weyham, there would have been plenty of time for the pair of them to become close and grow roots together, like two oaks planted side by side.

  Dylan urged his stallion into a trot, jolting Merwenna out of her introspection. They had reached the end of the valley. She clung on around his waist as they began their climb up the steep, winding road to Pengwern.

  Their arrival had caused a great clamor. Groups of folk appeared at the roadside, the higher the army climbed, scrambling up the steep bank to catch a glimpse of their returning warriors.

  Cynddylan’s men called out to them. Although Merwenna did not understand the words, she judged from the look of joy and pride on the faces of the gathering crowd that they were spreading the news about their victory against Northumbria.

  Wise not to tell them of Penda’s treachery, Merwenna thought. Let them enjoy this moment.

  Ahead, she spied the tall gates of Pengwern; hard wood and iron, looming before her. The gates drew open as they approached, and Merwenna felt fear flutter up into her throat.

  Suddenly, she railed against the man who had sent her here. Her father would have known Dylan’s hall would not welcome her, but he had not cared. Mercia might have allied with Powys to fight a common enemy but they were far from being on good terms. It was a cruel punishment to exile her to a foreign land.

  I will be treated as a ‘nithing’, a creature beneath notice, she thought, dread forming a heavy weight in her belly. They will hate me.

  That was likely the truth, but this was her new life and she would not shrink from it. She had changed in the past weeks. The innocent girl who had so eagerly run off to find her betrothed seemed a stranger to her now; she now saw the world as a harsher place. The past weeks had made her tougher – or perhaps the strength had been in her all along, awaiting the chance to show itself.

  Merwenna took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Whatever awaited her beyond those gates, she had no choice but to face it.

  Merwenna mounted the steps to the Great Hall and hurried to keep up with the long strides of Dylan, Gwyn and Owain. A retinue of warriors followed at her heels.

  A cool, damp breeze feathered against her face and the muted roar of the waterfalls filled her ears. After a fearful start, it had been an exciting ride up to the Great Hall, through the narrow, twisting streets of Pengwern. The whole population had stopped work and lined the streets to welcome their prince and his men home. Their cheering and the joy was infectious, and although she’d had no part in it, Merwenna was caught up in the air of celebration. Children and women had thrown rose petals over the returning warriors, which floated down upon them like large, fragrant snowflakes.

  Merwenna had felt the men’s pride and a wave of sadness engulfed her. The warriors who returned to Weyham would have been given a similar welcome.

  If only Beorn had lived to experience this.

  They had left the crowds behind, upon riding into the yard below the Great Hall. Now that they approached the top of the steps, Merwenna wondered what welcome awaited within. Ahead, the carved wooden doors to the hall draw open to receive them. The prince reached the top of the wooden steps, and strode to the doors. A moment later, they had stepped inside and were crossing the floor, rushes crunching underfoot.

  Merwenna found it hard not to gape at the interior of the Great Hall of Pengwern.

  She had hated the Great Tower of Tamworth; a place as cold and soulless as the man who ruled it – but this space was altogether different. It was like stepping into the ribcage of a slain beast – Nithhogg himself. The size of the great blackened beams overhead was such that Merwenna wondered at the size of the tree they had felled to construct them.

  Axes and swords, spoils of battle, hung from some of the beams, and two massive fire pits dominated the space. Richly detailed tapestries hung from the walls. The most stunning one of all – depicting a wild-boar hunt in the forest – hung at the back of the hall, where it shielded the living quarters of Dy
lan and his kin from view of the rest of the hall.

  Before this tapestry was the high seat – and upon it sat a man. At his back, stood half a dozen older warriors, dressed in fine cloth, leather and fur. Merwenna guessed that these were Dylan’s kin.

  At first glance, from afar, the seated man appeared Dylan’s twin. Tall, lithe with curly dark hair, and dressed in dark leather, he cut a striking figure. However, as they drew nearer, making their way through the crowd of high born who resided inside the hall, Merwenna saw that the brothers were not as alike as she had first thought.

  Merwenna watched the man rise from his ornately carved chair and step down from the high seat to meet them. He moved differently to Dylan, his walk lacking his brother’s purpose. He had a handsome, finely sculpted face, although his features were a touch sharper than his brother’s, his gaze more hooded.

  The man’s gaze never left Dylan’s face.

  “Cartref croeso, Cynddylan,” he greeted Dylan with a cool smile. Welcome home, one of the few phrases of Cymraeg that Merwenna knew.

  “Hello Morfael,” his brother replied.

  “I take it from the ruckus outside that you return home victorious?” Morfael commented.

  “We do,” Dylan replied, holding his brother’s gaze. “And, I see that you have grown comfortable in my throne, in my absence.

  Morfael smirked in response. “Just keeping it warm for you, dear brother.”

  “Polishing it with your arse and hoping for my demise more like.”

  This caused laughter to ripple through the surrounding crowd, although Morfael did not join them.

  “Marching to war with the Mercians has sharpened your tongue,” he observed.

  “Aye, but that’s a small price to pay. Penda has gifted us a considerable parcel of land. Powys now rules as far east as Lichfield.”

  Morfael’s face lit with genuine pleasure for the first time since Dylan had entered the hall. “That is fine news indeed.”

  Dylan remained silent for a few moments, letting his brother, and his uncles and cousins behind Morfael, enjoy their moment of glory. He was not looking forward to spoiling things, yet the news of Penda’s betrayal could not be kept from them for much longer.

  “This warrants a great victory feast,” Morfael stepped forward and slapped Dylan on the shoulder. “Of a scale that Powys has never known.”

  “Then it will be so,” Dylan smiled back, “but before you break open the mead and begin the arrangements for a victory feast, there is something else I need to share with you.”

  Dylan was aware of the gazes of all present upon him as he continued. “I have news that will not be so welcome.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Heledd

  “Betrayer!” Morfael’s face twisted. “We will have reckoning for this!”

  Angry shouts, and oaths of vengeance rang out across the hall.

  “Indeed we will,” Dylan agreed, once the noise had died down. “Penda’s treachery will not go unanswered. Once the victory feasting is done, and after I have been crowned, I will gather another army. As soon as we have enough men, we shall march on Tamworth.”

  The prince’s announcement brought bellows of support from around the hall.

  Looking on, Merwenna had no need of translation. It was plain to see that Dylan had told his brother of Penda’s plot to kill him.

  The bloodlust in the eyes of those surrounding Merwenna, frightened her.

  March on Tamworth? Was she the only one here who realized the folly of such an act? Dylan was letting his own anger, and that of those surrounding him, cloud his judgement; he could not see past his need for vengeance.

  “Dylan!”

  The commotion had just started to die down when a female’s voice echoed across the hall.

  Merwenna turned toward the voice, just in time to see a young woman, around her own age, fly across the rush-matting toward the prince. She was breathtakingly beautiful; tall and slender with a mane of straight dark hair, chiseled cheekbones and piercing emerald eyes.

  Ignoring everyone else present, the girl flung herself into Dylan’s arms.

  His reckoning momentarily forgotten, the prince laughed and swung her around, causing the fine blue linen of her skirts to billow.

  Looking on, Merwenna felt jealousy slice into her like a blade, twisting cruelly just below the ribs.

  Who was this beauty? Suddenly, she felt sick to her stomach.

  He told me there was no betrothed waiting for him here.

  Then, she cursed herself. It should not matter to her anyway. And yet it did – it mattered very much.

  Dylan hugged the young woman tight before gently releasing her and setting her back down upon the rush-matting. Smiling, he took hold of the woman’s hands and gazed down at her.

  “It’s good to see you, Heledd.”

  Heledd – his sister.

  Of course, now that the green-hued veil of jealousy had been lifted she could see it; the family resemblance was obvious. She had the same chiseled features as her two brothers, although hers were far more delicate, and the same moss-green eyes.

  “You were gone far too long, Dylan,” Heledd chided him, pouting. “And now you talk of leaving again, when you’ve just returned.”

  “I’m afraid, I must,” her brother replied with an apologetic shake of his head. “However, I bring you a gift from Mercia.”

  “Really?” the girl’s face lit up. “For me?”

  Dylan nodded. “I might be dead now, if a kind young woman had not warned me of Penda’s plan to murder me while I slept. In thanks, her father has gifted her to me, and I give her to you as your new hand-maid. Merwenna, come forward.”

  Merwenna hung back, flushing hot with embarrassment, and pretended she had not heard the prince. The moment she had been dreading had arrived.

  “Merwenna,” Dylan’s voice hardened slightly. “Step forward.”

  Reluctantly, she did as bid, gaze downcast. Deathly silence followed.

  Eventually, as the hush drew out, Merwenna raised her chin and dared a glance at her surroundings. Hundreds of pairs of eyes had fixed upon her. Merwenna’s skin prickled and she fought the urge to stare down at her feet. She had promised herself she would not cower here, but the reality of matters overwhelmed her. The air suddenly crackled with hostility.

  “This is a strange gift, brother,” Heledd was staring at Merwenna, a scowl marring her pretty face. She spoke Englisc now, with a pleasant, lilting accent. “I do not want a Mercian woman to attend me.”

  “Ah, but this Mercian woman saved your brother’s life,” Dylan too changed to Merwenna’s tongue, so that she could follow their conversation. “We owe her our thanks. She is sweet and biddable, and will make an excellent maid.”

  Merwenna ground her teeth. He made her sound spineless, mocking her for all to see.

  “Have you lost your wits, brother?” Morfael interrupted, scowling. “I think…”

  “Is she your whore?” demanded one of the older warriors, cutting Morfael off. He was a powerfully built man of around fifty winters. He spoke Englisc crudely, yet his meaning was painfully clear.

  “No, she’s not, uncle,” Dylan answered, not appearing offended in the least by the man’s rudeness. “Merwenna is still a maid, and will make an ideal servant for my sister.”

  The Prince of Powys stretched his back then, stifling a yawn as he did so. It had been a long day – and the gesture signaled the matter was closed.

  “Enough of this talk. Heledd – take Merwenna to your bower and show her where she shall sleep.”

  Dylan stepped away from the women, brushing past his frowning brother, and climbed up onto the high seat. Then, he settled himself onto his carved wooden throne and stretched his long legs out before him. He glanced over at his uncle, who had not moved, and was regarding him, a scowl creasing his heavy features.

  “It’s good to be home, Elfan. Now, how about breaking open that mead?”

  ***

  “You are not s
haring my bower,” Heledd’s first words to Merwenna were hissed with ill-concealed venom. “I shall not sleep next to a Mercian.”

  They had just stepped behind the heavy tapestry that shielded them from view from the rest of the hall. Beyond, Merwenna could hear the rumble of men’s voices. The princess’ words stung but Merwenna did not answer. She had not expected a warm welcome here.

  Instead, she cast her gaze around Heledd’s tiny bower, taking in her surroundings. A pile of furs dominated the space; while a collection of tunics, wealcas and over-dresses, hung like brightly colored butterflies from the wall, either side of a tiny window. There was a small oak table in one corner, upon which were clay pots of creams and potions. The scent of rose, lavender and rosemary reached Merwenna and she inhaled deeply. It may have been small, but she could only dream of having a space like this all to herself.

  “You will sleep outside,” Heledd scooped up one of her furs and shoved it into Merwenna’s arms. You can guard the way into my bower, like a dog.”

  Merwenna’s lips compressed, but she continued to hold her tongue.

  Frankly, it would be a relief to sleep apart from this nasty female. There were girls in her village like this; vain and spoiled with sharp tongues. She pushed her way out from behind the tapestry and spread out the fur on the narrow ledge outside. When she was done, she turned to find Heledd standing behind her. The princess watched her with a narrowed gaze.

  “How may I assist you, Milady?” Merwenna asked. She hoped her respectful tone would sweeten that sour face. Although most of those inside the Great Hall were clustered around the high seat, passing around cups of frothy mead – she was aware that a few of the women were looking her way. Their gazes were not friendly.

  “I don’t want your help,” Heledd sniffed. “This is not a gift, but an insult. I will make sure my brother understands that by morning.”

  Merwenna cast her gaze down at the rushes. Suddenly, cleaning privies and shoveling muck seemed a far more pleasant chore than waiting upon this princess.