The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  “The evening meal is almost upon us,” Heledd continued. “You will help the servants and not rest for the night until the last one of them has finished their duties.”

  “Yes, Milady.”

  “Go on then. Don’t just stand there. Are you dull-witted?”

  Merwenna did not reply. Instead, she went, gladly, and joined the hive of bustling servants who were preparing the evening meal of baked pike, leek soup and fresh bread, at the far end of the hall.

  Unfortunately, the servants were no more welcoming than their mistress. To make matters even more difficult, none of them spoke a word of her tongue and she was forced to communicate in broken Cymraeg. Her attempts caused an explosion of mirth. One of the serving girls rolled her eyes and muttered something to the woman kneading bread beside her. Whatever she had said must have been clever, for the pair of them doubled over, cackling.

  Merwenna let out a long sigh and imagined she was far from here. She envisaged herself walking in the woods behind Weyham, listening to the evening chorus of birdsong. She imagined she was shelling peas with her little sister outside her home, watching the sun slip behind the trees.

  Instead, a huge pile of leeks was roughly shoved into her arms by one of the servants – thrusting her back into reality. The woman barked an order at her. Merwenna did not understand a word of it, but knew nonetheless what was expected of her. She was to chop leeks for soup.

  Glad to have a task that would take her mind off her unpleasant situation, Merwenna carried the leeks over to a bench and reached for a knife. Then, she began to slice the vegetables.

  As she worked, Merwenna cast a glance back toward the high seat. Dylan sat upon his throne, a cup of mead in one hand, while the warriors around him clamored for his attention. Although he sat at the center of the milling crowd, the prince seemed apart somehow. He listened to the raucous conversation of his uncles, brother, cousins and retainers, and nursed his own cup while the mead flowed around him.

  This was what he wanted, Merwenna reminded herself, to sit once more on his throne and focus on the glory of Powys.

  Yet, if that was the case, surely he should have looked happier.

  As if feeling her gaze upon him, the prince looked up, and their gazes met across the crowded hall. It was unexpected, for Merwenna had not realized he knew where she was. Yet, his emerald gaze held her fast; the intensity of it causing butterflies in her stomach.

  Suddenly, it was as if only the two of them existed. Merwenna’s breathing quickened. She should have looked away, but could not summon the energy do so. His gaze drew her in and stripped her naked before him.

  Merwenna shivered and wrenched her gaze from his. Breathing fast, she looked down at the pile of leeks before her. If one of his kin spied him gazing at her like that, it would start no end of trouble. He should be more careful, for they were no longer traveling together, with only the likes of Gwyn and Owain to witness their lingering glances.

  Things would be very different here. Her new life in Pengwern had begun – and it would take all she had to survive it.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Servitude

  The noise inside the Great Hall of Pengwern was deafening. The roar of drunken voices, interspersed with bursts of laughter echoed through the cavernous space. The din even drowned out the knot of musicians upon the high seat, who were playing a merry tune on their bone whistles.

  Merwenna gritted her teeth under the weight of the cast iron pot she clutched, and struggled to make her way between the long tables. Steaming leek soup filled the pot. She gripped the handle with one hand, and a large wooden ladle with the other, spooning the thick soup into bread trenchers as she went.

  The muscles in Merwenna’s arms screamed in protest and sweat slid down her back under her tunic. Usually, a pair of servants would undertake this task, with one holding the pot while the other served. Tonight, the chore had been entrusted to her alone – perhaps in the hope she would spill the soup and be punished for it.

  Yet, Merwenna resisted; a stubbornness she had never known she had possessed coming to the fore.

  They’ll have to do better than this, she thought as she filled Gwyn’s trencher. I’m not a spoiled high born lady, afraid of getting callouses on her palms. I’ve worked hard my whole life.

  “Thanks, lass,” Gwyn favored her with a smile. The warmth was unexpected, but welcome, after her frosty welcome here, and she smiled back.

  Beside him, Owain also flashed her a grin. Warmth spread through her – she was grateful to them both. Suddenly, the Great Hall of Pengwern did not seem such a lonely place. She served Owain and moved on, inching her way down the table to where the lowest ranking members of the hall dined.

  She had not been allowed to serve Cynddylan and his kin; for that was an honor given to one of the other servants. Dylan sat at the head of the longest table, flanked by his brother on one side, and his uncle Elfan on the other.

  Heledd sat next to Morfael, delicately supping her leek soup with a wooden spoon. The girl’s behavior reminded Merwenna of Penda’s daughters. She had the same demure manner, downcast eyes and coy smile as the Mercian princesses. Heledd did not join the conversation of her menfolk, and only spoke when addressed directly.

  Heledd may have a forked tongue, but before her menfolk she’s nothing more than a pretty decoration, Merwenna thought, not without a trace of scorn.

  She thought then, with a pang of homesickness, of her parents. Wilfrid and Cynewyn were equals. Her mother was beautiful and strong; not the kind of woman to sit in any man’s shadow and simper like a fool.

  Will I ever see her again?

  Merwenna’s gaze blurred with tears and she was grateful that she had finally finished serving the last of the leek soup. She returned the pot to the serving tables and managed to compose herself.

  The older female servant who had instructed her to prepare the leeks, now barked out another order. Merwenna stood there a moment, not understanding a word of the command. The woman shouted again, louder this time, as if Merwenna was deaf, not merely unable to speak her tongue. Then, she pointed to a row of large trays of roasted pike.

  Merwenna realized that she was to help carry the trays to the table. Muttering an apology in her stuttering Cymraeg, she moved to comply. Like the cauldron of soup, the tray was so heavy that the muscles in her arms screamed in protest when she picked it up. Merwenna clenched her jaw, fastened her fingers around the edge of the tray and marched across the rush-strewn floor toward the tables.

  Dylan sprinkled a little salt on the roasted carrots and onions that had been served with the pike. Then, he broke off a piece of bread from his trencher. He chewed slowly, savoring the fine food.

  He had forgotten just how good the cooks were in his hall. Yet, the food before him was peasant fare compared to the victory feast the cooks would prepare for three days’ time; it would be a great spread in celebration of their win against Northumbria, his coronation and the reckoning against Mercia that was to come. Such a feast had not taken place in Pengwern’s Great Hall for many years, and his servants would be working night and day to ready themselves.

  Dylan took a sip of wine from his golden feasting cup and leaned back in his chair. His gaze moved down the table, past the flushed faces of his kin, to the servants that bustled around the tables.

  He spied Merwenna among them. She was not hard to spot, for he had been surreptitiously watching her all evening. He had noted that she had been given the task of carrying the heaviest items, with no help from any of the other servants, and that she had done so without complaint.

  Her cheeks were flushed now, as she struggled under a massive platter of roast pike. She placed the tray on the table, in-between two of his men, heaving a sigh of relief, before returning to the servant’s galley to collect another. She was a hard worker, but that did not surprise him. She had grown up toiling alongside her family.

  Still, this could not continue.

  He had told himself that he wou
ld not interfere, once they arrived here. He had promised himself that he would let Heledd order Merwenna around as she saw fit. Yet, now he realized he could not. She deserved better.

  Try as he might to think on other things, Merwenna now plagued his thoughts night and day. His body ached for her, need raging through his veins like a fever that increased with each passing day. He had tried ignoring her, but it only made his craving for her worse.

  This evening should have been one of the happiest of his life, but he felt hollow. His brother and uncles spoke of war against Mercia, and he joined them – but his heart was not in it. Instead, his gaze kept roving around the hall, seeking out the winsome face of the young Mercian woman who had ridden to warn him, and been cast out from her family for doing so.

  Her father had accused her of being in love with him, which she had hotly denied. She had made it plain to Dylan, on many occasions, she still grieved from Beorn. But, she must have cared for him a little to have risked exile from her family.

  And how did he repay her? He had consigned her to a life of servitude in his hall. He had seen his sister’s treatment of Merwenna earlier, and tomorrow he would put a stop to it.

  “Milord,” one of the serving wenches appeared at his elbow bearing a bronze jug. “More apple wine?”

  Dylan shook his head and waved her away. Now that his thoughts had fastened upon Merwenna, he was not in the mood for drinking.

  “You look pensive for a man with much to celebrate,” his Elfan noted shrewdly, to his right “What ails you this eve?”

  Dylan gave his uncle a laconic smile and helped himself to another piece of bread. “Just weary after a long journey home,” he replied. “I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed again.”

  Elfan nodded, appearing unconvinced. “You are changed.”

  Dylan raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “You appear distracted. When we speak of war against Penda, you say the right words, but it’s as if your mind is somewhere else.”

  The prince gave a derisive snort, although secretly it alarmed him that his uncle had seen the truth. “There’s no need to worry that I have no thirst for vengeance,” he smiled, showing his teeth. “Penda will taste my blade soon enough.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Jealous of a Dead Man

  Merwenna looked up at the full moon and let out a long sigh.

  If only I could stay out here.

  She basked in its silver light for a few moments, enjoying the peace.

  Merwenna crouched next to the stone well in the stable yard. She had just finished scrubbing the huge pot, which had contained the leek soup, and was taking a breather before hauling the cauldron back up to the hall.

  A brace of torches, hanging from the wall of the nearby storehouse, cast enough light her way so she could complete her task. Still, it had taken a while to scour the pot clean and her back ached from bending over it. Every fiber of her body screamed for rest.

  Yawning, she got to her feet. Then, she cast a farewell glance at the friendly moon, picked up the pot, and climbed the steep stairs back up to the Great Hall.

  Inside, most of the inhabitants were bedding down for the night. The light was dim; only the glow of the fire pits illuminated the space. Merwenna picked her way across the floor, stepping over men, women, children and dogs and set the clean pot down on the freshly scrubbed table in the servants’ galley.

  The other servants had all finished their chores for the evening, and were laying out cloaks and furs around the far wall to sleep on. Merwenna did not bid any of them goodnight, and none of them favored her with a glance either. Instead, she crossed the hall, carefully stepping over prone bodies as she went.

  At the far end, she stepped up onto the raised platform and made her way toward Heledd’s bower, and the small fur she had laid out before it. There was no sign of the princess, for she had already retired behind the tapestry for the night.

  Merwenna sank down onto her fur with a groan of exhaustion, her limbs sinking into its softness. Another evening like that and she would be bent over like a crone. However, she was too tired to even feel sorry for herself.

  She closed her eyes and immediately felt herself start to doze off. Sleep had almost claimed her when a voice jerked her back into wakefulness.

  “Merwenna. Are you awake?”

  She scrambled upright, heart pounding. Disoriented and blinking like an owl, she peered up at Dylan’s shadowed face. “I am now,” she whispered. “What do you want?”

  “I need you to take a look at the wound on my arm.”

  “Now?”

  “The stitches are starting to itch, I think they need to come out.”

  “Don’t you have a healer in your hall who can do that?”

  “I do,” he hunkered down so their gazes were level. His green eyes gleamed in the dim light and Merwenna saw that he was smiling, “but he stinks like a goat and kills more folk than he cures. I’d rather have your tender hands administer me.”

  The intimacy of his tone made Merwenna flush, and she was glad that the darkness hid it. Suddenly, her fatigue lifted and she was painfully aware of how close he was.

  “Very well,” she replied breathlessly, a strange excitement coiling in the pit of her belly. The rational part of her told Merwenna she should refuse him. Now that they resided in Dylan’s hall, she should not be alone with him – but a surge of recklessness obliterated her reason.

  “Good,” he rose to his feet. “Follow me.”

  Merwenna got up, and cast a glance about her to see if anyone was watching.

  Not a soul amongst the carpet of sleeping bodies below stirred. Relieved, she followed the prince to the back of the platform, where another tapestry blocked his quarters from view. Dylan pushed the heavy material aside and held it there so that she could enter.

  Merwenna accidently brushed against him as she ducked inside and caught the warm, masculine scent of him. To her shame, she breathed it in deeply, all her senses keenly aware of his nearness.

  There was no doubt about it, this man had an extraordinary effect upon her. She loved Beorn, but even his most passionate kisses had not been able to rouse the excitement that one glance from Dylan could.

  Her father was wrong – she had not ridden to warn the prince because she was in love with him. And yet, she had not done it out of altruism either. The Prince of Powys had ensnared her, and she had not thought twice about riding to warn him.

  Seeing Dylan again had confirmed what she had already suspected – whenever she was in his presence, she felt truly alive.

  The prince’s quarters were a warm, inviting space, twice the size of Princess Heledd’s bower. As her space was colorful, feminine, scented with flowers and herbs, her brother’s was pleasantly masculine. Plush, dark fur hangings formed the walls and a fire pit burned in the center of the space. Dylan’s quarters were unfurnished, save the luxurious pile of furs a few feet from the fire pit and a large wicker chest sitting against the exterior wall. Above it hung a huge war axe. The weapon was well-worn, with chips out of its iron blade; an intimidating sight.

  Near the fire pit, Merwenna spotted a healer’s basket awaiting her arrival. She turned to Dylan, and found him right behind her.

  “Let me take a look at your arm,” she instructed him. She needed to keep her thoughts focused on the reason she had been summoned here.

  They sat down upon a large fur near the fire, and Merwenna gently removed the bandages around the prince’s injured forearm. Nearly a week had passed since Lichfield and she had dressed the wound and changed his bandages a few times since then.

  “What say you?” Dylan asked. “Is it healing well?”

  “It is,” Merwenna replied, flashing him a smile. She was proud of her handiwork. “I was worried it would fester but it has completely scabbed over and is mending well. However, those stitches do need to come out.”

  The prince nodded, their gazes meeting for a moment. The heat she had seen there, outside his
bower, had increased, and he gave her that slow, sensual smile that she recognized from their first meeting in Tamworth.

  It was a smile that needed no words.

  Merwenna broke eye contact and turned to the basket, retrieving a small knife and pair of iron pincers. She then passed them both through the flickering flames of the fire, as her mother had taught her. Doing so helped prevent wounds from festering.

  It only took a few moments to snip the stitches and pluck them from Dylan’s skin. The wound started to bleed slightly, so she dabbed it with a clean cloth soaked in an herbal tincture.

  “You are very able at this,” Dylan said, finally. “Is your mother the village healer?”

  “No,” Merwenna replied with a rueful smile. “Weyham has no healer, so all the women in my village must learn healing skills. Truthfully, I have done little healing myself, but I have always assisted my mother. Her knowledge of herb lore is the best in Weyham.”

  “You look a lot like her, you know.”

  Merwenna looked up from wrapping his forearm in a fresh bandage, her gaze meeting his. “I am like her in many ways. My father has always sworn we are both too stubborn and willful for our own good,” she replied.

  Dylan smiled. “Some men like a woman with spirit.”

  “And some prefer a woman who does as she’s bid.”

  The prince laughed softly. “And where’s the fun in that?”

  He was doing it again, looking at her with that melting gaze that stripped away all her defenses. “Such a woman would bore me soon enough.”

  Merwenna swallowed, holding his gaze. Her heart was beating so hard it felt as if it would break free from her ribcage.

  Gently, Dylan took hold of her right hand, which had just finished securing the bandage, and placed it on his chest. Merwenna’s palm pressed against the soft wool tunic he wore, the heat of his body seeping through it into her skin.

  She also felt the thundering of his heart.

  Her stomach pitched, as if she had just fallen off the edge of a precipice.