The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  She felt like a princess wearing it – although, clearly, she was not.

  “If you are to serve me, I cannot have you looking like a peasant,” Heledd sniffed. “Come, I shall show you the clothes I need washing. I also have a pile of mending for you.”

  Merwenna followed the princess to the wicker basket, on the other side of her furs. “It was stuffed full of under-tunics and a collection of brightly colored over-dresses.

  “They must all be washed separately, or the dye will bleed and ruin them,” Heledd instructed. “There is a special block of lye soap for the task. You must ask the servants for it.”

  Merwenna nodded, not relishing the thought of attempting to ask for such a thing in her broken Cymraeg.

  “How do I say ‘soap’ in your tongue,” she asked.

  “Sebon,” the princess snapped. “Now, over here there are the clothes that need to be mended.” Heledd motioned to the pile of items hanging over a wooden chest. “You will need to ask for needle and the right color thread from the other women.”

  Merwenna nodded, once more. Heledd must be referring to the high born ladies who spent most of their day sitting at their distaffs or looms. None of them had viewed her with a friendly eye the day before, and Merwenna was wary of approaching them today.

  “How do I say…,” she began, hoping that Heledd would give her some more useful vocabulary in order to communicate without making a fool of herself, but the princess had clearly run out of patience with her.

  “Enough,” Heledd shoved the wicker basket full of dirty clothes into Merwenna’s arms. “Learn it for yourself.”

  Merwenna took that as her signal to quit Heledd’s bower. The princess only barely tolerated her. Yet, Dylan had obviously made his authority felt, for she had not been ordered to scrub pots today.

  Balancing the basket against her hip, Merwenna emerged from Heledd’s bower and made her way down from the platform into the main area of the hall. It was nearing time for the noon meal, and the servants were hard at work, pummeling dough for griddle bread and adding the finishing touches to the venison stew.

  One of the servants, the harridan who had barked orders at her all last evening, met Merwenna’s eye as she walked toward them. The woman scowled at her but Merwenna smiled back, and made straight for her.

  She would ask this woman for the soap.

  It was time she developed a thicker hide; she had to learn how to weather these folks’ scorn, instead of shrinking from it. She could not let the servants make her cower, or she would forever slink around the Great Hall like a cur.

  ***

  The stone furnace roared like a Yule bonfire.

  Dylan stepped inside the smith’s forge, drawing back slightly at the intense heat that struck him across the face. The acrid odor of molten iron stung his nostrils and the thick pall of smoke hanging in the air made his eyes water.

  A low, dimly lit building housed the smith’s forge – and Dylan had never seen it so busy.

  His gaze shifted around the space, traveling from where the smith, a huge fellow with arms like tree-trunks, gripped the beginnings of a sword-blade with pincers upon a heavy iron anvil, while a young man struck the blade repeatedly with a hammer. It was grueling work and sweat poured off the lad’s brow, running in rivulets down his bare arms. Nearby, four other lads were hard at work, beating glowing lumps of iron into spearheads.

  The noise was deafening.

  “My Lord Cynddylan,” the smithy bellowed, acknowledging the prince with a wide smile.

  “Good morning, Bryn, how goes it?”

  “Well enough.”

  The smithy gestured to the young man to stop striking the blade. Then, he rubbed a beefy forearm across his sweaty brow.

  “I’ve got the lads working night and day – but it’ll depend on how many weapons you need.”

  “I’m gathering a mighty army,” Dylan replied. “Word has gone out. Warriors will start arriving from all corners of Powys, a few days from now. We’ll need a thousand spear heads, and as many axes and sword blades as you can manage.”

  The smithy sucked his teeth at this news, while the lad next to him visibly blanched.

  “We will do our best, Milord,” he replied, although Dylan saw the concern in his eyes, “although it’ll take two moons, at least, to make it all.”

  Dylan frowned. He had hoped to be ready before then.

  “Surely you don’t plan to march on Tamworth so soon?” the smithy asked. “The leaves are starting to fall, it will not be long before winter is upon us. Begging your pardon, Milord, but only a fool goes to war in winter.”

  The smith’s apprentice grew even paler at this comment, and flicked Bryn a look of mute panic.

  No one spoke to the Lord of Powys thus.

  “I thank you for the reminder,” Dylan growled. “Although I’m well aware of that fact.”

  Bryn had been his family’s smithy for decades, and served his father loyally. As such, Dylan let the comment pass. Silence stretched out between them and Bryn broke eye contact, suddenly fascinated by the dirt floor of the forge – he knew he had over-stepped the mark.

  “So it will be in the spring then, Milord?” the smithy finally asked.

  “It may well have to be,” Dylan replied. In truth, he was disappointed. He chafed at having to wait so long; he would have to organize housing and food, for the coming months, for all the men he was rallying to him. Yet, the last thing they needed was to be waylaid by snow and bitter cold.

  As Bryn had pointed out, waging war in the midst of winter was a madman’s quest.

  ***

  Outside, it was a dazzlingly bright morning. The air was crisp and laced with the resin-scent of wood smoke. Merwenna hummed to herself as she carried the basket and soap down the steep wooden steps to the stone well in the stable yard below.

  The view from this height was mesmerizing, and Merwenna paused, half-way down the steps, to admire it. The thatch roofs of Pengwern fell away beneath her, amid a riot of autumn colors, into the rocky valley. The roar of the nearby falls filled her ears, as did the rise and fall of men’s voices in the yard below.

  Her gaze shifted from the view, and fastened upon Dylan. He was talking with a small group of warriors in the center of the yard. Men moved around him, carrying battered weapons and shields toward the smithy. The forge lay behind the stables, and the clang of iron against iron drew her attention.

  Merwenna winced at the noise, her gaze traveling around the yard, taking in the industry going on there.

  Is he preparing himself for war already?

  The prince had only been home a day, and it appeared he was hard at work readying himself to leave again.

  Anxiety curled itself into a tight knot in Merwenna’s belly. Beorn’s loss had been terrible enough; but she could not bear the thought of losing Dylan as well.

  He’s not yours to lose, a cruel voice reminded her. You are not his wife.

  Merwenna took a deep breath to quell her rising panic. Life here would only be bearable with Dylan at her side. If he left, she would be reviled once more. And if he never returned, she would be cast out, or worse.

  Her light mood gone, Merwenna continued down the steps. Once she reached the bottom, she made her way to the well and filled a wooden pail with water, in preparation for washing the princess’s soiled clothes.

  It was then, she felt someone’s gaze upon her, and glanced up from her task. Across the yard, despite the fact that he was still deep in conversation with his men, Dylan stared at her. His gaze seared hers and the intensity of it took her breath away. This man’s sensuality and appetite thrilled her; she could hardly wait till they were alone once more.

  Yet, the prospect of war had now cast its dark shadow over her fragile happiness. The unfairness of matters choked Merwenna and she turned back to her chore, her emotions in turmoil.

  It truly was a man’s world. Warriors lived and died by the sword while women stayed behind and picked up the broken pieces.

>   ***

  “We will need at least a thousand men. Perhaps even double that, if we wish to beat Penda.”

  Owain spoke quietly, his lean face uncharacteristically tense this morning. Dylan had just emerged from the smithy, and had stopped to exchange a few words with Gwyn and Owain. As soon as Owain began to speak, he noted that something was worrying the warrior.

  It had also not escaped Dylan that they would need a formidable army to take on Penda. Like Owain, he had witnessed the Mercian fyrd with Penda at the helm. He had once reflected that he had been relieved to be on Penda’s side, not opposing him. Yet, here he was planning to do just that.

  “You fear them,” Dylan observed, “and rightly so.”

  He clapped Owain on the shoulder and met the younger man’s gaze steadily. “Yet, matched with the same numbers, we can beat them. We will not go into battle until we are ready. I want reckoning for our people – I have no intention of sending my men to senseless slaughter.”

  Owain nodded, although Dylan saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. It seemed the warrior, who had fought so bravely at Maes Cogwy, had lost his stomach for battle. Dylan knew Owain had a young family here, and that he was loath to leave them again so soon, but that was the sacrifice a warrior must make – one they would all have to make.

  Dylan glanced in Merwenna’s direction then. He had seen her make her way down to the well, where she now knelt, scrubbing wet clothes. She was a vision in that woolen dress she wore; its color matched her eyes. Unlike the wealca she had worn till now, this garment hugged her curves – making her seem older, more womanly.

  She caught him staring, and boldly returned his gaze. Her lips had parted slightly, and he saw the rise and fall of her breast quicken.

  He too would be leaving someone behind.

  Suddenly, Dylan understood Owain’s reluctance. Until now, he’d had no ties here beyond kin. Now, there was Merwenna, and although their passion was still fresh, he knew that when the time came, it would be a wrench to leave her.

  Merwenna looked away then, her gaze shuttered. He could see that she brooded upon something. He wished to know what it was, but she had distracted him from his conversation long enough.

  Regretfully, Dylan turned his own attention back to his men, and to talk of war.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The Prince’s Consort

  Merwenna carried an earthen jug of plum wine from table to table, filling cups as they emptied.

  Tonight, she served the Prince of Powys, his kin and retainers. This time, she was not hauling pots and platters around. None of the servants appeared to be happy with this arrangement, but all of them minded their lord and did not voice their discontent. Even so, Merwenna caught the sour looks, and muttered comments directed at her, whenever she returned to the servants’ galley to refill the jug.

  After a while, she became deaf and blind to their resentment. She only hoped that, in time they would grow to accept her presence here.

  Tonight’s evening meal was considerably less lavish than the night before, consisting of a simple pottage and dumplings. The cooks had their hands full preparing for the great feast, in just two days, which would celebrate both their victory against the Northumbrians, and Dylan’s coronation.

  Wagons laden with meat, produce, grains, cheeses and nuts had been trundling in all afternoon, and the store houses beneath the Great Hall were now packed to the rafters with food. Inside the hall itself, work had begun in earnest in preparing the array of rich dishes for the celebrations. Merwenna had lent a hand in the afternoon; plucking geese that would be stuffed with bread, onions and chestnuts and roasted for the feast. Despite that no one was talking to her, Merwenna had enjoyed the industry inside the hall, and the gathering excitement for a celebration that would involve, not just the Great Hall, but all of Pengwern.

  Merwenna refilled the cup of an ealdorman’s wife, and glanced wistfully up the table, her gaze resting upon Dylan. Although she was grateful not to be lugging an iron cauldron of boiling soup around the table, she wished she could have been seated there, at Dylan’s side.

  That’s what a night in a prince’s bed does to a woman, she chided herself. Next, you’ll be demanding he wed you.

  All the same, she longed to be at his side.

  Dylan caught her eye then, and motioned for her to draw near. Ignoring the warrior next to her, who had just held out his cup to be filled, Merwenna went. As she neared the prince, she saw that Dylan was speaking to his uncle and brother. They broke off their conversation upon her arrival.

  “Wine, Milord?” she asked Dylan in Cymraeg.

  “Aye, just a drop,” he replied, his eyes smiling at her.

  “Fill mine up too, wench,” Morfael held his own cup to her. Merwenna dropped her own gaze demurely and obeyed him. It was not wise to appear too bold around Dylan’s kin. She moved to also refill Dylan’s uncle’s cup, but Elfan warned her off with a scowl. Merwenna’s gaze moved across the table, to where Heledd sat, to find the princess frowning at her.

  “Wine, Milady?”

  “No,” Heledd responded flatly.

  Merwenna took that as her cue to move on. She turned to make her way back down the table, and cast a glance back at Dylan, as she did so – he was watching her.

  They shared a secret smile.

  “It will not be borne,” Heledd muttered between clenched teeth, just loud enough for those surrounding her to catch her words – Dylan among them.

  “What won’t, dear sister?” The prince dragged his gaze from where Merwenna leaned over to refill one of his men’s cups. That gown hugged her curves indecently; he did not want her serving other men. Instead, he wanted Merwenna here, sitting at his side.

  “That girl,” Heledd replied, her emerald gaze snapping. “You parade her in front of us.”

  Dylan leaned back in his carved chair. He then took a sip of tart, plum wine, regarding his sister over the rim of his cup. “Do I need to ask your permission, Heledd?”

  The princess flushed, and looked down at her pottage. Yet, Dylan could see the fury that vibrated from her slender body.

  “Your sister is too well-bred to say it, but she merely voices what we all think,” Elfan growled. “We don’t want your Mercian whore here. She’s leading you around by your cock, and making a fool of you. Send her back to the peasant’s hovel from whence she came, and find yourself a consort worthy of the ruler of Powys.”

  The conversation around them died. His uncle’s gruff voice echoed through the hall.

  A heartbeat of silence followed before Dylan acted. One moment, the prince had been lounging in his chair, cup in hand, the next, he moved – so quickly that Elfan never even saw him coming.

  Dylan leaped across the table and slammed his fist into his uncle’s mouth.

  Elfan toppled backward off the benches onto the rushes; his cup flying in one direction, his meal in the other.

  Dylan stood over him, fist clenched. Around him, a hush filled the hall. He knew its residents had witnessed plenty of scenes similar to this in the past between Dylan and Morfael, when the brothers were younger and more hot-headed. However, it had been a while since anyone had seen him lose his temper with one of his uncles.

  Elfan had left Dylan no other choice.

  His uncle stared up at him, blood trickling down his chin. Dylan saw the outrage in his eyes, but also the shadow of fear.

  “Do you have anything else to say, uncle?” the prince asked, the softness of his voice belying the rage that pulsed through him. He felt angry enough to kill the man, if he uttered another word against Merwenna. Perhaps, Elfan sensed this, for he shook his head.

  “No, Milord,” he replied thickly, through bloodied lips.

  “Good,” Dylan straightened up and cast a glance over the faces of his silent brother and sister. “Let that be a warning to you all. My patience is at an end.”

  His gaze met Merwenna’s then. She was standing at the end of the table, grasping the jug of wine to her breast.
Her blue eyes were huge on her heart-shaped face, and he saw her alarm, her fear.

  She knows that was about her.

  Dylan looked away from Merwenna, and back down at his uncle. To everyone present, it would seem he had overreacted. Yet, he felt a fierce protectiveness over the young Mercian woman he had made his lover. He would not tolerate another word against her.

  ***

  Merwenna carefully brushed out Heledd’s hair, gently untangling the knots in her dark, wavy hair with a bone comb. They were in the princess’s bower. Heledd sat upon a low stool and Merwenna stood behind her. A clay cresset burned against one wall, casting a golden light across the tiny space. Outside, the gentle rise and fall of voices could be heard, quietening now as the hall’s residents bedded down for the night.

  “Merwenna,” Heledd broke the lengthy silence between them, surprising her hand-maid, for this was the first time the princess had addressed her directly, using her name.

  “Yes, Milady,” she replied cautiously.

  “How did you meet my brother?”

  Merwenna gave a pained smile, glad the princess could not see her face. She read the hidden meaning behind the question.

  How did two people from such two different worlds come together?

  “In Tamworth,” she replied, finally. “I had traveled there to look for my betrothed. A warrior named Beorn who rode off to Maes Cogwy with Penda’s fyrd. I had gone before King Penda, for I could not find Beorn amongst the men returning from war, and asked him of my betrothed. Penda did not recall him, but Lord Cynddylan did. He confirmed that Beorn had perished in battle.”

  Heledd had gone very still.