The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  Merwenna concentrated on combing through the last section of her hair, before she set the comb aside and stepped back.

  “There, Milady. I’m finished. You have lovely hair.” It was the truth, Heledd’s hair shone like liquid silk in the soft light.

  “Thank you.” Heledd swiveled round on the stool to regard her. The princess’s gaze was not hostile, as it had been earlier. Yet, neither was it friendly.

  “I’ve never seen Dylan like this,” she admitted. “He has spent his life preparing himself to rule, to be the king his father was. He knows he will have to take a wife one day but women have never swayed him – till now.”

  Merwenna gazed back at the princess, not sure how to respond. There was an accusing note to Heledd’s voice that warned Merwenna against lowering her guard.

  “No one is more surprised by all of this than me,” Merwenna replied. “My life was in Weyham, with my family and the man I was to wed. Fate has played a cruel trick in bringing me here. This is not the future I would have chosen.”

  Heledd’s gaze narrowed. “Do you love him?”

  The question took Merwenna’s breath away. She really wished Heledd had not asked that – for it was the subject that she had made a point of avoiding of late.

  Love. She once thought she knew exactly what that meant, but these days, the meaning had blurred. These days, such feelings were complicated by guilt, by duty. Yet, the truth of matters could not be hidden from – it had been staring her in the face for days now. Heledd had made her confront it.

  Silence stretched between the two young women, and Heledd frowned. Merwenna’s lack of response damned her.

  “Well, do you?”

  “Yes,” Merwenna replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

  The princess’s frown eased, and a glimmer of warmth flickered in the depths of those green eyes, so similar to Dylan’s. She nodded and rose to her feet, signaling that their conversation was at an end.

  Merwenna backed away, toward the tapestry. She had just grasped hold of it, and was about to slip outside, when the princess spoke once more.

  “Since our mother died there has been so little happiness in this hall,” she murmured. “So little laughter. Just the voices of men; talking of war, of borders, pacts and promises – and now, reckoning. It is good to see my brother smile, to see him care for more than waging war on our neighbors. Could you not soften him, convince him to cast his need for vengeance aside?”

  Merwenna paused and her gaze met the princess’s once more. “If only I could turn him from this course,” she replied with a sad smile. “Happiness is hard won and easily lost – but your brother may come to learn that too late.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Last Words

  Dylan lay on his back, staring up at the rafters, and gently stroked his lover’s back. Merwenna faced him, tucked into his side. The warmth of her breath tickled his skin. The sweet scent of her, wrapped him in a silken curtain. He was aware that she also drowsed, enjoying the languor that had followed their passion.

  He had never felt so relaxed, so at peace with the world as he did at that moment. It was as if nothing else mattered.

  He had never known a woman like Merwenna. The sight of her, the touch of her, the smell and taste of her, branded him like fire. Each time they came together, the aftermath left him laid bare. He was just recalling how she had ridden him tonight – firelight playing across her beautiful breasts, her head thrown back as she groaned in pleasure – when Merwenna’s voice, edged with sleepiness, intruded.

  “That axe – is it yours?”

  Dylan’s gaze followed hers, across his quarters to where the great war-axe hung from the wall.

  “No,” he murmured. “It was my father’s. He took it from his enemy – a chieftain who tried to seize power from him, and paid for his treachery with his life. The weapon saw many battles before my father hung it on the wall for the last time a few years ago.”

  “You’ve never fought with it?”

  “No – an axe isn’t my weapon of choice. I’m not built for it. I prefer to fight with my father’s sword in my hand.”

  Merwenna propped herself up on her elbow and gazed down at him, her eyes dark and troubled.

  “Do you love to fight?”

  Dylan gave a soft chuckle, surprised by the question. “I wouldn’t call it ‘love’ exactly. It’s the life I was born to. I do it because I must – it’s all I know.”

  “But what if you stopped?”

  “Then Pengwern would fall. Kingdoms sit upon a knife-edge – it takes little to topple them. I fight to keep everything I hold dear safe.”

  Merwenna stared down at him but he could tell she was not appeased.

  “What is it?” he asked, finally. “You are chewing over something, are you not?”

  “I don’t want you to ride against Penda,” she replied, her face the most serious he had ever seen it. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Dylan stared back at Merwenna. Frankly, he was torn between being irritated at her interference, and being touched by her candor.

  “I told you why I must go to war,” he replied, his voice hardening slightly. “A king cannot betray another – as Penda did – and go unpunished.”

  “But you could die, do you not ever think on it?”

  Dylan sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why did women look upon war in such simplistic terms?

  “I could… but then I could choke on a piece of meat in my own hall. What valor is there in such an end? There is no greater death for a warrior than in battle – you know that.”

  “You would rather have songs written about you, than live?” she accused him, anger kindling in her gaze. “What good are songs to those who mourn you? Beorn thought as you, but he had never experienced battle. He’d never seen what it does to those who are left behind. I expected better of a man who knows the truth of what he faces.”

  Merwenna gazed into Dylan’s eyes, and knew that she had angered him.

  She had not meant the conversation to travel this far. She had been luxuriating in the aftermath of their lovemaking, when her gaze had alighted upon that war-axe. The menacing weapon cast a gloomy shadow over the whole space. She had wondered at the axe’s significance and had wanted to ask him of it.

  Now, she wished she had not.

  They were now discussing the very matter that had been tormenting her. After her conversation with Heledd, she had not been able to think of anything else. Yet, the more she spoke, the less he seemed to understand

  Dylan’s face had tensed, and his gaze had narrowed dangerously. Her last comment had clearly offended his pride. A man’s pride was a fragile thing – and she wished she had chosen her words more carefully.

  Watching him, Merwenna felt her pulse start to quicken. She had not meant to anger him; she had only wanted to make him comprehend. Yet, she had not told him what was in her heart – the real reason she did want him to go.

  “You speak of what you do not understand,” he said, his voice cold now. He moved away, so they were no longer touching. He then sat up and frowned down at her.

  “I understand enough,” she countered, her own anger rising. Did he think her a fool?

  “No, you don’t. This is the life of a ruler. If a man will not go to war to protect his people, then he has no right being king.”

  “You’re not going to war to protect them,” Merwenna sat up and faced him. “Vengeance is about your vanity and nothing else.”

  He stared at her, his gaze narrowing dangerously. Merwenna knew now that she had gone too far. Yet, it was too late to turn back. She had better say all of it.

  Trembling with the force of her anger, Merwenna rose to her feet and reached for her clothes. All the while, Dylan watched her.

  “My vanity?” he echoed, as if unable to believe she had insulted him thus.

  “If you go to war against Mercia, I cannot stay here,” she told him, tying her girdle about her waist. “The
folk here hate me already. Having one of the enemy living under their own roof will be more than they can bear. Without your protection, my life will be in danger.”

  “No one here will harm you,” he ground out, rising to his feet to face her.

  “You can’t promise that,” she replied. “Once you’re gone, they can do what they want. And if you never return they can stone me to death, if it pleases them.”

  “So that’s what’s bothering you.” Dylan folded his arms across his bare chest and glared at her. “You’re not worried about my welfare – it’s your own that concerns you.”

  Merwenna gasped. His accusation was cruel and unfair – how could he think so badly of her? This was all going wrong. He misunderstood her at every turn.

  “You know that’s not true,” she choked out. “Are you so arrogant that you cannot see past your own nose? Do as you please, for I see my words mean nothing to you – but know this – if you go to march on Mercia, I will leave Pengwern.”

  “And where will you go?”

  He was taunting her now, the look in his eyes making her feel small and silly, like a child throwing a tantrum.

  “You are no longer welcome in Weyham,” he reminded her. “Your father won’t be pleased to see you darken his door.”

  “That’s no concern of yours,” she snarled at him. “I’ll go where I please.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he stepped toward her, intimidating in his nakedness. “I swore an oath to your father, remember?”

  “I release you from it.”

  “That’s not your decision, but your father’s.”

  “Nithhogg take you both,” Merwenna spat at him. “I belong to neither of you. To think I have given my body, and my heart, to a conceited churl who disregards everything I say, and turns my own words against me. Can’t you see why I wouldn’t want you to die in battle? Are you that blind?”

  Dylan stared at her, clearly rendered speechless by her outburst. Yet, Merwenna ploughed on, heedless to the consequences.

  “Go then, wreak your vengeance upon Penda. But if you do return to Pengwern, I won’t be here waiting for you.”

  She was so angry that she could have lashed out and struck him. Instead, Merwenna whirled and fled from Dylan’s quarters so that he would not see the tears that had obscured her vision.

  Stunned silence followed her.

  Chapter Forty

  The Peace-maker

  Caedmon rode up the steep slope toward the gates of Pengwern and craned his neck upwards to catch a glimpse of the Great Hall. The magnificent timbered building perched high upon a rocky outcrop above a sea of thatched roofs; a sentinel over the surrounding lands.

  The warrior had not imagined that Pengwern sat in such an isolated spot, or in such a lofty position. The views of the valley below were so vertiginous that the ride up to the gates had made him queasy. Whenever he glanced away from the road, the horizon had whirled, making him feel as if he would topple from the saddle at any moment.

  The sight of the gates ahead brought relief, for their journey’s end lay close at hand. Yet, glancing back at the small company that rode with him, the reason for his arrival cast a shadow over his relief.

  It was a small price to pay for his life, yet not a task he wanted.

  There was nothing to say that the Prince of Powys would not reject Penda’s gift outright. He could easily send them back whence they came – and if he did, Caedmon’s execution upon his return to Tamworth was certain.

  Caedmon gritted his teeth and pushed down his cowl so that the guards at the gate could see his face. This was a humiliating errand; to supplicate himself on behalf of the King of Mercia stuck in his craw.

  He had been one of the first to agree to Rodor’s call when he had received orders from Penda to assassinate Cynddylan. It mattered not that his mother was one of the Cymry – he felt no sense of allegiance to these people. The fact that his mixed blood had made him a victim of bullies as a child, had made him hate his mother’s people all the more. Cynddylan’s arrogance had grated upon him; and he had hungered to see him brought low.

  Only now, wyrd had turned against him, and it was Caedmon who would have to beg for his life.

  “Halt!” a helmeted guard blocked Caedmon’s way before the gates. “State your name and business here.”

  “I come from Tamworth,” Caedmon replied in fluent Cymraeg. “I bring a gift from King Penda of Mercia for Lord Cynddylan.”

  “A gift?” the guard regarded him skeptically. “And what might that be? We need no gift from that traitorous whoreson!”

  Caedmon ignored the insult and turned in the saddle. He focused his attention on the small cloaked figure in the midst of his men.

  “My lady,” he commanded, “come forth.”

  The figure urged its mount forward and drew level with Caedmon. Then, a pale, slender hand reached up and pushed back the cowl shielding the rider’s identity. The girl, as fair as summer blossom, despite the fear shadowing her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks, stared back at him.

  “This is Penda’s gift,” Caedmon informed the guard coolly. “His youngest daughter – Princess Cyneswith.”

  ***

  A hush had descended upon the Great Hall, and all gazes riveted upon the newcomers.

  Merwenna had been sitting near one of the hearths, mending one of Heledd’s gowns while the princess worked at her distaff beside her, when the party entered. She had been focused upon her task, trying to distract herself from the misery that gripped her innards in a vice, when the hall went still.

  Now, her gaze also tracked the small group that crossed the rush-strewn floor toward the high seat.

  For once, the inhabitants of the hall were not glaring at her, but at the tall, spare man with greasy blond hair and a sparse beard who led the way. Encased in boiled leather, he walked with a warrior’s arrogance, his travel-stained cloak rippling behind him. At his side, walked a small, blonde girl wearing a fur-lined cloak. Four more warriors brought up the rear.

  Even from a distance, Merwenna knew they were not from Powys. Her breath hitched in her throat as the party passed by.

  That’s Penda’s daughter!

  The girl did not glance her way; her blue-eyes fixed ahead, her chin trembling as she sought to control her fear. She was the younger of the two. Although neither of the princesses had shown any warmth to Merwenna during her time in the Great Tower of Tamworth, she felt a stab of pity for the girl. She was plainly terrified.

  The party halted before the high seat, where Dylan waited.

  Around them, the Great Hall bore the signs of the coming celebration. Garlands of late blooms hung from the rafters. Servants had been busy removing the soiled rushes and replacing them with clean ones, and the aroma of baking pies and cakes mingled with the smell of lye and rosemary from their cleaning.

  The blond warrior who led the newcomers, paid no heed to what surrounded him. His gaze was fastened upon the Prince of Powys. Dylan reclined in his chair, darkly handsome in a dark blue, sleeveless tunic and leather breeches. His brother flanked him to his right, his uncle Elfan to his left.

  The sight of Dylan made Merwenna’s chest ache.

  He had not come after her last night; had not tried to mend things between them. But then, why would he? He was the ruler of Powys and she was nothing but a foolish girl who had made a grave error in judgement. Merwenna had lain on the fur outside Heledd’s bower, for the rest of the night, trying to stifle her sobs. Never, had she felt so alone – so foolish, so lost.

  “I hear that Penda has a gift for me,” the prince spoke, intruding upon Merwenna’s thoughts. His face was impassive, his gaze watchful as it rested, first upon the warrior’s face, and then upon the girl’s.

  “Yes, Milord,” the blond warrior rumbled. “He offers you Princess Cyneswith, to atone for the treacherous behavior of his men.”

  Dylan frowned at that. “His men? So Penda does not claim responsibility for sending them to slay me?”

>   “No, he does not,” the warrior replied flatly. “Those men took the decision to hunt you by their own accord, and not with his blessing.”

  The man then bent his head and lowered himself onto one knee. Looking on, Merwenna noted the tension in his body. She could see he was hating every moment of this but forced himself on nonetheless.

  “You are the loyal ally of Mercia. Lord Penda would not wish to jeopardize the trust between our kingdoms.”

  “Yet, his men did,” Dylan replied. His gaze had narrowed, and it was plain from his expression, and from those of the men who flanked him, that he did not believe a word.

  “Those men betrayed Penda,” the warrior replied, his gaze downcast, “but he understands your anger.”

  “Does he?” Dylan steepled his hands before him, his gaze narrowing further. “I wonder, if that is the truth.”

  “He does,” the man insisted, glancing up. Merwenna caught a note of desperation in his tone. “He wishes to mend things between our kingdoms – and for that reason he offers you his beloved daughter, Cyneswith.”

  All gazes shifted to the young woman who stood silent next to the kneeling warrior.

  She stood, her back ramrod straight, her eyes glistening with tears. Her long, blonde hair, as pale as sea-foam, fell unbound over her shoulders. Watching her, Merwenna could not help but feel a stab of jealousy at the princess’s regal beauty. And, at the same time, the misery within her turned to desolation.

  No matter what Dylan’s decision, whether he made peace or went to war, she would lose him.

  “A peace-maker,” Dylan mused, with a cold smile.

  The man kneeling before him was a poor liar, and was not the type to kneel so readily. Dylan wondered what he had done to warrant such humiliation.

  “He would sacrifice his tender daughter to prevent war between us?”

  “He would, Milord.”

  Dylan leaned back in his throne and inhaled slowly. This was an interesting development, although he was in no mood for it. It was clearly a ruse. Penda had discovered what had happened to his men and sought to avoid war between them. Still, it was unexpected.