by Jayne Castel
The prince’s gaze left the two figures before him and traveled over the faces of those observing the meeting. Most of them did not speak, nor understand, Englisc, but he wagered they had guessed the meaning of their words well enough. Dylan’s gaze then fell upon Merwenna, and although he had told himself he would not seek her out, it rested there.
She stood by one of the fire pits next to his sister, the garment she had been mending, clutched in her hands. Her face was pale and strained. Her gaze met his for a moment and he felt his breath leave him.
Damn her.
Merwenna of Weyham had bewitched him. Even now, when he should be focusing on other matters, she drew him to her, disarmed him. She had angered him last night. Yet, some of her words had struck a nerve, and try as he might he could not cast them aside.
Clenching his jaw, Dylan looked away from Merwenna, his gaze returning to the pale beauty before him. She looked barely old enough to be handfasted. Penda was a heartless bastard for sending her here.
“Penda asks much,” Dylan finally answered, “and I am not sure I wish to grant him this favor. However, you have traveled far, and will be hungry and weary. You will be my guests tonight.”
“Thank you, Milord,” the warrior looked up, his gaze meeting Dylan’s. Yet, in his eyes, Dylan saw no gratitude, only emptiness.
“Tomorrow I will be crowned,” Dylan continued. “Once I am king, I shall give you my answer. Now, get to your feet man. You’ll wear out the knees of your breeches prostrating yourself before me.”
***
“One Mercian among us was hard to accept – but two of you.” Heledd led the way up to her bower, not bothering to hide the exasperation in her voice. “Soon we will be overrun.”
Yet, despite Heledd’s indignation, Merwenna also sensed resignation there as well; the princess was clearly a survivor and adapted quickly to new circumstances.
Princess Cyneswith said nothing, looking at neither Heledd nor Merwenna. Instead, she followed them into Heledd’s bower meekly, her gaze downcast. In contrast to Merwenna’s reaction, the small but comfortably furnished space, did not make her gawk with envy. Merwenna remembered the princesses’ lovely bower in Tamworth’s Great Tower and knew why.
“There is little space here, but Merwenna will make up a bed for you next to mine.”
Cyneswith stirred then, her gaze shifting to Merwenna – as if seeing her for the first time.
“I remember you,” she said, her voice as flat as her eyes, “from Tamworth.”
Merwenna nodded.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s a long tale,” Merwenna replied, forcing a wry smile.
“One that she won’t bore you with,” Heledd cut in. “Merwenna, take some of my furs and make up a bed for Cyneswith over there. After you’ve done that, organize the servants to bring a tub in here for the princess to bathe.”
Merwenna nodded, although she could not help feel a tug of resentment.
Heledd had not welcomed Merwenna in such a fashion. The unfairness of it should not have stung her, but it did nonetheless. She left Heledd’s bower without another word, and went to do her bidding.
Chapter Forty-one
No Friendship between Kings
Dylan took a seat upon a low bench, next to his brother and uncle. They were playing Gwyddbwyll, a game in which the two players moved carved figurines across a wooden board that had been inlaid with squares of gold. As usual, Morfael was winning – and was just moves away from taking Elfan’s king. Elfan was looking none too pleased about it.
Dylan stretched his legs out in front of the fire, grateful that their attention was drawn by the game. It was getting late and he was not in the mood for another discussion.
It had been a wearying day. As soon as Penda’s emissary, Caedmon, was out of earshot, his kin had made it clear they thought Penda’s gift contemptuous.
He was inclined to agree with them.
Yet, he had not refused the gift outright, and would sleep upon it. Unlike his kin, who were keen to see Penda’s daughter and her entourage ejected from the hall, he had decided to wait before taking action. Dylan needed to reflect on what the King of Mercia’s generous gift really signified.
“You’re pensive this eve, brother,” Morfael said, taking his uncle’s king, and sitting back with a grin of triumph. “Surely, you’re not considering Penda’s offer?”
“Of course he isn’t,” Elfan cut in with a scowl. His lips were still swollen from where Dylan had struck him.
“The thought of wedding Penda’s daughter does not thrill me,” Dylan admitted, “but I am curious as to why he made the offer. He needs me.”
“He sought to kill you,” Morfael reminded him. “It makes no sense to pacify you now.”
“Yes, but he values our allegiance,” Dylan replied with a cool smile. “Penda still has many battles left to fight, much territory to conquer. He would call upon Powys again, and does not want to make an enemy of us just yet.”
His uncle made a rude noise at that, his gaze shifting to the other side of the hall, where Heledd, Cyneswith and Merwenna worked at a large loom, upon a tapestry.
“Mercians will always be my enemy,” he growled, “and there are too many of them under this roof for my liking. When will we be rid of them?”
Dylan and Morfael’s gazes followed Elfan’s.
Dylan could not help but notice that his brother’s gaze lingered upon Cyneswith.
“The Mercian princess is fair, is she not?” he asked Morfael lightly.
His brother gave a sly smile, although his gaze did not shift from where the Mercian princess delicately wound thread onto a spindle. “Very,” he replied.
Elfan spat on the ground and rose to his feet. Without bidding either nephew good night, he strode off, evidently disgusted by the turn the conversation had taken.
“He’s in a foul mood this eve,” Dylan observed. “Who pissed in his pottage?”
“You did,” Morfael replied, shifting his gaze from the winsome Cyneswith to his brother. “He doesn’t understand why you didn’t send them away this morning.”
“Elfan sees the world as it was, not as it is,” Dylan countered. “He lives in the past and has never been able to accept that Mercia and Powys are now allies.”
“Only we’re not really friends. Penda would betray you again in a heartbeat.”
“As would any ruler I allied myself with,” Dylan reminded him. “It’s no different to Gwyddbwyll, even if we pretend otherwise. The moment one of us has the upper hand, we take it. There is no friendship between kings.”
Letting this sobering fact lie between them, Dylan’s gaze shifted from the dancing flames of the fire pit. His gaze settled upon where Merwenna worked, her head bent over her task. He had avoided her all day. They had not spoken since she had fled from his quarters last night, and he wished to mend things between them. His bed was lonely without her. He missed her more than he would have liked to admit. Yet, with the arrival of Penda’s daughter, and the possibility he might wed her, Dylan suspected that Merwenna would not welcome him.
Even so, his gaze lingered upon her, willing her to look his way.
“You’re in over your head with that girl.”
Dylan glanced back at his brother and frowned. He thought about denying it. He and Morfael had been rivals for so long, he did not like his brother to see any vulnerability that he could exploit to his own ends. Yet, Morfael had seen the direction of his gaze, and the naked longing in his eyes. Was there any point in lying to him?
“Aye,” he murmured. “I should have seen it coming, but I thought she wouldn’t get the best of me.”
Morfael raised a dark eyebrow and poured himself a cup of mead. “That’s unlike you.”
“No, I’m usually a lot more careful. Merwenna took me by surprise.”
“She doesn’t belong here – any more than Penda’s daughter.”
Dylan gave his brother a dark look. “That’s only because she has bee
n ostracized from the moment she set foot in Pengwern.”
Morfael shrugged and placed his cup down beside the Gwyddbwyll board.
Dylan watched his brother rearrange the wooden figurines on the board before him and realized Morfael was preparing himself for another game.
“I’m not in the mood for Gwyddbwyll,” Dylan growled. “Don’t you ever tire of beating me at it?”
“Come, brother,” Morfael flashed him a disarming smile. “It has been months since we played last. Let me best you in one thing, at least.”
***
Merwenna could not sleep.
She lay on her back, on the fur outside Heledd’s bower, and stared up into the darkness. There were no tears tonight – her despair went deeper than that. The unfairness of it all choked her. If Dylan wed Cyneswith, he would not march to war, and yet he would be lost to her all the same. She had grieved when she lost Beorn, and thought no pain could surpass that. Yet, she had been wrong. This actually felt worse.
Merwenna and Dylan would be living under the same roof. She would be forced to see him and his queen every day. She would see Cyneswith’s belly swell with his babe. The thought caused her to curl up like a wounded animal and clutch her own stomach. How would she bear it?
She could run away, as she had already planned to if Dylan went to war. Yet, he would be keeping watch on her, expecting her to do something foolish. No, she would be made to stay – to suffer.
“Merwenna,” Dylan’s whisper, near her ear, catapulted her out of her misery.
His presence here was a painful reminder of two days’ earlier, just before they had lain together for the first time. So much had happened since then – so much had changed.
She sat up, glad that she had not been weeping. Not that he could see if she had, for the light was only dim enough for her to make out his silhouette crouched before her.
“What is it?” she whispered coolly. Surely, he did not assume she would return to his bed? Not after what had passed between them last night. Not after today.
“Will you walk with me?” he whispered back. “I would speak with you awhile.”
Merwenna hesitated. Her first impulse was to refuse him, for hurt still burned within her. However, there was a gentleness to his voice, a humility that she had never heard before. It would be their last chance to speak before he was crowned tomorrow.
“Very well,” she murmured, rising to her feet. “I will need to fetch a cloak.”
“I have one for you,” Dylan replied. Before she could reply, he had settled a thick fur about her shoulders. It was much thicker, and warmer than the woolen cloak she usually wore. Merwenna wordlessly accepted it.
“Come.” He took hold of her hand and led her through the darkness. They stepped off the platform and skirted the edge of the Great Hall, picking their way around and across sleeping bodies as they went. The only light was the faint glow of embers from the two fire pits. Dylan moved with the confidence of a man who had often crept away from the hall under the cover of darkness as a youth.
They reached the oaken doors and slipped outside. It was cold, and a chill breeze feathered across Merwenna’s cheeks. Here, Dylan paused a moment and retrieved a pitch torch from where it burned in a bracket against the wall. Now that she could see him, Merwenna noted that Dylan too wore a thick fur cloak about his shoulders.
“Pengwern is magical at night,” Dylan told her as they descended the wooden steps. “Bathed in moonlight.”
Merwenna did not reply. He was in an odd, pensive, mood. Yet, she liked it and was loath to shatter the moment. Indeed, it was lovely outside, despite the chill. From the stairs she could see the glow of fires in the valley below, lighting the darkness like fireflies.
They crossed the yard and passed through the gate beneath. Dylan greeted the guards there before leading the way into the streets beyond. Pengwern was deserted at this hour. They walked alone through the narrow dirt streets, lined by squat wattle and daub dwellings. Overhead, the moon lit their way. Like in Weyham, folk here worked hard from dawn till dusk. Few lingered outdoors after nightfall, preferring to stretch out in front of their fire pits and rest their weary limbs.
Dylan and Merwenna walked in silence for a short while, before he wordlessly took her arm and tucked it through his.
“I spent my childhood playing in these streets,” Dylan told her, “when our father wasn’t teaching us to hunt and fight, Morfael and I would play hide and seek here until fæder would send someone out to look for us. We’d get our arses tanned for that.”
Merwenna imagined Dylan as a small boy and, despite the misery that churned her up inside, fought a smile. “You were full of mischief?”
“I was.”
They continued walking through the tangle of narrow lanes till the way widened and the houses drew back. Here, they stepped out onto a wide ledge of rock, surrounded by thick green foliage. Moonlight cast a silver veil out across the valley. The thundering waterfalls sparkled as if alive, and the magnificence of the view made Merwenna catch her breath.
“It’s enchanting.”
“This is my favorite corner of Pengwern,” Dylan admitted quietly.
Merwenna gave him a quick look, and found him watching her. The flickering torch he carried, cast his face in gold, threw his eyes into shadow and highlighted the sharp angles of his cheekbones – making him look every bit the battle lord he was.
As always, his nearness made it difficult for her to breathe.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked.
Dylan stared back at her, a wistful smile curving his lips. “My hall is full of flapping ears and wagging tongues. I wanted to speak with you, alone.”
Merwenna nodded, not trusting herself to speak then, for a lump had wedged itself in her throat.
“Tomorrow will change many things.” Dylan had stepped closer to her so that they stood just a hand span apart. The heat and scent of his skin made her limbs weaken. Then, he reached out and gently stroked her face. “A battle or a bride – what should I do, cariad?”
“You… w… want me to tell you?” Merwenna stuttered, distracted by his sensual touch.
“I want to know what you would advise, yes.”
Merwenna took a deep, trembling breath. “I would have you choose the path that will not lead you to war.”
“You would see me wed Penda’s daughter?” The surprise in Dylan’s voice was evident.
“If it means you stay safe, yes.”
Dylan’s smile twisted into something darker. “Ah, Merwenna. You wouldn’t keep me safe forever – there will always be other battles, other enemies.”
“But, I would from this one.”
Silence stretched between them for a few moments before Dylan spoke once more.
“Last night, you said that you had given me your heart, is that the truth?”
Merwenna swallowed. She had regretted being so open with him, as soon as the words were out of her mouth – but, she could not undo them. “Yes,” she whispered.
“So pure, so beautiful, so proud,” Dylan murmured, stepping closer still. “I do not want to lose you.”
Merwenna’s throat closed and tears stung her eyes. Had she heard right – did he care for her? Would he fight for her?
“We could still be together, even if I wed Cyneswith,” Dylan continued, his voice smooth as honey. “Why can’t a king can have a wife, and a lover?”
Merwenna inhaled sharply. Suddenly, winter descended upon their lofty ledge. She abruptly stepped back from the prince, so they were no longer touching, and pulled the fur cloak tightly about her shaking body.
“That may be your plan,” she bit off the words, breathless in the rage that suddenly consumed her, “but I will have no part of it.”
She sensed Dylan’s shock. He dropped his hand and stared at her.
He was offering her a life many women would grasp with both hands – and here she was throwing it back in his face.
I will not share him with another w
oman.
She would rather lose him forever than travel such a road.
“You are too proud,” he said, finally, his voice rough with hurt. “I cannot give you what you want.”
Merwenna stared back at him, disappointment bitter gall in her mouth. “Then, I shall have nothing at all,” she replied.
Chapter Forty-two
The Crowning of Cynddylan
The morning of the coronation dawned, bright and fresh. Yet, even before the first rays of sun warmed the edge of the Great Hall of Pengwern, its inhabitants were already hard at work.
Servants hurried to and fro, making the final preparations for the celebration and the great feast that was to follow. They hung the last of the garlands, and scattered fragrant bunches of rosemary, thyme and sage over the clean rushes. Then, they cleared the space for all those who would cram themselves inside the Great Hall to catch a glimpse of the crowning of Cynddylan.
Merwenna took a cup of hot broth and made her way past where the cooks were rolling out pastry for the apple and blackberry pies for the feast. She had just finished helping both Heledd and Cyneswith dress, and had paused to break her fast before she would brush and braid their hair.
None of the servants looked up as Merwenna walked by. Reaching the end of the hall, she stepped out onto the platform outside, and paused there to look out across the valley.
A brisk breeze caught at her unbound hair, whipping it around her face. Below, she could see that all of Pengwern bore signs of the day’s celebration. Garlands and streamers hung between the streets and the smell of roasting mutton drifted up from where folk prepared a feast in the town’s market square. This was a rare day of rest for those who spent their lives toiling in the fields or tending the livestock that fed Pengwern. Once the celebrations began, the reveling would go on long into the night.
Merwenna tightened her chill fingers around the cup, drawing in its warmth. Unlike those of Pengwern, this day brought her no joy. She had not thought she could feel any worse than she had upon Cyneswith’s arrival.
