by Jayne Castel
Dylan’s offer had completely crushed her. Her disappointment, both in him for thinking she merited such an arrangement, and in her for giving her heart so carelessly, made it hard to breathe. Sun warmed her face and the clouds scudded across the sky. Merriment surrounded her – but this morning, Merwenna felt nothing but despair.
Voices reached her, and Merwenna’s gaze shifted from the view across Pengwern’s thatched roofs to where a company of riders thundered into the yard below. They were warriors clad in leather, with lime shields on their backs and spears at their sides, astride stocky horses. The first of Dylan’s chiefs had arrived, and many more would come before the crowning of Powys’ new king at noon.
Merwenna sighed.
Enough wallowing in self-pity, she told herself. You cannot fight fate. This is my life now.
Like many things in life, knowing the truth, and accepting it, were entirely different matters.
***
Dylan slid on the last of his arm rings and held out his arm so Morfael could buckle on his arm guards. Unlike the leather guards he usually wore, which were battle-scarred and scuffed with use, these ones were made of embossed leather. They had been his father’s, made for Cyndrwyn’s own coronation many years earlier.
It felt strange to have his brother help dress him, for it served to highlight their difference in rank. Morfael had long chafed at being the younger brother, the one who never mattered to their father.
For years, Dylan had been sure Morfael had been plotting against him – and the sight of him reclining on the high seat like a lord upon Dylan’s return to Pengwern had only made him more suspicious. Yet, over the last couple of days, Morfael’s behavior toward him had become far less antagonistic. He had openly criticized Dylan for bringing Merwenna to Pengwern, but since then their rapport had been almost… brotherly.
“Nearly done,” Morfael announced. He then reached for two gold clasps, stepped behind his brother and fastened Dylan’s long, purple cloak to his shoulders. Meanwhile, Dylan buckled his sword about his waist.
“I feel as if I’m going into battle,” Dylan observed with a grim smile, glancing down at his mail shirt.
“In a way you are,” Morfael replied. “The people of Powys look to their king to guide them. You will receive the council of the gods. They will love you, and judge you, like never before.”
“Thank you for the reminder,” Dylan cast his brother a dark look.
Morfael grinned back, enjoying his own cleverness. “My pleasure.”
Dylan bit back a cutting remark and slid jewel encrusted rings onto his fingers. It was not Morfael’s fault he was bad tempered this morning. He should be jubilant; he had been waiting for this moment all his life.
Yet, a shadow now lay upon him.
Merwenna was to blame. Before meeting her, his life had been simple; his choices and purpose clear. Yet, she had turned all the things that had once mattered to him to dust. Now, all he cared about was that he had upset her. He had made her a crass offer that had caused her to hate him.
I’ve been a fool.
The noise inside the Great Hall was deafening. It reached the brothers, even beyond the tapestry that shielded them from view. Folk had crammed inside, shoulder to shoulder – and now they were awaiting him. It was time for him to go before them. Yet, Dylan hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” Morfael’s gaze searched his face. “Not sure you want the crown after all?”
Dylan snorted rudely in response. The crown was what he had been born to wear. If Morfael thought that was the reason for his hesitation, then he really did not know him at all.
“Right then,” Morfael gestured toward the tapestry, the gesture mocking. “Your loyal subjects await.”
Dylan nodded and moved toward it. However, he was half-way there when he paused, and swiveled round to face his brother.
“Morfael, I have something to ask you,” he began, his gaze meeting his brother’s squarely.
“Go on,” Morfael quirked an eyebrow, intrigued.
“I would make you an offer,” Dylan continued. “Much depends upon your answer.”
***
Merwenna’s gaze never left Dylan throughout the entire ceremony.
The prince – soon to be king – stood upon the high seat, which was now draped in plush purple, resplendent in his finery. Behind him hung the flag of Powys – a blood-red lion rampant against a field of gold.
Merwenna’s gaze remained upon him while his uncle Elfan recited a long list of oaths that the new king would have to swear to, which Dylan then repeated. Although she understood little of what was spoken, her attention did not waver from him. She could tell from the timbre of Dylan’s voice that he took none of the oaths lightly.
Dylan then knelt before his uncle. Elfan placed an iron crown upon his nephew’s head. The new King of Powys rose to his feet, a wide smile on his face. A great roar went up inside the hall, the sheer force of it causing the timber structure to vibrate.
The cheering continued as Dylan’s most trusted warriors, Gwyn and Owain among them, pushed their way through the crowd, bearing a great oaken shield. Morfael and Elfan joined them, and Dylan seated himself upon it.
Together the group hoisted Dylan high into the air. He grinned from ear to ear, as he clung on to the edge of the shield. It was a symbolic gesture, in which they showed their new king to the gods. Merwenna had heard of this ritual but had never realized the effect it would have on those gathered.
The crowd roared. They stamped their feet, and clapped their hands – and for one brief moment Merwenna forgot her unhappiness. She forgot that she did not belong here, for the joy and devotion inside the hall momentarily transported her with them. Her skin prickled and for the first time she truly understood the power a king wielded. A man had to be strong, indeed, to shoulder such responsibility.
Merwenna kept her gaze riveted upon Dylan’s face. She loved him. He was arrogant, stubborn and proud – but she ached to be with him all the same. On the journey here, and in the private moments they had shared, she had come to know the Prince of Powys. Dylan was so much more than he appeared. His sharp mind, dry sense of humor, passion and strength had stolen her heart.
Her love for him just made his unfeeling offer last night hurt all the more.
He knew she would never agree to such an arrangement. It was almost as if he had done it to push her away. They had walked back to the Great Hall in silence, a chasm between them that could not be breached – and had not spoken since.
Cynddylan, King of Powys, sat back down upon his carved wooden throne to thunderous applause, an enigmatic smile curving his lips. Pain constricted Merwenna’s ribs, as if an iron band crushed her. Tears blurred her gaze and she looked down at her feet.
That smile would always be her undoing.
Chapter Forty-three
The Feast
It was said that Pengwern had never seen such a feast.
Long tables lined the Great Hall, either side of the fire pits, groaning under the weight of all the food: platters of roast sweet onions and carrots, pies, breads, cheeses, tureens of rich venison stew, goose stuffed with chestnuts and apples, and duck stuffed with plums.
Men carried in the carcasses of two spit-roasted wild-boar. Mead, ale and wine flowed freely. The smoke from cooking cast a haze over the cavernous interior; and the rumble of laughter, conversation and the strains of a bone whistle and a harp echoed high into the rafters.
Dylan sat upon his carved chair, at the head of one of the tables.
Upon seeing Merwenna approach, bearing a jug of wine, he held out his gold, jeweled cup for her to fill. She did so obediently, although she avoided his gaze all the while. She was pale, even in the golden light of the torches lining the walls, and her expression was solemn. Yet, she had never looked lovelier to Dylan.
“Thank you, Merwenna.”
She ignored him, and moved off to fill his brother’s cup.
Morfael barely noticed his cup being filled, for
his gaze was on the pretty blonde maid seated beside him. Cyneswith had just answered his question. Her gaze was downcast but Dylan noted the blush that crept up her neck. Despite her timidity, the girl was succumbing to his brother’s charm. Like Dylan, he spoke her tongue fluently. Morfael said something else, and the girl ventured a smile, her gaze darting up to shyly meet his.
Dylan’s gaze shifted farther down the table, to where the rest of his kin and retainers sat helping themselves to the mountain of food before them. Heledd sat next to Cyneswith. His sister was dressed in a fine emerald gown with gold trim, her dark hair bound in intricate coils about her crown. She was listening demurely to her uncle, Elfan, who sat opposite her. Watching Heledd a moment, Dylan gave a wry smile – his sister’s fiery nature made it difficult to maintain the façade of a modest maid, although she did her best.
His uncle, who was already red-faced from the four cups of mead he had consumed thus far, was lecturing his niece on the responsibilities of kingship. Next to him, sat Caedmon, Penda’s emissary. The young man said nothing, although the twist of his mouth hinted at his thoughts on Elfan’s discourse.
Caedmon looked like he would rather be somewhere else.
His expression was sullen and not even the sumptuous spread before him seemed to warm his countenance. Dylan could hardly blame him; a Mercian warrior did not belong here. Gwyn, Owain and a handful of Dylan’s most loyal retainers sat to the emissary’s left, but Caedmon ignored them, and they did the same. Gwyn and his friends were already well into their cups, and getting rowdier by the moment.
“So, how does it feel to be king?” Elfan asked, raising his cup to Dylan.
“Ask me tomorrow, when my wits aren’t addled by good food and wine,” Dylan grinned back, and raised his own cup.
“Your father always complained of that crown,” Elfan continued. “Said it was uncomfortable and made his scalp bleed.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” Dylan agreed. “It feels as if it’s made of thorns.”
“Such is the burden of kingship,” Morfael cut in. He had managed to tear his gaze from the comely Cyneswith long enough to follow their conversation. “Although you don’t look like you’re suffering to me.”
Dylan laughed and helped himself to a piece of mutton and rosemary pie. “Fret not,” he replied, meeting his brother’s eye, “I don’t need assistance wearing it.”
“My Lord, Cynddylan,” Caedmon’s voice interrupted the banter between the brothers. “You said you would tell me your answer, after your crowning. Will you accept Lord Penda’s gift, or not. I must know your answer.”
The chatter of conversation at the table round them died away. Gazes swiveled toward the Mercian.
Not for the first time, Dylan noted the fluency with which Caedmon spoke his tongue. The warrior’s tone, however, was bordering on insolent, as was his demand for an answer so early into the feasting.
Dylan had planned to announce his decision later, but Caedmon had forced this moment upon him. He shifted his gaze from Caedmon, and noted that Merwenna had made her way up the other side of the table. She now stood near enough to hear all that was spoken.
He took a deep, measured breath. He might as well say this now.
“I have thought upon it,” he replied, regarding Caedmon over the rim of his cup, “and I have made my decision.”
Caedmon nodded. The warrior’s impatience emanated off him in waves. “And what will it be?”
“I accept Penda’s gift.”
Dylan’s admission brought gasps from around the table, but he held out his hand to still them.
“Wait – I have not yet finished. Cyneswith will remain in Powys, and we will have peace – however, she will not wed me, but my brother.”
Stunned silence reverberated around the table. The only person present who did not appear shocked was Morfael. His brother sat quietly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. Beside him, Cyneswith looked bewildered. She glanced from Caedmon’s face, to Dylan’s, and then to Morfael’s. She did not understand the words that had passed between them – but clearly realized that they discussed her fate.
Caedmon stared at Dylan, his mouth gaping. “What?”
“You heard me,” Dylan replied, ignoring the warrior’s rudeness for the moment. “I declare Morfael, ‘Steward of the East’. He will govern the new lands recently gifted to Powys by Mercia. My brother will take up residence in Lichfield, and his new bride will make peace between our kingdoms.”
Merwenna stood still, clutching the jug of wine so tightly that she worried the clay might crumble beneath her fingers.
Had she heard right? Her understanding of Cymraeg had improved of late, but she worried that she had misheard the words that had just passed between Dylan and Penda’s emissary.
Dylan’s gaze shifted from Caedmon, to where she stood at the envoy’s shoulder. She had been about to refill his cup when the conversation had taken a turn.
As if sensing her confusion, Dylan then repeated his last sentence, this time in Englisc.
Cyneswith’s gasp of surprise only confirmed the truth.
Merwenna had, indeed, understood. Shock warred with burgeoning hope.
What does this mean?
She stared at Dylan and saw the warmth in his eyes, the quirk of his smile – an endearing blend of cocky and hopeful. Perhaps fate had not turned against her, after all?
Merwenna looked down, trying to keep her emotions under control, and moved to refill Caedmon’s cup. However, upon seeing Merwenna at his elbow, the warrior snarled and shoved her away.
“Get back from me, bitch!”
The jug flew from Merwenna’s hands and crashed onto the table, dousing the feasters in rich, plum wine.
“I want no more Cymry hospitality,” Caedmon shouted. “I piss on you all!”
Caedmon had not come to the feast planning to kill Cynddylan.
He had merely donned a mail shirt under his tunic as a precaution, for he did not trust Cynddylan, or any who served him. The tunic he wore was loose, and long, reaching to mid-thigh. It had been easy to conceal a knife under its hem.
Every moment under this roof galled him. He hated these people; loathed breathing the same air as them. Yet, he would never have guessed that the new King of Powys would agree to peace in one breath, and insult Penda’s generosity in the next.
Treacherous dog.
Caedmon could not go back to Penda with news that Cyneswith had wed Cynddylan’s younger brother. He would live only long enough to deliver the news before Penda gutted him in a rage. Penda had not sacrificed his precious daughter, so that the King of Powys could cast her aside like a peasant.
Yet, he knew he could not prevent it. He was one Mercian in a sea of Cymry. Cynddylan had the upper hand. Whether it happened now, or later, Caedmon was a dead man – but before he drew his last breath he intended to slay the cur who had been the source of all his misery.
Caedmon cursed them all and unsheathed the knife, with the lightning speed that had won him a place among Penda’s best. Unlike the rest of the feasters, he had drunk and eaten sparingly. The rest of them were slow to react, their minds fogged by wine, their stomachs heavy with rich food.
With a roar, Caedmon launched himself across the table toward the king, scattering food and cups of wine.
Merwenna’s scream saved Dylan from having his throat cut open by Caedmon’s blade.
Never, had Dylan seen a man move so fast. The warrior’s gawky, rawboned appearance hid a lethal skill. Penda had sent a killer to treat with him.
The flash of his attacker’s blade filled Dylan’s vision as he toppled back off the bench onto the rushes. His crown flew off and rolled away across the floor. Had he been seated on his throne when Caedmon attacked, its carved armrests and high back would have trapped him like a cage, leaving him unable to escape. As it was, he did not have time to roll to his feet, before Caedmon was upon him.
The blade sliced toward Dylan’s throat. His fist curled around Caedmon’s sinewy wrist
, holding it fast. He strained against his attacker, in an attempt to keep the Mercian’s blade from biting. He was stronger than his opponent. Yet, Caedmon was on top of him, and had the advantage.
Dylan looked into Caedmon’s eyes and saw a killing rage. He had seen wrath like this on the battlefield, had felt it himself when bloodlust ignited in his veins. He knew that when a man entered such a state, he cared not for his own life. All that mattered was dealing out death. He saw the man’s desperation, his hate.
Slowly, the blade inched toward Dylan’s exposed throat. He was losing the battle for his life. Any moment now, the blade would bite into his flesh. Sweat beaded Dylan’s face. He fought Caedmon with every inch of his strength; yet still the knife moved closer.
A shadow fell across them – and a booted foot lashed out, connecting with Caedmon’s ribs.
Morfael, his handsome face twisted in fury, drew back his leg and kicked the Mercian once more. This time, he aimed for just under the armpit, putting all his force into the blow. With a grunt of pain, Caedmon fell off his quarry, his grip on the knife loosening for an instant.
An instant was all Dylan needed.
He drove his knee up into Caedmon’s stomach and shoved his arm upwards. A moment later, he was on top of his attacker, pinning him to the ground.
Caedmon writhed like a landed trout, his teeth bared, and his eyes bulging. Dylan was barely able to keep him down. He would not be able to subdue the warrior – the only way Caedmon would stop fighting was when he ceased to draw breath.
Dylan had wanted to keep this man alive, to find out whether this attack had been another one of Penda’s tricks. However, Caedmon was a man with nothing left to lose.
Dylan had to end it.
He smashed his fist into Caedmon’s face, dazing his opponent. Then, he wrested the blade from Caedmon’s grappling fingers and plunged it into the base of his opponent’s neck. Caedmon made a choked, gurgling noise and abruptly stopped struggling. His eyes widened in surprise, as if he could not believe his time had come. He grappled for the blade, his fingers curving around the bone handle.
