The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  “Scavengers, eh?” Heolstor fixed the lads in a hard gaze.

  “Please, M’lord,” one of the boys gasped. “We weren’t scavenging – I promise. We’re from Blackhill.

  The boy who had not yet spoken started to snivel, only to receive a quelling look from his companion.

  Heolstor continued to stare at them. “Blackhill? You’re far from home, boy,” he replied. “Tell me what happened here.”

  “It was the East Saxons,” the first boy spoke up once more. “They came just after Yule, not long before the snows. They slaughtered everyone.”

  The lad’s voice died away as the warriors surrounding him burst into mutters of outrage. His courage bolstered, the boy continued.

  “Folk from our village discovered them, days later. There were signs of a great battle. We built a pyre and burned the dead.”

  Heolstor’s face was a hard mask as he listened to the end of the lad’s tale. His gaze swept around the charred remnants of Went. “Those dogs will pay for this.”

  Rumbles of assent echoed around him, although Wil remained silent. His mind and senses were still reeling at what he had just heard.

  “And your village?” Heolstor turned back to the lads. “Was Blackhill attacked?”

  Both boys shook their heads, although the grief that flared in their gazes was impossible to miss.

  “Blackhill still stands,” the first lad replied. “Yet it is full of women, the sick, and those who are too old, or young, to fight – there are few men left. The ealdorman and his warriors are all dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “After the East Saxons slaughtered the folk of Went, Aldwulf, the ealdorman of our village, vowed vengeance. He took his men and went out hunting for them. The snow was falling thick, but they went anyway. They met an East Saxon war band, but they were outnumbered…” the boy broke off here, visibly struggling to control the grief that welled within him. Beside him, his companion was weeping openly. “Our father was among them.”

  Watching the boys, who were obviously brothers, Wil felt his earlier grief resurface. Once more, the intensity of it surprised him. He had often thought of Went, and all its memories, as another life.

  “Wil,” the warrior next to him, a man of Wil’s age with long, dark hair and a thick beard to match, roused him from his thoughts. “You didn’t have kin still here, did you?”

  Wil looked up and met his friend’s concerned gaze. Aelin was one of the few in the King’s Hall that Wil had truly befriended, for he trusted few.

  “My parents both died a few years before I left,” he replied with a shake of his head. “There was no one left I’d grieve for.”

  The king’s men took the lads with them and left the ashes of Went behind. The subdued company of warriors rode out onto a wide meadow. Clumps of dirty snow covered the ground in parts, although it was melting fast.

  Wil glanced up at the pale sun; it was still high in the sky. However, they had a good distance to cover before reaching Blackhill. The boys had, indeed, traveled far from home – unwise with East Saxon war bands on the move.

  The light was beginning to dim – the shadows lengthening – when the horsemen eventually clattered over the bridge leading to Blackhill. The cruel wind had dropped, although the cold was still biting. Grateful for his thick fur cloak that he had pulled up around his ears, Wil gazed up at the wooded hill before them and the outline of a tall paling fence at its summit.

  Blackhill.

  Wil felt his stomach twist once more – although not in grief – but in dread for who he might see in the village of Blackhill.

  A woman he had spent a decade trying to forget.

  She might never have married Aldwulf of Blackhill.

  She might be dead.

  They might have left this place.

  Many thoughts tumbled through Wil’s mind as he followed the column of riders up the narrow road leading to the village gates. The shock at seeing Went destroyed had distracted him from his memories.

  Ten years are too long, Wil told himself, angered that after all this time thoughts of her still affected him. You need to let this go. And yet, he had never been able to. He had wanted Cynewyn since the beginning of his thirteenth winter – he had ached for her. Yet, she had never returned the sentiment; not even minimally. Her rejection, and his humiliation before her father, still stung. He had never been able to heal that scar. Some wounds cut too deep.

  Pushing his thoughts aside, Wil focused his attention on the huge wooden gates looming before them.

  It’s time, he thought grimly, to face your past.

  ***

  “Cynewyn,” a woman’s voice echoed across the hall. “There are men here – the king’s men.”

  Cynewyn looked up from her sewing to see Mildthryth, her mother-in-law, walking toward her. Mildthryth was a small woman, like Cynewyn, with thick blonde hair, threaded with grey. The events of the last few months might have broken a weaker woman – but not Mildthryth. Her blue eyes, although hollow with grief, were resolute.

  Cynewyn had always liked her mother-in-law. She wished her husband could have inherited some of his mother’s strength. Yet, instead, Aldwulf had taken after his father; a pleasure-seeking man with a lazy streak.

  “Really?” Cynewyn gave her mother-in-law a quizzical look before laying aside her sewing and rising to her feet. “Did someone send word?”

  Mildthryth shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, let us see what brings them to Blackhill.”

  Together, the two women walked across the rush-matting floor to the doors. This hall had once been dominated by men; the low timbre of male voices echoing amongst the rafters. Now, only women filled the space – frightened women with pinched faces and haunted eyes.

  It had been a bitter winter, in more ways than one. The weather had been the coldest in years; a vicious wind had howled in from the north, bringing hail and snow storms that covered the world in a thick white blanket. Even now, with the first signs of spring appearing – bright green shoots pushing up through the damp earth – the warmth of summer was a distant memory. Yet, the heavy snow, which had made travel near to impossible, had been a blessing as well as a curse. It had prevented the East Saxons from destroying Blackhill, like they had Went.

  Cynewyn stepped outside and pulled the fur cloak she wore close about her. Even though the blustery wind had died, the air had teeth to it. However, her attention was immediately distracted from the cold by the sight of over two dozen men filling the clearing in the center of the village.

  Men. Their voices sounded loud and rough after long weeks of only women, children and elderly for company. Dressed in leather armor, with lime-wood shields hanging from their backs, and shields and axes at their sides, they were a forbidding sight. The warriors dismounted from their horses, many of them looking about with interest.

  Two boys dismounted with the warriors. Cynewyn recognized them instantly. Beorn and Rodor had run off after an argument with their mother two days earlier and had not been seen since. Judging from their taut, white faces and frightened eyes, the lads had not enjoyed their time away from Blackhill. They ran to where their mother emerged from a low, wattle and daub dwelling. Ealhwyn’s face, work-worn and haggard, sagged in relief as she pulled her sons into a fierce embrace.

  Cynewyn walked forward to greet the newcomers. The other villagers fell in behind her, silently acknowledging Aldwulf’s widow as their leader.

  One of the warriors, a tall, balding man with a short blond beard, approached Cynewyn.

  “Are you the mistress of Blackhill?”

  “Yes – what’s left of it,” Cynewyn replied. “Aldwulf of Blackhill was my husband. Eomer of Went was my father.”

  “I am Heolstor,” he told her. “I lead the king’s men. We have just come from Went.”

  Cynewyn nodded; a chill went through her at the flatness of his tone. She knew what had greeted him at Went, for she had seen it herself. She would never forget the sight
of the shell of her father’s hall; or seeing his charred corpse lying over that of her mother. Eomer of Went had died trying to save his wife.

  Blinking back tears, Cynewyn looked away from Heolstor then. Instead, her gaze scanned the amassing crowd of men.

  “You are very welcome,” she said huskily. “The East Saxons could attack at any time.”

  Heolstor did not reply. When Cynewyn glanced back at him, she saw that he was frowning.

  “‘Tis not safe here, Milady,” he told her flatly. “We cannot let you remain at Blackhill.”

  Cynewyn went still. “Hwaet?”

  “You have lost nearly all your menfolk,” Heolstor’s frown deepened at her sharp tone. “We cannot remain here to protect you from the East Saxons.”

  Cynewyn felt her body grow cold. “This is our home – we can’t leave it.”

  “You must.” Heolstor replied flatly.

  “Nithogg take you!” Cynewyn snarled. “This land has been in our families for generations. The East Saxons have burned our villages and terrified our folk for too long – we cannot just walk away!”

  “Watch your tongue, woman,” Heolstor growled. “I did not travel here to argue with a fishwife. Insult me again and I will knock you down.”

  Cynewyn glared back at the warrior, her hands balling into fists.

  This was the last straw. Bitterness threatened to overwhelm her, as years of unhappiness and frustration surged to the fore. It was only Mildthryth’s hand on her arm, firm and cautioning, that made her keep her rage in check.

  “We will stay here overnight,” Heolstor informed her. “Tomorrow morning, the remaining villagers will pack up what they can carry and we will then escort you back to Rendlaesham.”

  “But what shall we do there?” Mildthryth spoke up then. Her voice was calm, but Cynewyn could hear the core of iron just beneath. Like her, Mildthryth was furious. “We have no property, no land.”

  “You must take it up with the king,” Heolstor replied, glancing around as if he could not wait to rid himself of these irksome women and their questions. “He may compensate you for your losses.”

  “Some losses cannot be compensated for,” Mildthryth countered, her eyes narrowing into angry slits. “You cannot bring back our dead.”

  “Enough,” the warrior growled, his patience snapping. “We have traveled long in cold weather, and are weary and in need of food and a warm fire. Your prattle can wait till later.”

  With that, Heolstor turned and shouted orders to his men. “Aelin, Wilfrid – start bringing in our supplies – the rest of you see to the horses.”

  Two men, who had just dismounted, nodded brusquely. One of them, with a shaggy beard obscuring his face, turned and started unstrapping saddlebags to bring inside. However, his companion paused a moment, his gaze riveted upon Cynewyn.

  Cynewyn returned his stare, irritated by his unwavering attention, before freezing.

  She knew that face.

  It had been a decade; years that had turned Wilfrid of Went from a surly youth into an intimidating man. He was more muscular than she remembered, and his shoulders were broader. However, she recognized his face, clean shaven and serious; his light brown-hair still cut close to his scalp. His hazel-eyed stare was as intense as ever, although he did not look at her as he once had.

  Ten years later, there was no youthful longing in his gaze.

  “Wes hāl, Cynewyn,” he greeted her brusquely, his voice as deep and low as she remembered. Then, as if suddenly aware that he had been staring, he tore his gaze from her face and moved to do as he had been bid.

  Chapter Two

  An Awkward Reunion

  Wil turned away and strode over to where Aelin was hoisting saddlebags over his shoulder, in preparation for carrying them inside.

  Damn her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Enraged and facing Heolstor, she had been mesmerizing. The past decade had turned her from a pretty girl into a stunning woman. She was small with lush curves, creamy skin and a mane of light-brown hair – the same color as his. Her eyes – he had never forgotten them – were a deep sea-blue. Even swathed in furs, her face pinched with cold and anger, Cynewyn made his pulse race.

  Wil inwardly cursed her once more. He had hardened himself for this moment, and had found himself praying to Woden for the strength to hate her. Yet, one look into those eyes and he was lost.

  That woman makes you weak, he told himself as he slung a sack over his shoulder. Because of her you have never been able to love another. Yet, you were nothing to her. She knew she was promised to another and she let you humiliate yourself before her father. She thought you a fool – a low-born spearman who deserved nothing better. You should hate her.

  Wil carried the sack across to the hall, passing Cynewyn and the other folk remaining in Blackhill, who had come out to greet the king’s men. Cynewyn refused to meet his eye as he passed her. She held her chin high, her gaze looking through him.

  Bitterness filled Wil’s mouth like gall. Even now, years later, she still thought she was better than him.

  ***

  The fire pit glowed in the center of the hall, shedding its warmth over the men and women seated at the long tables either side of it. Yet, this was no celebratory feast, and the mood this eve was subdued. The meal was pottage, made from cabbage, onion and turnip, served with griddle bread and some hard cheese that the king’s men had brought with them.

  At the end of one of the long tables, taking her late husband’s place – for there was no male kin left to lead the village – Cynewyn took a sip of watered-down ale from her wooden cup. Her anger simmered, overriding the grief and desperation at losing her kin and husband in just one winter.

  How dare this Heolstor drag them away from Blackhill, leaving her people’s land to the East Saxons – those whoresons had turned the last few years into a nightmare. Went and Blackhill needed vengeance, not a retreat.

  This will not end here, she vowed before taking a mouthful of pottage. I will petition the king when we arrive at Rendlaesham. He will return us to our land.

  “This pottage is foul,” Heolstor, sitting to Cynewyn’s left, pushed away his bowl with a grimace of disgust. “Are you trying to poison us woman?”

  Cynewyn’s simmering anger began to boil. This man was almost as offensive as the decision he had made on their behalf.

  She caught Mildthryth’s gaze to her right, and the older woman rolled her eyes. Heolstor had the manners of a goat.

  “Turnips and cabbages are all we have,” Cynewyn told him coldly. “It has been a long winter. We have little food left.”

  Heolstor grunted at this and took a draught from his cup.

  Further down the table, Cynewyn was aware of Wilfrid’s stony presence. He said nothing and avoided looking in her direction. Yet, she was aware of him all the same.

  He hasn’t changed. Still as taciturn and arrogant as ever.

  Still, there was a part of Cynewyn that had wondered over the years – and wondered now – what her life would have been like if she had married Wilfrid instead of Aldwulf.

  Aldwulf.

  Her husband had died in agony, with a deep wound to the stomach; a terrible death. No man – not even a drunkard who preferred drowning himself in a barrel of mead every evening rather than making love to his wife – deserved that.

  Poor Aldwulf. This was not the life you wanted.

  He had become an ealdorman only a year after they had married, after his father broke his neck while out hunting. Soon after that, their problems with the East Saxons intensified. Both Went and Blackhill sat close to the border – on land that the East Saxons had long claimed was theirs. Eomer of Went and Aldwulf of Blackhill had done their best to protect their villages. They erected perimeter fences and had men watch the walls, day and night, yet it had not kept their enemy at bay. However, neither of the ealdormen had thought that East Saxons would attack the villages outright. How wrong they had both been.

  Cynewyn looked down at her bow
l of pottage and blinked back tears.

  This was not the life she had wanted either. Her parents dead, two still-born babes and a mead-soaked husband who had ignored her. At twenty-eight winters she felt old beyond her years.

  Taking a deep breath, Cynewyn squared her shoulders and reached for a piece of griddle bread. Still, she mused, her gaze flicking across to Wilfrid once more – his face an inscrutable mask – marriage to a humorless oaf might have been even worse.

  Once the evening meal had finished, the women cleared away the wooden cups and dishes, while the men made themselves comfortable by the fire.

  Although she was used to men doing as they pleased, and clearing up after them, Cynewyn felt a stab of annoyance at tidying up after Heolstor and his men. They were not her kin and were unwelcome in Blackhill. She resented their presence under her roof.

  Mildthryth washed the wooden plates, bowls and clay cups in a great tub of hot water, while Cynewyn wiped down the tables with a damp cloth. Around them, the king’s men made themselves comfortable. Some sat down on their fur cloaks before the fire pit while others remained at the tables. A group of them at one of the tables were playing a riddle game. Cynewyn caught the end of one of the riddles.

  “The scars from sword wounds gape wider and wider,” the man finished with a flourish. “Death blows are dealt me by day and by night.”

  The warriors scratched their heads and attempted to decipher it. Despite herself, Cynewyn gave a small smile. She knew that riddle, it had been one of her father’s favorites. However, it had appeared to have stumped these men.

  The man who had recited the riddle, folded his arms over his chest. “I knew you wouldn’t find this one so easy,” he grinned, victorious.

  Eventually, one of warriors – a young man with a sharp-featured face – called out.