by Jayne Castel
The prince nodded and smiled.
“You are generous, Lord Eorcenberht.”
Ermenilda watched their conversation with a growing sense of unease. She knew that the Northumbrian king, Oswiu, had held control over the Mercian stronghold of Tamworth for the past year. The Northumbrians had controlled southern Mercia ever since the murder of King Paeda, last Ēostre. It dismayed her to hear that her father was now involving himself in matters that did not concern him. If this exiled prince failed to retake the Mercian throne, there would be consequences for Kent.
Still, a woman’s opinion mattered little when it came to politics, so she kept silent. Likewise, the queen held her tongue, although Ermenilda could see it cost her to do so.
The meal progressed, and the conversation shifted to other things. The king complained about the bitter winter that lay upon them and then asked the prince about his exile.
“How have you managed to escape capture?” he asked.
“I have been living in the woods of southern Mercia,” Wulfhere replied, “and gathering men loyal to me. Local folk have been only too happy to hide me.”
“My men tell me you arrived here with a white wolf?”
The prince smiled at this. It was the first truly warm smile that Ermenilda had seen him give.
“Her name is Mōna. I’ve left her in the stables while I’m here. She will trouble no one as long as she is left in peace.”
“So the wolf travels with you?”
“She does. Mōna is my shadow.”
Ermenilda suppressed a shudder; this man was most definitely a pagan. There was something wild—dangerous—about him. As if sensing her reaction, Prince Wulfhere looked at her. Their gazes met for an instant, and Ermenilda saw his naked interest.
Heart pounding, she looked away and stared down at the remains of her supper.
“Your eldest daughter is quite lovely,” Wulfhere commented. “Is she betrothed yet?”
“Not yet,” the king replied. “She wishes to take the veil, but although I would like one of my daughters to serve god, I would prefer my eldest married well.”
Ermenilda glanced up, shocked by her father’s admission. She had been sure he would agree to let her join the nuns at Eastry. Of the two sisters, she was far more suited to such a life. Eorcengota was too spirited and silly to enjoy life as a nun, whereas Ermenilda craved quiet and solitude.
“Would you consider wedding her to me then?” Wulfhere asked.
Ermenilda watched her father’s face and knew the offer had delighted him. However, he did not reply immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and fingered the elaborately carved armrests while he mulled the request over. She glimpsed a shrewd glint in his eye and realized he was calculating something.
“It depends on two things, Lord Wulfhere,” he replied eventually.
The Mercian put down his cup of mead and returned the Kentish king’s gaze, his expression unreadable.
“And what are they?”
“The first is you must be baptized, renounce the old gods, and destroy all traces of them at Tamworth. I cannot wed my daughter to a pagan.”
“And the second?”
“You must win back the Mercian throne before you and Ermenilda can be handfasted. Once you are the King of Mercia, she is yours.”
Ermenilda slowly let out the breath she had been holding. Her father’s conditions had made her relax slightly.
Wulfhere’s father had flatly refused to be baptized, and she wagered that his son was cut from the same cloth. Plus, taking back Tamworth from the Northumbrians sounded like a difficult task at best. Perhaps a life at Eastry was not lost to her after all.
Unfortunately, Wulfhere’s next words shattered her hopes. He glanced first at Ermenilda and smiled, although his eyes were hungry. Wulfhere’s gaze met the king’s once more.
“I agree to your conditions,” he replied firmly. “I will accept your god and take Tamworth back for my people . . . and then . . .”
His gaze flicked back to Ermenilda, and she wilted under the heat of his stare.
“I will come to claim your daughter.”
PART ONE
One year later . . .
Chapter One
Stalking Shadows
The Kingdom of Mercia, Britannia
Winter, 658 AD
The full moon sailed high in the sky. It drifted in and out of patches of wispy clouds, intermittently illuminating the world below in silver. The rain had cleared, as hoped, although the ground still squelched underfoot.
Wulfhere crept forward, alongside the eastern bank of the River Tame, his wolf at his heels. Mōna moved silently, alert and watchful, her white pelt glowed palely in the darkness, like the moon she was named after.
The pair were at the head of the group. None of the warriors carried torches, finding their way instead by the light of the moon. Although his men were trying to move as quietly as possible, the creaking of leather, the hiss of their breathing, and the whisper of their heavy treads seemed to echo through the stillness.
None of them wore helmets or carried shields—not even Wulfhere. For what lay ahead, they needed to be fast and deadly. Wulfhere had drawn his sword, Shield Breaker, ready for the fight.
Wulfhere’s pulse started to accelerate as they approached the low gates.
After two years in exile he was about to take back his birthright. Yet caution tempered his impatience to enter Tamworth.
Is Aethelred loyal?
His success hinged on his brother’s keeping his word. Aethelred had promised that when the moon had fully risen, men would open Tamworth’s low gate. He had sent word to assure them that Oswiu’s stewards were ignorant of their plans. Aethelred would be waiting for his brother in the Great Tower, with a group of men loyal to Wulfhere.
Wulfhere was wary. He trusted few men, and his brother was not among them. However, in truth, Aethelred had always been easier to like than Paeda, his elder brother.
Paeda had been a snake. He had betrayed their father on the eve of battle and given away true power over Mercia so that he could marry Oswiu of Bernicia’s daughter, a young woman he had obsessed over.
Wyrd—fate—had turned against Paeda in the end. Rumor had it that Alchflaed, the flame-haired beauty Paeda had wed, had slain him while he slept, before fleeing into the wilderness.
Wulfhere pushed aside thoughts of his brothers and focused his attention entirely upon his destination. He could not afford to let himself be distracted now. He would discover soon enough if Aethelred coveted the throne for himself.
Ahead, he glimpsed a gap between the heavy oaken and iron gates. Wulfhere grinned, relief turning his mood from wary to jubilant. He need not have worried.
Inside, two spearmen awaited them. One of them stepped forward to greet Wulfhere.
“M’lord,” he whispered urgently. “The high gate is also open. We must hurry before someone raises the alarm.”
Wulfhere did not need warning twice. He nodded and motioned to the men behind him that it was safe to enter. Then, on winged feet, like Thunor himself, Wulfhere took off at a sprint up the main way that led to Tamworth’s inner palisade. Mōna ran at his side, as silent as a shadow.
Ahead, the Great Tower of Tamworth shone silver against the pitch black of the night sky. In daylight, the tower was a less prepossessing sight: dirty gray stone encrusted with lichen. A shiver went through Wulfhere as his gaze traveled down it. He was home.
No light shone from the tower’s thin windows. Everyone inside slumbered. Wulfhere smiled once more and increased his speed, his soft-soled hunting boots barely making a sound on the roughly paved street.
As promised, the high gate was also open.
“Ready, milord?” one of his warriors asked, his voice a low rumble. The man’s name was Elfhere. The tall, blond warrior had left Tamworth after the Northumbrians took control of it and had sought Wulfhere out in the wilderness. Elfhere limped slightly, from an old injury, but he was still one of Wulfhere�
�s best. Wulfhere was glad to have him at his side.
“Aye,” Wulfhere replied, flashing him a fierce grin. “Let’s send these Northumbrians to meet Nithhogg!”
The thought of the great serpent, which resided in the underworld, feasting on the flesh of his enemies, caused a thrill to course through his veins. His bloodlust had awakened. No Northumbrian who came within reach of Shield Breaker tonight would be spared.
Once it was done, he would wed Ermenilda.
Even a year later, he could still picture her clearly. He had wanted Ermenilda from the moment he saw her. Young and slender, the Kentish princess radiated ethereal beauty, and it had ensnared him. Long, straight blonde hair, a few shades darker than his, flowed over her shoulders, framing a delicately featured face and soulful eyes the color of walnut.
The girl had a demure manner, yet she had held his gaze unflinchingly at the door to her father’s hall. He had seen the way her face flushed when he stared at her, the way her breathing quickened. The image of how she had looked that evening remained with him. Ermenilda had been radiant as she entered, with rosy cheeks and snowflakes in her hair.
She was just one more reason he had to retake Tamworth.
Wulfhere reached up, his fist closing around the small iron spear he wore on a leather thong around his neck; it was the spear of Tiw, the god of war. He had not yet renounced the old gods, although the time was coming when he would have to do so. Wulfhere was not sure he would ever truly cast them aside, for the gods of his ancestors meant a great deal to him.
Tonight, Tiw would guide his sword and help him regain his birthright.
They stormed the tower in a fury, a tide of angry men surging into the Great Hall. One or two oil-filled clay cressets still burned around the perimeter of the hall, giving them enough light to discern friend from foe. Wulfhere had ordered his men to light the torches inside the doors as soon as he entered.
He wanted to see the look on his enemies’ faces before he killed them.
Aethelred had sent descriptions of the two stewards. They were both powerfully built men, their arms glittering with arm rings. Wada was blond and Alfwald red haired. Wulfhere’s brother had assured him they would be easy to spot—and Wada now slept high above the rest of the hall upon the King’s Loft.
Wulfhere crossed the hall amid cries of the men, women, and children who had been sleeping upon the rushes. He saw Aethelred emerge from his alcove. His brother was fully dressed and gripped a seax.
Their gazes met and Aethelred grinned. Wulfhere knew that grin well—he had seen it often as a child, when he and his younger brother got up to mischief. He grinned back realizing that his fears for his brother’s loyalty were unfounded. Aethelred would not betray him.
Wulfhere’s men fanned across the hall. Three Mercian ealdormen had joined him: Immin, Eafa, and Eadbert. They were powerful, respected men, who had brought their own warriors with them. Wulfhere met Immin’s eye as the hulking ealdorman with a mane of grizzled blond hair stepped up beside him.
Immin grinned. “Fire in your belly yet, milord?”
Wulfhere smiled, showing his teeth. In truth, he was more than ready. He longed to spill Northumbrian blood, to cut down those who had no right occupying his hall or commanding his people.
Some of his men had already engaged the Northumbrians. He spied Elfhere grappling with a warrior near one of the fire pits—but it was Werbode, the captain of Wulfhere’s band, who led the charge. Tall and strong with a shock of black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, the warrior was a fearsome sight. Clad in boiled leather, Werbode howled his rage as he slashed his way across the rush-strewn floor.
Wulfhere turned his attention away from the melee and strode across the hall toward the ladder to the King’s Loft. Men and women scrambled out of his way. It was not just Wulfhere they were frightened of but also the huge white wolf that stalked at his side.
Leaving Mōna to guard the foot of the ladder, Wulfhere sheathed his sword and drew his seax. Then, he clamped the blade between his teeth so that he could scale the ladder quickly.
Wada was scrambling out of the furs when Wulfhere reached the platform. He was naked. A young slave girl, the iron collar around her neck gleaming dully in the flickering torchlight, cowered behind him.
Rage twisted Wada’s bearded face, whereas the slave had gone the color of milk.
“So the upstart pup has returned.” Wada snarled, reaching for his sword that lay beside the furs. Even on the defensive, the Northumbrian ealdorman did not show a trace of fear. “Come home for a whipping have you?”
Chapter Two
The Taking of Tamworth
Wulfhere held Wada’s gaze. He did not bother to reply to the insult—the steward was just trying to bait him. Instead, he inclined his head slightly and favored the Northumbrian with a cool smile.
Beneath them, the roar of battle shook the Great Tower of Tamworth to its foundations. The platform beneath Wulfhere’s feet vibrated from the force of it. It was as if the gods were raging, and Wulfhere could taste the bloodlust in the air.
Wada lunged, but Wulfhere had anticipated him. Two steps took him up against the ealdorman, beyond the reach of his sword, where Wulfhere drove his seax blade up under Wada’s ribs.
Wada inhaled sharply, his breath wheezing as if Wulfhere had punched him in the stomach. As the warrior struggled against him, Wulfhere withdrew the dagger and deftly slashed the Northumbrian’s throat open.
The slave girl screamed, as the ealdorman slumped to the fur-covered floor, gurgling and thrashing.
Wulfhere let him fall. Ignoring the blood, which had splattered over him, he cast a glance at the cowering slave. Tears streaked her thin face.
“Please . . . ,” she begged, her voice quaking. “Don’t kill me . . .”
Wulfhere dismissed her; he was not interested in killing defenseless slave girls. There were others more worthy of death this night. He turned away and quickly descended the ladder to the main hall.
Mōna was savaging a Northumbrian warrior, who had tried to climb the ladder in an attempt to come to Wada’s assistance. The man’s screams echoed high into the rafters as the wolf pinned him to the ground, her huge jaws ripping at his flesh.
Wulfhere moved around them, leaving Mōna to her task, and stepped down onto the floor.
Men fought with seaxes, boning knives, or their fists. Although it was customary to leave your weapons at the door inside the Great Hall, many of the Northumbrians were armed. Surrounded by Mercians, they wisely carried their swords and seaxes everywhere.
Alfwald, the red-haired ealdorman, slashed at any Mercian who came within reach, the blade of his sword running dark. He strode now, toward Aethelred, who had just used his seax to kill one of the ealdorman’s retainers. Alfwald’s curses rang across the hall.
“Oath-breaking maggot!” he roared. “Come taste my blade!”
Aethelred spat on the floor and stepped forward to meet him.
Alfwald spied Wulfhere, and his face twisted with rage. He quickly forgot about the younger brother and turned to Wulfhere.
“Princeling,” he growled. “So you show your face at last.”
Wulfhere sheathed his seax and drew Shield Breaker.
“Aye,” he replied with a chilling smile, “and this face will be the last thing you ever see.”
***
A terrible hush hung over the Great Hall, broken only by the wet gasps of dying men.
Wulfhere lowered his sword and looked about him, taking in his surroundings for the first time since the attack had begun. Unarmed folk—men, women, and children—cringed against the sides of the hall or peered out at him from the alcoves. A carpet of bodies spread out around him, both Northumbrian and Mercian. The air stank of blood, offal, and fear.
It had been a bloody fight. The Northumbrian king had left his best men to rule Tamworth as his stewards, and Wulfhere’s men had not expected to find them armed. Even so, the Mercians had prevailed.
Alfwald lay dead at hi
s feet, while a few feet away, Aethelred wiped the blade of his seax on the cloak of the Northumbrian warrior he had just slain.
The brothers’ gazes met and held.
Aethelred’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “What took you so long?”
Wulfhere answered with a cool smile of his own. “Vengeance tastes best when it is savored. It did us all good to wait.”
He retrieved a handful of rushes from the floor and cleaned Alfwald’s blood off Shield Breaker. Then he sheathed the blade.
It’s done.
Two years of waiting, planning, and anticipation were finally over. He stood inside the Great Tower of Tamworth, with the men who opposed him dead at his feet.
The fog of battle lust cleared from his vision, and he was aware that he had sustained a cut to his forearm—a blade had sliced right through his leather bracer. It was beginning to ache dully and, although not deep, would need attention.
Werbode approached him. The warrior was breathing heavily, still recovering from the fight, and bleeding from a shallow shoulder wound. Nevertheless, he was grinning.
“You did it, milord. Tamworth is yours.”
Wulfhere returned his grin. “Aye, we did it.”
The reality of matters was beginning to sink in. No longer would he have to hide in the woods like an outlaw. No longer would he live in tents and thatched hovels. He, the eldest surviving son of Penda of Mercia, now stood in his rightful place.
Elfhere also approached him. The warrior’s face was splattered with blood, making his eyes look even bluer than usual. However, he appeared uninjured.
“What do you want done with the rest of the Northumbrians?” he asked, motioning to the men who stirred on the floor behind him.
Wulfhere’s gaze shifted to the injured men. One of them was pulling himself across the rushes on his belly, in an attempt to reach a discarded seax. Wulfhere frowned; he could not afford to be merciful.
