by Jayne Castel
Eorcengota slipped into the bower, and Ermenilda saw that her sister’s face was as miserable as she felt herself.
“Fæder says it’s time,” Eorcengota said softly. “I’m sorry.”
Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and climbed out of the furs. She had worn a thin ankle-length tunic to bed, but the morning air had a bite to it. She shivered as she fumbled for the clothes she had lain aside for her journey: a long-sleeved undertunic and a thick woolen dress to go over the top.
Eorcengota watched her sister dress in silence for a few moments before she spoke once more.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving. It doesn’t seem real.”
Ermenilda turned from where she was buckling a belt around her waist and forced a brave smile. “It seems like a terrible dream to me.”
Eorcengota’s eyes filled with tears. “What will I do without you? I will miss you.”
Ermenilda reached out and put her arms around her sister. “And I you,” she murmured. “More than you will know.”
When Ermenilda ended the hug, she saw that Eorcengota was scowling.
“Why is Fæder doing this?”
Ermenilda took a deep breath, choking back all the angry words she longed to unleash. Telling Eorcengota how she really felt would only upset her. Her younger sister was a fragile, gentle soul. Even at sixteen winters, she still wept over puppies and believed in fairies. Although she was only two years older, Ermenilda felt the need to protect her.
“He is doing this for our kingdom,” she replied finally, “to strengthen our alliances with our neighbors. Mercia is powerful, and Fæder wishes to keep their favor.”
“But will I ever see you again?”
Tears were running down Eorcengota’s face now, and the sight made Ermenilda’s breast ache with misery.
“I hope so,” she replied, giving her sister a tremulous smile. “Perhaps, in the summer, I can visit.”
Her sister wiped away her tears. “Really?”
Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else. She had just told her sister a white lie, to soften the blow of her departure.
In truth, she did not believe she would return to Cantwareburh soon—if ever.
Ermenilda emerged from her bower to find her father waiting for her. There was no sign of her mother, but a young woman Ermenilda did not recognize stood next to him.
Dressed in a plain woolen traveling tunic and cloak of the same material, the girl had curly auburn hair, forest-green eyes, and a pretty, if strong-featured, face. Something about her drew one’s eye—an aura of warmth and vitality.
“Ermenilda,” her father rumbled. “I have found a handmaid for you. Your mother is unhappy about you traveling unescorted, so Wynflaed will accompany you to Tamworth and see to your needs once you are there. She is the daughter of one of my thegns and will serve you well.”
Ermenilda’s gaze met Wynflaed’s. The girl curtsied neatly and smiled.
“Milady.”
Ermenilda nodded stiffly, too traumatized by the events of the past day to pay much attention to her new handmaid.
“Shall I help bring your things outside, milady?” Wynflaed asked brightly.
“Aye, thank you,” Ermenilda replied, forcing a tremulous smile.
When the girl had disappeared behind the arras, Ermenilda turned back to her father.
“Where is Mōder?”
Eorcenberht frowned. “She is in our quarters but will come outside to see you off.”
The pain in Ermenilda’s breast, which had just started to subside after saying good-bye to her sister, returned. It felt as if a great fist were squeezing her heart.
“Please, Fæder, can I not say good-bye to her alone?”
Eorcenberht shook his head, his scowl deepening.
“You mother dishonored me in front of the King of Mercia, and she must pay for her insolence. She will not speak to you before your departure.”
Ermenilda stared at her father, distraught. How could he be so cruel as to deny the queen a moment alone with her daughter?
“But, Fæder, I might never see her again,” Ermenilda finally managed.
Her father’s hard expression did not yield.
“She should have thought of that before she lost her temper yesterday,” he replied, the tone of his voice making it clear that the subject was closed.
Frost crunched underfoot as Ermenilda crossed the stable yard to where Wulfhere and his men were making the final preparations for their departure. Wynflaed walked a few steps behind her, carrying a leather bag filled with her own possessions.
A clear sky stretched overhead, promising a bright and sunny, albeit cold, day ahead. It was the ideal weather to set out on a journey, yet Ermenilda felt nothing but despair at the thought of traveling this morning.
One of her father’s men had saddled her palfrey for her, an elegant bay mare. Next to it waited Wynflaed’s mount, a shaggy dun with a huge head.
It was not the horses that drew Ermenilda’s gaze but the snow-white wolf that sat in the middle of the stable yard. The beast was huge with glowing yellow eyes—and the sight of it made Ermenilda’s step falter.
The King of Mercia stood a few feet away from his wolf, his back to Ermenilda, as he tightened his stallion’s girth. The wolf turned its attention to the approaching women, and it fixed Ermenilda in a chilling stare.
Breaking out in a sweat, Ermenilda halted, causing Wynflaed to run into the back of her.
“What is it, milady?” the young woman asked, stepping around Ermenilda. When the handmaid saw what her mistress was staring at, her next comment died on her lips.
Wulfhere turned at the sound of Wynflaed’s voice, his crystalline gaze settling upon his betrothed.
“Good morning, Lady Ermenilda.”
“Morning,” she murmured in response, her gaze still riveted upon the wolf. The beast seemed to stare at her hungrily.
“Don’t look so concerned,” Wulfhere told her, humor in his voice. “Mōna will not hurt you. I told her of you; she is merely curious to finally meet the beautiful Princess Ermenilda.”
Ermenilda dragged her gaze away from the white wolf and looked at Wulfhere.
“You talk to your wolf?”
“Aye, and unlike most folk, she’s a good listener.”
Ermenilda stared at him, not sure whether to think him mad or to laugh. She chose the former.
A tall warrior with long, thick black hair and a neatly trimmed beard stepped up next to Wulfhere. His dark gaze focused upon Ermenilda.
“You are terrifying the maid, milord,” he told Wulfhere with a lopsided grin. “She looks as if she is about to take fright and run.”
Wulfhere glanced over at the warrior and laughed softly.
“Not Lady Ermenilda. She may look like a lamb, but I’d wager she’s tougher than she looks.”
Ermenilda clenched her jaw. They were discussing her as if she was not there.
“I can see why you’ve waited for her, milord,” the dark-haired warrior replied, running an appreciative eye over Ermenilda. “The princess is indeed a beauty.”
Although he addressed the king respectfully, Ermenilda noted the tone of familiarity in the warrior’s voice. It was clear that Wulfhere both liked and respected this man—although Ermenilda took an instant dislike to him. She did not like the leer in his gaze or the smirk on his face.
“Of course, Werbode,” Wulfhere replied, his tone cooling slightly. “Do you doubt my taste in women?”
The warrior, Werbode, gave a soft laugh at that, before returning to saddle his horse. Meanwhile, Wulfhere crossed to Ermenilda and led her over to her palfrey, where he helped her mount.
Unspeaking, Ermenilda placed her booted foot in his cupped hands and sprang up lightly into the saddle. Beside her, a warrior helped Wynflaed up onto her dun gelding. The warrior was handsome, with twinkling blue eyes and shaggy golden hair. He favored the handmaid with a flirtatious smile before returning to his own horse. As h
e walked away, Ermenilda noted he had a slight limp.
Around them, the men readied themselves to move out, but Ermenilda focused on arranging her skirts—anything to keep herself occupied, to distract herself from the knowledge that she was about to leave the only home she had known.
Meanwhile, a group had gathered on the wooden terrace before the entrance to the King’s Hall. Finally, Ermenilda looked their way and saw all her kin had gathered—her father, mother, sister, and two brothers. They were close enough for her to see the stricken expression upon the queen’s face. Seaxburh’s finely boned face was taut with grief, her eyes red rimmed.
Tears welled in Ermenilda’s eyes as she met her mother’s gaze. Her father’s cruelty at not letting mother and daughter say their proper good-byes hurt her deeply. She hated to see her mother suffer so and felt a stab of resentment toward her father.
King Eorcenberht did not look as pleased with himself this morning, as he had the day before. His wife’s behavior had soured the whole occasion, and her father wore a mutinous expression.
Eorcengota was openly weeping, and her younger brothers, Ecgberht and Hlothhere, were both struggling to hold back tears of their own.
Wulfhere rode up beside her, drawing Ermenilda’s attention away from the distraught faces of her kin.
“Ready, milady?” he asked, his gaze meeting hers. There was an unspoken challenge in his eyes, almost as if he expected her to start sobbing and disgrace herself.
I will not let him see me weep.
“Aye,” Ermenilda replied, barely able to speak, for her throat hurt with the effort she was making not to cry. “Let us go now.”
Chapter Six
Silence
Cantwareburh had never looked as beautiful to Ermenilda as the day she left it.
The Mercian party rode north, along the western bank of the Great Stour, past clusters of timbered and wattle-and-daub dwellings. At her back, Ermenilda knew that the straw thatch of the Great Hall would be gleaming gold in the morning sun. However, she deliberately did not look over her shoulder.
She already struggled to hide her grief from her betrothed and knew that to gaze once more on the home she loved would break her. Wulfhere rode beside her, his stallion chafing at the bit, eager to move at a faster pace. The wolf, Mōna, trotted along at her master’s side.
The wooden ramparts of Cantwareburh rose before them, and Ermenilda saw that the guards had opened the great oak and iron gates, so that Wulfhere and his escort could pass out of the city. Crowds gathered at the roadside, and folk craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Ermenilda’s face.
Tired of being an object of spectacle, the princess pulled up her fur-lined hood. To the people of Cantwareburh, she was a highborn lady who enjoyed a life of privilege. No doubt, some of the young women in the crowd envied her. Wulfhere of Mercia was certainly a striking, virile man, who drew a woman’s eye. The local women—daughters and wives of farmers, merchants, and artisans—probably imagined that she led a charmed life.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Eastry is lost to me.
The small silver cross that Ermenilda wore about her throat was the only thing she had left of her dream. She was not like other highborn women; her father’s match would have delighted many, but she wanted a life away from the harsh world of men. She longed for a serene and simple life. Wulfhere had torn that from her.
They passed out of Cantwareburh and continued along the banks of the river to where a wooden bridge crossed the Great Stour. Marshes spread out to the northeast, glittering in the morning sun, but they were not headed in that direction.
Instead, the Mercians struck out northwest upon Watling Street, a wide, paved trackway built by the Romans. Ermenilda knew that this one, like all the great roads the Romans built, was long; it would lead them all the way into the heart of Mercia.
The Romans had departed these shores more than two hundred years earlier, but the road was still in a good state of repair. The horses clattered over the pavers, the sound echoing over the marshes to the east.
Ermenilda and Wulfhere rode close to the head of the column, where the lead riders carried Mercia’s pennants high. The blue-and-gold banners flapped in the breeze. Around them was a sea of spears, bristling against the morning sky. Bitterness soured Ermenilda’s mouth as she took note of how well protected they were. Wulfhere clearly wanted no harm to come to his Kentish princess.
The morning stretched out, and Ermenilda spoke to no one. Mercifully, Wulfhere did not attempt to engage her in conversation, and her thoughts turned inward. She paid no attention to the riders around her or to the rise and fall of men’s voices as they chatted among themselves. Instead, her thoughts dwelled upon the two people she loved most—her sister and mother—and the look of anguish on their faces as they watched her leave.
Never had Ermenilda felt so alone.
***
They covered a lot of ground that first day. Wulfhere set a fast pace, clearly keen to reach Tamworth without delay.
By the time they stopped for the day, Ermenilda ached from head to foot. She enjoyed riding, but her outings from Cantwareburh were lazy treks that usually included flower picking and herb gathering with her sister. Wulfhere pushed his party, as if they were marching to war. When Ermenilda slid off her palfrey’s back at day’s end, she had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out. Her thigh muscles were on fire.
They had made camp, around a furlong back from the road, in a wooded vale that was typical of the Kentish countryside. It was green and lush, with a brook trickling through the center of it. To the west, the sun was sliding behind the treetops in a blaze of pink and gold, promising good weather for the day to come.
Around her, Wulfhere’s men got to work cutting branches and saplings in order to make tents, lighting fires, and gathering wood. Wynflaed proved herself to be an industrious young woman, as she helped the men carry her lady’s belongings into the first of the tents.
Ermenilda noticed a few of the men glancing the girl’s way. Wynflaed carried herself beautifully. She smiled and replied to the men’s comments and questions, although she did not flirt. This pleased Ermenilda, for she did not want a handmaid who encouraged men’s lechery, but a gentlewoman who took her duties to her lady seriously.
As she waited for Wynflaed to finish preparing her tent, Ermenilda saw a slight man—his brown hair shaved into a tonsure—making his way through the crowd toward her. The monk wore simple homespun robes and had a kindly, if careworn, face.
For the first time all day, Ermenilda’s spirits lifted. In her misery, she had failed to note that a holy man rode among Wulfhere’s band, although now she remembered Bercthun mentioning it when he had come to collect her from the church.
The monk stopped before her and dipped his head respectfully.
“Greetings, Lady Ermenilda. I am Seaxwulf.”
Ermenilda smiled. “I am pleased to meet you, Brother Seaxwulf, and relieved that there is a man of god riding with us.”
Her words evidently pleased the monk, for he smiled widely, the expression making him seem younger. “I baptized the king myself,” he told her, “and Lord Wulfhere was adamant that I travel with him to Cantwareburh.”
Ermenilda could not keep the bitterness from her voice when she replied.
“To convince my father that he is no longer a pagan?”
The monk’s eyes widened, his smile fading. “Lord Wulfhere has shunned the old gods and destroyed all their idols in Tamworth,” he told her firmly.
“Such acts are easy,” Ermenilda replied. “It is what a man believes in his heart that really matters.”
“The king is new to the word of Christ,” Seaxwulf admitted. “However, with the gentle influence of a wife like yourself, he will surely come to believe as you do.”
Ermenilda swallowed her next response. Angry, resentment-filled words were no use to her now, and the monk was starting to look genuinely alarmed by her comments.
> “You speak wisely, Brother Seaxwulf,” she replied eventually, forcing a smile. “Perhaps you are right, and Lord Wulfhere has indeed chosen another path.”
Glancing right to where her betrothed was rubbing down his stallion, Ermenilda doubted it. Everything about Wulfhere of Mercia screamed pagan. He may as well have been wearing Thunor’s hammer about his neck rather than a crucifix.
Ermenilda had retired to her tent and had just finished her supper of bread and cheese when Wulfhere visited her.
Wynflaed was busy laying out furs for her lady to sleep on, and Ermenilda was sitting next to the gently crackling fire. Wood smoke lay heavily in the air even though it filtered up, through a slit in the roof. Ermenilda was used to living in such an environment, for the fire pits in her father’s hall burned day and night. Still, the fire took the chill off the cold evening air.
The moment that Wulfhere ducked low through the opening, the tent felt too small. He straightened up, his head nearly reaching the roof, and looked down at her. As always, his expression was cool, slightly aloof, although his gaze was searing in its intensity.
“Good eve, Lady Ermenilda,” he greeted her. “I trust you are comfortable?”
Ermenilda nodded.
“My tent is next to yours, so if you require anything, please send your maid, and my men will see to it.”
Ermenilda nodded once more, silently wishing he would go away and leave her in peace.
Silence stretched between them, and Wynflaed shifted uncomfortably. Ermenilda could feel her maid’s gaze flicking from the king to his betrothed. The tension in the air was so heavy that Ermenilda struggled to breathe.
When it was clear that Ermenilda was not going to speak to him, Wulfhere hunkered down before her, so their gazes were level.
“It is rude not to respond when addressed,” he said, his tone deceptively soft. “I was merely enquiring after your well-being.”
Ermenilda felt her cheeks flame, suddenly feeling as if she were a child being chastised by her father.
“Thank you, Lord Wulfhere,” she eventually murmured, her tone clipped. “I am well, as you can see.”
