Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  “Lead the way then, Maric of Tamworth.”

  ***

  The rain began mid-morning. At first, the occasional fat drop landed on Alchflaed’s face as she rode. Moments later the drizzle increased to a steady patter. She looked up at the ominous clouds and frowned.

  They travelled across exposed country, barely a furlong in from the coast. She rode in the midst of the company as they made their way south over rolling hills and through shallow valleys. There was little in the way of cover here, apart from the occasional copse of oak and beech.

  We’re about to get soaked.

  No sooner had that thought occurred to her, when thunder rumbled behind the company of riders. Thunor was angry, and was striking his anvil with a huge hammer. Her father may have no longer worshipped the old gods, but Alchflaed liked to believe that his actions had angered them.

  I hope they make him pay, she thought with a burst of rage.

  The shock of the task her father had thrust upon her was just beginning to sink in.

  My life is over.

  The realization settled, dull and cold, deep in her gut.

  It was strange how quickly life could change. She remembered feeling something similar when her mother died, many years earlier. Her entire world had shifted, teaching her that joy could turn to despair in an instant, with no reason or purpose behind it. At twenty winters, she felt as if she were decades older.

  It was bad enough that she was to wed a man who was capable of betraying his own father, but to demand she also murder him in cold blood was unthinkable. The knowledge of what lay before her drained all color from the world, turning it into a chill, hostile place.

  The skies opened and rain swept across the land in great sheets. Alchflaed hurriedly pulled up her hood and braced herself for the onslaught. The rain was icy, peppering her skin like rock shards, and soon her fur cloak was sodden. However, the storm did not stop their inexorable progress south.

  The company’s leader, Maric of Tamworth led the column, and despite her misery, Alchflaed found her gaze drawn to him. There was a wildness about him, a brooding intensity. Although the rain still pelted down, Maric had pushed back his hood. The rain sluiced down his shoulder length dark hair, plastering it to his skull, but he paid it no mind.

  Alchflaed watched him silently, wondering at who this man was, and why he captivated her attention so. Then, thoughts of what lay ahead returned to torment her and her gaze turned inward.

  ***

  Maric swung down from his horse and peered up at the sky. The rain had stopped for the moment, although from the look of those dark clouds to the north, more would be on its way. They could have travelled farther today, but Maric did not want to make camp in the rain.

  “Let us make camp, before the next storm,” he called out to his men.

  Next to Maric, Edgard also dismounted, his gaze following his captain’s toward the approaching thunderclouds.

  “Aye, Thunor is not finished with us yet.”

  They had stopped at the edge of woodland, at the top of a gentle rise. There was a meandering stream in the valley below but it was best to make camp on higher ground, just in case it continued to rain through the night.

  Maric began unsaddling his horse, his attention shifting to the tall, proud figure of Princess Alchflaed nearby. Even soaked, her fiery hair darkened by the rain and plastered against her head and neck, she was lovely.

  She was unsaddling her pony with practiced ease. He had noted that she rode well and looked no more tired by the journey than his men. Despite that this task irked him as much as it did the other Mercians, her toughness pleased him. It was a long, uncomfortable journey south and if the princess did not slow them down, they would be back in Tamworth all the sooner.

  Not that he had any reason to hurry back. This time, there was no one awaiting his safe return. He would not even come back to a king he respected. Paeda ruled southern Mercia now, and Maric struggled with the idea of serving Penda’s treacherous son.

  Maric turned back to his horse and concentrated on rubbing it down. He felt weary, body and soul, this evening. The Mercian defeat at Winwaed had stripped him of much more than his honor – it had robbed him of the pride he had felt at serving a lord he respected.

  Penda had been ruthless but he had known what honor and duty were. His son did not.

  Night drew in and the rain returned. Only this time, the travelers could take shelter under a wide awning made of weather-stained hide, which Maric’s men had stretched out under the trees. There was no dry wood for a fire, so the company had to make do with the warmth of their fur cloaks as they sat upon the damp ground and ate bread, cheese and apples.

  Alchflaed perched upon the edge of a wood stump. She ate quickly, her appetite returning for the first time since her father had delivered his devastating orders. A day away from Bebbanburg, riding through the wind and rain had made her ravenous. As she finished her meal, Alchflaed observed the conversations taking place around her. She had barely spoken to any of her escorts all day, and they had shown no interest in conversing with her.

  The Mercians kept their distance from their charge. Some, like their leader, were merely aloof, while others exuded hostility and resentment. Alchflaed could not bring herself to blame them. However, if it continued, the trip south would be a long and lonely one. She did not want to be alone with her thoughts, to give rein to the dread that shadowed her from dawn to dusk.

  Oblivious to her concerns, the men continued to ignore her, talking quietly amongst themselves. The drumming rain on the hide canopy above their heads made it impossible for Alchflaed to listen to their conversations.

  Instead, her gaze alighted upon Maric. His handsome face was shuttered, his clear blue gaze focused on the mid-distance as if he were lost in memory. She had never before thought of a man as beautiful – but this one was. The fine, sculpted lines of his cheekbones and chin, and the sensitivity of his mouth mesmerized her.

  Sensing that someone was looking at him, the enigmatic Mercian looked up. For a moment, their gazes met.

  Alchflaed’s cheeks flamed and, embarrassed at being caught so blatantly staring, she looked away.

  Chapter Nine

  Arrival at Pons Aelius

  After a night attempting to sleep upon the damp ground, with roots and stones digging into her side, Alchflaed faced the following morning with ill humor. Perched upon a leather pack, while men packed up around her, she chewed on a crust of bread and sipped a cup of broth. Her limbs ached from the damp, and her clothes stuck uncomfortably to her skin.

  Dawn was just beginning to stain the eastern sky, breaking through a curtain of grey, as the Mercian company prepared to ride south. Mercifully, the rain had stopped some time during the night. Stifling a yawn, Alchflaed rose to her feet and crossed to where one of Maric’s men had just finished saddling her pony. The warrior handed her the reins with a curt nod, before heading off to prepare his own horse for the day’s journey. Alchflaed stroked her pony’s fury neck.

  “Another day, eh Briosa?”

  At least her father had let her keep the pony. She was grateful that Briosa – Breeze – had come with her on this journey; it was like having a friend with her.

  Maric strode past her then. He cast an eye over her crumpled clothing and tired face, as he went.

  “Ready, Princess?”

  There was no mistaking the coolness in his voice. Alchflaed gave him a surly look and busied herself with tightening the girth to her pony’s saddle. After such an uncomfortable night, in which she had lain awake worrying about what awaited her in Tamworth, she did not feel kindly disposed toward her escort.

  They moved out a short while later. Although she could not see it, Alchflaed knew they still rode close to the coast. The salty tang in the air mingled with the scent of wet grass and foliage. Soon, they would reach the river Tinanmuðe, where there was a bridge spanning the waterway and a small village. It was all that remained of Pons Aelius, the Roman settlement, w
hich had once thrived on the northern bank of the Tinanmuðe. Alchflaed had not travelled any farther south than this, although she knew that after the river, they would join the Roman Way that would lead them south-west to Eoforwic.

  Her stomach cramped at the thought. With every furlong, they drew farther and farther from Bebbanburg and her old life. Despite her father’s assurance that she would be welcomed back into his hall once Paeda was dead, Alchflaed knew there would be no going home. The knowledge was a sickening weight in the pit of her stomach.

  I will never see Bebbanburg again.

  Alchflaed’s gaze shifted to the head of the column, where Paeda’s emissary rode. Maric had strapped his shield across his back, his stance one of coiled energy this morning. Although he appeared relaxed, his left hand holding the reins while the right rested upon his thigh, Alchflaed could see that Maric constantly surveyed their surroundings; he did not let his guard down for a moment.

  The day drew out, grey and damp with not the breath of a breeze. The silence unnerved Alchflaed, for it left her alone with her thoughts. She returned many times to the look upon her father’s face as he instructed her to kill her new husband, the hardness in his eyes when he told her she must not fail. She remembered the coldness on her brother’s face when he had seen her off; only Cyneburh had shown her any kindness. A lifetime at Bebbanburg had concluded in a solitary farewell, almost as if she had already gone, banished from her father’s hall.

  Despite her resolution not to cry, her eyes filled with tears many times on the road south. Betrayal burned into her soul like an iron brand and resentment formed a hard knot in her breast. By the time they reached the northern banks of the Tinanmuðe, her mood was bleak.

  The village of Pons was little more than a scattering of wattle and daub huts around a grassy square. The folk here made their living off fishing the tidal waters of the great river; a few of them ventured out of their homes as the riders approached, curious to see the newcomers.

  Beyond the thatched roofs of Pons, the stone bridge stretched across the glittering water. It sat upon vast pillars, with a great arch at its halfway point. To the west of the village, upon a hill, Alchflaed caught sight of the ruined walls of the Roman fort.

  The sun showed its face for the first time when they reached the river. Alchflaed tilted her face to it, welcoming the warmth on her chilled skin. She followed the column to the hill under the fort, where the Mercians had decided to camp for the night. As she unsaddled Briosa and rubbed her down, Alchflaed noted the young warrior next to her cast curious glances her way. He was of around her age, with dark blond hair and a sparse beard to match.

  “You are good with horses, M’lady,” he observed.

  “I prefer animals to people,” she replied with a grin. “They’re easier to understand.”

  “Aye,” the warrior’s face split into a wide smile. “That’s true enough.”

  “What’s your name?” Alchflaed asked, welcoming the chance to befriend one of her escort. The others were proving standoffish and it was a relief to know that at least one man here did not resent her.

  “Bryni,” he replied. To her surprise, the young man flushed slightly. He may have been able to stare down enemies in battle but it appeared that Alchflaed’s direct gaze disarmed him.

  To cover up his embarrassment, Bryni quickly turned back to tend to his horse. Still smiling, Alchflaed returned to rubbing down Briosa, her mood lightened.

  Maric warmed his hands over the flames of the fire and sighed as the heat seeped into his chilled fingers. His clothes and skin still felt damp from yesterday’s deluge. He stood at the center of a circle of tents, erected in the shadow of the ruined fort. On the northern banks of the river below, he could see the glow of hearths in Pons. The scent of wood smoke lay heavy on the chill night air.

  Maric stood amongst a group of his men skinning and gutting rabbits. They had just returned from the village with a few braces of conies. Tonight, they would feast on roast rabbit. With the chill taken out of his hands, Maric picked up a rabbit, ripping the skin from its carcass in one deft movement. Then he handed it to Edgard, who sat beside him, for gutting.

  “Fat conies these,” the warrior noted. “We’ll eat well tonight.”

  Maric smiled in response before reaching for another rabbit to skin. He liked these men; they were straightforward, honest warriors whom he instinctively trusted. Despite his dislike for Paeda, Maric had to admit he had chosen a good band of men to escort his betrothed safely home.

  On the other side of the fire, Maric saw that Alchflaed had sat down. The firelight danced across her skin, darkening her eyes. Tendrils of auburn hair had come free of the braid down her back, and curled about her face.

  Then, she glanced up, her gaze meeting his.

  Alchflaed watched Maric tear his gaze from hers and turn his attention back to the rabbit he was skinning. Her pulse beat fast at the base of her throat and the sudden warmth in her body had nothing to do with the fire flickering before her.

  They had barely exchanged more than two terse words all day but she was constantly aware of Maric. During the day, she found her gaze returning to him, almost against her will. She watched him now, laughing at something the man next to him had just said. The expression lit up his face and softened its usual seriousness.

  Abashed, Alchflaed remained by the fire and watched the men mount the rabbit carcasses upon sticks before roasting them over the embers. Shortly afterward, the aroma of cooking meat filled the air, causing her belly to rumble. She spotted Bryni then, returning to the camp with an armload of wood for the fire.

  She flashed him a warm smile, hoping he would not ignore her like the others. Bryni returned her smile before dumping his firewood next to the fire and holding his hands out over the flames.

  “It’s damp tonight,” he told her. “More rain is on its way.”

  “It’s not a good season to be travelling,” Alchflaed agreed. “Will the marshes still be passable?”

  Bryni shook his head. “I doubt it, M’lady. If this weather continues we’ll be forced to circle east after Eoforwic.”

  He stopped there, his expression clouding. “That road will take us back to the River Winwaed.”

  “Will we be able to cross it?”

  Bryni shrugged. “If the water isn’t too high.”

  Alchflaed saw that the mention of Winwaed had darkened Bryni’s mood, and she was sorry for it. She had never seen a battle, or been anywhere near one, and could not imagine the horror Bryni had seen.

  “Was it your first shield wall?” she asked him gently.

  Bryni’s gaze flicked over at where the other warriors were making themselves comfortable around the fire. They were all older, harder men than him and it was clear he respected them all deeply. “Aye,” he said grimly, “and it will not be my last.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Ealdorman’s Welcome

  Five days later, they rode into Eoforwic under a helmet of grey, with a light rain upon their faces.

  Maric rode at the head of the company, as they made their way along the eastern bank of the River Foss. The town, ringed by a high wooden palisade, sat on the edge of marshland, where two rivers – the Ouse and the Foss – intersected.

  The company crossed the river and entered the town through a wide gate. They rode up an incline past wattle and daub hovels with neatly thatched roofs. Eoforwic was a prosperous town that thrived on trade from boats travelling up and down the River Ouse. Maric spied the mead hall, a long bow-shaped building with light streaming from its open doorway. He caught the raucous sound of drunken laughter as they passed by.

  Edgard rode up next to Maric, and flashed him a grim smile.

  “Ready to greet the ealdorman?”

  Maric answered with a humorless grin of his own.

  “If we weren’t escorting a Northumbrian princess, he would have us stoned out of Eoforwic.”

  “It will stick in his craw, to host a party of Mercian warriors in his hal
l,” Edgard agreed, “but at least we shall be sleeping under a roof tonight, out of the rain and cold.”

  Maric offered no protest there. Since leaving Pons Aelius, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. There had been a few hard frosts and the air had grown raw with the promise of worse weather to come; an early snowfall seemed likely. It would be a relief to be out of the cold for one night.

  They rode up the incline toward the ealdorman’s hall. The folk of Eoforwic, many of whom had just finished their work for the day, watched the party pass, curiosity upon their faces. Maric had wisely told his men not to bear their blue and gold Mercian standards until they neared Tamworth – and certainly not in Eoforwic. The town was a Northumbrian stronghold, and the locals would not take kindly to Mercian visitors, even those who came in peace.

  They passed Eoforwic’s church, and despite that Maric worshipped the old gods, he could not help but be impressed by its imposing stone façade. Ten yards farther, they drew up before Eadweard of Eoforwic’s hall.

  It was a typical ealdorman’s hall – timbered with a straw-thatch roof – although it appeared a rustic barn after the grand, stone church. Maric dismounted and glanced over his shoulder. The rest of his party assembled at the foot of the wooden steps leading up to the doors of the hall.

  Among them, he spotted Alchflaed. She appeared pale and drawn, the fur-lined hood of her cloak pulled about her face to protect her from the cold.

  “Wes hāl, travelers!”

  Maric glanced back at the hall, to see a huge man emerge into the gloaming. The ealdorman’s size was made even greater by the squirrel fur cloak draped across his broad shoulders. Silver laced the man’s long brown hair and tangled beard, although this was the only evidence of his middling years. He had a heavy-featured, weather-beaten face and a penetrating gaze.