Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  “His rudeness was not to be borne,” she replied stiffly. “He had no right to insult me.”

  “We were guests under his roof, Alchflaed.”

  “The man is a pig!”

  Maric’s gaze narrowed, his lips compressing. “I’m not disputing that, but what you did was arrogant and foolish.”

  Alchflaed glared at him, heat flaming in her cheeks. “Arrogant? How dare you!”

  Maric did not answer her. The others moved around them, unsaddling their horses and unpacking what necessities they would need to see them through the night. Alchflaed knew they were listening to their argument, but were pretending otherwise.

  Wordlessly, his mouth now a thin, angry line, Maric took her by the arm and led her away from the rest of the party. Alchflaed tried to twist away from his grip, but although he was not rough with her, his hold on her was iron and she could not break free.

  Alone in the trees, he rounded on her. Alchflaed took a hurried step backwards and found a tree trunk blocking her escape.

  “I shall address you how I choose,” he growled. “I am not your servant.”

  “When I am Queen of Mercia you will be,” she reminded him, anger descending in a red veil, and making her reckless.

  “I am a king’s thegn,” he replied coldly, “not your theow.”

  “When we arrive in Tamworth, I will make sure Paeda learns of your lack of respect,” she shot back. “You are supposed to escort me south, not insult me.”

  Maric shoved her up against the tree trunk and pinned her there. His face was just inches from hers, although she could barely make out the outlines of his features in the darkness.

  “Every insult I give you is warranted,” his breath fanned her cheek as he spoke. “You are a spoiled wench.”

  “Release me!”

  “Do you think being high born gives you an entitlement the rest of us folk don’t deserve?”

  Tears stung Alchflaed’s eyes. She was glad the darkness hid her distress from him; his words cut like a seax-blade.

  Is that how he sees me?

  “Cur – let me go,” she whispered. The words lacked force; they sounded like pleading to her ears and she hated herself for it.

  “Not until I hear an apology from you,” he replied. “You risked my life, and that of my warriors, tonight. I need to hear you will not do that again.”

  Silence stretched between them. Alchflaed’s heart pounded, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. His nearness confused her, the heat of his body an unwelcome distraction from her hurt and wounded pride.

  “I am waiting,” he said finally.

  “I… I am sorry,” Alchflaed choked out the words, realizing as she did so that it was the first time she had ever apologized to anyone other than her father. “I should have let him speak to me as he wished, for I was his guest.”

  “You could have got yourself killed,” Maric replied, his voice roughening before he added. “You could have got us all killed.”

  Alchflaed stared at him, surprised by his words.

  Does he actually care what happens to me?

  “You have a quick temper, Alchflaed,” Maric continued his tone gentling for the first time. “Learn to control it, or you will have no end of trouble in Tamworth.”

  He released her then, and stepped back. The night’s chill replaced his heat and Alchflaed shivered. Without another word, he turned and strode back in the direction of the clearing.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Snows Come

  They rode south-west with the dawn. Maric chose to abandon the road, and continue through the woodland. Shortly after noon, the company reached a landscape of wild, windswept hills, intersected by thickets and trickling brooks. Beyond the sheltering trees, the wind was biting, the sky brooding and dark.

  After a brief meal of stale bread and cheese, they pressed on. Maric set a hard pace across country. Snow was in the air; he recognized the dank smell of it. They needed to put as much distance as possible between them and Eoforwic, before it arrived.

  Maric’s eyes stung with fatigue as he rode, for he had slept little the night before. Even now, the events of the previous evening unsettled him. Things had gone awry from the moment they had arrived in Eoforwic. Maric knew the ealdorman’s type; he had fought many such men in battle. Such a man never forgot a grievance.

  Yet, what most disturbed him about the night before was his own reaction. In daylight, with a bitter wind on his face, Maric regretted dragging Alchflaed from the campsite to argue with her alone in the darkness. Being so close to her physically made him say things he should not have. The ache to pull the girl hard against him and kiss her had nearly overwhelmed him.

  The last two years had passed in numbness, broken only by the rage of battle – but the willful Northumbrian princess had succeeded in puncturing his detachment. Her temper, quick and hot as a Winterfyllth fire, had forced his own out of hibernation.

  He could never let his anger get the better of him again – for recklessness was its close cousin.

  It was mid-afternoon when the first snowflakes drifted from the sky. Fat and white, like fresh spring blossom, the flakes settled on Alchflaed’s fur cloak, and frosted Briosa’s bristling mane. Although she had been expecting a change in the weather, Alchflaed’s already bleak mood worsened at the sight of it. Snow was the last thing they needed. She was not in any hurry to reach Tamworth, yet she did not want this journey lengthened either.

  Eoforwic was behind them, but the events of the night before continued to torment her: the ealdorman’s rudeness; her fury; Maric’s anger; and the things he said, which stung more than she would ever care to admit.

  To make matters worse, flashes of the dizzying hunger she had felt when he pinned her up against the tree trunk still haunted her. She had kept her distance from him since dawn, riding as far back in the column as she dared, but still her thoughts returned to the way her body responded to his nearness. Even now, the memory of it made her short of breath.

  Stop it, she chided herself, brushing snowflakes off her hands.

  She had enough to worry about without sighing over a Mercian warrior who had grossly insulted her. Still, he had spoken true all the same; last night was her fault and she had the sinking feeling she had yet to pay the full price for her rash anger.

  ***

  Alchflaed was sitting next to the fire watching two spits of waterfowl roasting over smoking embers, when Edgard approached her.

  Outside, it was snowing heavily. Inside, smoke hung thick in the air, despite the slit at the top of the tent that was letting most of it out. Alchflaed’s eyes were starting to smart but she was so relieved to be out of the cold that she paid the acrid smoke no mind.

  Edgard crossed the tent and held out her seax, hilt-first.

  “You should have this back,” he said gruffly.

  Alchflaed kept her face expressionless as she took the seax from him and slipped it back into the empty scabbard at her waist. She wished that the Mercian had kept the knife for it was a chilling reminder of her father’s command.

  “Thank you, Edgard.”

  The warrior grunted in response and returned to his side of the fire. Alchflaed observed him. He was a big man, and his rugged face and bald head gave him a threatening appearance – yet, despite his taciturn manner, she sensed good in him.

  “How long will the snow last?” she asked him.

  Edgard shrugged. “Snow this early rarely lies long. However, if it keeps snowing tonight, we won’t be travelling far tomorrow.”

  “Is it much farther till Tamworth?”

  “Many more days yet,” Edgard rumbled. “We still ride through Deira, your brother’s territory.”

  At that moment, the tent flap drew aside and Maric entered. Snow dusted the shoulders of his fur mantle, hair and eyelashes. He shrugged off his cloak and hung it on a peg at the far side of the tent. Underneath his cloak, he wore a leather jerkin with a long, woolen tunic beneath that. Like many of the other warriors,
his arms were bare, save for leather bracers covering his forearms. His arms were finely muscled, not with Edgard’s brawn, but lither; silver and gold-plated béagas – arm-rings – adorned his biceps. Alchflaed had seen her father give out such rings to his prized warriors for their valor in battle. After watching Maric handle himself in the ealdorman’s hall yesterday, she knew that Maric had indeed earned his.

  He looked her way and Alchflaed hurriedly averted her gaze, developing a fascination with the glowing embers in the fire pit before her. She was glad they were not alone; ever since Maric’s arrival, the tent felt smaller, more confined. She continued to ignore him, and was aware that he was talking to Edgard on the other side of the tent. She could not hear their conversation, but sensed from their lowered voices that they were discussing something they did not wish her to hear.

  Alchflaed was suddenly weary, the excitement of the night before catching up with her now that she relaxed. Now that Eoforwic lay behind them, her thoughts returned to what lay ahead.

  Relief had flooded through her when Edgard informed her that their destination still lay far off. Not a day passed when she did not think about the future. This journey represented her last days of freedom.

  Presently, the fowl were ready. Edgard took some out to the other men, while Maric shared what was left with the small group inside the tent. His fingers accidently brushed Alchflaed’s hand when he handed her a portion of meat upon an oiled cloth.

  The sensation sent a jolt of fire up Alchflaed’s arm. Maric jerked his arm away, as if he had been scorched, nearly dropping her supper into the fire. Alchflaed took the cloth from him and pretended she had not seen.

  “Thank you.”

  Maric said nothing, but moved away to the opposite side of the fire to take his own meal. After last night’s exchange, he appeared as uncomfortable in her presence, as she felt in his.

  Alchflaed turned her attention to her supper; the fowl was delicious, the flesh juicy and the skin crispy. She ate with relish, momentarily forgetting her tension and unhappiness. The rumble of men’s voices, as Maric’s men talked around the fire, soothed her. Once she had finished her meal she sipped slowly at a cup of ale, but her eyelids soon began to droop.

  “You look worn out,” Maric observed, loudly enough to make Alchflaed awake with a start.

  “It’s been a long day, that’s all,” she answered, frowning at him. Yet, her eyelids suddenly felt as if they had sand in them.

  Maric rose to his feet and retrieved a pile of furs from behind him. He carried them over to the far side of the tent.

  “Come, Alchflaed. You must sleep.”

  Bristling at his command, Alchflaed stood up and followed him to her makeshift bed. He piled some of their packs between the furs and the fire, in order to afford her some privacy. Usually, she did this herself at night; this was the first time he had done it for her.

  “I’m not a child,” she muttered, “I can do this.”

  His mouth quirked slightly and he met her gaze. Alchflaed raised her chin and gave him her most regal look.

  “Get some rest,” he said with infuriating calm, before he turned, and made his way back to the fire.

  Alchflaed glared at his retreating back before shrugging off her fur mantle and hanging it over the packs to dry-out. Then, she climbed into the furs. Contrary to her earlier assertion, she was bone-tired – in fact, she could not remember ever feeling more exhausted. She lay there for a few moments, listening to the conversation resume round the fireside. Then, she closed her eyes and sleep claimed her.

  ***

  A white world greeted Alchflaed when she pulled aside the tent flap. Dawn was just breaking over the edge of the ashwood to the east, but it would be a while until the sun would be warm enough to melt the snow. She blinked, for the snow-covered landscape was dazzling after the dim interior of the tent, and stepped outside. Immediately, her fur boots sank, ankle-deep in the ermine powder.

  She crunched through the snow toward the horses. They were all dusted in white, but appeared content enough. She had just reached her pony when she spotted Maric emerge from the trees behind their encampment. His face was serious, and he had not yet seen her. Standing next to her pony, Alchflaed watched him trudge through the snow. When he spotted her, the stern look on his face softened slightly.

  “Morning, princess.”

  Alchflaed gestured to the snow surrounding them. “I don’t imagine we shall be travelling far in this…”

  “We won’t,” he admitted, “but then, no one else will be either.”

  Alchflaed frowned, alarmed as his meaning sunk in.

  “Do you think Eadweard of Eoforwic will follow us?”

  “It’s likely,” Maric replied. “We insulted him as guests at his table. He will not forget that.”

  Alchflaed felt slightly queasy at the thought of the ealdorman tracking her south.

  “You didn’t. It was me who insulted him.”

  “I knocked him senseless,” Maric reminded her, “and my men left his ceorls nursing cuts, bruises and broken teeth. He will want vengeance.”

  The stale bread and broth Alchflaed had just consumed to break her fast churned in her belly.

  “What should we do?”

  “Ride south,” Maric replied, before he turned from her, “and hope Eadweard of Eoforwic’s horses are slower than ours.”

  Alchflaed watched him go before she turned back to her pony. The mare nuzzled her, looking for oats, but Alchflaed gently pushed her away. Her gaze shifted then to the pristine wilderness around them. Moments ago, she had been at ease in her surroundings, now a shadow of foreboding lay over the snowy morning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Closer

  The race was Alchflaed’s idea.

  Briosa was impatient this morning, jogging and champing at her bit, eager for a gallop. They had set off in the early dawn, for Maric was eager to make up for lost time now that they had left the snow two days behind them. An open expanse of gently rolling hills stretched south for as far as the eye could see.

  Alchflaed rode up to the front of the column, and joined Maric.

  “Morning,” she greeted him.

  He responded with a slow smile, his gaze meeting hers.

  “Hello, princess. You’re bright this morning.”

  “Aye, I enjoy travelling.”

  “Such a journey exhausts most men but you appear to be enjoying yourself.”

  Alchflaed shrugged. “I love the freedom of the outdoors. Would that my kin had been hunters, not rulers.”

  “I can imagine you in that life,” his mouth quirked as he spoke. “Can you use a bow?”

  “As well as any man.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled and he grinned. “I’d believe it too.”

  “And I can ride as well as any man,” she continued. “I reckon I can beat you.”

  His eyebrows raised. “On that stumpy-legged creature?”

  “Briosa may not look much, but she’s as fleet as the North Wind.”

  He laughed, and the sound made Alchflaed’s breathing constrict.

  “I doubt she can outrun Isærnfōt,” he boasted.

  ‘Iron-foot’ – it was an apt name for such a massive bay gelding.

  She gathered her reins and glanced once more at him, grinning.

  “Let’s find out shall we? Race you to the top of the next hill!”

  With that, she dug her heels into the pony’s furry sides. The mare shot forward, throwing out clods of dirt behind her, down the slope. The chill morning air whistled past, causing Alchflaed’s eyes to water. Suddenly she was back home, galloping along hard-packed sand and listening to the roar of the surf, with her dogs racing behind her.

  Joy surged within Alchflaed and, sensing her rider’s excitement, the stocky mare lengthened her stride. Alchflaed heard the thunder of hooves behind her. Maric had given chase.

  There was a narrow stream at the bottom of the hill, but Briosa cleared it easily. Alchflaed leaned forward
, urging the mare on and loosening the reins so that the pony could have her head. The mare charged up the hill. They were half-way up the incline when she caught a flash of movement to her left. Maric, astride his bay gelding, was gaining on her.

  Alchflaed dug her heels into Briosa’s sides, and the mare increased her speed even further. Still, it was not enough.

  Maric drew level with her, and they approached the brow of the hill neck and neck before Isærnfōt shot forward and won by a nose.

  Breathing hard, Alchflaed drew up. Next to her, Maric did the same. His gelding, fire still in its veins from the chase, danced as he reined it in. Maric was laughing, his face the most alive she had seen it.

  “Breeze she may be,” he grinned, “but she’s not swift enough to outrun Isærnfōt.”

  Their gazes met then and held. Maric’s laughter faded, and the teasing response Alchflaed had been about to make died on her lips. They stared at each other.

  At that moment, the others crested the brow of the hill. The moment shattered and Alchflaed tore her gaze from his.

  ***

  Maric sat by the glowing embers of the fire and sharpened his blade on a whetstone. Outside, a strong wind had sprung up, causing the sides of the tent to billow and snap with each gust.

  On the far side of the fire, Alchflaed was looking at the wound on Bryni’s thigh. Like the others inside the tent, she still wore her fur mantle about her shoulders; for despite their best efforts to keep the icy wind at bay, it still managed to enter the tent.

  She had tied her long auburn hair back in a thick braid, but tendrils had escaped and curled around her cheeks.

  Watching her, Maric remembered the expression on her face this morning, just before she dug her heels into her pony’s flanks and took off at break-neck speed down the hill. Wild and free, she belonged out here, away from the great halls of men who sought to tame her. For a few moments, as he raced her, Maric had forgotten his own troubles; his dark past, and his bleak future. Just for a short time, he too had been free.