Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  “Very well,” Paeda said finally, “if it is your wish to end your days at Bonehill, I shall grant it.”

  “Thank you, Milord.”

  The Queen Mother’s face was unreadable, although Alchflaed caught the glimpse of victory in the older woman’s blue eyes. Wulfhere and Aethelred were watching their mother, clearly perplexed by her announcement, but Cyneswide did not look their way.

  Without waiting for her son to dismiss her, the Queen Mother turned and left the king to his mead upon the heah-setl.

  ***

  Cyneswide departed at dawn the following morning.

  Alchflaed arose early, leaving her husband slumbering in the furs, and descended the ladder to the hall. Here, there was a platform, raised around three feet off the ground, which ringed the edge of the hall. This was where the rest of the Mercian royal family, and the king’s most favored retainers slept. Heavy tapestries shrouded their alcoves from view, while the remainder of Paeda’s household, warriors and slaves, slept upon the rushes on the draughty floor below.

  Dawn was just breaking, pale light filtering in through the narrow slits high up in the tower. The fire pits had burned low overnight and Alchflaed’s breath steamed before her as she padded around the rim of the platform to the Queen Mother’s bower.

  Already dressed, Cyneswide was busy packing the last of her clothing into a leather pack, ready for transporting to her new home. She smiled upon seeing Alchflaed, and the lines of care and sadness eased on her lovely face.

  “You are up early,” she greeted Alchflaed.

  “I wanted to help you pack, but I see I am too late.”

  “I could not sleep.”

  Alchflaed nodded, before returning Cyneswide’s smile.

  “We are just beginning to know each other; I will miss your company.”

  Cyneswide’s smile turned weary. “I cannot stay here. There are too many memories inside this hall; everywhere I turn, I see Penda.”

  “You know what Paeda did?” Alchflaed asked quietly.

  Cyneswide nodded, her expression turning hard.

  “I am no Christian but I happily renounce Woden, Thunor and all the rest, if it means I do not have to set eyes on my treacherous son ever again.”

  Alchflaed was not surprised by the Queen Mother’s sentiment, although the vehemence of her words took her aback.

  “You hide your feelings well,” she observed.

  There was no humor in Cyneswide’s answering smile.

  “It is the only way a woman survives in a king’s hall… remember that, Alchflaed.”

  Outdoors, a thick frost blanketed the world. Frozen straw crunched underfoot as Cyneswide’s kin followed her across the stable yard to the high gate that led out of the inner fort into the township beyond.

  Alchflaed walked a few steps behind Paeda and his brothers, before stopping next to Wulfhere and Mōna. She looked on while slaves loaded the last of Cyneswide’s possessions – mostly gifts she would bestow upon the church – on a small wagon. An escort of six warriors would accompany the Queen Mother to Bonehill, a small nunnery that lay half a day’s ride to the south.

  The monk, Seaxwulf, would also form part of the escort. He rode upon a shaggy palfrey, which chomped at the bit, eager to be off. Cyneswide’s mount was a fine-boned grey mare; a beautiful horse that Alchflaed later learned had been a gift from Penda to his wife.

  Paeda helped Cyneswide mount before stepping back and raising a ring-encrusted hand. The king wore a squirrel fur cloak about his broad shoulders this morning, to stave off the chill. Stubble covered his jaw and his gaze was hooded.

  “Farewell, Mōder.”

  Cyneswide nodded curtly, before her gaze shifted to Aethelred and Wulfhere.

  “My sons,” she murmured, her eyes glittering. Alchflaed could see the grief on Cyneswide’s face and sensed she wished to say more. However, with Paeda glowering at her, the Queen Mother held her tongue.

  “Go well, Mōder,” Wulfhere replied softly.

  “We shall visit,” Aethelred promised.

  Cyneswide smiled. “I would like that.”

  The Queen Mother reined her horse around and urged it toward the gate. Alchflaed watched Seaxwulf ride after Cyneswide, followed by the rest of her escort and the wagon. The drumming of hooves on the frozen ground broke the stillness of the frosty morning.

  As she watched Cyneswide leave, Alchflaed felt something nuzzle against her leg. Her gaze still riveted upon the travelers, she reached down and touched a cold, wet nose. Surprised, Alchflaed glanced down to find Mōna pressed up against her. The beast’s unexpected show of affection made Alchflaed long for her two dogs.

  “Good morning, Mōna,” she murmured, fondling the wolf’s furry ears.

  Aware that gazes were upon her, Alchflaed glanced up to find Paeda and his brothers staring at her. Paeda was scowling and Aethelred smirked, while an enigmatic smile tugged at the corner of Wulfhere’s mouth.

  “You have a way with the wolf,” the prince observed.

  “I had two hounds at Bebbanburg,” she replied. “Hraefn and Hafoc – they followed me everywhere.”

  “Flea-ridden curs,” Paeda interrupted their exchange, his tone sour, naked jealousy on his face. “If your father had any sense, he would have slit their throats the moment you left. Come, wife. Get me food and drink to break my fast.”

  Reaching out, Paeda pulled her away from Mōna and shoved her toward the Great Tower. The wolf growled low in her throat and Wulfhere chuckled.

  “Careful, brother.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Bad Blood

  A freezing mist had descended upon Tamworth, blocking out the watery sun and sending the townsfolk scurrying indoors. Maric pulled the fur collar of his cloak high around his ears as he crossed the straw-strewn stable yard toward the Great Tower. After a spell of relatively mild weather, it appeared that winter was tightening its grip upon the land. The air held a dampness that promised coming snow.

  Maric nodded to the warriors guarding the huge oaken doors, and stepped into the antechamber that led toward the main hall. Four days had passed since the handfasting, and after sleeping in the stables for the previous three nights, Maric knew he could not remain absent from the Great Hall for much longer.

  Foolishly, he had sworn an oath to protect the new Queen of Mercia, and he would need to honor it.

  It was much warmer inside the hall than outside and Maric’s shoulders relaxed as he crossed the floor. It was late afternoon, and the king’s hall was full of noise and activity. Children played on the rushes while dogs sat in corners gnawing sheep bones.

  Slaves prepared pottage for the evening meal over the larger of the two fire pits; the sulphurous, unappetizing odor of overcooked vegetables filled the interior of the hall and caused Maric to wrinkle his nose. Now that Yule had ended, the food served in the king’s hall had returned to simple fare. Pottage was an evening staple and one of Maric’s least favorite dishes.

  The king and queen sat upon the high seat, listening to a scop. The poet, a slender young man with the dark hair and pale complexion of one of the Cymry – the folk who lived in Powys, to the west of Mercia – stood at the foot of the high seat. The scop held a lyre, which he played during interludes to his poem.

  Maric reached the edge of the scattered group of retainers and their wives, who sat listening to the poet, and halted. The scop recounted a tale about a solitary man, once the loyal retainer of a king, who roamed the cold seas and walked the paths of exile. It was a sad poem, full of longing and regret for the days when the wanderer had served his king, and feasted with his comrades. But that was before fate turned against him.

  Listening to the haunting beauty of the poem, one verse in particular struck Maric.

  Ne mæg werig mod

  wyrde wiðstondan,

  ne se hreo hyge

  helpe gefremman.

  The weary spirit cannot

  withstand fate

  nor does a sorrowful mind

>   do any good.

  He thought of his own past; how wyrd had cruelly turned against him but then how his sorrow, his lack of care for what happened to him afterwards, had only deepened his unhappiness. His sorrow had only brought more darkness into his life… except for one shaft of sunlight.

  Maric’s gaze shifted to Alchflaed. She sat upon an ornately carved oaken chair next to the king. The new Queen of Mercia was lovely in a blue woolen dress that hugged her curves. She had braided her auburn hair in an elaborate fashion that showed off her long neck. She had not yet seen him, for she stared, transfixed, at the scop and his heart-wrenching tale.

  When he was done, and the final notes from his lyre had faded into reverent silence, the hall erupted in applause. The king tossed a piece of gold to the scop before his gaze shifted to the audience. A moment later, he spied Maric and beckoned him forward.

  “Where have you been, Maric?” Paeda asked; his face was friendly enough although his eyes were, as always, hard. “Is my hall not fine enough for you to dine in?”

  “Sire,” Maric bowed his head respectfully. “I apologize for my absence; there were a few matters I had to attend to during Yuletide.”

  “We are about to eat,” Paeda replied, brushing aside his thegn’s excuse. “Join us at my table upon the heah-setl.”

  Maric nodded, although he did not welcome the offer. The pottage smelled particularly unappetizing and the sight of Alchflaed, so still and pale at Paeda’s side, pained him. He remembered what she looked like, riding on Briosa at his side – the wind in her hair, her cheeks tinged pink, and her eyes bright. The woman before him upon the high seat bore no resemblance to the huntress that had enchanted him at Bebbanburg.

  He took a seat at the king’s table, next to the youngest prince, Aethelred. Slaves brought trenchers – hollow slabs of bread – to the table, and cups for milk, ale, or mead. Then, they ladled the thick pottage into the trenchers.

  Maric poured himself some ale from an earthen jug and took a deep draught, delaying the moment he would have to consume the malodorous pottage. As he did so, he was aware of Alchflaed’s gaze upon him. Initially, he resisted looking her way, for he had missed her and did not want Alchflaed to see it written all over his face. Eventually though, he could not resist the pull of her stare and their gazes met.

  Her eyes had darkened in the light of the cressets that burned on the wall behind her. She favored him with a smile, a soft expression that lit her from within. Maric’s breathing hitched his chest and he smiled back.

  A moment later, Paeda’s voice, as he addressed Aethelred, made Maric avert his gaze.

  “Have all the preparations been made for the hunt?”

  Aethelred swallowed a mouthful of pottage and nodded. “Twenty of your best hunters are ready. We can leave tomorrow morning, if you’re willing?”

  Paeda smiled. “A winter hunt is just what a man needs to get the blood flowing through his veins. We shall depart at dawn then.”

  Paeda glanced over at Maric.

  “Maric, you always hunted with my father. Why don’t you join us?”

  Maric nodded. “Thank you, sire.”

  Truthfully, Maric had no wish to join Paeda on a hunt, although it would have been foolish to let his lack of enthusiasm show. However, the king had already shifted his attention from Maric to Wulfhere. The prince’s gaze held a challenge when it met Paeda’s. Maric recalled that there had never been much love between Paeda and Wulfhere, and after what had befallen at Winwaed, there would be even less.

  “If you wish to join us tomorrow, you must leave your wolf behind,” Paeda informed Wulfhere coolly. “I don’t trust that beast.”

  Wulfhere’s gaze narrowed. “Mōna always comes with me. What are you afraid of brother, that I may command her to rip your throat out?”

  Paeda scowled and slammed his garnet-studded cup onto the table with a thud. All gazes swiveled to the two brothers and a chill silence settled upon the king’s table. Yet, Wulfhere had not finished speaking.

  “Or is it that you think I’ll be easier to kill, out on the hunt, without my wolf to protect me.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Paeda growled.

  “That is what you’re planning, isn’t it?” Wulfhere challenged, his handsome face hewn from stone as he leaned across the table toward the king. “To rid yourself of any who pose a threat to you. One by one.”

  “Wulfhere,” Aethelred spoke up, his gaze darting between his two older brothers, “don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

  Wulfhere’s mouth curled. “You know I speak the truth. The only regret I have is that I have held my tongue thus far.”

  He rose to his feet, his eyes glittering with fury.

  “Do you really believe our mother left because some puny god called her?” Wulfhere jeered. "No, she left because she could no longer stomach looking upon the face of the craven maggot who betrayed his own father.”

  Paeda’s face twisted. “Our father’s time had ended. He died as he’d always wanted: with a sword in his hand, in battle. He was starting to make a fool’s mistakes; it was time for him to go.”

  Wulfhere roared and slammed his fist down on the table, causing cups to topple. Around them, chatter ceased and the Great Hall fell ominously silent.

  “You turned your back on your own people. You betrayed your father so you could rule at any cost and get your hands on Oswiu’s daughter. Now he has you by the balls. You are nothing but his arse-licking puppet. You’re not fit to rule!”

  Paeda leaped to his feet and thrust his face forward so that his and Wulfhere’s faces were just inches apart. When the king spoke, he was so angry he barely managed to choke the words out.

  “I warned you to still your tongue, but you did not heed me.”

  Looking on, Maric’s gaze flicked to behind Wulfhere, to where four of the king’s personal guard were now advancing upon the prince. Paeda continued, his harsh voice echoing high into the rafters.

  “Wulfhere, son of Penda, I name you exiled. On pain of death, you are never to set foot in my hall, or Tamworth, again. If you defy me, I will cut off your head myself.”

  In response, Wulfhere spat on the table between them.

  “Coward,” he hissed.

  Paeda’s gaze flicked to the four warriors who now stood directly behind Wulfhere.

  “Take him away.”

  Two of them reached out, and hauled Wulfhere backward. Immediately, Mōna was there, hackles raised. Her lips peeled back in a terrifying snarl revealing enormous carnassial teeth. Until now, the wolf had been sitting under the table, at her master’s feet, but when the men grabbed Wulfhere, she sprang forward to protect him.

  “Release me,” Wulfhere ordered the warriors, “unless you want your entrails spilling over the floor.”

  Reluctantly, their gazes fixed upon the snarling wolf, the warriors obliged. Maric looked at Wulfhere’s face and saw the same cold, killing fury that he had often witnessed in Penda.

  “In this world, or the next, we will meet, brother,” Wulfhere promised the king, “and I will have my reckoning.”

  Paeda said nothing more. A heartbeat later, Wulfhere turned and strode from the hall, Mōna at his heels.

  “Follow my brother,” Paeda commanded his men in a low voice, “and if he fails to leave Tamworth, kill him.”

  Maric watched Wulfhere disappear through the archway leading out to the great doors. Then, he turned back to the shocked faces at the table. Aethelred, who usually wore a vaguely amused expression, looked shaken. The king’s face was dark with fury, and Alchflaed had gone white.

  Maric pushed aside the trencher of congealing pottage, and raised his cup of ale to his lips. The events he had witnessed did not shock him. Frankly, it was surprising that Wulfhere had taken this long to confront Paeda. What did shock Maric was that Paeda had exiled his younger brother rather than killing him. That was a mistake.

  Wulfhere was a dangerous enemy, and Maric wagered Paeda would live to regret this day.

&
nbsp; Chapter Twenty-four

  Bitter Cold

  Alchflaed crunched across the snow, her fur-lined boots sinking into the powdery crust, and entered the Market Square. It was a still day, and the sky above was a bright robin’s egg blue. The air was viciously cold but the sunlight on her face was welcome after days holed up in the dark, smoky interior of the Great Hall.

  It was market day, but only a few hardy farmers and traders had set up stalls inside the square. Many of the folk that sold goods at the market would be unable to travel into Tamworth until the snow melted. Yet, a few always made it, whatever the weather.

  Alchflaed breathed in the fresh air, laced with the scent of wood smoke, and walked slowly around the perimeter of the square. She passed a man hawking dried venison and boar, the only meat many folk would get until the spring; food grew scare this time of year. A few feet ahead, an elderly woman sold mulled cider. Alchflaed bought a cup, grateful for the heat, which warmed her fingers and her belly.

  Behind her, watching over the queen, trailed Edgard and Bryni. Maric was away hunting with the king, so only the two of them accompanied Alchflaed on her walk.

  Bryni had healed well from the wound he had sustained during the skirmish with Eadweard of Eoforwic. His color was now good and he no longer hunched in pain. Edgard was another matter. The loss of his wife had hit him hard. His craggy face, harsh to begin with, had now set in severe lines. He never smiled and his gaze had turned inward.

  “The king is due back this eve, M’lady,” Bryni announced cheerfully as they completed their circuit of the square. “I wonder how his winter hunt went.”

  “Badly, I imagine,” Edgard replied sourly. “They did not expect this snow.”

  Alchflaed did not comment. She had enjoyed the last ten days without her husband and had been dreading his return. It had been a relief to crawl into the furs at the end of the day and not have to suffer Paeda’s attentions. The atmosphere inside the Great Hall was also different. After Wulfhere’s banishment and the departure of Paeda and his men, a calm had settled.