Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) (12 page)

Maric fastened the last of his packs behind the saddle
and glanced around the clearing where they had made camp for the night. The
remnants of their fires smoldered in the early-morning air, the smoke mingling
with the last of the mist. The fog had started to lift sometime in the night,
and it promised to be a day of cold, brilliant sunshine.

Maric’s gaze shifted to where Alchflaed was saddling
Briosa. The princess was pale, her expression troubled. She had been behaving
strangely since Winwaed. Her collapse yesterday worried him. Was she ill? She
had barely spoken to him since the night they camped near the River Winwaed.
Not just that, but she had withdrawn from the others as well, even Bryni, whom
she had brefriended.

Next to Maric, Edgard swung up onto the saddle, a grin
plastered on his face.

“Not long now. This time tomorrow, we’ll be on the last
stretch home.”

Home.

Tamworth was Maric’s birthplace; he had grown up amongst
its winding streets. Many of his kin – although all of them now shunned him –
resided in Tamworth. Unlike Edgard, there was no joy in his heart at the
thought of returning there.

“You have a wife and children?” Maric asked.

“Aye, three strapping sons,” Edgard replied proudly. “My
wife was heavy with child when I left for war. She will have had the babe by
now.”

Maric returned Edgard’s smile, pleased for him. He had
not known the warrior before embarking upon this journey, but they had become
friends during the weeks they had travelled together. Edgard said little; this
was the first time he had spoken of the life he had left behind.

“And you?” Edgard asked. “Do you have family awaiting
your return?”

Maric shook his head. “There is no one.”

Edgard frowned, clearly intrigued. Still, he did not
question him further, and Maric was grateful for that.

Maric mounted his horse and caught Edgard’s gaze. “I
would like to meet this brood of yours.”

Edgard grinned back. “And you shall.”

They set off south, once more along the Roman road. It
was easy going along the paved way, and the sky was clear. The air was chill,
although the sun warmed Alchflaed’s face.

A sleepless night had not improved her state of mind, but
she tried her best to focus on the day before her, and no further.
Nevertheless, her stomach felt as if a great stone rested inside it. She could
not dislodge the dread that now perched upon her shoulder like one of Woden’s
ravens, whispering doom in her ear.

It was nearing noon when they reached the tiny hamlet of Burhtun.
Little more than a scattered collection of wattle and daub dwellings around a
muddy clearing, the village sat on the northern bank of the River Trente. The
folk here farmed a wide swath of arable fields of rich river silt. A rickety
wooden bridge spanned the Trente; a great river which rose on the southern edge
of Biddulph Moor to the west, and fell to the Humber estuary in the east, which
in turn emptied out into the North Sea. On the other side of the bridge the
Roman way continued, and would carry them south to Tamworth.

The company rode into Burhtun, and paused in the center
of the clearing, where there was a great pile of branches, presumably for the
Yule bonfire. Alchflaed dismounted and loosened Briosa’s girth, letting the
pony drink from a trough. The others did the same, taking a few moments to rest
before they continued their journey south.

Alchflaed refilled her skin of water and saw that Maric
was talking to a rosy-cheeked woman. He was spending some thrymsas on food for
the last day of their journey. The woman brought out rounds of fresh griddle
bread, wedges of hard goat’s cheese, apples and freshly boiled eggs, which she
placed into a linen sack. It was the best fare Alchflaed had seen since they
had left Bebbanburg, but she had no appetite for it.

She looked on as Maric took the sack of provisions and
pressed the gold into the woman’s palm. He then nodded toward the pile of
branches nearby.

“How long till Mother Night?”

“It’s tomorrow night,” the woman replied, “and it looks
as if the weather will stay mild this year.”

Alchflaed glanced over at the Yule bonfire and felt an
odd pang. There would be a stack of oak branches, twice this size, just inside
the low gate at Bebbanburg. Every year, she had joined the throng of folk and
watched the fire burn. Alchflaed had often stood so close that the flames
scorched her face. She remembered the rhyme she had chanted as a child, while
she watched the golden flames soar into the night sky.

May the log burn,

May the wheel turn,

May evil spurn,

May the Sun return.

The Winter Solstice had approached swiftly this year;
after that the days would gradually lengthen till the first of the spring
flowers marked the end of yet another long, dark winter.

“It looks as if you will be a Yule bride, M’lady,” Bryni
observed. Unlike the others, he remained astride his horse, as it hurt him to
mount and dismount.

Alchflaed forced a smile. “And wear misteltãn
in
my hair?”

“You will be Our Lady in Darkness,” the young man
continued, “and call back the Sun God.”

Alchflaed did not reply. Bryni was attempting to pay her
a great compliment, although his words made her feel even worse than before.
Contrary to Bryni’s words, she was not a harbinger good fortune.

It was only darkness she carried to Tamworth.

***

“May I have hot water this evening?”

They were the first words that Alchflaed had spoken to
Maric all day.

“If I am to appear before my betrothed tomorrow, I will
need to bathe first,” she continued, motioning to the travel-stained leggings
and tunic she wore.

They had just stopped for the day, next to a stream, a
tributary of the River Trente. The light was fading fast, in a blaze of orange
and red to the west. It was a chill evening, although the sky was clear,
promising another good day of weather for their last day of travel. Around them,
the rest of the company was setting up camp for the night.

Maric nodded. “I will have it brought to you, Milady. We
have no tub mind, just two iron pots – are they sufficient?”

“Aye,” Alchflaed replied, relief flooding through her at
the thought of hot water to bathe with. Although she had tried her best to keep
clean on the journey so far, with a damp cloth and cold water in the mornings,
her skin itched and she longed to bathe in a great tub, with hot water and lye
soap. “They will do nicely. I cannot go before my betrothed reeking of sweat
and damp wool, with greasy hair.”

Maric’s mouth quirked. “You do not
reek
,
princess.”

Alchflaed returned his half-smile. “Thank you, but I’m
afraid I do.”

Two of Maric’s men brought large pots of steaming water
to Alchflaed’s tent and set them next to the fire Bryni had just lit for her.
Alchflaed thanked them and dug around in her pack for a clay pot of soft lye
soap. She had used most of it on the journey so far, but there was just enough
to bathe with tonight.

After the Mercians had departed, Alchflaed made sure the
hide flap that covered the tent’s opening was shut, and quickly undressed.
Despite the fire, it was cold inside the tent.

Outside, the clear sky warned of a hard frost to come the
following morning, and the chill air bit at her naked skin as she knelt before
the steaming pots of water. She washed quickly, using a strip of linen on her
body before wetting, soaping and rinsing her hair. The smell of lye, a scent
she would forever associate with her mother, comforted her a little, calming
her jangling nerves and clenched stomach.

While she let her skin dry, Alchflaed retrieved a fresh
linen tunic from her pack. She then pulled out a dark green woolen overdress
with a gold embroidered trim and hung it up against the side of the tent so
that it would air overnight. She would not dress for comfort tomorrow, in
leggings with a tunic that she had split down the sides to make it easier to
ride. Instead, she would dress as tradition demanded, in all her finery. She
had a gold and amber-encrusted belt to wear with the gown, and a gold circle to
wear about her throat.

Shivering from the cold, Alchflaed pulled on the linen
undertunic over her damp skin. She then pulled on a plain, brown woolen wealca;
a long dress with two straps over her shoulders, fastened to her front with two
brooches.

Dressed and feeling clean for the first time in many
days, she sat by the fire and combed out her wet hair with a wide-toothed comb
made out of bone. Outside, she could hear the men moving around and talking,
but she paid them no heed. Instead, she absently combed her long hair, lost in
thought.

Bryni arrived presently, bearing a wooden plate laden
with food. The sight of it, and the smell of freshly boiled eggs, fresh bread
and cured meat made Alchflaed’s bile rise. She sent him away with an excuse, as
she had the night before. It was unlike Alchflaed to refuse food – she always
had a healthy appetite and had never been a picky eater – but the thought of
what lay before her closed her stomach completely.

Outside, night fell and the sounds of the Mercians moving
around the camp quietened. Alchflaed’s hair had almost dried, and she was about
to braid it when a man’s voice sounded outside the tent.

“Lady Alchflaed.”

It was Maric. Her breath hitched and she glanced around
the tent, as if seeking somewhere to flee to – but there was nowhere to run.

“May I enter?”

“Yes,” she replied, feigning calm, “come in.”

Maric ducked inside, bearing the wooden plate of food she
had sent Bryni away with earlier. Alchflaed’s gaze fell upon the plate and she
frowned.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not hungry.”

He ignored her and placed the food down next to the fire.

“You may change your mind later.”

Alchflaed remained seated on the ground, with her bare
feet tucked under her. She stared down at her hands, waiting for him to leave.

Yet, he did not. Two heartbeats passed before he broke
the silence between them.

“Alchflaed, what is amiss?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

“That is a poor lie.” 

“I am just weary from travel, that’s all.”

She said nothing else and hoped he would go, but he did
not. Instead, Maric stepped closer to her.

“Please look at me, Alchflaed.”

She did as he bid, and immediately regretted it. His
face, handsome in daylight, was hauntingly beautiful in the flickering
firelight. His eyes were dark and searching. Concern was etched upon on his
face.

“Where has the fiery warrior maid gone?”

Alchflaed held his gaze, a wave of hysteria building
within her. She yearned to tell him the truth, to reveal her father’s plans,
but she knew that would be foolish to the extreme. Maric was a Mercian thegn,
bound by duty and honor to his lord. She had seen from the first that he was
extremely loyal. She could not burden him with such knowledge, for he would be
compelled to tell Paeda. The thought of what would happen if he did so made her
shudder.

Panic fluttered up into her throat and Alchflaed reached
out to Maric, catching his hands fast in hers.

“You owe me a debt, you said it yourself.”

He gazed down at her, wary. “Yes, I do.”

“Then, I ask something of you. I cannot go to Tamworth. I
cannot marry Paeda.”

Maric’s eyes widened. “Hwæt?”

She clutched at him. “Take me away from here, Maric. Far
away where no one will ever find us.”

Maric stared at her, bemused. “Why are you saying this?
Surely, you don’t…”

“You must trust me,” she interrupted him. “This is
something I cannot tell you of… not now.”

His gaze narrowed. “You speak in riddles. I still don’t
understand.”

“Please, Maric.”

Tears now streamed down Alchflaed’s face. She had not
intended to weep. She hated herself for it but now that she had begun it was as
if a dyke had burst. She released him and buried her face in her hands.

Wordlessly, Maric enfolded her in his arms, and held her
close. The act of tenderness caused the last of her resistance to falter and
she collapsed against him, sobbing. When Alchflaed had managed to control
herself once more she pulled back from him and hurriedly scrubbed away her
tears.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I did not mean to weep.”

“There’s no shame in it.” He reached out then, and
stroked her tear-streaked cheek. “I do owe you a great debt, one that I will
pay. But, I cannot do what you ask.”