Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) (24 page)

Four
years later…

Dommoc – the Kingdom of the East
Angles – Britannia

Late spring, 660 A.D.

The gulls swooped low, their cries echoing across the
frothing surf. Alchflaed watched them wheel toward the shingle bank, drop
shellfish on the stones, and then land to retrieve the meat from the shattered
shells. She stood upon the shingle, above them, a basket under her arm, as she
paused for a moment to look out across the North Sea.

There was a crisp wind this morning, tangling her hair
and whipping strands of it into her eyes. Alchflaed had just come from Dommoc,
a bustling fishing harbor perched on the edge of the sea. She could just make
out the top of the town’s thatched roofs, and the spire of its new church, to
the north. She had visited its weekly market, where she had bought a wheel of
Maric’s favorite cheese, and some salted pork.

It was not a long walk from home and Alchflaed enjoyed
the stroll. This coastline was different to the one she had grown up on, for
the shingle shore constantly moved with the tide. Bebbanburg had wide, sandy
beaches that were perfect for riding. The shoreline here was difficult to
navigate, for your feet sank ankle deep into the fine pebbles with each step.
In the four years she had lived near Dommoc, she had not seen anyone ride a
horse along the beach. Nonetheless, she preferred her life here and enjoyed
living among the East Angles.

Alchflaed turned from the sea and resumed her journey
south, toward her home. Upon arriving here, Maric had fallen in love with this
coastline and declared that he wanted to build a house close to the sea.
Despite his threats about a hovel made of sods, Maric had built them a sturdy
home of wattle and daub and thatched the roof with straw. Alchflaed spied the
smoke rising from it, up ahead, billowing south in the direction of today’s
wind.

The house sat well back from the water, and Alchflaed had
to climb a steep bank and cross a swathe of rippling grasses to reach it. A
woodland spread out behind the house, although they had cleared a space for a
vegetable garden and Maric had built an enclosure for the fowls and goats they
owned.

As always, Alchflaed smiled at the sight of her home. It
was not a king’s hall, or even a thegn’s, but Maric had built it with love,
skill and care. Out the front, she had planted some flowers; colorful clumps of
witch hazel and pansies edged the pebble path that led up to the front door.

As Alchflaed reached the edge of the grasses, the door
flew open and a small figure, arms and legs wheeling, came barreling toward
her.

Elfhere – for Maric and Alchflaed had named their son
after the man who saved both their lives – had his father’s dark hair, his
mother’s green eyes and a strong will that he had inherited from both his
parents. He was only three years old, but already got up to more mischief than
many boys twice his age.

“Mōder!” he flung himself at Alchflaed’s skirts and
waved a small, fork-shaped branch, with a leather thong tied to each tip. “Fæder
has made me a slingshot!”

“Has he?” Alchflaed smiled down at him, ruffling his dark
hair. “Mind you’re careful with that.”

“I will kill a boar with it!”

Alchflaed frowned. “You will kill nothing with it, until
you learn how to use it without taking your own eye out.”

She looked up then, to see a lean, dark-haired man emerge
from their house. Maric paused in the threshold and leaned casually against one
of the posts that framed the doorway. Seeing Alchflaed’s exasperated
expression, he grinned.

“Our son loves his new slingshot.”

“He will be a menace to every squirrel, bird and rabbit
living nearby, if you’re not careful,” Alchflaed replied sternly, although it
was hard not to smile when Elfhere was jumping up and down excitedly next to
her.

“Fret not, wife, I will teach him to use it,” Maric
assured her. He left the doorway then and approached her. He looked well, her
husband, his skin bronzed from the days he spent outside working in the fields
behind their house. They grew more than enough produce these days to feed
themselves and made enough gold at harvest time to see them through the long
winter. Maric, once one of Penda of Mercia’s most feared warriors, had not
lifted a sword in four years, and he had never been happier.

Kissing her lightly on the lips, a lingering touch that
promised more for later, Maric peeked in her basket and grinned.

“Salted pork!”

Alchflaed smiled back, glad she had pleased him.

“Yes, and if you behave yourself, you will have some for
your supper.”

“Behave myself?” Maric gave her a sultry look before
winking. “I think you prefer me not to…”

Alchflaed shot him a quelling look, for Elfhere was
clinging to her skirts, listening to every word. Yet, Maric merely laughed and,
putting his arm around her shoulders, steered her down the path toward their
door.

Toward home.

--

Loved
DARKEST BEFORE DAWN and want more?

Buy Book #3 in the Kingdom
of Mercia series: DAWN OF WOLVES.

--

Read
the Prologue of DAWN OF WOLVES.

Prologue

The Winter
Meeting

Cantwareburh, the Kingdom of the
Kentish, Britannia

Winter, 657 AD

Ermenilda
watched the snow fall. The delicate flakes fluttered down from a darkening sky
like apple blossoms caught by a gust of wind. An ermine crust covered the
garden’s gravel paths and frosted the plants that had not died away over the
winter.

Damp, gelid air stung Ermenilda’s throat, and her fingers
were numb, but still she lingered. As always, she was reluctant to leave her
refuge. She circuited the path between the high hawthorn hedge and the frosted
sage and rosemary, her boots sinking deep into the snow.

Despite the cold, she had ventured out here to escape the
oppressive atmosphere of the king’s hall, which was full of greasy smoke and
the reek of stale sweat. Outdoors, the air tasted like freshly drawn cider.
Better yet, she did not have to listen to the prattle of women, the booming
voices of men, and the squeals of children bored with being cooped up indoors.

Ermenilda loved this secret spot; it was her sanctuary.
Her father had told her the Romans built this garden, and that it was a
crumbling ruin when he had first come to live in Cantwareburh. Since then, his
wife had poured her energy into restoring the secluded space. As soon as she
could walk, Ermenilda accompanied her mother to the garden, as did her younger
sister. Even over the winter, the three women spent most afternoons out
here—the garden was a passion they all shared.

At the far end of the garden, Ermenilda paused. There,
she admired the snowy branches of her mother’s prized quince tree. As she gazed
upon it, a veil of melancholy settled over her.

Soon, I will have to leave this place.

Nervousness fluttered just under her ribs, replacing the
sadness, before giving way to a lingering excitement.

Ermenilda had heard that Eastry Abbey also had a
magnificent garden. Once settled there, she would no longer miss this one. She
was hoping that her father would let her take her vows at Eastry in the spring.
He had been noncommittal whenever she raised the idea, but she had time to
convince him yet.

Dusk closed in, but still Ermenilda lingered. It was only
when a shadowy figure emerged from the arbor, at the opposite end of the
garden, that she realized she had been missed. Cloaked head to foot in fur, her
younger sister hurried down the path toward her, her face rigid with purpose.

“I was beginning to think you had frozen to death out
here! Come inside, Erme!”

Ermenilda sighed, irritated that her sister had shattered
her solitude.

“I’ll come in soon enough,” she replied, waving
Eorcengota away.

“You must come now,” her sister insisted, her eyes
shining. A mixture of cold and excitement had flushed Eorcengota’s impish face.
“We have guests this evening, and Fæder insists we join them for supper!”

“Guests?”

Ermenilda’s irritation grew. She hated it when strangers
arrived at her father’s hall—especially if they were ealdormen, for she did not
like how some of them leered at her.

“Yes, an exiled prince from Mercia,” Eorcengota enthused,
virtually hopping up and down on the spot with eagerness. “He and his men are
stabling their horses as we speak. Fæder wants us indoors to greet him!”

A knot of apprehension formed in Ermenilda’s belly.
Unlike her silly goose of a sister, she did not like the sound of this visitor.
Her father would be delighted of course; they rarely hosted royalty from
Britannia’s other kingdoms. The Kingdom of the Kentish often appeared of little
importance in the wars, politics, and intrigue among the others who ruled.

Ermenilda reluctantly fell into step with Eorcengota,
following her out of the garden and through the apple orchard. The trees were
naked this time of the year, their bare, spidery branches dark against the
swirling snow. Ahead, the outline of the Great Hall loomed. A high, timbered
structure with a straw-thatched roof, it sat raised above the surrounding
garden, orchard, and stables on great oak foundations. The hall cast a long
shadow in the gathering dusk.

Shaking snow off her cloak, Ermenilda climbed the wooden
steps to the platform before the doors. She nodded to the spearmen guarding the
entrance and pushed the heavy oaken door open. Then she entered, with
Eorcengota following close at her heels.

Just inside the door, she almost collided with a group of
men who were in the process of removing their cloaks and weapons. Ermenilda
realized with a jolt that these must be the Mercians. They were dressed for
traveling in thick fur cloaks, leather jerkins, woolen tunics, and heavy boots.
It appeared they had tended to their horses swiftly and entered the hall just
ahead of the princesses.

Fæder will be cross.

Ermenilda feigned calm, shrugged off her fur cloak, and
handed it to a waiting servant, aware that curious male gazes had settled upon
her. She did not want to look their way but, against her own will, felt her
gaze drawn to one of the men.

He stood near to her, little more than an arm’s length
away. The moment their eyes met, her breath rushed out of her—as if she had
just tripped.

She had never seen a man so striking, so coldly
beautiful. His eyes, ice blue, held her fast. His face was so finely drawn it
appeared chiseled, and his long, white-blond hair fell over his broad
shoulders. He was a big man, and she had to raise her chin to meet his gaze.
The newcomer was dressed in leather armor and had just finished unbuckling a
sword from around his waist, which he handed to a servant.

“Good eve, milady,” he murmured.

The sound of his voice, low and strong, stirred something
in the pit of Ermenilda’s belly—a sensation she had never felt before—an odd kind
of excitement mingled with fear.

“Wes þū hāl,” she responded formally, trying to
ignore the fact that her breathing had quickened. The man’s gaze remained
boldly upon her face, an arrogant smile curving his lips. Her father’s booming
voice saved her from having to converse with him further.

“Ermenilda!”

King Eorcenberht of Kent strode across the rush-strewn
floor, sending servants scattering in his wake. He was a huge man, in both
height and girth, a great fighting man in his youth. A thick beard, the color
of hazelwood, covered his face—the same shade as the unruly mane, streaked
through with gray, that flowed over his broad shoulders. Physically, his
daughters—both slender and blonde like their mother—bore no resemblance to
Eorcenberht.

“Apologies, Lord Wulfhere,” Eorcenberht called as he
approached. “My daughters were supposed to be here to greet you.”

The blond man tore his gaze from Ermenilda and favored
the Kentish king with a cool smile.

“And they are, Lord Eorcenberht. I have just been
welcomed by one of them.”

Something in the way the man spoke the words made
Ermenilda feel flustered, as if she had done something wrong.

“Sorry, Fæder,” she murmured before quickly sidestepping
the Mercian lord. “I was in the garden and lost track of time.”

“Join your mother,” the king grumbled, “and help pour
mead for our guests.”

“Yes, Fæder.”

Glad to be free of the Mercian’s penetrating stare,
Ermenilda cast her gaze downward and hurried away.

As always at this hour, the king’s hall bustled with
activity. A handful of servants were finishing preparations for the light
evening meal—a supper of griddle bread, pickled onions, salted beef, and
cheese—as the household ate their largest meal at noon. The servants had put
out long tables where the king’s thegns would take their meal, while the king
and his kin dined upon the high seat.