The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Newcomers
to Weyham

Light seeped out from the mead hall and pooled like
molten iron on the path ahead.

Seward and his father approached the long, low-slung,
thatched building, weary after a hard day in the fields. They did not converse.
After the initial confrontation upon Seward’s return, father and son had spoken
little. Yet, Seward knew the matter was not closed. He could tell his father’s
anger still simmered. They would face off again sooner or later.

Seward paused at the entrance to the mead hall,
allowing his father through the low doorway first. Immediately the sweet scent
of mead hit Seward, mingled with the less pleasant smell of sweating male bodies.

Ducking through the entrance, Seward saw that the
hall was packed this evening. It was far busier than he had seen it in a while.
The Cymry army had departed; these newcomers were Mercian.

Seward waited, as his father joined the line for a
cup of mead, and cast a glance to the far end of the hall, where a loud burst
of drunken laughter had erupted.

Seward’s gaze focused on the man in the center of
the group. Suddenly, he felt as if he had just plunged head first into a trough
of icy water.

The man was ruggedly handsome, with shaggy brown
hair and cold eyes. His mouth was twisted in a smirk as he listened to the man
beside him.

Rodor of Tamworth.

A group of warriors surrounded Rodor. They were
rough, dangerous-looking men who were drinking fast – too fast.

Seward swallowed hard, his bowels cramping. Rodor
was the last individual he wished to see in this world, or beyond. The warrior
had not yet looked his way, but Seward knew the moment he did, he was likely to
recognize, and then humiliate, him.

His parents knew nothing about what had really
happened in Tamworth, and he was in no hurry to tell them. They would not look
kindly on their son rutting with one of the king’s slaves, but what would anger
them even more was that he had been foolish enough to get caught.

“Seward?” his father must have noticed his son’s
sudden pallor, for he was frowning at him. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” Seward muttered, turning away. “I need
to piss – back soon.”

Not waiting for Wil’s reply, but feeling his
father’s gaze burning him between his shoulder blades, Seward ducked out of the
mead hall and into the gathering dusk.

Outside, he strode away, forcing himself not to
run.

***

His family were seated companionably around the
gently crackling fire pit – his wife and daughters sewing, his son whittling a
piece of wood – when Wil returned home from the mead hall.

Wil halted in the doorway, his gaze immediately
going to Seward.

“Where did you get to?”

Seward shrugged, keeping his gaze focused upon the
piece of wood he was whittling. “Wasn’t in the mood for mead.”

“A pity,” Wil stepped inside and pulled the door
closed behind him, “for there was intriguing talk inside the mead hall. There
are visitors to Weyham this night, a group of the king’s men.”

“Really,” Cynewyn put down her sewing. “Why would
they be here?”

“They didn’t say initially – although drink loosens
men’s lips and I gained the ear of one of the men. He was well into his cups by
the time I spoke to him. What he told me was very interesting indeed.”

Seward looked up at that, his young face milk-white
in the fire light.

“You’re as pale as a shade, Seward,” Wil said, his
tone sharpening. “Why do those men frighten you?”

“Who’s says I’m scared?” Seward replied
belligerently.

“I do.”

“Those men,” Cynewyn interrupted, “did you learn
why they’re here?”

“They’re led by a man named Rodor,” Wil replied,
his gaze still upon his son. “One of the king’s finest warriors. He and his men
are tracking the Prince of Powys. They plan to kill him before he reaches the
border.”

“Kill him?” Merwenna spoke up, her face taut in the
firelight. “But Mercia and Powys are allies.”

“They are – but it appears that Cynddylan insulted
Penda at Tamworth. He now seeks reckoning against him.”

“Cynddylan and his men rode to Mercia’s aid and
this is how Penda repays him?” Merwenna countered angrily.

Wil’s gaze shifted from his son to his eldest
daughter, his gaze narrowing.

“You forget – our village lost good men for Penda
too.”

“But Cynddylan lost half his army! This is a
reckoning without honor.”

Wil’s frown deepened. “You are right, they are
without honor. They intend to sneak into Cynddylan’s encampment and slay him
while he sleeps. Yet, whatever their motives, it has nothing to do with us – or
you. We must look after ourselves, if we want to survive.”

Merwenna’s gaze left his, settling upon the tunic
she was mending. Her cheeks were flushed and he could see she was upset. “Yes,
fæder.
”

Satisfied that his daughter had minded him, Wil
turned his attention back to his son.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Seward.”

“What’s that?” Seward replied, his expression
sullen.

“You took one look at Rodor and nearly collapsed.
Why?”

Seward stared back at him, his face set in hard
lines of defiance.

“We’re not finishing this conversation till I get
the truth out of you,” Wil folded his arms across his chest. “It’s not enough
that you abandon your family in the middle of harvest, but you are now covering
up something. Tell me what it is.”

Merwenna sat, clutching the tunic with numb
fingers, her heart hammering against her ribs, and waited for Seward to
respond.

Although she feared her father’s reaction when he
heard the truth about Tamworth, she was still reeling from the news that Penda
planned to murder Cynddylan. All she could think about was that the prince had
no idea of the danger stalking him.

“We… I had a problem in Tamworth,” Seward
reluctantly admitted. He hesitated then, the only sound in the dwelling the
crackle and pop of the hearth. When he continued, his shoulders had slumped in
defeat, his manner far less defensive.

Merwenna listened intently as Seward recounted the
tale of what had occurred upon their first night in the Great Tower of
Tamworth. When her brother finished speaking, Wilfrid’s face was thunderous.

A tense silence followed, and Merwenna found
herself holding her breath.

“Take off your shirt, Seward,” Cynewyn broke the
silence. “Let me see your back.”

The young man rose to his feet and did as she bid.
He winced as he pulled his sleeveless tunic over his head.

Merwenna let out her breath in an explosive gasp.
Her brother’s back was crisscrossed with livid, scabbed marks. He would carry
those scars with him for the rest of his life.

“I did not bring you up to abuse the hospitality of
others,” Wil finally spoke, his voice hoarse with anger. “The Queen of Mercia
invited you into her hall and this how you repay her?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Seward replied, his
defensiveness returning. “I’d had too much mead, and the slave was willing. The
next thing I knew…”

“Enough!” Wil roared, his temper finally snapping.
“You have shamed our family!”

“I haven’t shamed anyone!” Seward shouted back, his
face turning red. “It was a mistake and I’ve paid for it.”

“You haven’t finished paying for anything! You’re a
fool! A selfish clod!”

Merwenna rose to her feet, backing away from where
her father and brother stood, nose to nose, roaring at each other. Little Aeaba
was weeping, clinging to her mother’s skirts. Cynewyn tried to intercede but
Wil and Seward’s shouting drowned out her protests.

Unnoticed, Merwenna slipped outside. Her brother
and father’s angry shouts following her.

“You always think the worst of me!”

“And with good reason – you’re a dolt!”

The darkness enveloped Merwenna like a soft cloak;
the cool air a balm after the smoky interior of her home. The moon was rising
above the trees and all was quiet save for the muffled argument inside.

Merwenna was in turmoil. The news that Rodor and
his men were on their way to kill Dylan had been like a punch to the stomach.
Yet, it was her own reaction to these tidings that shocked her, as much as the
news itself. It had been instinctive – there was no question in her mind about
what she must do.

She had to warn him.

She had little time. The argument, as explosive as
it was, would burn itself out soon enough. They would soon notice her absence.

It was time to go.

Merwenna crossed to the store house and unbarred
the door. Inside, she worked by feel, knowing what she would find. The ripe
smell of cheese assailed her nostrils as her fingers curled around the bone
handle of a knife that hung from the wall. She cut herself a wedge from one of
the wheels of cheese her mother had left to cure. She then stuffed the cheese
and an apple into the deep pocket of her skirt. It was not much, but it would
have to do.

Moving like a shadow, quiet and fleet, she left the
store house, and skirted the edge of the yard before her home and made her way toward
the fields.

To one side, sheltered by oaks, was a fenced area
where her father kept his two horses. They were cantankerous beasts, both
shaggy and jet-black. Her father had named them Huginn and Muninn – the names
of Woden’s ravens. Huginn represented ‘thought’, and Muninn ‘memory’. The birds
perched on the King of the God’s shoulder and whispered to him about the goings-on
of the world below.

Merwenna crept down to the enclosure and caught
Huginn. He was slower, but far more biddable than his brother; a safer choice
if she did not want to be thrown off mid-journey. There was no time to saddle
her mount, she would have to ride bare-back. She slipped on Huginn’s bridle,
led him out of the enclosure and vaulted up onto his broad back.

Then, she dug her heels into his flanks, and they
were off.

They skirted the edge of the fields, avoiding the
village itself. Instead, they made for the woods. Merwenna guided Huginn in and
out of the trees and, a short while later, they emerged from the woods onto the
meadows where the Cymry army had camped. Cynddylan would be some distance ahead
by now. She would have to ride all night, and most of the day to catch him up.

Merwenna clenched her jaw in determination. She had
time. Rodor and his friends were likely to leave at first light. If she rode
fast, she would keep ahead of them.

“Are you ready?” she whispered to Huginn, reaching
forward and stroking his furry neck. “We have a long ride before us.”

BOOK TWO

Powys

Chapter
Twenty-three

The
Long Ride West

They followed the road west, traveling under the
incandescent light of the moon.

Huginn’s unshod hooves beat a steady rhythm on the
dirt road. It was rough going, for the way was little more than a rutted track
in places. Merwenna crouched low over the horse’s bristling mane, her eyes
watering as the cold night air whipped past.

She focused on nothing but what lay ahead. In truth,
had she stopped to consider her actions, she may never have done it. Instead,
she clamped down on any wayward thoughts and told herself it was too late to
turn back, too late for second thoughts. They were now far from Weyham, and
gaining upon Cynddylan’s army with every stride.

I have to reach him before Rodor does.

The first rays of sun were peeking through the
trees to the east when she stopped briefly, next to a babbling brook. Here, she
let Huginn rest and take a light drink of water. She too drank from the brook.
There had been no time to bring a water bladder with her, something she now
regretted. She only hoped they would find water along the way.

Although she was exhausted, and her body cried out
for sleep, Merwenna did not linger by the brook long. Rodor and his men would
have left Weyham by now. Soon, they would be breathing down her neck.

A chill wind blew in from the north as they
continued west. Merwenna was grateful for it, for the sting of the wind on her
cheeks kept her alert. Huginn revealed his tough breeding and stubborn will,
ploughing on through the morning without showing signs of tiring. Merwenna,
having been taught well by her father, took care to rest him every so often.
She left the reins loose, allowing the horse to pick his way over the rough
ground.

Gradually, moving ever farther west, the land grew
more hilly and the woods thicker. The way grew harder to follow, narrowing to
something resembling a goat path in places. Yet, Merwenna knew this was the
road the band had taken. She saw signs of horses and men – trampled undergrowth,
as well as dung and grooves in the dirt. The army had recently passed this way.

The morning gradually turned into afternoon and
still horse and rider pressed on. This day was the longest one that Merwenna
had ever known. Exhaustion dragged at her, obliterating all thoughts except for
one.

I have to warn him.

It was growing late in the day, and the light was
beginning to fade, when Merwenna and Huginn caught up with Cynddylan’s army at
last.

She was so thirsty that it was painful to swallow.
They had not passed a water way since noon and both horse and rider were
beginning to suffer the effects of dehydration. Huginn’s head hung low, his
flanks slick with sweat. Merwenna slumped on his back, her eyes stinging, and
her body aching.

The Cymry had camped on the brow of a low hill, on
a south-facing slope. The road skirted the base of the hill at this point.
Looking up the hill, Merwenna could see the outline of tents and standards,
flapping in the wind, outlined against the darkening sky.

Relief rushed through her and she drew Huginn to a
halt. Any farther, and a sentry would spot her. It was time to dismount and
travel the last stretch on foot. Sliding to the ground, Merwenna gave a loud
groan of pain.

It had not been a clever idea to dismount. She
could barely walk. However, Huginn gave a great sigh of relief, and to her
surprise, nuzzled her side. Huginn had lost his ill-temper half-way into the
journey, and had been a pleasant companion for the rest of the day. His
endurance had humbled her.

“You did well, boy,” she stroked his velvety nose,
reaching up to tussle his fluffy forelock. “We’re almost there. Just a few
steps more.”

Moving stiffly, Merwenna led the horse off the road
and up the hillside toward the camp. A few moments later, she encountered two
warriors who were keeping watch.

One of them shouted something in Cymraeg and raised
his spear threateningly. Merwenna stopped, fear involuntarily rising in her
breast.

“I’m here to see Cynddylan ap Cyndrwyn of Powys,”
she called to them.

The two warriors exchanged looks. Then, the one who
had shouted out approached her cautiously, spear still raised.

“You’re the girl we escorted to Weyham,” he
observed in halting Englisc.

“My name is Merwenna. Please, I must see the
Prince.”

The warrior’s companion joined them, and the two
men grinned at each other. Merwenna recognized neither man and dearly wished it
had been Owain out here, guarding the perimeter – a man she liked and trusted.
She hoped these two men were more honorable than they appeared.

“You’re a foolish girl,” the warrior lowered his
spear, still grinning. “Running after a man so desperately. Are you looking for
trouble?”

Merwenna’s stomach churned. Her fears were becoming
real. At this rate, she would not even be able to speak with Dylan. To travel
all this way and fail now would be a cruel twist of fate. Worse than that, she
knew she was in danger of being raped.

“No, I’m not looking for trouble,” she replied,
forcing herself to meet the warrior’s gaze. Her skin crawled at the heat of his
stare.

“No? Well, I’d say you’ve found it all the same.”

“Look here,” Merwenna snapped. Anger flooded
through her, drowning her fear. “I haven’t ridden like night and day to be
treated like a half-witted slut. Your leader is in grave danger – and I’m here
to warn him.” She glared at the men, enjoying the look of surprise on their
faces. “Take me to him!”

***

“How long has he been like this?”

Dylan looked down at the man who lay on the ground
before him. The warrior was feverish, his eyes unfocused. He was tall and
dark-haired; the flesh now hung off what had once been a muscular frame.

“He took a wound at Maes Cogwy, although he only
started to noticeably weaken in the last few days.” Owain replied from where he
crouched at the injured man’s side.

Then, Owain peeled up the wool tunic, revealing the
warrior’s torso – and the puncture wound on his side. The injury was not large,
but it was swollen, red and angry, with livid marks running out from it. The
sickly sweet odor it emitted made Dylan’s bile rise.

He had seen enough war wounds to know that this one
had turned septic, and had poisoned the man on the inside. He let out a
frustrated hiss between clenched teeth.

“Did he not see a healer in Tamworth?”

“He did – but it was obviously too late. The wound
had already started to fester.”

“What’s his name?”

“Madog.”

“Can he hear us?”

Owain shook his head.

Dylan sighed and knelt down at Owain’s side,
staring down at the contorted face of the young man who had loyally followed
him into battle. He stared at Madog’s face for a few moments more before he
turned to Owain.

“He has little time left. Make him comfortable.”

Owain nodded, resigned. Like his leader, the
warrior knew the signs. Madog would be dead by morning.

A chill wind buffeted against Dylan as he rose to
his feet. It was more exposed here than he would have liked, but it was the
only spot flat enough for the army to comfortably make camp. Around him, a sea
of tents was being erected, and to the west, the shadowy outlines of the
mountains of his homeland were now visible.

Just one more day till the border.

After months away from Powys, Dylan was looking
forward to setting foot on friendly soil once more. He also looked forward to
being welcomed back to Pengwern, a hero to his people, and to receiving the
crown he had rightly earned. He had never been prouder of the men who had
followed him than at the end of the battle at Maes Cogwy. Songs would be
composed about their valor, and sung for generations to come.

Still, his mood was flat this evening, as it had
been since riding from Weyham. Victory was sweet, but it could not fill the
sudden emptiness that visited him at unexpected times – like now.

Dylan strode back toward his tent and the large
fire pit that burned before it. The prince reached the fire and saw his men
were already roasting a brace of conies. The aroma of roasting meat wafted
across the camp. He stood near the fire for a while, staring at the glowing
embers, lost in thought.

“Milord!”

A voice behind him, roused Dylan from his brooding.
He swiveled round to see two of his men making their way toward him. One of
them hauled a slight figure wearing a home spun
wealca
behind him.

Dylan’s breathing stilled for a moment. He would
know her walk, her creamy skin, her mane of light brown hair, and those
piercing blue eyes, anywhere. The sight of her came as a shock. He had put this
woman out of his thoughts. He had left her in the past, where she belonged.
Yet, here she was, returning to torment him.

 “Merwenna!”

The young woman’s gaze met his, and held. He could
see the lines of fatigue, the dark smudges under her eyes. Irritation swiftly
followed surprise. He could not believe she had been foolish enough to follow
him. He had credited her with more intelligence.

He stepped forward to meet her, his expression
hardening. “What in the gods are you doing here?”