The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (17 page)

Chapter Thirty

Survivor

The warrior stumbled the last furlong toward the
gates of Tamworth. Dusk’s long shadows stretched across the soft green hills
and surrounding woodland; it would not be long before the guards drew those
iron gates closed. He had to reach them first.

The young man’s leather armor creaked as he ran,
his lank blond hair plastered to his skull with sweat. Exhaustion pulled at his
weary limbs and his feet stumbled on the road, but he pressed on. His gaze was fixed
upon the great stone tower that loomed over the town’s thatched roofs – his
destination.

Caedmon knew his life was forfeit, but he had no
choice. He had to go before Penda and tell him what had transpired. He was a
hardened warrior, his Cymry mother had once teased him that he had come out of
the womb fighting, yet the thought of what awaited him made Caedmon’s bowels
cramp in fear. The King of Mercia had been clear before Rodor and his carefully
chosen company left Tamworth, that failure had not been a possibility.

Yet, the assassination had not only failed, but
Cynddylan knew of their plan to kill him.

Penda had to be warned, no matter the consequences.

It was only a twist of fate that had saved Caedmon
from the same fate as Rodor and the others. Had he not stumbled off in the
bushes to empty his bowels, he too would have been slaughtered under the trees
where they had been resting.

Caedmon’s guts had been paining him all day. The
meal of salted pork and stale bread the night before had not agreed with him –
although the others seemed unaffected by it. He had been crouched in the bushes,
around twenty yards from where his companions slept, cursing the pork, his
breeches around his ankles, when the attack came.

He remained there, frozen to the spot, listening to
the grunts, stifled cries – and the wet sound of iron biting flesh.

It would be death to venture from his hiding place,
and so Caedmon had pulled up his breeches and hid himself in a growth of
brambles. Later, when he was sure that Cynddylan and his men had gone, he
returned to the camp and found all of his companions slaughtered.

Somehow, Cynddylan had learned of their plans.

Caedmon had stood over Rodor’s body, staring down
at the warrior’s slit throat, and realized then that the funeral pyre and the
lament for the dead prince had been a carefully planned ruse. Cynddylan would
know Penda had betrayed him. He had taken off at a run then, and had only
rested when his body could go no further.

Now his exhausting journey was almost over.

“Wait!” Caedmon gasped.

He was just a couple of yards from the gates now,
and could see that the guards were, indeed, pulling them closed.

“Let me in!”

He saw two figures, clad in boiled leather, appear
in the gap between the gates. The guards glared into the gathering dusk.

“Who goes there!” one of them shouted, brandishing
his spear.

“Caedmon, of Penda’s guard,” he called back, barely
able to get the words out. His lungs burned and his breath now came in short,
painful gasps. At the mention of their king, the guards smartly stepped aside
and let him inside without another word.

A moment later, the great iron gates of Tamworth
rumbled shut, sealing him inside.

***

“So you bungled it.”

Penda leaned back in his carved wooden throne and
regarded the warrior before him.

The young man looked fit to drop. His thin face was
gaunt with hunger and exhaustion. He stank of sweat – and fear.

“Aye, Milord,” the warrior’s pale gaze met his.
“Cynddylan knew we were coming, and tricked us into thinking he was already
dead.”

“And yet, you survived.”

“I did, Milord.”

Penda took a deep, measured breath and sought to
control his temper. He had trusted Rodor to carry out this mission discreetly, and
efficiently. Instead, he had completely messed up. Worse still, this fool had –
against Penda’s instructions – returned to deliver the news.

The king had just finished eating and had retired to
his throne upon the high seat with his wife, when the ragged warrior had burst
into the hall. Caedmon’s arrival had caused quite a stir. He was known to most
of the residents here, and the sight of him in such a state, caused activity to
cease. Curious gazes had tracked Caedmon across the hall, to the high seat,
leaving whispers in his wake.

Penda had sent his wife away, for he had no wish
for anyone to hear what Caedmon had to say. The queen left obediently, joining
her daughters next to one of the fire pits, where they were roasting chestnuts.

Penda glared at Caedmon, letting his fury kindle. To
his credit, the young warrior knew the trouble he was in. Yet, he stood before
his king, unflinching, awaiting his punishment. He could have run away after
the slaughter – instead, he had returned to Tamworth to warn his king.

The news of Rodor’s failure galled Penda terribly.
He had hoped to rid himself of Cynddylan, but instead, the Prince of Powys now
had a grievance to nurse against him. Penda steepled his hands before him and
viewed Caedmon under hooded lids.

“I wanted this done secretly,” he said, finally.
“Powys is a strong ally. Cynddylan was never supposed to return home, but no
one was ever to suspect his death was by my hand.”

“I understand, Milord,” the young man swallowed
hard. “Cynddylan will seek reckoning for this.”

“He will, indeed – and that is likely to mean war
between us.”

Penda let this sentence hang in the air.

“If it comes to that, you would defeat him,”
Caedmon replied confidently. “Powys does not have the armies to best Mercia.”

“Perhaps not,” Penda mused, “but his army is large enough
to cause us great damage. I have other plans for my
fyrd
. Going to war
against Powys is not one of them.”

Caedmon dropped his gaze then, while Penda silently
fumed. It took all his willpower not to leap from his throne, seize
Aethelfrith’s
Bane
from where the sword hung on the wall behind him, and run the warrior
through with it
.

Incompetent, useless dolts. This is
what happens when I leave important deeds in the hands of lesser men.

“Milord,” Caedmon intruded upon his silent rage,
his voice cowed. “I did not come here for forgiveness, but to warn you. I wholly
take the blame, and any punishment, for this failure. If there is anything I
can do to put things right, I will.”

Penda clenched his fingers around the carved
armrests of his throne and glowered at the young man. He had been one of
Penda’s best. Rodor had picked him for his quick, cunning mind and adder-like swiftness
with a blade. It would be all too easy to kill Caedmon for failing him, but his
satisfaction would be short-lived, and it would not ease his current
predicament.

“I have a long memory, Caedmon,” Penda rumbled
eventually. “Those who fail me rarely live long enough to regret it. Yet, if
you can prevent Powys from marching to war against us, I may show you mercy.”

The young man’s eyes widened. He had not expected
this, and the knowledge that Caedmon had been prepared to die for his news,
made Penda’s fury lessen slightly. The lad was a fool, but an honest one. He
had told the truth when he said he had not come here to bargain for his life.

“How may I assist you, Milord?”

“I will have to offer Cynddylan something to make
him reconsider his vengeance. You will travel to Pengwern to deliver a
gift
in my stead.”

“But you have already given him land,” Caedmon’s
gaze narrowed. “Will you offer him more?”

“I have – and I cannot afford to relinquish any more
of our territory to Powys. No, I will not offer him land. I have something else
in mind.”

Penda’s gaze shifted then, to the three females
seated around the fire pit. Cyneswide was smiling at something her eldest
daughter, Cyneburh had said. Her younger sister, Cyneswith, had just plucked a
chestnut from the fire, and was unpeeling its blackened skin with dainty
fingers.

They were so much like their mother, his girls. Blonde,
beautiful and biddable. Cyneburh was approaching her seventeenth winter. The
time was nearing for him to find her a husband.

Penda ground his teeth in frustration. He had plans
for his eldest daughter – and they did not involve gifting one of them to a
Celt. He had intended to wed Cyneburh to the new ruler of Northumbria, to help
build an alliance between them; and he was loath to deviate from this plan. His
gaze shifted then from his eldest daughter, to his youngest.

Cyneswith was only eighteen months younger than her
sister, and he had not yet made plans for her.

Sensing her father’s gaze upon her, the princess
looked up from where she had just finished peeling the chestnut, and was about
to take a bite of the sweet flesh. She smiled, and Penda felt a rare pang of remorse.
She was so beautiful, so pure. His wife and daughters were his one weakness,
his one indulgence. He did not want to share them.

Quelling his jealousy with his legendary iron will,
Penda turned back to Caedmon, to find the warrior watching him expectantly.

“What will you offer him, Milord?”

Chapter Thirty-one

Pengwern

Merwenna peered over Dylan’s shoulder, her gaze
fixed upon the cascades of water that surged down the sheer cliffs up ahead.
The thundering falls crashed down into a swiftly flowing river, filling the
valley with a fine mist.

“Thor’s hammer!”

She felt the vibration of Dylan’s soft laugh, in
response to her outburst.

“That, Merwenna, is the way into Pengwern.”

“Really?”

Forgetting to be embarrassed, or to mind the fact
that the pair of them had been largely silent traveling companions for the past
five days, Merwenna craned her neck upwards. Her gaze followed the line of the
rocky cliff face. There, she spied the high gabled roof of a great timbered
hall, and the thatched roofs of surrounding houses spilling down the cliff
beneath it.

“It’s like something out of a dream,” she
whispered. “A hidden kingdom.”

Pengwern perched high upon the rocky cliff-face
like a hawk’s eerie. The seat of the King of Powys sat at the end of a steep
valley, at the head of the Hafren River, nestled amongst rocks and greenery. It
was an enchanting spot.

“Don’t let Pengwern’s remoteness fool you,” Dylan
told her, his laughter fading. “It may appear as if it cannot be touched by the
outside world, but let me assure you we are just as vulnerable as any other
settlement in Britannia. War has reached us, even here.”

Merwenna did not reply, although the prince’s
response had dimmed her enthusiasm somewhat. Remaining silent, she turned her
attention back to her surroundings. Despite the narrowness of the valley, there
were a number of folk living here; small thatched huts sat on the lowest
slopes, peasants worked fields of crops, and sheep and goats grazed alongside
the river.

The sight of the approaching army caused quite a
stir amongst the valley folk. Those working the land, put down their tools and
waved, huge smiles plastered on their faces. Folk emerged from their homes and
made their way down to the road. There were grins and shouts of welcome.
Merwenna witnessed tears of joy as one of Dylan’s men broke free of the column
and ran to his wife.

Watching their tearful reunion, and the joy on
their faces, Merwenna felt her chest constrict. A moment later, a wave of
longing broke through her. The naked love on the man’s face made her look away.

No man has ever looked at me like that
– not even Beorn.

Of course, he might have, if his life had not been
tragically cut short. Had he survived the battle and returned home to Weyham,
there would have been plenty of time for the pair of them to become close and
grow roots together, like two oaks planted side by side.

Dylan urged his stallion into a trot, jolting
Merwenna out of her introspection. They had reached the end of the valley. She
clung on around his waist as they began their climb up the steep, winding road
to Pengwern.

Their arrival had caused a great clamor. Groups of
folk appeared at the roadside, the higher the army climbed, scrambling up the
steep bank to catch a glimpse of their returning warriors.

Cynddylan’s men called out to them. Although
Merwenna did not understand the words, she judged from the look of joy and
pride on the faces of the gathering crowd that they were spreading the news
about their victory against Northumbria.

Wise not to tell them of Penda’s
treachery
,
Merwenna thought.
Let them enjoy this moment.

Ahead, she spied the tall gates of Pengwern; hard
wood and iron, looming before her. The gates drew open as they approached, and
Merwenna felt fear flutter up into her throat.

Suddenly, she railed against the man who had sent
her here. Her father would have known Dylan’s hall would not welcome her, but
he had not cared. Mercia might have allied with Powys to fight a common enemy
but they were far from being on good terms. It was a cruel punishment to exile
her to a foreign land.

I will be treated as a ‘nithing’, a
creature beneath notice,
she thought, dread forming a heavy
weight in her belly.
They will hate me.

That was likely the truth, but this was her new
life and she would not shrink from it. She had changed in the past weeks. The
innocent girl who had so eagerly run off to find her betrothed seemed a
stranger to her now; she now saw the world as a harsher place. The past weeks
had made her tougher – or perhaps the strength had been in her all along,
awaiting the chance to show itself.

Merwenna took a deep breath and squared her
shoulders. Whatever awaited her beyond those gates, she had no choice but to
face it.

Merwenna mounted the steps to the Great Hall and
hurried to keep up with the long strides of Dylan, Gwyn and Owain. A retinue of
warriors followed at her heels.

A cool, damp breeze feathered against her face and
the muted roar of the waterfalls filled her ears. After a fearful start, it had
been an exciting ride up to the Great Hall, through the narrow, twisting
streets of Pengwern. The whole population had stopped work and lined the
streets to welcome their prince and his men home. Their cheering and the joy
was infectious, and although she’d had no part in it, Merwenna was caught up in
the air of celebration. Children and women had thrown rose petals over the
returning warriors, which floated down upon them like large, fragrant snowflakes.

Merwenna had felt the men’s pride and a wave of
sadness engulfed her. The warriors who returned to Weyham would have been given
a similar welcome.

If only Beorn had lived to experience
this.

They had left the crowds behind, upon riding into
the yard below the Great Hall. Now that they approached the top of the steps,
Merwenna wondered what welcome awaited within. Ahead, the carved wooden doors
to the hall draw open to receive them. The prince reached the top of the wooden
steps, and strode to the doors. A moment later, they had stepped inside and
were crossing the floor, rushes crunching underfoot.

Merwenna found it hard not to gape at the interior
of the Great Hall of Pengwern.

She had hated the Great Tower of Tamworth; a place
as cold and soulless as the man who ruled it – but this space was altogether
different. It was like stepping into the ribcage of a slain beast –
Nithhogg
himself. The size of the great blackened beams overhead was such that Merwenna
wondered at the size of the tree they had felled to construct them.

Axes and swords, spoils of battle, hung from some
of the beams, and two massive fire pits dominated the space. Richly detailed
tapestries hung from the walls. The most stunning one of all – depicting a
wild-boar hunt in the forest – hung at the back of the hall, where it shielded
the living quarters of Dylan and his kin from view of the rest of the hall.

Before this tapestry was the high seat – and upon
it sat a man. At his back, stood half a dozen older warriors, dressed in fine
cloth, leather and fur. Merwenna guessed that these were Dylan’s kin.

At first glance, from afar, the seated man appeared
Dylan’s twin. Tall, lithe with curly dark hair, and dressed in dark leather, he
cut a striking figure. However, as they drew nearer, making their way through
the crowd of high born who resided inside the hall, Merwenna saw that the
brothers were not as alike as she had first thought.

Merwenna watched the man rise from his ornately
carved chair and step down from the high seat to meet them. He moved
differently to Dylan, his walk lacking his brother’s purpose. He had a
handsome, finely sculpted face, although his features were a touch sharper than
his brother’s, his gaze more hooded.

The man’s gaze never left Dylan’s face.

“
Cartref croeso
, Cynddylan,” he greeted
Dylan with a cool smile.
Welcome home
, one of the few phrases of Cymraeg
that Merwenna knew.

“Hello Morfael,” his brother replied.

“I take it from the ruckus outside that you return
home victorious?” Morfael commented.

“We do,” Dylan replied, holding his brother’s gaze.
“And, I see that you have grown comfortable in my throne, in my absence.

Morfael smirked in response. “Just keeping it warm
for you, dear brother.”

“Polishing it with your arse and hoping for my
demise more like.”

This caused laughter to ripple through the
surrounding crowd, although Morfael did not join them.

“Marching to war with the Mercians has sharpened
your tongue,” he observed.

“Aye, but that’s a small price to pay. Penda has
gifted us a considerable parcel of land. Powys now rules as far east as
Lichfield.”

Morfael’s face lit with genuine pleasure for the
first time since Dylan had entered the hall. “That is fine news indeed.”

Dylan remained silent for a few moments, letting
his brother, and his uncles and cousins behind Morfael, enjoy their moment of
glory. He was not looking forward to spoiling things, yet the news of Penda’s
betrayal could not be kept from them for much longer.

“This warrants a great victory feast,” Morfael
stepped forward and slapped Dylan on the shoulder. “Of a scale that Powys has
never known.”

“Then it will be so,” Dylan smiled back, “but
before you break open the mead and begin the arrangements for a victory feast,
there is something else I need to share with you.”

Dylan was aware of the gazes of all present upon
him as he continued. “I have news that will not be so welcome.”