The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (2 page)

However long the
night,

The dawn will break.

African proverb

Prologue

The
Promise

The
village of Weyham, Kingdom of Mercia – Britannia

Spring
641 AD

“Will you marry me?”

Merwenna’s breath caught. Had she heard correctly –
had he really uttered those words?

“Excuse me?”

“Merwenna.” Beorn stepped close to her, his gaze
longing, his voice tender. “Will you be my wife?”

The young couple stood alone in the woods,
surrounded by skeleton trees.

Warmth had not yet returned to the world, although
it was early spring, and nature still lay dormant. They had both donned heavy
fur cloaks for their walk, as the morning air held winter’s bite – yet Merwenna
did not feel the morning’s chill. Joy bathed her in warmth as if she stood next
to a roaring fire.

A smile broke across her face and she flung herself
into his arms. She had not been dreaming. The moment she had longed for had
finally come.

“Of course I will!”

Beorn laughed, his relief evident. His arms
tightened around her and he pulled her close. “Thank Woden – for a moment
there, I thought you would refuse me.”

The feel of his young, strong body against hers
made her pulse quicken.

Beorn pulled back slightly and met her gaze. As
always, she was struck by the blueness of his eyes, and the beauty of his
chiseled features.

“Refuse you?” Merwenna stared at him, incredulous.
It had taken her nearly three years of gentle encouragement to reach this
point. “I was beginning to think you would never ask!”

Beorn flushed slightly, embarrassed, and looked
away. They both knew he valued his freedom highly. Like her father, Beorn served
Weyham’s ealdorman. They were warriors who farmed the land around the village
by day, but would ride to war with the ealdorman, if commanded. However, unlike
her father, who had lived a warrior’s life for many years before wedding her
mother – Beorn was young, and chafed at the thought of spending the rest of his
days in Weyham.

Merwenna gazed at her betrothed, drinking him in.
Wavy blond hair fell over his shoulders and since autumn he had worn a short
beard, which suited him.

She waited for him to say something else. She
expected an excuse for making her wait so long. Yet, he remained silent.

“Beorn?” she said finally, realizing that he was
still avoiding her gaze. “Is something the matter?”

The young man looked up, and shook his head. “The
thing is…,” he began hesitantly, “the handfasting itself will have to wait.”

A chill stole over Merwenna at these words, and her
joy dimmed.

“
Hwaet?”

“The king is gathering a
fyrd
,” Beorn
continued, the words rushing out as he gained momentum. “He intends to march north
and face King Oswald of Northumbria. I’ve decided to join his army.”

Merwenna stared at him. Her shock turning to upset.

When she did not respond, Beorn’s face grew
serious. “Merwenna?”

“You ask me to marry you,” Merwenna replied, her
voice quivering as she struggled to stop herself from crying, “and then in the
next breath announce that you are going to war. Why did you even bother to
propose?”

“Because I love you.” Beorn took hold of her hands
and squeezed gently, his gaze earnest. “I want us to be married. It’s just that
we shall have to wait a little.”

Merwenna took a deep breath, cursing the tears that
stung her eyelids. She always cried too easily; it made her look feeble. “And I
love you,” she answered, blinking furiously. “But, I have just passed my
twentieth winter. At this rate, I shall be an old maid before we wed.”

“Just a little longer,” Beorn replied, squeezing
her hands once more. “Then, I will return to Weyham and we shall be handfasted.
I promise.”

“You’re going to war.” Merwenna’s tears spilled
over as desperation seized her. “You can’t make that promise!”

She ripped her hands from Beorn’s. Then, she
turned, her cloak billowing, and started to run in the direction of Weyham.
Dead leaves squelched underfoot and the chill air burned her lungs, but
Merwenna paid it no mind. She had almost reached the outskirts of the village
when Beorn caught up with her.

“Merwenna, wait!’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her
up short.

She turned, tears streaming down her face, and
tried to shrug him off. “Let me be!”

“I made you a promise and I intend to keep it,”
Beorn insisted, his gaze imploring. “I will return to you!”

Merwenna’s tears flowed without restraint now. Sobs
welled up and she had to choke them back. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” He set his jaw stubbornly.

“Men die in battle,” she reminded him, “and when
two king’s armies meet there will be a great slaughter, surely you realize the
danger.”

“Penda’s the greatest king Britannia has ever
known,” Beorn countered with the supreme confidence that only young men
possess. “His
fyrd
will be mighty. The Prince of Powys is also sending a
large company of warriors to join our army. The Northumbrians won’t withstand
our combined might.”

Merwenna wiped away her tears and shook her head
wordlessly. She cared not if the whole of Britannia was rallying at Penda’s
side. The thought that Beorn would go off to battle and might never return made
her feel as if she was being buried alive.

“Penda is a mighty king,” Beorn insisted, staring
down at her with fire in his eyes. “He will be victorious.”

Merwenna stared back at him. Her cheeks stung from
the salt of her tears and it took all her self-control not to start sobbing
uncontrollably. This was folly – why could he not see it? However, it was clear
Beorn’s mind was made up.

“When will you leave?” she asked, her voice barely
above a whisper.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Merwenna stared at him. If he had punched her in
the belly, it would have hurt less. Suddenly, her world was crumbling around
her. Just moments ago, her heart had been bursting with joy. Now, her future
looked bleak.

The man she loved was riding to war, and there was
nothing she could do to prevent it.

***

Beorn of Weyham struggled to tighten the saddle’s
girth. He nudged his shaggy pony in the belly with his knee, until the stubborn
beast exhaled. Then he tightened the girth another notch. The last of his
preparations dealt with, Beorn turned to the small group of kin and
well-wishers who had gathered to see him off.

He had not been looking forward to this. Good-byes
were not something he had a lot of experience in. His mother and sisters were
all weeping, a sight which upset him. His father, at least, was stoic.

“Serve the king well, my son.” Horace stepped
forward and clasped Beorn in a bear-hug. “Make me proud.”

“I will,
fæder
.”

Behind him, Beorn could hear the other warriors
gathering; the low rumble of their voices, the snort of their horses. It was
just after dawn. A light frost covered the ground and the lightening sky
promised a day of good weather ahead. They stood in Weyham’s common, a stretch
of grass in the center of the village. A collection of squat, wattle and daub
homes with thatched roofs surrounded them. It was the only home he had ever
known, and shortly he would be leaving it – perhaps for a long time.

Beorn stepped back from his father and took a deep
breath. He was anxious to be off. Saying goodbye was harder than he had
anticipated.

Yet, first, he had to see Merwenna.

She stood a few yards away, patiently waiting. When
he turned to her, Merwenna stepped forward to speak to him. Her eyes were
red-rimmed, but that did not detract from her loveliness. In her build and
coloring, she resembled her winsome mother – small and brown haired with
startling blue eyes. However, there was a seriousness to her face that gave her
some of her father’s look. One of her most startling features was her
beautifully molded, rose-bud mouth.

Beorn had always been captivated by her lips, and
her breasts, which were impressively full for such a small female. They gave
her a womanly look on an otherwise girlish frame.

 “Farewell, my love,” Merwenna spoke, her voice
quivering from the effort it was taking her to hold back tears. Despite that
she was swathed from neck to shin in a heavy rabbit-skin cloak, he could see
she was trembling. Suddenly, Beorn felt as if his heart had lodged in his
throat. She was not making this any easier.

Although Beorn was eager to ride south-east to
Tamworth and join the king’s
fyrd
, he was also sorry that he and
Merwenna could not be handfasted first. He longed to bed her, to tear the
clothes off that delicious body. He could have wed her before leaving, but she
deserved better. When he returned to Weyham, victorious, their joining would be
all the sweeter. He wanted to make her proud of him; he wanted to come back to
Weyham sporting silver and gold arm rings, prizes from the king for his valor.
He wanted to be worthy of her.

 “Goodbye, sweet Merwenna.” He pulled her against
him and hugged her tightly. “Wait for me. I shall return.”

Drawing back from his betrothed, Beorn cupped her
face with his hands and stooped to kiss her, not caring that half the village
was looking on.

“I must go,” he murmured. “Wait for me, my love.”

“I will,” she whispered back, her eyes huge on her
heart-shaped face.

Beorn moved over to his pony and prepared to mount
it. He was too big for the beast, but fortunately the pony was sturdy, and it
had been the only horse his family could spare. Frankly, he was fortunate to be
riding at all – most of the kings’
fyrd
would arrive inTamworth on foot.

His mother started wailing then. She broke free
from her daughters’ embrace and rushed toward her son. Beorn enfolded her in
his arms as she sobbed.

“My boy! Don’t go – I’ll never see you again!”

“Enough, Arwyn!” Horace hauled his wife back.
“You’re embarrassing the lad. Control yourself!”

“Farewell,
mōder
,” Beorn said hoarsely,
struggling to hold back tears of his own. He had never seen his mother so
upset. “Don’t worry – you
will
see me again.”

His assurances only made his mother sob even
louder. Turning away from his parents, Beorn mounted his pony and quickly
adjusted the stirrups. He rode away feeling wretched; his mother’s
heart-rending wailing was almost more than he could bear.

It was a relief when he could no longer hear her.

Beorn joined the throng of men leaving Weyham, glad
to be finally on his way. His hamlet sat on the heavily wooded western fringes
of the Kingdom of Mercia. It was nestled at the end of a long valley, in the
shadow of dark hills that rose to meet the sky. Beorn rode through his village,
passing the ealdorman’s timbered hall along the way. He listened to the crunch
of frozen leaves underfoot, the creaking of leather and jangling of horses’
bridles, and felt his skin prickle with excitement.

A warrior had to be able to say goodbye without
shedding tears. He had done well this morning, yet it was nothing compared to
what lay ahead. He rode toward battle and glory – toward his future.

BOOK ONE

Mercia

Chapter
One

Battle
Lords

Maes
Cogwy – in the territory of north-eastern Powys – Britannia

Three
months later…

The young man lay on his back, an axe buried in his
gut.

Prince Cynddylan ap Cyndrwyn of Powys stared down
at the corpse. The dead man’s face was a grimace, his blue eyes staring up at
the heavens. He looked disbelieving, angry even, that his end had come.

 “Did you know him?” Gwyn, captain of Cynddylan’s
army, stopped next to his prince and glanced down at the warrior.

Cynddylan – ‘Dylan’ as he was known to those
closest to him – nodded. “Mercian lad. Followed Penda around like a puppy and
begged him to let him fight in the shield wall,” he replied. “Hard to forget a
man who does that.”

Gwyn snorted. “Fools always die young.”

Dylan gave a grim smile in response, his gaze
remaining upon the dead warrior. “Yes, they do.”

Dylan had spoken to the young man a few times on
the journey north-west from Tamworth. Yet now, he struggled to remember his
name. Beorn – that was it. Not that his name mattered now.

He was carrion for crows, nothing else.

Beorn’s corpse was just one of hundreds that
littered the battlefield. Dylan and Gwyn stood at the center of a wide, marshy
field fringed by forest on all sides. Dusk was settling, creating a haze over
the surrounding woodland. They were in Powys, Dylan’s domain, where Northumbria
had met Mercia and Powys in battle.

The Northumbrians had lost.

 The victors combed the battlefield, killing any of
the enemy who had not died from their wounds, and stripping them of their
weapons and arm-rings – the spoils of war.

Dylan straightened up. His shoulders and arms
burned from exertion, and the mail shirt he wore felt as if it was filled with
rocks. His fine purple cloak was ripped and stained with blood. Yet, apart from
a few bruises and superficial cuts, he was unhurt.

The thrill of victory made Dylan cast aside his
battle-weariness. This was a great moment for his people. He had done his
father proud; if only the old king had been alive to see it. He had now earned
the crown his father had worn.

Upon his return to Pengwern, he too would be king.

The prince glanced over at Gwyn. His captain’s
thick dark hair had come loose from its leather thong at his nape, and was now
a tangled halo around his heavy-featured face. He was covered in thick leather
armor, making his tall, muscular form look even more intimidating than usual.
However, Gwyn’s left thigh was slick with dark blood.

“You’re injured,” Dylan frowned.

The warrior grunted in response, brushing his
concern aside. “Just a nick – those northerners are skilled with a spear.”

Dylan nodded. Gwyn’s observation was an
understatement; it had been the hardest battle he had ever fought. They had
sacrificed a lot of men in order to bring the Northumbrians to their knees. He
had come here with over seven-hundred men, but he would leave
Maes Cogwy
with less than half that number.

“Get that leg seen to,” he told Gwyn. “I’ve got a
king to find.”

“Which one?” the warrior raised a dark eyebrow.

“The one who still has his head attached to his
shoulders.”

Gwyn gave another snort, turned and limped off,
leaving the Prince of Powys alone.

Dylan turned his attention to the other side of the
battlefield – where his and Penda’s men were dismembering the Northumbrian
king.

Fortunately, for Oswald, Penda had killed him
first.

He had delivered a fatal blow to the neck with his
legendary sword –
Aethelfrith’s Bane
. The sword had once belonged to
another Northumbrian king; Aethelfrith – slain by King Raedwald of the East
Angles many years earlier.

The King of Mercia stood now watching his men at
work on King Oswald. Penda was an imposing figure, clad in mail and leather, an
iron helm obscuring his face. He looked on while his men hacked at the
Northumbrian king’s corpse with axes.

One of the Mercian warriors hauled Oswald’s severed
head up by the hair and impaled it upon a pike. Then, with a victory roar, the
warrior strode through the battlefield, brandishing his grisly prize.

Dylan halted a few yards from Penda, and waited for
the Mercian to acknowledge him. However, the Prince of Powys did not sheath his
sword. Instead, he wisely kept hold of it in his right hand. Its blade was dark
with Northumbrian blood; he would not put it away until he was sure that Penda
would not betray him.

“Prince of Powys,” Penda rumbled, tearing his gaze
from Oswald’s final humiliation. He looked then, upon the man he had allied
himself with. “Well fought, Cynddylan son of Cyndrwyn.”

Dylan nodded curtly. “And you, Lord Penda.”

The Mercian King reached up and removed his helm,
revealing an austere face that had once been handsome. He had pale blue eyes
and a mane of white-blond hair. Penda was in his early forties but appeared to
have the strength of a man half his age. Dylan’s impression of the man before
him was of coldness, and of calculation. He had never liked Penda – few did –
but he had a grudging respect for him nonetheless.

“That is a fine sword,” Penda nodded at the weapon
that Dylan still held. “And you know how to wield it.”

Dylan nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “It was
my father’s.”

Penda’s cool gaze shifted from Dylan then and swept
over the battlefield behind him. “A great triumph for Mercia. Long has Oswald
been a thorn in my side.” His gaze settled upon the head of the Northumbrian
king that was making its way around the field. “But no more.”

Coarse laughter reached them. Dylan glanced across
the battlefield at where the warriors had removed Oswald’s head from the pike.
He and Penda looked on as the men hung the Northumbrian king’s head and hands,
in a tree; a gnarled elm on the edge of the marshy field.

It was done. The enemy was defeated, they had won.
The Prince of Powys shifted his gaze from Oswald’s remains, instead taking in
the wide field, the surrounding trees, and the darkening sky. Maes Cogwy would
forever be a sacred spot for his people. Mercia and Powys were now allies.
Songs would be sung around the fire for generations about their victory here.

But now, it was time to go home.

***

The village of
Weyham – the Kingdom of Mercia

“Hurry, Merwenna. If we are going, it must be now!”

“I am hurrying!” Merwenna gasped, hiking her skirts
and clambering up the mossy bank after her brother. “Wait for me!”

The sun was rising over the edge of the trees to
the east, and the sky was a pale, chalky blue, promising a warm day ahead.
Brother and sister had been sent out to Weyham’s market to buy two milking
goats. Little Aeaba had wanted to join them, but Merwenna had insisted she stay
behind – much to her younger sister’s upset.

Merwenna and Seward had crossed the village, nearly
running in their haste to leave Weyham without being waylaid. Seward carried a
leather pouch containing a few
thrymsas
– the money they had been given
for the goats. Merwenna carried a jute sack, slung across her front, containing
some provisions she had taken from the family store. Their parents were busy
with their morning chores but would expect Merwenna and Seward back shortly.

It was late summer, and the first day of the
harvest. Many days of hard work lay ahead while food was collected, preserved
and stored for the coming winter. It was the most crucial time of year; a
family could starve on account of a failed harvest.

It was the worst time of year to run away.

Merwenna broke into a sweat thinking about her
parents’ reaction. Even so, she quickened her pace and followed Seward into the
trees. It was selfish of them both, to leave right when they were needed most,
but Merwenna had thought long and hard before making her decision.

She had not been able to wait in Weyham any longer.

Three long months had passed since Beorn’s
departure, and since then no word had been heard. She did not even know if
Mercia had been victorious against Northumbria.

She had to know if Beorn lived – every waking
moment was spent worrying about his fate. With each passing day, she grew increasingly
agitated. Her mother had told her to wait, and she had tried, but now with the
end of summer approaching, she could bide her time no longer.

When she had asked Seward to accompany her to
Tamworth, she had expected him to refuse. Even worse, she had feared he would
go to their parents about it.

She need not have worried.

Seward was restless, with a longing to visit new
places and meet new people. At eighteen winters, he was old enough to go to
battle but his father had forbade it. Seward was needed at home, to help farm
the fields and feed the family. Her brother had chafed at his father’s
decision. He was eager to know of the world beyond Weyham, and he had jumped at
the chance of a journey to the King’s Hall.

He strode off ahead, not bothering to check if his
sister was keeping up. Like his father, he was not overly tall, but strongly
built, with short brown hair and hazel eyes. Despite that Seward was ignoring
her now, Merwenna felt safe and protected in his presence. She would never have
embarked on this journey alone. The road was good, but it was at least five
days to Tamworth from Weyham. Seward would make sure they reached their
destination safely.

Then, I will know of Beorn’s fate
,
Merwenna thought, her belly twisting with worry.
I will bring him home.

Life had been colorless and joyless for Merwenna
since Beorn’s departure. Now, for the first time in weeks, there was a
lightness in her stride. The cool morning breeze on her skin sharpened her
senses and she breathed in the scent of wild-flowers, damp earth and grass.

Finally, she was doing something. With every step
she drew closer to Beorn. The lump of dread that had settled in her belly the
day he had left, began to ease.

Once they left Weyham behind, Seward broke into a
slow jog, covering the ground quickly. They kept out of sight of the road,
although Seward made sure they followed its course south-east. Merwenna ran
behind him, the sack containing their supplies banging against her hip as she
did so. It was not long before a stitch in her side caused her to call out to
her brother.

“Slow down,” she gasped. “I can’t keep running like
this.”

Seward slowed and looked back over his shoulder,
his exasperation evident.

“I’m just trying to make sure we distance ourselves
from home,” he called back. “The faster we do that, the better.”

“I know, but I’m not used to running long
distances. Can we walk for a bit?”

Seward sighed and slowed to a walk, allowing his
sister to catch up.

Above, the sun had cleared the treetops and warmed
their faces.

“They will know we’ve gone by now,” Merwenna said
eventually.

Seward nodded, but did not reply.

“Are you sure
fæder
won’t come after us?”

“As sure as I can be – he can’t leave
mōder
and Aeaba alone with the harvest.”

“He will be furious.”

Seward shrugged, as if he had already considered
and dismissed the notion. “You knew that when you made the decision to leave.
However, we are both grown and must make our own decisions. If we had asked,
fæder
would only have denied us. You saw how he was when I asked to go to battle?”

‘He was only trying to protect you.”

“And he’d only be trying to protect us now. No,
Merwenna. You wanted to know Beorn’s fate – this is the only way. Unless you’d
prefer to return to Weyham and wait till the king sends word?”

Merwenna shook her head, setting her jaw into a
stubborn line.

“I thought not,” Seward laughed, throwing his arm
around her shoulders. “Come – the road is long and we’ve barely started along it.
Catch me if you can!”

And with that, Seward released her and sprang
forward. He sprinted through the trees like a deer.

With a groan, her legs still protesting from her
earlier run, Merwenna took off after him.