The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

Tainted

Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, greeted the day with a
spring in his stride. He had slept little, and would pay the price later for
it. Yet, right at this moment, he had never felt so alive. He strode across the
hall, to where a great wheel of cheese, fresh bread and an earthen pitcher of
milk sat awaiting him. He helped himself to a hearty portion.

A night bedding the beautiful Merwenna had given
him an appetite.

He caught sight of his brother, who also approached
the table to break his fast, and greeted him with a grin.

“Morning, Morfael.”

His brother gave him a sidelong glance and poured
himself a cup of milk. “You’re in high spirits.”

“I’m back under my own roof, in the company of my
friends and kin. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Morfael took a sip from his cup. “You told uncle
that girl wasn’t your whore – why did you lie to him?”

Dylan swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese and
gave his brother a measured look. It had taken less time than he had thought
for news of Merwenna spending the night in his bower to circulate the hall.
Tongues were, indeed, flapping.

 “I didn’t,” he replied. “Until last night, we had
never lain together.”

“Why did you bring her here, Dylan?”

“I told you, she saved my life. I swore an oath to
her father that I would take her with me, and protect her.”

“That is a strange oath,” Morfael was frowning now.
“There must be more to it than that.”

“I admit, her loveliness made it easy to agree to
it. Merwenna and I formed a bond in the time we have traveled together. I first
met her in Tamworth. She had gone there, looking for her betrothed – a warrior
who died at Maes Cogwy.”

“So you’ve taken her as your consort?”

“I have – what of it?”

“You are about to receive the crown of Powys; the
same that graced the heads of our forebears, our father. You need to start
looking for a high born wife of Cymry blood – not a Mercian peasant. What if
she breeds your bastard?”

The brothers’ gazes locked and Dylan felt his sunny
mood dim slightly. Morfael had crossed the line.

“Who I bed, and who I wed, are my business – and
mine alone.” Dylan growled. “And, I’d warn you against continuing along this
vein.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan caught a
flutter of movement.

He turned from Morfael, to see Heledd marching toward
him across the rushes. Her pretty face was creased in a murderous scowl.

Dylan let out a slow breath. Not Heledd as well –
Merwenna had warned him of this.

Merwenna.

He had left her, bathing in a cast-iron tub he’d
had brought into his quarters at first light. The memory of her naked, supple
body, beaded with moisture as she bathed, made him wish he had not ventured
outside to break his fast. It was too early in the day for arguments. However,
seeing the fury in his sister’s eyes, he realized that he would have to nip
these rumblings of discontent in the bud.

“Heledd,” he greeted her. “You’re up early this
morning.”

“I could not lie abed,” she replied crisply. “Not
when there is your coronation and victory feast to organize.”

“And I appreciate your efforts,” Dylan smiled.

Heledd’s gaze narrowed. They both knew she had not
approached him to speak of such matters.

“Is that
girl
still in your bed?”

“She is.”

The princess’s face paled and her mouth thinned. “I
do not want her to attend me.”

“Why not,” Dylan replied, feigning a lack of
understanding. “She will serve you well, and will make a gracious hand-maid.”

“But she is your…,” Heledd’s voice trailed off, and
her face flamed.

“She is my lover,” Dylan finished his sister’s
sentence, “but that does not make her tainted.”

“She was already tainted,” Heledd pointed out,
lifting her chin haughtily. “She’s Mercian. She doesn’t belong here.”

“I decide that, Heledd,” Dylan replied, ensnaring
her gaze with his, “and I also decide who serves you as your hand-maid. You
will accept her assistance, and you will gentle your manner toward her from
this day forward. She is your maid, not a kitchen skivvy. Is that clear?”

The princess’s eyes glistened with tears, and her
mouth had set in a stubborn line, but she nodded, nonetheless.

“You will pick out one of your old tunics for her
this morning, and you will kindly take her through her new duties,” Dylan
continued. He kept his tone gentle but he knew his sister could hear the iron
just beneath. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, Milord,” she whispered.

Dylan watched his sister give a brief curtsey
before she turned on her heel and fled across the hall back to her bower. Her
back was stiff with outrage, but she would obey him.

The prince turned back to his meal, to find Morfael
still standing beside him. Dylan cast aside the bread and cheese he had been
enjoying. His siblings had both succeeded in ruining his appetite.

“Not another word, brother,” Dylan ground out. “I
warn you.”

Morfael nodded, minding him this time. He moved
away, and left Dylan alone at the table.

***

Merwenna squeezed out the cloth and inhaled the
scent of rose, lavender and rosemary. To bathe in a tub, in complete privacy,
was a delight. The water was cooling now, but she was loath to leave it. She
had washed her hair, using an herb-scented lotion, and it now hung over one
shoulder in a damp curtain. Afterwards, she had lain back against the smooth
edge of the cast iron tub, enjoying the heat that flooded through her limbs.

Is this what it’s like to be high born?

Outside, she could hear the rumble of voices, clang
of pots and the thump of wood, as the Great Hall awoke. Merwenna stirred
restlessly, sloshing water over the side of the tub. She should join them, for
Dylan had told her that she would continue to serve his sister today. She would
win no friends here by lying around when there was work to be done.

Yet, it was difficult to leave this bath. Such
moments of pleasure were rare enough to be cherished.

Like last night.

Even now, the memory of what had passed between her
and Dylan, made Merwenna’s toes curl and heat flush across her body. She may
well come to regret it soon enough, but at this moment, the magic of their
coupling still thrilled her. Merwenna closed her eyes, letting sensual images
from last night, play before her.

“You’ll turn into a fish, if you stay in there any
longer.”

Her eyes flew open to see that Dylan had returned.
He let the fur hanging fall behind him and stood there for a moment, his gaze
making a frank appraisal of her.

“Although, I’d say you were siren already,” he
advanced on her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “whose beauty
would lure a man into treacherous waters.”

“Is that what I’ve done?” Merwenna asked. Her heart
had started to race at the sight of him, and her nakedness suddenly made her
feel vulnerable.

“You have,” he replied, “although, there’s no other
place I’d rather drown.”

With that, he took hold of her hands and pulled her
to her feet in the tub. More water sloshed over the side, wetting the rushes
beneath, but neither of them paid it any mind.

Dylan’s mouth came down fiercely over Merwenna’s,
and he pulled her hard against him. Merwenna gave an answering groan. She
reached up, entwined her arms around his neck and pressed her slick breasts
against his chest, wetting his thin linen tunic through.

Last night’s fire returned, with a sharper hunger
for them both. Now they had both been given a taste, they wanted more. With an
animal growl, Dylan picked Merwenna up and carried her across to the furs. He
then threw her down upon them, and tore off his wet clothes.

Suddenly, all thoughts of the day’s chores, or what
the future held for her, dissolved from Merwenna’s mind. This man, magnificent
in his nakedness, was all that mattered.

With a smile full of heat and promise, she held out
her arms to him.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Different
Worlds

“Thank you for the dress – it’s beautiful.”

“It’s old and drab, but it’ll suit you.”

Despite herself, Merwenna flinched under Heledd’s spite.
She did not reply, instead smoothing out the butter-soft wool tunic beneath her
fingers. Heledd had only said that to hurt her, for they both knew it was a
lovely dress, made of soft, fine wool and dyed grey-blue. Merwenna had never
worn a garment like this before; it made her old
wealca
and the homespun
tunics she had grown up in look like mere rags. She was used to wearing
sleeveless garments, even in winter, but this dress had long, bell-like
sleeves.

She felt like a princess wearing it – although,
clearly, she was not.

“If you are to serve me, I cannot have you looking
like a peasant,” Heledd sniffed. “Come, I shall show you the clothes I need
washing. I also have a pile of mending for you.”

Merwenna followed the princess to the wicker
basket, on the other side of her furs. “It was stuffed full of under-tunics and
a collection of brightly colored over-dresses.

“They must all be washed separately, or the dye
will bleed and ruin them,” Heledd instructed. “There is a special block of lye
soap for the task. You must ask the servants for it.”

Merwenna nodded, not relishing the thought of
attempting to ask for such a thing in her broken Cymraeg.

“How do I say ‘soap’ in your tongue,” she asked.

“
Sebon
,” the princess snapped. “Now, over
here there are the clothes that need to be mended.” Heledd motioned to the pile
of items hanging over a wooden chest. “You will need to ask for needle and the
right color thread from the other women.”

Merwenna nodded, once more. Heledd must be
referring to the high born ladies who spent most of their day sitting at their
distaffs or looms. None of them had viewed her with a friendly eye the day
before, and Merwenna was wary of approaching them today.

“How do I say…,” she began, hoping that Heledd
would give her some more useful vocabulary in order to communicate without
making a fool of herself, but the princess had clearly run out of patience with
her.

“Enough,” Heledd shoved the wicker basket full of
dirty clothes into Merwenna’s arms. “Learn it for yourself.”

Merwenna took that as her signal to quit Heledd’s
bower. The princess only barely tolerated her. Yet, Dylan had obviously made
his authority felt, for she had not been ordered to scrub pots today.

Balancing the basket against her hip, Merwenna
emerged from Heledd’s bower and made her way down from the platform into the
main area of the hall. It was nearing time for the noon meal, and the servants
were hard at work, pummeling dough for griddle bread and adding the finishing
touches to the venison stew.

One of the servants, the harridan who had barked
orders at her all last evening, met Merwenna’s eye as she walked toward them. The
woman scowled at her but Merwenna smiled back, and made straight for her.

She would ask this woman for the soap.

It was time she developed a thicker hide; she had
to learn how to weather these folks’ scorn, instead of shrinking from it. She
could not let the servants make her cower, or she would forever slink around
the Great Hall like a cur.

***

The stone furnace roared like a Yule bonfire.

Dylan stepped inside the smith’s forge, drawing
back slightly at the intense heat that struck him across the face. The acrid odor
of molten iron stung his nostrils and the thick pall of smoke hanging in the
air made his eyes water.

A low, dimly lit building housed the smith’s forge
– and Dylan had never seen it so busy.

His
gaze shifted around the space, traveling from where the smith, a huge fellow
with arms like tree-trunks, gripped the beginnings of a sword-blade with
pincers upon a heavy iron anvil, while a young man struck the blade repeatedly
with a hammer. It was grueling work and sweat poured off the lad’s brow,
running in rivulets down his bare arms. Nearby, four other lads were hard at
work, beating glowing lumps of iron into spearheads.

The noise was deafening.

“My Lord Cynddylan,” the smithy bellowed, acknowledging
the prince with a wide smile.

“Good morning, Bryn, how goes it?”

“Well enough.”

The smithy gestured to the young man to stop striking
the blade. Then, he rubbed a beefy forearm across his sweaty brow.

“I’ve got the lads working night and day – but it’ll
depend on how many weapons you need.”

“I’m gathering a mighty army,” Dylan replied. “Word
has gone out. Warriors will start arriving from all corners of Powys, a few
days from now. We’ll need a thousand spear heads, and as many axes and sword
blades as you can manage.”

The smithy sucked his teeth at this news, while the
lad next to him visibly blanched.

“We will do our best, Milord,” he replied, although
Dylan saw the concern in his eyes, “although it’ll take two moons, at least, to
make it all.”

Dylan frowned. He had hoped to be ready before
then.

“Surely you don’t plan to march on Tamworth so soon?”
the smithy asked. “The leaves are starting to fall, it will not be long before
winter is upon us. Begging your pardon, Milord, but only a fool goes to war in
winter.”

The smith’s apprentice grew even paler at this
comment, and flicked Bryn a look of mute panic.

No one spoke to the Lord of Powys thus.

“I thank you for the reminder,” Dylan growled. “Although
I’m well aware of that fact.”

Bryn had been his family’s smithy for decades, and
served his father loyally. As such, Dylan let the comment pass. Silence
stretched out between them and Bryn broke eye contact, suddenly fascinated by
the dirt floor of the forge – he knew he had over-stepped the mark.

“So it will be in the spring then, Milord?” the
smithy finally asked.

“It may well have to be,” Dylan replied. In truth,
he was disappointed. He chafed at having to wait so long; he would have to
organize housing and food, for the coming months, for all the men he was
rallying to him. Yet, the last thing they needed was to be waylaid by snow and
bitter cold.

As Bryn had pointed out, waging war in the midst of
winter was a madman’s quest.

***

Outside, it was a dazzlingly bright morning. The
air was crisp and laced with the resin-scent of wood smoke. Merwenna hummed to
herself as she carried the basket and soap down the steep wooden steps to the
stone well in the stable yard below.

The view from this height was mesmerizing, and
Merwenna paused, half-way down the steps, to admire it. The thatch roofs of
Pengwern fell away beneath her, amid a riot of autumn colors, into the rocky
valley. The roar of the nearby falls filled her ears, as did the rise and fall
of men’s voices in the yard below.

Her gaze shifted from the view, and fastened upon
Dylan. He was talking with a small group of warriors in the center of the yard.
Men moved around him, carrying battered weapons and shields toward the smithy.
The forge lay behind the stables, and the clang of iron against iron drew her
attention.

Merwenna winced at the noise, her gaze traveling
around the yard, taking in the industry going on there.

Is he preparing himself for war
already?

The prince had only been home a day, and it
appeared he was hard at work readying himself to leave again.

Anxiety curled itself into a tight knot in
Merwenna’s belly. Beorn’s loss had been terrible enough; but she could not bear
the thought of losing Dylan as well.

He’s not yours to lose
, a
cruel voice reminded her.
You are not his wife
.

Merwenna took a deep breath to quell her rising
panic. Life here would only be bearable with Dylan at her side. If he left, she
would be reviled once more. And if he never returned, she would be cast out, or
worse.

Her light mood gone, Merwenna continued down the
steps. Once she reached the bottom, she made her way to the well and filled a
wooden pail with water, in preparation for washing the princess’s soiled
clothes.

It was then, she felt someone’s gaze upon her, and
glanced up from her task. Across the yard, despite the fact that he was still
deep in conversation with his men, Dylan stared at her. His gaze seared hers
and the intensity of it took her breath away. This man’s sensuality and appetite
thrilled her; she could hardly wait till they were alone once more.

Yet, the prospect of war had now cast its dark shadow
over her fragile happiness. The unfairness of matters choked Merwenna and she
turned back to her chore, her emotions in turmoil.

It truly was a man’s world. Warriors lived and died
by the sword while women stayed behind and picked up the broken pieces.

***

 “We will need at least a thousand men. Perhaps
even double that, if we wish to beat Penda.”

Owain spoke quietly, his lean face
uncharacteristically tense this morning. Dylan had just emerged from the
smithy, and had stopped to exchange a few words with Gwyn and Owain. As soon as
Owain began to speak, he noted that something was worrying the warrior.

It had also not escaped Dylan that they would need
a formidable army to take on Penda. Like Owain, he had witnessed the Mercian
fyrd
with Penda at the helm. He had once reflected that he had been
relieved to be on Penda’s side, not opposing him. Yet, here he was planning to
do just that.

“You fear them,” Dylan observed, “and rightly so.”

He clapped Owain on the shoulder and met the
younger man’s gaze steadily. “Yet, matched with the same numbers, we can beat
them. We will not go into battle until we are ready. I want reckoning for our
people – I have no intention of sending my men to senseless slaughter.”

Owain nodded, although Dylan saw the flicker of doubt
in his eyes. It seemed the warrior, who had fought so bravely at Maes Cogwy,
had lost his stomach for battle. Dylan knew Owain had a young family here, and
that he was loath to leave them again so soon, but that was the sacrifice a
warrior must make – one they would all have to make.

Dylan glanced in Merwenna’s direction then. He had
seen her make her way down to the well, where she now knelt, scrubbing wet
clothes. She was a vision in that woolen dress she wore; its color matched her
eyes. Unlike the
wealca
she had worn till now, this garment hugged her
curves – making her seem older, more womanly.

She caught him staring, and boldly returned his
gaze. Her lips had parted slightly, and he saw the rise and fall of her breast quicken.

He too would be leaving someone behind.

Suddenly, Dylan understood Owain’s reluctance.
Until now, he’d had no ties here beyond kin. Now, there was Merwenna, and
although their passion was still fresh, he knew that when the time came, it
would be a wrench to leave her.

Merwenna looked away then, her gaze shuttered. He
could see that she brooded upon something. He wished to know what it was, but
she had distracted him from his conversation long enough.

Regretfully, Dylan turned his own attention back to
his men, and to talk of war.