The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

The
Prince’s Consort

Merwenna carried an earthen jug of plum wine from
table to table, filling cups as they emptied.

Tonight, she served the Prince of Powys, his kin
and retainers. This time, she was not hauling pots and platters around. None of
the servants appeared to be happy with this arrangement, but all of them minded
their lord and did not voice their discontent. Even so, Merwenna caught the
sour looks, and muttered comments directed at her, whenever she returned to the
servants’ galley to refill the jug.

After a while, she became deaf and blind to their
resentment. She only hoped that, in time they would grow to accept her presence
here.

Tonight’s evening meal was considerably less lavish
than the night before, consisting of a simple pottage and dumplings. The cooks
had their hands full preparing for the great feast, in just two days, which
would celebrate both their victory against the Northumbrians, and Dylan’s
coronation.

Wagons laden with meat, produce, grains, cheeses
and nuts had been trundling in all afternoon, and the store houses beneath the
Great Hall were now packed to the rafters with food. Inside the hall itself, work
had begun in earnest in preparing the array of rich dishes for the
celebrations. Merwenna had lent a hand in the afternoon; plucking geese that
would be stuffed with bread, onions and chestnuts and roasted for the feast.
Despite that no one was talking to her, Merwenna had enjoyed the industry
inside the hall, and the gathering excitement for a celebration that would
involve, not just the Great Hall, but all of Pengwern.

Merwenna refilled the cup of an ealdorman’s wife,
and glanced wistfully up the table, her gaze resting upon Dylan. Although she
was grateful not to be lugging an iron cauldron of boiling soup around the
table, she wished she could have been seated there, at Dylan’s side.

That’s what a night in a prince’s bed
does to a woman
, she chided herself.
Next, you’ll be demanding
he wed you.

All the same, she longed to be at his side.

Dylan caught her eye then, and motioned for her to
draw near. Ignoring the warrior next to her, who had just held out his cup to
be filled, Merwenna went. As she neared the prince, she saw that Dylan was
speaking to his uncle and brother. They broke off their conversation upon her
arrival.

“Wine, Milord?” she asked Dylan in Cymraeg.

“Aye, just a drop,” he replied, his eyes smiling at
her.

“Fill mine up too, wench,” Morfael held his own cup
to her. Merwenna dropped her own gaze demurely and obeyed him. It was not wise
to appear too bold around Dylan’s kin. She moved to also refill Dylan’s uncle’s
cup, but Elfan warned her off with a scowl. Merwenna’s gaze moved across the
table, to where Heledd sat, to find the princess frowning at her.

“Wine, Milady?”

“No,” Heledd responded flatly.

Merwenna took that as her cue to move on. She
turned to make her way back down the table, and cast a glance back at Dylan, as
she did so – he was watching her.

They shared a secret smile.

“It will not be borne,” Heledd muttered between
clenched teeth, just loud enough for those surrounding her to catch her words –
Dylan among them.

“What won’t, dear sister?” The prince dragged his
gaze from where Merwenna leaned over to refill one of his men’s cups. That gown
hugged her curves indecently; he did not want her serving other men. Instead, he
wanted Merwenna here, sitting at his side.

“That girl,” Heledd replied, her emerald gaze
snapping. “You parade her in front of us.”

Dylan leaned back in his carved chair. He then took
a sip of tart, plum wine, regarding his sister over the rim of his cup. “Do I
need to ask your permission, Heledd?”

The princess flushed, and looked down at her
pottage. Yet, Dylan could see the fury that vibrated from her slender body.

“Your sister is too well-bred to say it, but she
merely voices what we all think,” Elfan growled. “We don’t want your Mercian
whore here. She’s leading you around by your cock, and making a fool of you. Send
her back to the peasant’s hovel from whence she came, and find yourself a
consort worthy of the ruler of Powys.”

The conversation around them died. His uncle’s
gruff voice echoed through the hall.

A heartbeat of silence followed before Dylan acted.
One moment, the prince had been lounging in his chair, cup in hand, the next,
he moved – so quickly that Elfan never even saw him coming.

Dylan leaped across the table and slammed his fist into
his uncle’s mouth.

Elfan toppled backward off the benches onto the
rushes; his cup flying in one direction, his meal in the other.

Dylan stood over him, fist clenched. Around him, a
hush filled the hall. He knew its residents had witnessed plenty of scenes
similar to this in the past between Dylan and Morfael, when the brothers were
younger and more hot-headed. However, it had been a while since anyone had seen
him lose his temper with one of his uncles.

Elfan had left Dylan no other choice.

His uncle stared up at him, blood trickling down
his chin. Dylan saw the outrage in his eyes, but also the shadow of fear.

“Do you have anything else to say, uncle?” the prince
asked, the softness of his voice belying the rage that pulsed through him. He felt
angry enough to kill the man, if he uttered another word against Merwenna.
Perhaps, Elfan sensed this, for he shook his head.

“No, Milord,” he replied thickly, through bloodied
lips.

“Good,” Dylan straightened up and cast a glance
over the faces of his silent brother and sister. “Let that be a warning to you
all. My patience is at an end.”

His gaze met Merwenna’s then. She was standing at
the end of the table, grasping the jug of wine to her breast. Her blue eyes
were huge on her heart-shaped face, and he saw her alarm, her fear.

She knows that was about her.

Dylan looked away from Merwenna, and back down at
his uncle. To everyone present, it would seem he had overreacted. Yet, he felt
a fierce protectiveness over the young Mercian woman he had made his lover. He
would not tolerate another word against her.

***

Merwenna carefully brushed out Heledd’s hair,
gently untangling the knots in her dark, wavy hair with a bone comb. They were
in the princess’s bower. Heledd sat upon a low stool and Merwenna stood behind
her. A clay cresset burned against one wall, casting a golden light across the
tiny space. Outside, the gentle rise and fall of voices could be heard,
quietening now as the hall’s residents bedded down for the night.

“Merwenna,” Heledd broke the lengthy silence
between them, surprising her hand-maid, for this was the first time the
princess had addressed her directly, using her name.

“Yes, Milady,” she replied cautiously.

“How did you meet my brother?”

Merwenna gave a pained smile, glad the princess
could not see her face. She read the hidden meaning behind the question.

How did two people from such two
different worlds come together?

“In Tamworth,” she replied, finally. “I had traveled
there to look for my betrothed. A warrior named Beorn who rode off to Maes
Cogwy with Penda’s
fyrd
. I had gone before King Penda, for I could not
find Beorn amongst the men returning from war, and asked him of my betrothed.
Penda did not recall him, but Lord Cynddylan did. He confirmed that Beorn had
perished in battle.”

Heledd had gone very still.

Merwenna concentrated on combing through the last
section of her hair, before she set the comb aside and stepped back.

“There, Milady. I’m finished. You have lovely hair.”
It was the truth, Heledd’s hair shone like liquid silk in the soft light.

“Thank you.” Heledd swiveled round on the stool to
regard her. The princess’s gaze was not hostile, as it had been earlier. Yet,
neither was it friendly.

“I’ve never seen Dylan like this,” she admitted.
“He has spent his life preparing himself to rule, to be the king his father
was. He knows he will have to take a wife one day but women have never swayed
him – till now.”

Merwenna gazed back at the princess, not sure how
to respond. There was an accusing note to Heledd’s voice that warned Merwenna against
lowering her guard.

“No one is more surprised by all of this than me,”
Merwenna replied. “My life was in Weyham, with my family and the man I was to
wed. Fate has played a cruel trick in bringing me here. This is not the future
I would have chosen.”

Heledd’s gaze narrowed. “Do you love him?”

The question took Merwenna’s breath away. She
really wished Heledd had not asked that – for it was the subject that she had
made a point of avoiding of late.

Love. She once thought she knew exactly what that
meant, but these days, the meaning had blurred. These days, such feelings were
complicated by guilt, by duty. Yet, the truth of matters could not be hidden
from – it had been staring her in the face for days now. Heledd had made her
confront it.

Silence stretched between the two young women, and
Heledd frowned. Merwenna’s lack of response damned her.

“Well, do you?”

“Yes,” Merwenna replied, her voice barely above a
whisper. “I do.”

The princess’s frown eased, and a glimmer of warmth
flickered in the depths of those green eyes, so similar to Dylan’s. She nodded
and rose to her feet, signaling that their conversation was at an end.

Merwenna backed away, toward the tapestry. She had
just grasped hold of it, and was about to slip outside, when the princess spoke
once more.

“Since our mother died there has been so little
happiness in this hall,” she murmured. “So little laughter. Just the voices of
men; talking of war, of borders, pacts and promises – and now, reckoning. It is
good to see my brother smile, to see him care for more than waging war on our
neighbors. Could you not soften him, convince him to cast his need for
vengeance aside?”

Merwenna paused and her gaze met the princess’s
once more. “If only I could turn him from this course,” she replied with a sad
smile. “Happiness is hard won and easily lost – but your brother may come to
learn that too late.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

Last
Words

Dylan lay on his back, staring up at the rafters,
and gently stroked his lover’s back. Merwenna faced him, tucked into his side.
The warmth of her breath tickled his skin. The sweet scent of her, wrapped him
in a silken curtain. He was aware that she also drowsed, enjoying the languor
that had followed their passion.

He had never felt so relaxed, so at peace with the
world as he did at that moment. It was as if nothing else mattered.

He had never known a woman like Merwenna. The sight
of her, the touch of her, the smell and taste of her, branded him like fire.
Each time they came together, the aftermath left him laid bare. He was just
recalling how she had ridden him tonight – firelight playing across her
beautiful breasts, her head thrown back as she groaned in pleasure – when Merwenna’s
voice, edged with sleepiness, intruded.

“That axe – is it yours?”

Dylan’s gaze followed hers, across his quarters to
where the great war-axe hung from the wall.

“No,” he murmured. “It was my father’s. He took it
from his enemy – a chieftain who tried to seize power from him, and paid for
his treachery with his life. The weapon saw many battles before my father hung
it on the wall for the last time a few years ago.”

“You’ve never fought with it?”

“No – an axe isn’t my weapon of choice. I’m not
built for it. I prefer to fight with my father’s sword in my hand.”

Merwenna propped herself up on her elbow and gazed
down at him, her eyes dark and troubled.

“Do you love to fight?”

Dylan gave a soft chuckle, surprised by the
question. “I wouldn’t call it ‘love’ exactly. It’s the life I was born to. I do
it because I must – it’s all I know.”

“But what if you stopped?”

“Then Pengwern would fall. Kingdoms sit upon a
knife-edge – it takes little to topple them. I fight to keep everything I hold
dear safe.”

Merwenna stared down at him but he could tell she
was not appeased.

“What is it?” he asked, finally. “You are chewing
over something, are you not?”

“I don’t want you to ride against Penda,” she
replied, her face the most serious he had ever seen it. “I don’t want to lose
you.”

Dylan stared back at Merwenna. Frankly, he was torn
between being irritated at her interference, and being touched by her candor.

“I told you why I must go to war,” he replied, his
voice hardening slightly. “A king cannot betray another – as Penda did – and go
unpunished.”

“But you could die, do you not ever think on it?”

Dylan sighed and resisted the urge to roll his
eyes. Why did women look upon war in such simplistic terms?

“I could… but then I could choke on a piece of meat
in my own hall. What valor is there in such an end? There is no greater death
for a warrior than in battle – you know that.”

“You would rather have songs written about you, than
live?” she accused him, anger kindling in her gaze. “What good are songs to
those who mourn you? Beorn thought as you, but he had never experienced battle.
He’d never seen what it does to those who are left behind. I expected better of
a man who knows the truth of what he faces.”

Merwenna gazed into Dylan’s eyes, and knew that she
had angered him.

She had not meant the conversation to travel this
far. She had been luxuriating in the aftermath of their lovemaking, when her
gaze had alighted upon that war-axe. The menacing weapon cast a gloomy shadow
over the whole space. She had wondered at the axe’s significance and had wanted
to ask him of it.

Now, she wished she had not.

They were now discussing the very matter that had
been tormenting her. After her conversation with Heledd, she had not been able
to think of anything else. Yet, the more she spoke, the less he seemed to
understand

Dylan’s face had tensed, and his gaze had narrowed
dangerously. Her last comment had clearly offended his pride. A man’s pride was
a fragile thing – and she wished she had chosen her words more carefully.

Watching him, Merwenna felt her pulse start to
quicken. She had not meant to anger him; she had only wanted to make him comprehend.
Yet, she had not told him what was in her heart – the real reason she did want
him to go.

“You speak of what you do not understand,” he said,
his voice cold now. He moved away, so they were no longer touching. He then sat
up and frowned down at her.

“I understand enough,” she countered, her own anger
rising. Did he think her a fool?

“No, you don’t. This is the life of a ruler. If a
man will not go to war to protect his people, then he has no right being king.”

“You’re not going to war to protect them,” Merwenna
sat up and faced him. “Vengeance is about your vanity and nothing else.”

He stared at her, his gaze narrowing dangerously.  Merwenna
knew now that she had gone too far. Yet, it was too late to turn back. She had
better say all of it.

Trembling with the force of her anger, Merwenna
rose to her feet and reached for her clothes. All the while, Dylan watched her.

“My vanity?” he echoed, as if unable to believe she
had insulted him thus.

“If you go to war against Mercia, I cannot stay
here,” she told him, tying her girdle about her waist. “The folk here hate me
already. Having one of the enemy living under their own roof will be more than
they can bear. Without your protection, my life will be in danger.”

“No one here will harm you,” he ground out, rising
to his feet to face her.

“You can’t promise that,” she replied. “Once you’re
gone, they can do what they want. And if you never return they can stone me to
death, if it pleases them.”

“So that’s what’s bothering you.” Dylan folded his
arms across his bare chest and glared at her. “You’re not worried about my
welfare – it’s your own that concerns you.”

Merwenna gasped. His accusation was cruel and
unfair – how could he think so badly of her? This was all going wrong. He
misunderstood her at every turn.

“You know that’s not true,” she choked out. “Are
you so arrogant that you cannot see past your own nose? Do as you please, for I
see my words mean nothing to you – but know this – if you go to march on
Mercia, I will leave Pengwern.”

“And where will you go?”

He was taunting her now, the look in his eyes
making her feel small and silly, like a child throwing a tantrum.

“You are no longer welcome in Weyham,” he reminded
her. “Your father won’t be pleased to see you darken his door.”

“That’s no concern of yours,” she snarled at him.
“I’ll go where I please.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he stepped toward her,
intimidating in his nakedness. “I swore an oath to your father, remember?”

“I release you from it.”

“That’s not your decision, but your father’s.”

“
Nithhogg
take you both,” Merwenna spat at
him. “I belong to neither of you. To think I have given my body, and my heart,
to a conceited churl who disregards everything I say, and turns my own words
against me. Can’t you see why I wouldn’t want you to die in battle? Are you
that blind?”

Dylan stared at her, clearly rendered speechless by
her outburst. Yet, Merwenna ploughed on, heedless to the consequences.

“Go then, wreak your vengeance upon Penda. But if
you do return to Pengwern, I won’t be here waiting for you.”

She was so angry that she could have lashed out and
struck him. Instead, Merwenna whirled and fled from Dylan’s quarters so that he
would not see the tears that had obscured her vision.

Stunned silence followed her.