The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (22 page)

Chapter Forty

The
Peace-maker

Caedmon rode up the steep slope toward the gates of
Pengwern and craned his neck upwards to catch a glimpse of the Great Hall. The
magnificent timbered building perched high upon a rocky outcrop above a sea of
thatched roofs; a sentinel over the surrounding lands.

The warrior had not imagined that Pengwern sat in
such an isolated spot, or in such a lofty position. The views of the valley
below were so vertiginous that the ride up to the gates had made him queasy.
Whenever he glanced away from the road, the horizon had whirled, making him
feel as if he would topple from the saddle at any moment.

The sight of the gates ahead brought relief, for their
journey’s end lay close at hand. Yet, glancing back at the small company that
rode with him, the reason for his arrival cast a shadow over his relief.

It was a small price to pay for his life, yet not a
task he wanted.

There was nothing to say that the Prince of Powys
would not reject Penda’s gift outright. He could easily send them back whence
they came – and if he did, Caedmon’s execution upon his return to Tamworth was
certain.

Caedmon gritted his teeth and pushed down his cowl
so that the guards at the gate could see his face. This was a humiliating
errand; to supplicate himself on behalf of the King of Mercia stuck in his craw.

He had been one of the first to agree to Rodor’s
call when he had received orders from Penda to assassinate Cynddylan. It
mattered not that his mother was one of the Cymry – he felt no sense of
allegiance to these people. The fact that his mixed blood had made him a victim
of bullies as a child, had made him hate his mother’s people all the more.
Cynddylan’s arrogance had grated upon him; and he had hungered to see him
brought low.

Only now,
wyrd
had turned against him, and
it was Caedmon who would have to beg for his life.

“Halt!” a helmeted guard blocked Caedmon’s way
before the gates. “State your name and business here.”

“I come from Tamworth,” Caedmon replied in fluent
Cymraeg. “I bring a gift from King Penda of Mercia for Lord Cynddylan.”

“A gift?” the guard regarded him skeptically. “And
what might that be? We need no gift from that traitorous whoreson!”

Caedmon ignored the insult and turned in the
saddle. He focused his attention on the small cloaked figure in the midst of
his men.

“My lady,” he commanded, “come forth.”

The figure urged its mount forward and drew level
with Caedmon. Then, a pale, slender hand reached up and pushed back the cowl
shielding the rider’s identity. The girl, as fair as summer blossom, despite the
fear shadowing her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks, stared back at him.

“This is Penda’s gift,” Caedmon informed the guard
coolly. “His youngest daughter – Princess Cyneswith.”

***

A hush had descended upon the Great Hall, and all
gazes riveted upon the newcomers.

Merwenna had been sitting near one of the hearths,
mending one of Heledd’s gowns while the princess worked at her distaff beside
her, when the party entered. She had been focused upon her task, trying to
distract herself from the misery that gripped her innards in a vice, when the hall
went still.

Now, her gaze also tracked the small group that
crossed the rush-strewn floor toward the high seat.

For once, the inhabitants of the hall were not
glaring at her, but at the tall, spare man with greasy blond hair and a sparse
beard who led the way. Encased in boiled leather, he walked with a warrior’s
arrogance, his travel-stained cloak rippling behind him. At his side, walked a
small, blonde girl wearing a fur-lined cloak. Four more warriors brought up the
rear.

Even from a distance, Merwenna knew they were not
from Powys. Her breath hitched in her throat as the party passed by.

That’s Penda’s daughter!

The girl did not glance her way; her blue-eyes
fixed ahead, her chin trembling as she sought to control her fear. She was the
younger of the two. Although neither of the princesses had shown any warmth to
Merwenna during her time in the Great Tower of Tamworth, she felt a stab of
pity for the girl. She was plainly terrified.

The party halted before the high seat, where Dylan
waited.

Around them, the Great Hall bore the signs of the
coming celebration. Garlands of late blooms hung from the rafters. Servants had
been busy removing the soiled rushes and replacing them with clean ones, and
the aroma of baking pies and cakes mingled with the smell of lye and rosemary
from their cleaning.

The blond warrior who led the newcomers, paid no
heed to what surrounded him. His gaze was fastened upon the Prince of Powys.
Dylan reclined in his chair, darkly handsome in a dark blue, sleeveless tunic
and leather breeches. His brother flanked him to his right, his uncle Elfan to
his left.

The sight of Dylan made Merwenna’s chest ache.

He had not come after her last night; had not tried
to mend things between them. But then, why would he? He was the ruler of Powys
and she was nothing but a foolish girl who had made a grave error in judgement.
Merwenna had lain on the fur outside Heledd’s bower, for the rest of the night,
trying to stifle her sobs. Never, had she felt so alone – so foolish, so lost.

“I hear that Penda has a gift for me,” the prince
spoke, intruding upon Merwenna’s thoughts. His face was impassive, his gaze
watchful as it rested, first upon the warrior’s face, and then upon the girl’s.

“Yes, Milord,” the blond warrior rumbled. “He
offers you Princess Cyneswith, to atone for the treacherous behavior of his
men.”

Dylan frowned at that. “His men? So Penda does not
claim responsibility for sending them to slay me?”

“No, he does not,” the warrior replied flatly.
“Those men took the decision to hunt you by their own accord, and not with his
blessing.”

The man then bent his head and lowered himself onto
one knee. Looking on, Merwenna noted the tension in his body. She could see he
was hating every moment of this but forced himself on nonetheless.

“You are the loyal ally of Mercia. Lord Penda would
not wish to jeopardize the trust between our kingdoms.”

“Yet, his men did,” Dylan replied. His gaze had
narrowed, and it was plain from his expression, and from those of the men who
flanked him, that he did not believe a word.

“Those men betrayed Penda,” the warrior replied,
his gaze downcast, “but he understands your anger.”

“Does he?” Dylan steepled his hands before him, his
gaze narrowing further. “I wonder, if that is the truth.”

“He does,” the man insisted, glancing up. Merwenna
caught a note of desperation in his tone. “He wishes to mend things between our
kingdoms – and for that reason he offers you his beloved daughter, Cyneswith.”

All gazes shifted to the young woman who stood
silent next to the kneeling warrior.

She stood, her back ramrod straight, her eyes
glistening with tears. Her long, blonde hair, as pale as sea-foam, fell unbound
over her shoulders. Watching her, Merwenna could not help but feel a stab of
jealousy at the princess’s regal beauty. And, at the same time, the misery
within her turned to desolation.

No matter what Dylan’s decision, whether he made
peace or went to war, she would lose him.

“A peace-maker,” Dylan mused, with a cold smile.

The man kneeling before him was a poor liar, and
was not the type to kneel so readily. Dylan wondered what he had done to
warrant such humiliation.

“He would sacrifice his tender daughter to prevent
war between us?”

“He would, Milord.”

Dylan leaned back in his throne and inhaled slowly.
This was an interesting development, although he was in no mood for it. It was
clearly a ruse. Penda had discovered what had happened to his men and sought to
avoid war between them. Still, it was unexpected.

The prince’s gaze left the two figures before him
and traveled over the faces of those observing the meeting. Most of them did
not speak, nor understand, Englisc, but he wagered they had guessed the meaning
of their words well enough. Dylan’s gaze then fell upon Merwenna, and although
he had told himself he would not seek her out, it rested there.

She stood by one of the fire pits next to his
sister, the garment she had been mending, clutched in her hands. Her face was pale
and strained. Her gaze met his for a moment and he felt his breath leave him.

Damn her.

Merwenna of Weyham had bewitched him. Even now,
when he should be focusing on other matters, she drew him to her, disarmed him.
She had angered him last night. Yet, some of her words had struck a nerve, and
try as he might he could not cast them aside.

Clenching his jaw, Dylan looked away from Merwenna,
his gaze returning to the pale beauty before him. She looked barely old enough
to be handfasted. Penda was a heartless bastard for sending her here.

“Penda asks much,” Dylan finally answered, “and I
am not sure I wish to grant him this favor. However, you have traveled far, and
will be hungry and weary. You will be my guests tonight.”

“Thank you, Milord,” the warrior looked up, his
gaze meeting Dylan’s. Yet, in his eyes, Dylan saw no gratitude, only emptiness.

“Tomorrow I will be crowned,” Dylan continued.
“Once I am king, I shall give you my answer. Now, get to your feet man. You’ll
wear out the knees of your breeches prostrating yourself before me.”

***

“One Mercian among us was hard to accept – but two
of you.” Heledd led the way up to her bower, not bothering to hide the
exasperation in her voice. “Soon we will be overrun.”

Yet, despite Heledd’s indignation, Merwenna also
sensed resignation there as well; the princess was clearly a survivor and
adapted quickly to new circumstances.

Princess Cyneswith said nothing, looking at neither
Heledd nor Merwenna. Instead, she followed them into Heledd’s bower meekly, her
gaze downcast. In contrast to Merwenna’s reaction, the small but comfortably
furnished space, did not make her gawk with envy. Merwenna remembered the
princesses’ lovely bower in Tamworth’s Great Tower and knew why.

“There is little space here, but Merwenna will make
up a bed for you next to mine.”

Cyneswith stirred then, her gaze shifting to
Merwenna – as if seeing her for the first time.

“I remember you,” she said, her voice as flat as
her eyes, “from Tamworth.”

Merwenna nodded.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long tale,” Merwenna replied, forcing a wry
smile.

“One that she won’t bore you with,” Heledd cut in.
“Merwenna, take some of my furs and make up a bed for Cyneswith over there.
After you’ve done that, organize the servants to bring a tub in here for the
princess to bathe.”

Merwenna nodded, although she could not help feel a
tug of resentment.

Heledd had not welcomed Merwenna in such a fashion.
The unfairness of it should not have stung her, but it did nonetheless. She
left Heledd’s bower without another word, and went to do her bidding.

Chapter Forty-one

No
Friendship between Kings

Dylan took a seat upon a low bench, next to his
brother and uncle. They were playing
Gwyddbwyll
, a game in which the two
players moved carved figurines across a wooden board that had been inlaid with
squares of gold. As usual, Morfael was winning – and was just moves away from
taking Elfan’s king. Elfan was looking none too pleased about it.

Dylan stretched his legs out in front of the fire,
grateful that their attention was drawn by the game. It was getting late and he
was not in the mood for another discussion.

It had been a wearying day. As soon as Penda’s
emissary, Caedmon, was out of earshot, his kin had made it clear they thought
Penda’s gift contemptuous.

He was inclined to agree with them.

Yet, he had not refused the gift outright, and
would sleep upon it. Unlike his kin, who were keen to see Penda’s daughter and
her entourage ejected from the hall, he had decided to wait before taking
action. Dylan needed to reflect on what the King of Mercia’s generous gift
really signified.

“You’re pensive this eve, brother,” Morfael said,
taking his uncle’s king, and sitting back with a grin of triumph. “Surely,
you’re not considering Penda’s offer?”

“Of course he isn’t,” Elfan cut in with a scowl. His
lips were still swollen from where Dylan had struck him.

“The thought of wedding Penda’s daughter does not
thrill me,” Dylan admitted, “but I am curious as to why he made the offer. He
needs me.”

“He sought to kill you,” Morfael reminded him. “It
makes no sense to pacify you now.”

“Yes, but he values our allegiance,” Dylan replied
with a cool smile. “Penda still has many battles left to fight, much territory
to conquer. He would call upon Powys again, and does not want to make an enemy
of us just yet.”

His uncle made a rude noise at that, his gaze
shifting to the other side of the hall, where Heledd, Cyneswith and Merwenna
worked at a large loom, upon a tapestry.

“Mercians will always be my enemy,” he growled, “and
there are too many of them under this roof for my liking. When will we be rid
of them?”

Dylan and Morfael’s gazes followed Elfan’s.

Dylan could not help but notice that his brother’s
gaze lingered upon Cyneswith.

“The Mercian princess is fair, is she not?” he
asked Morfael lightly.

His brother gave a sly smile, although his gaze did
not shift from where the Mercian princess delicately wound thread onto a
spindle. “Very,” he replied.

Elfan spat on the ground and rose to his feet.
Without bidding either nephew good night, he strode off, evidently disgusted by
the turn the conversation had taken.

“He’s in a foul mood this eve,” Dylan observed. “Who
pissed in his pottage?”

“You did,” Morfael replied, shifting his gaze from
the winsome Cyneswith to his brother. “He doesn’t understand why you didn’t
send them away this morning.”

“Elfan sees the world as it was, not as it is,”
Dylan countered. “He lives in the past and has never been able to accept that
Mercia and Powys are now allies.”

“Only we’re not really friends. Penda would betray
you again in a heartbeat.”

“As would any ruler I allied myself with,” Dylan
reminded him. “It’s no different to
Gwyddbwyll,
even if we pretend
otherwise. The moment one of us has the upper hand, we take it. There is no
friendship between kings.”

Letting this sobering fact lie between them,
Dylan’s gaze shifted from the dancing flames of the fire pit. His gaze settled
upon where Merwenna worked, her head bent over her task. He had avoided her all
day. They had not spoken since she had fled from his quarters last night, and
he wished to mend things between them. His bed was lonely without her. He
missed her more than he would have liked to admit. Yet, with the arrival of
Penda’s daughter, and the possibility he might wed her, Dylan suspected that
Merwenna would not welcome him.

Even so, his gaze lingered upon her, willing her to
look his way.

“You’re in over your head with that girl.”

Dylan glanced back at his brother and frowned. He
thought about denying it. He and Morfael had been rivals for so long, he did
not like his brother to see any vulnerability that he could exploit to his own
ends. Yet, Morfael had seen the direction of his gaze, and the naked longing in
his eyes. Was there any point in lying to him?

“Aye,” he murmured. “I should have seen it coming,
but I thought she wouldn’t get the best of me.”

Morfael raised a dark eyebrow and poured himself a
cup of mead. “That’s unlike you.”

“No, I’m usually a lot more careful. Merwenna took
me by surprise.”

“She doesn’t belong here – any more than Penda’s
daughter.”

Dylan gave his brother a dark look. “That’s only
because she has been ostracized from the moment she set foot in Pengwern.”

Morfael shrugged and placed his cup down beside the
Gwyddbwyll
board.

Dylan watched his brother rearrange the wooden
figurines on the board before him and realized Morfael was preparing himself
for another game.

“I’m not in the mood for
Gwyddbwyll,”
Dylan
growled. “Don’t you ever tire of beating me at it?”

“Come, brother,” Morfael flashed him a disarming
smile. “It has been months since we played last. Let me best you in one thing,
at least.”

***

Merwenna could not sleep.

She lay on her back, on the fur outside Heledd’s
bower, and stared up into the darkness. There were no tears tonight – her
despair went deeper than that. The unfairness of it all choked her. If Dylan
wed Cyneswith, he would not march to war, and yet he would be lost to her all
the same. She had grieved when she lost Beorn, and thought no pain could
surpass that. Yet, she had been wrong. This actually felt worse.

Merwenna and Dylan would be living under the same
roof. She would be forced to see him and his queen every day. She would see
Cyneswith’s belly swell with his babe. The thought caused her to curl up like a
wounded animal and clutch her own stomach. How would she bear it?

She could run away, as she had already planned to
if Dylan went to war. Yet, he would be keeping watch on her, expecting her to
do something foolish. No, she would be made to stay – to suffer.

“Merwenna,” Dylan’s whisper, near her ear, catapulted
her out of her misery.

His presence here was a painful reminder of two days’
earlier, just before they had lain together for the first time. So much had
happened since then – so much had changed.

She sat up, glad that she had not been weeping. Not
that he could see if she had, for the light was only dim enough for her to make
out his silhouette crouched before her.

“What is it?” she whispered coolly. Surely, he did
not assume she would return to his bed? Not after what had passed between them
last night. Not after today.

“Will you walk with me?” he whispered back. “I
would speak with you awhile.”

Merwenna hesitated. Her first impulse was to refuse
him, for hurt still burned within her. However, there was a gentleness to his
voice, a humility that she had never heard before. It would be their last
chance to speak before he was crowned tomorrow.

“Very well,” she murmured, rising to her feet. “I
will need to fetch a cloak.”

“I have one for you,” Dylan replied. Before she
could reply, he had settled a thick fur about her shoulders. It was much
thicker, and warmer than the woolen cloak she usually wore. Merwenna wordlessly
accepted it.

“Come.” He took hold of her hand and led her
through the darkness. They stepped off the platform and skirted the edge of the
Great Hall, picking their way around and across sleeping bodies as they went. The
only light was the faint glow of embers from the two fire pits. Dylan moved
with the confidence of a man who had often crept away from the hall under the
cover of darkness as a youth.

They reached the oaken doors and slipped outside. It
was cold, and a chill breeze feathered across Merwenna’s cheeks. Here, Dylan
paused a moment and retrieved a pitch torch from where it burned in a bracket
against the wall. Now that she could see him, Merwenna noted that Dylan too
wore a thick fur cloak about his shoulders.

“Pengwern is magical at night,” Dylan told her as
they descended the wooden steps. “Bathed in moonlight.”

Merwenna did not reply. He was in an odd, pensive,
mood. Yet, she liked it and was loath to shatter the moment. Indeed, it was lovely
outside, despite the chill. From the stairs she could see the glow of fires in
the valley below, lighting the darkness like fireflies.

They crossed the yard and passed through the gate
beneath. Dylan greeted the guards there before leading the way into the streets
beyond. Pengwern was deserted at this hour. They walked alone through the
narrow dirt streets, lined by squat wattle and daub dwellings. Overhead, the
moon lit their way. Like in Weyham, folk here worked hard from dawn till dusk.
Few lingered outdoors after nightfall, preferring to stretch out in front of
their fire pits and rest their weary limbs.

Dylan and Merwenna walked in silence for a short
while, before he wordlessly took her arm and tucked it through his.

“I spent my childhood playing in these streets,”
Dylan told her, “when our father wasn’t teaching us to hunt and fight, Morfael
and I would play hide and seek here until
fæder
would send someone out
to look for us. We’d get our arses tanned for that.”

Merwenna imagined Dylan as a small boy and, despite
the misery that churned her up inside, fought a smile. “You were full of
mischief?”

“I was.”

They continued walking through the tangle of narrow
lanes till the way widened and the houses drew back. Here, they stepped out
onto a wide ledge of rock, surrounded by thick green foliage. Moonlight cast a
silver veil out across the valley. The thundering waterfalls sparkled as if
alive, and the magnificence of the view made Merwenna catch her breath.

“It’s enchanting.”

“This is my favorite corner of Pengwern,” Dylan
admitted quietly.

Merwenna gave him a quick look, and found him
watching her. The flickering torch he carried, cast his face in gold, threw his
eyes into shadow and highlighted the sharp angles of his cheekbones – making him
look every bit the battle lord he was.

As always, his nearness made it difficult for her
to breathe.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked.

Dylan stared back at her, a wistful smile curving
his lips. “My hall is full of flapping ears and wagging tongues. I wanted to
speak with you, alone.”

Merwenna nodded, not trusting herself to speak
then, for a lump had wedged itself in her throat.

“Tomorrow will change many things.” Dylan had
stepped closer to her so that they stood just a hand span apart. The heat and
scent of his skin made her limbs weaken. Then, he reached out and gently
stroked her face. “A battle or a bride – what should I do,
cariad
?”

“You… w… want me to tell you?” Merwenna stuttered,
distracted by his sensual touch.

“I want to know what you would advise, yes.”

Merwenna took a deep, trembling breath. “I would
have you choose the path that will not lead you to war.”

“You would see me wed Penda’s daughter?” The
surprise in Dylan’s voice was evident.

“If it means you stay safe, yes.”

Dylan’s smile twisted into something darker. “Ah,
Merwenna. You wouldn’t keep me safe forever – there will always be other
battles, other enemies.”

“But, I would from this one.”

Silence stretched between them for a few moments
before Dylan spoke once more.

“Last night, you said that you had given me your
heart, is that the truth?”

Merwenna swallowed. She had regretted being so open
with him, as soon as the words were out of her mouth – but, she could not undo
them. “Yes,” she whispered.

“So pure, so beautiful, so proud,” Dylan murmured,
stepping closer still. “I do not want to lose you.”

Merwenna’s throat closed and tears stung her eyes.
Had she heard right – did he care for her? Would he fight for her?

“We could still be together, even if I wed
Cyneswith,” Dylan continued, his voice smooth as honey. “Why can’t a king can
have a wife,
and
a lover?”

Merwenna inhaled sharply. Suddenly, winter
descended upon their lofty ledge. She abruptly stepped back from the prince, so
they were no longer touching, and pulled the fur cloak tightly about her shaking
body.

“That may be your plan,” she bit off the words,
breathless in the rage that suddenly consumed her, “but I will have no part of
it.”

She sensed Dylan’s shock. He dropped his hand and
stared at her.