The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (23 page)

He was offering her a life many women would grasp
with both hands – and here she was throwing it back in his face.

I will not share him with another
woman.

She would rather lose him forever than travel such
a road.

“You are too proud,” he said, finally, his voice
rough with hurt. “I cannot give you what you want.”

Merwenna stared back at him, disappointment bitter
gall in her mouth. “Then, I shall have nothing at all,” she replied.

Chapter Forty-two

The
Crowning of Cynddylan

The morning of the coronation dawned, bright and
fresh. Yet, even before the first rays of sun warmed the edge of the Great Hall
of Pengwern, its inhabitants were already hard at work.

Servants hurried to and fro, making the final
preparations for the celebration and the great feast that was to follow. They
hung the last of the garlands, and scattered fragrant bunches of rosemary,
thyme and sage over the clean rushes. Then, they cleared the space for all
those who would cram themselves inside the Great Hall to catch a glimpse of the
crowning of Cynddylan.

Merwenna took a cup of hot broth and made her way
past where the cooks were rolling out pastry for the apple and blackberry pies
for the feast. She had just finished helping both Heledd and Cyneswith dress,
and had paused to break her fast before she would brush and braid their hair.

None of the servants looked up as Merwenna walked
by. Reaching the end of the hall, she stepped out onto the platform outside,
and paused there to look out across the valley.

A brisk breeze caught at her unbound hair, whipping
it around her face. Below, she could see that all of Pengwern bore signs of the
day’s celebration. Garlands and streamers hung between the streets and the
smell of roasting mutton drifted up from where folk prepared a feast in the
town’s market square. This was a rare day of rest for those who spent their
lives toiling in the fields or tending the livestock that fed Pengwern. Once
the celebrations began, the reveling would go on long into the night.

Merwenna tightened her chill fingers around the
cup, drawing in its warmth. Unlike those of Pengwern, this day brought her no
joy. She had not thought she could feel any worse than she had upon Cyneswith’s
arrival.

Dylan’s offer had completely crushed her. Her
disappointment, both in him for thinking she merited such an arrangement, and
in her for giving her heart so carelessly, made it hard to breathe. Sun warmed
her face and the clouds scudded across the sky. Merriment surrounded her – but
this morning, Merwenna felt nothing but despair.

Voices reached her, and Merwenna’s gaze shifted from
the view across Pengwern’s thatched roofs to where a company of riders thundered
into the yard below. They were warriors clad in leather, with lime shields on
their backs and spears at their sides, astride stocky horses. The first of
Dylan’s chiefs had arrived, and many more would come before the crowning of
Powys’ new king at noon.

Merwenna sighed.

Enough wallowing in self-pity
,
she told herself.
You cannot fight fate. This is my life now.

Like many things in life, knowing the truth, and
accepting it, were entirely different matters.

***

Dylan slid on the last of his arm rings and held
out his arm so Morfael could buckle on his arm guards. Unlike the leather
guards he usually wore, which were battle-scarred and scuffed with use, these
ones were made of embossed leather. They had been his father’s, made for
Cyndrwyn’s own coronation many years earlier.

It felt strange to have his brother help dress him,
for it served to highlight their difference in rank. Morfael had long chafed at
being the younger brother, the one who never mattered to their father.

For years, Dylan had been sure Morfael had been
plotting against him – and the sight of him reclining on the high seat like a
lord upon Dylan’s return to Pengwern had only made him more suspicious. Yet, over
the last couple of days, Morfael’s behavior toward him had become far less
antagonistic. He had openly criticized Dylan for bringing Merwenna to Pengwern,
but since then their rapport had been almost… brotherly.

“Nearly done,” Morfael announced. He then reached
for two gold clasps, stepped behind his brother and fastened Dylan’s long,
purple cloak to his shoulders. Meanwhile, Dylan buckled his sword about his
waist.

“I feel as if I’m going into battle,” Dylan
observed with a grim smile, glancing down at his mail shirt.

“In a way you are,” Morfael replied. “The people of
Powys look to their king to guide them. You will receive the council of the
gods. They will love you, and judge you, like never before.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” Dylan cast his brother
a dark look.

Morfael grinned back, enjoying his own cleverness.
“My pleasure.”

Dylan bit back a cutting remark and slid jewel
encrusted rings onto his fingers. It was not Morfael’s fault he was bad
tempered this morning. He should be jubilant; he had been waiting for this
moment all his life.

Yet, a shadow now lay upon him.

Merwenna was to blame. Before meeting her, his life
had been simple; his choices and purpose clear. Yet, she had turned all the
things that had once mattered to him to dust. Now, all he cared about was that
he had upset her. He had made her a crass offer that had caused her to hate
him.

I’ve been a fool.

The noise inside the Great Hall was deafening. It
reached the brothers, even beyond the tapestry that shielded them from view.
Folk had crammed inside, shoulder to shoulder – and now they were awaiting him.
It was time for him to go before them. Yet, Dylan hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Morfael’s gaze searched his face.
“Not sure you want the crown after all?”

Dylan snorted rudely in response. The crown was
what he had been born to wear. If Morfael thought that was the reason for his
hesitation, then he really did not know him at all.

“Right then,” Morfael gestured toward the tapestry,
the gesture mocking. “Your loyal subjects await.”

Dylan nodded and moved toward it. However, he was
half-way there when he paused, and swiveled round to face his brother.

“Morfael, I have something to ask you,” he began,
his gaze meeting his brother’s squarely.

“Go on,” Morfael quirked an eyebrow, intrigued.

“I would make you an offer,” Dylan continued. “Much
depends upon your answer.”

***

Merwenna’s gaze never left Dylan throughout the
entire ceremony.

The prince – soon to be king – stood upon the high
seat, which was now draped in plush purple, resplendent in his finery. Behind
him hung the flag of Powys – a blood-red lion rampant against a field of gold.

Merwenna’s gaze remained upon him while his uncle
Elfan recited a long list of oaths that the new king would have to swear to,
which Dylan then repeated. Although she understood little of what was spoken,
her attention did not waver from him. She could tell from the timbre of Dylan’s
voice that he took none of the oaths lightly.

Dylan then knelt before his uncle. Elfan placed an
iron crown upon his nephew’s head. The new King of Powys rose to his feet, a
wide smile on his face. A great roar went up inside the hall, the sheer force
of it causing the timber structure to vibrate.

The cheering continued as Dylan’s most trusted
warriors, Gwyn and Owain among them, pushed their way through the crowd,
bearing a great oaken shield. Morfael and Elfan joined them, and Dylan seated
himself upon it.

Together the group hoisted Dylan high into the air.
He grinned from ear to ear, as he clung on to the edge of the shield. It was a
symbolic gesture, in which they showed their new king to the gods. Merwenna had
heard of this ritual but had never realized the effect it would have on those
gathered.

The crowd roared. They stamped their feet, and
clapped their hands – and for one brief moment Merwenna forgot her unhappiness.
She forgot that she did not belong here, for the joy and devotion inside the
hall momentarily transported her with them. Her skin prickled and for the first
time she truly understood the power a king wielded. A man had to be strong,
indeed, to shoulder such responsibility.

Merwenna kept her gaze riveted upon Dylan’s face.
She loved him. He was arrogant, stubborn and proud – but she ached to be with
him all the same. On the journey here, and in the private moments they had
shared, she had come to know the Prince of Powys. Dylan was so much more than
he appeared. His sharp mind, dry sense of humor, passion and strength had
stolen her heart.

Her love for him just made his unfeeling offer last
night hurt all the more.

He knew she would never agree to such an
arrangement. It was almost as if he had done it to push her away. They had
walked back to the Great Hall in silence, a chasm between them that could not
be breached – and had not spoken since.

Cynddylan, King of Powys, sat back down upon his
carved wooden throne to thunderous applause, an enigmatic smile curving his
lips. Pain constricted Merwenna’s ribs, as if an iron band crushed her. Tears
blurred her gaze and she looked down at her feet.

That smile would always be her undoing.

Chapter Forty-three

The
Feast

It was said that Pengwern had never seen such a
feast.

Long tables lined the Great Hall, either side of
the fire pits, groaning under the weight of all the food: platters of roast
sweet onions and carrots, pies, breads, cheeses, tureens of rich venison stew,
goose stuffed with chestnuts and apples, and duck stuffed with plums.

Men carried in the carcasses of two spit-roasted
wild-boar. Mead, ale and wine flowed freely. The smoke from cooking cast a haze
over the cavernous interior; and the rumble of laughter, conversation and the
strains of a bone whistle and a harp echoed high into the rafters.

Dylan sat upon his carved chair, at the head of one
of the tables.

Upon seeing Merwenna approach, bearing a jug of
wine, he held out his gold, jeweled cup for her to fill. She did so obediently,
although she avoided his gaze all the while. She was pale, even in the golden
light of the torches lining the walls, and her expression was solemn. Yet, she had
never looked lovelier to Dylan.

“Thank you, Merwenna.”

She ignored him, and moved off to fill his
brother’s cup.

Morfael barely noticed his cup being filled, for
his gaze was on the pretty blonde maid seated beside him. Cyneswith had just answered
his question. Her gaze was downcast but Dylan noted the blush that crept up her
neck. Despite her timidity, the girl was succumbing to his brother’s charm. Like
Dylan, he spoke her tongue fluently. Morfael said something else, and the girl
ventured a smile, her gaze darting up to shyly meet his.

Dylan’s gaze shifted farther down the table, to
where the rest of his kin and retainers sat helping themselves to the mountain
of food before them. Heledd sat next to Cyneswith. His sister was dressed in a
fine emerald gown with gold trim, her dark hair bound in intricate coils about
her crown. She was listening demurely to her uncle, Elfan, who sat opposite
her. Watching Heledd a moment, Dylan gave a wry smile – his sister’s fiery
nature made it difficult to maintain the façade of a modest maid, although she
did her best.

His uncle, who was already red-faced from the four
cups of mead he had consumed thus far, was lecturing his niece on the
responsibilities of kingship. Next to him, sat Caedmon, Penda’s emissary. The
young man said nothing, although the twist of his mouth hinted at his thoughts
on Elfan’s discourse.

Caedmon looked like he would rather be somewhere
else.

His expression was sullen and not even the
sumptuous spread before him seemed to warm his countenance. Dylan could hardly
blame him; a Mercian warrior did not belong here. Gwyn, Owain and a handful of
Dylan’s most loyal retainers sat to the emissary’s left, but Caedmon ignored
them, and they did the same. Gwyn and his friends were already well into their
cups, and getting rowdier by the moment.

“So, how does it feel to be king?” Elfan asked,
raising his cup to Dylan.

“Ask me tomorrow, when my wits aren’t addled by
good food and wine,” Dylan grinned back, and raised his own cup.

“Your father always complained of that crown,”
Elfan continued. “Said it was uncomfortable and made his scalp bleed.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” Dylan agreed. “It feels as if
it’s made of thorns.”

“Such is the burden of kingship,” Morfael cut in.
He had managed to tear his gaze from the comely Cyneswith long enough to follow
their conversation. “Although you don’t look like you’re suffering to me.”

Dylan laughed and helped himself to a piece of
mutton and rosemary pie. “Fret not,” he replied, meeting his brother’s eye, “I
don’t need assistance wearing it.”

“My Lord, Cynddylan,” Caedmon’s voice interrupted
the banter between the brothers. “You said you would tell me your answer, after
your crowning. Will you accept Lord Penda’s gift, or not. I must know your
answer.”

The chatter of conversation at the table round them
died away. Gazes swiveled toward the Mercian.

Not for the first time, Dylan noted the fluency
with which Caedmon spoke his tongue. The warrior’s tone, however, was bordering
on insolent, as was his demand for an answer so early into the feasting.

Dylan had planned to announce his decision later,
but Caedmon had forced this moment upon him. He shifted his gaze from Caedmon,
and noted that Merwenna had made her way up the other side of the table. She
now stood near enough to hear all that was spoken.

He took a deep, measured breath. He might as well
say this now.

“I have thought upon it,” he replied, regarding
Caedmon over the rim of his cup, “and I have made my decision.”

Caedmon nodded. The warrior’s impatience emanated
off him in waves. “And what will it be?”

“I accept Penda’s gift.”

Dylan’s admission brought gasps from around the
table, but he held out his hand to still them.

“Wait – I have not yet finished. Cyneswith will
remain in Powys, and we will have peace – however, she will not wed me, but my
brother.”

Stunned silence reverberated around the table. The
only person present who did not appear shocked was Morfael. His brother sat
quietly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. Beside him, Cyneswith looked
bewildered. She glanced from Caedmon’s face, to Dylan’s, and then to Morfael’s.
She did not understand the words that had passed between them – but clearly
realized that they discussed her fate.

Caedmon stared at Dylan, his mouth gaping. “What?”

“You heard me,” Dylan replied, ignoring the
warrior’s rudeness for the moment. “I declare Morfael, ‘Steward of the East’.
He will govern the new lands recently gifted to Powys by Mercia. My brother
will take up residence in Lichfield, and his new bride will make peace between
our kingdoms.”

Merwenna stood still, clutching the jug of wine so
tightly that she worried the clay might crumble beneath her fingers.

Had she heard right? Her understanding of Cymraeg
had improved of late, but she worried that she had misheard the words that had
just passed between Dylan and Penda’s emissary.

Dylan’s gaze shifted from Caedmon, to where she
stood at the envoy’s shoulder. She had been about to refill his cup when the
conversation had taken a turn.

As if sensing her confusion, Dylan then repeated
his last sentence, this time in Englisc.

Cyneswith’s gasp of surprise only confirmed the
truth.

Merwenna had, indeed, understood. Shock warred with
burgeoning hope.

What does this mean?

She stared at Dylan and saw the warmth in his eyes,
the quirk of his smile – an endearing blend of cocky and hopeful. Perhaps fate
had not turned against her, after all?

Merwenna looked down, trying to keep her emotions
under control, and moved to refill Caedmon’s cup. However, upon seeing Merwenna
at his elbow, the warrior snarled and shoved her away.

“Get back from me, bitch!”

The jug flew from Merwenna’s hands and crashed onto
the table, dousing the feasters in rich, plum wine.

“I want no more Cymry hospitality,” Caedmon
shouted. “I piss on you all!”

Caedmon had not come to the feast planning to kill
Cynddylan.

He had merely donned a mail shirt under his tunic
as a precaution, for he did not trust Cynddylan, or any who served him. The
tunic he wore was loose, and long, reaching to mid-thigh. It had been easy to
conceal a knife under its hem.

Every moment under this roof galled him. He hated
these people; loathed breathing the same air as them. Yet, he would never have
guessed that the new King of Powys would agree to peace in one breath, and
insult Penda’s generosity in the next.

Treacherous dog.

Caedmon could not go back to Penda with news that
Cyneswith had wed Cynddylan’s younger brother. He would live only long enough
to deliver the news before Penda gutted him in a rage. Penda had not sacrificed
his precious daughter, so that the King of Powys could cast her aside like a
peasant.

Yet, he knew he could not prevent it. He was one
Mercian in a sea of Cymry. Cynddylan had the upper hand. Whether it happened
now, or later, Caedmon was a dead man – but before he drew his last breath he
intended to slay the cur who had been the source of all his misery.

Caedmon cursed them all and unsheathed the knife,
with the lightning speed that had won him a place among Penda’s best. Unlike
the rest of the feasters, he had drunk and eaten sparingly. The rest of them
were slow to react, their minds fogged by wine, their stomachs heavy with rich
food.

With a roar, Caedmon launched himself across the
table toward the king, scattering food and cups of wine.

Merwenna’s scream saved Dylan from having his
throat cut open by Caedmon’s blade.

Never, had Dylan seen a man move so fast. The
warrior’s gawky, rawboned appearance hid a lethal skill. Penda had sent a
killer to treat with him.

The flash of his attacker’s blade filled Dylan’s
vision as he toppled back off the bench onto the rushes. His crown flew off and
rolled away across the floor. Had he been seated on his throne when Caedmon
attacked, its carved armrests and high back would have trapped him like a cage,
leaving him unable to escape. As it was, he did not have time to roll to his feet,
before Caedmon was upon him.

The blade sliced toward Dylan’s throat. His fist
curled around Caedmon’s sinewy wrist, holding it fast. He strained against his
attacker, in an attempt to keep the Mercian’s blade from biting. He was stronger
than his opponent. Yet, Caedmon was on top of him, and had the advantage.

Dylan looked into Caedmon’s eyes and saw a killing
rage. He had seen wrath like this on the battlefield, had felt it himself when
bloodlust ignited in his veins. He knew that when a man entered such a state,
he cared not for his own life. All that mattered was dealing out death. He saw
the man’s desperation, his hate.

Slowly, the blade inched toward Dylan’s exposed
throat. He was losing the battle for his life. Any moment now, the blade would
bite into his flesh. Sweat beaded Dylan’s face. He fought Caedmon with every
inch of his strength; yet still the knife moved closer.

A shadow fell across them – and a booted foot
lashed out, connecting with Caedmon’s ribs.

Morfael, his handsome face twisted in fury, drew
back his leg and kicked the Mercian once more. This time, he aimed for just
under the armpit, putting all his force into the blow. With a grunt of pain,
Caedmon fell off his quarry, his grip on the knife loosening for an instant.

An instant was all Dylan needed.

He drove his knee up into Caedmon’s stomach and
shoved his arm upwards. A moment later, he was on top of his attacker, pinning
him to the ground.

Caedmon writhed like a landed trout, his teeth
bared, and his eyes bulging. Dylan was barely able to keep him down. He would
not be able to subdue the warrior – the only way Caedmon would stop fighting
was when he ceased to draw breath.

Dylan had wanted to keep this man alive, to find
out whether this attack had been another one of Penda’s tricks. However, Caedmon
was a man with nothing left to lose.

Dylan had to end it.

He smashed his fist into Caedmon’s face, dazing his
opponent. Then, he wrested the blade from Caedmon’s grappling fingers and plunged
it into the base of his opponent’s neck. Caedmon made a choked, gurgling noise
and abruptly stopped struggling. His eyes widened in surprise, as if he could
not believe his time had come. He grappled for the blade, his fingers curving
around the bone handle.

Blood gushed from his neck and soaked into the
rushes, flowering into a crimson lake around them.