The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (25 page)

Bebbanburg, the Kingdom of
Northumbria,

Britannia

Late autumn, 653 A.D.

Alchflaed was riding on the beach when she saw the
horsemen approach from the south.

She had taken a long ride that morning, enjoying
the chill wind in her face and the clean, salt-laced air in her lungs. On the
last stretch of shoreline toward home, she urged her pony into a brisk canter.
Her two dogs ran alongside her, tongues lolling. She rode close to the water,
accompanied by the roar of the surf and the hollow drum of her pony’s hooves on
the hard silver sand.

The wind whipped tendrils of hair in her face but
Alchflaed paid it no mind. Her gaze travelled across the smooth beach, over the
reed-covered dunes, to the rocky promontory ahead, on which the fort of
Bebbanburg perched. She could see the wooden palisades that ringed the flat top
of the outcrop, and the great tower, made of dark red stone that stood out
against the pale sky. The Northumbrian flag – eight yellow rectangles on a
blood-red field – snapped in the breeze.

Alchflaed looked away from her home and was about
to glance east to where the North Sea shimmered, when something caught her eye.

The horsemen thundered along the road leading to
the base of the fortress. It was a sizeable company, the warriors’ spears and
standards bristling above their heads.

Seized by curiosity, Alchflaed kicked her mare into
a flat gallop. Behind her, the dogs barked excitedly and gave chase. As she
drew closer, Alchflaed could make out the colors of the standards that the
warriors bore: blue and gold.

Mercians.

***

“Thunor’s hammer, it’s cold up here!”

“That’s just the sea breeze, Elfhere. It’s like the
finest ale – drink it in.”

Maric loosened his horse’s girth, grinning at the
blond warrior next to him. They had just followed the king into Bebbanburg’s
stable complex, which lay beyond the high gate within the inner palisade, and
were in the process of unsaddling their horses.

“I grew up amongst hills and forests,” Elfhere
grumbled. “What use do I have for the sea?”

“Surely, you admired the view on the way up?”

“Listen to you,” Osulf, a heavy-set warrior with a
thick mane of chestnut hair and beard to match, jeered. “It sounds like you’ve
had your head in a barrel of ale all morning.”

“Can’t a man be happy about life?”

Osulf snorted. “Aye, but ever since your
handfasting you’ve been in repulsively good spirits.”

Maric’s grin widened. “I’ll not deny it – Gytha was
the best thing to ever happen to me.”

“So you managed to wed the fairest maid in
Tamworth. You don’t have to crow about it.”

“Come now. Don’t begrudge a man a bit of
happiness.”

Osulf favored him with a scowl. “Some of us can do
no better than a mead-hall whore.”

Nearby, Elfhere choked on a laugh, while Maric
turned away from Osulf to hide a smirk. As he did so, he spotted the king
heading their way. The king’s eldest son, Paeda, strode at his heels. Maric’s
smile abruptly faded. His banter with his friends forgotten, he stepped forward
to greet the King of Mercia.

“Milord?”

As always, the king’s face appeared hewn from
stone. He had passed at least fifty five winters, and his face now bore every
one of his years. His long hair, tied back in a thong at his neck, once blond,
was snowy white; yet his physique was still one of a battle-hardened warrior.
Beside him, Prince Paeda, although strongly built like his father, was as dark
as Penda was pale.

“Leave your horses with the slaves,” Penda ordered.
“I need the three of you to attend us. King Oswiu awaits.”

Wordlessly, they did as he bid. The three warriors
fell in behind their king and prince, following them out of the stable yard.
Beyond, they crossed a wide grassy space and climbed the steps into
Bebbanburg’s Great Tower.

Inside, Maric’s first impression of the Great Hall
of Bebbanburg was that the seat of the King of Bernicia was a much more
welcoming space then Penda’s grey, austere hall. The red stone gave off a
warmth in the light of four enormous fire pits burning in each corner. Fresh
rushes covered the ground and the air smelt of smoke, roasting mutton and
rosemary.

The Mercians strode across the center of the vast
space. As he walked, Maric was aware that the gazes of all present had swiveled
to the small party. The King of Mercia barely seemed to notice, although his
son’s shoulders stiffened under their inspection.

Upon the high seat, King Oswiu watched them
approach. Flanked by his kin on both sides, Oswiu sat upon a magnificent carved
oaken chair. He was at least a decade younger than the Mercian king; a tall,
sinewy man with high-cheekbones and deep-set green eyes. Long sandy hair,
flecked through with grey, was brushed out across his shoulders, and a neatly
trimmed beard covered a strong jaw. He wore a splendid, rich green tunic, edged
with red silk. A plush grey squirrel cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened by
gold and amber brooches.

Oswiu favored Penda with a wintry smile.

“Lord Penda. For what do we owe the pleasure of
this unexpected visit?”

The thinly veiled hostility in the King of
Bernicia’s voice came as no surprise. Penda’s reputation as a ruthless
warmonger preceded him. He had arranged for his daughter’s marriage to Oswiu’s
son, in a gesture of peace, but had broken the alliance shortly after. Oswiu
had every reason not to trust his warlord neighbor.

“Greetings, Lord Oswiu. How fares Bebbanburg?”

“It still stands, as you can see?”

“And how fares my daughter?”

Oswiu’s gaze narrowed and shifted to where a golden
haired beauty sat demurely on the high seat next to a young man with short
auburn hair.

“Ask her yourself.”

The young woman, as regal and fair as Maric remembered,
favored her father with a tight smile.

“Greetings, fæder.”

Penda’s gaze moved down his daughter’s lithe
figure, coldly assessing.

“No sons yet, Cyneburh?”

The princess blanched, her gaze dropping to her
feet, while the young man seated beside her stiffened, his expression
hardening.

Maric shifted uncomfortably, his gaze briefly
meeting Elfhere’s. They had left their weapons outside, as was customary, but
should Penda cause a brawl in Oswiu’s hall they would have only their bare
hands to defend him with. Maric readied himself for that possibility.

“Penda,” Oswiu cut in, his voice even colder than
before. “I take it you did not travel all this way to enquire after your
daughter.”

Penda inclined his head, letting a few moments pass
before he replied.

“Indeed… I come to make a pledge of peace.”

Oswiu’s mouth twisted.

“Really? Will it be as enduring as your last one?”

To his credit, Penda appeared not remotely
disturbed by the Northumbrian ruler’s chill welcome, or his sarcasm.

“The alliance between us is not yet complete,” he
rumbled. “I have played my part, by wedding my first-born daughter to your son.
Now, it is time for you to pledge one of your kin to my house.”

“Is raiding our borders also part of this
alliance?” Oswiu asked, his mouth twisting.

Ignoring Oswiu’s hostility once more, Penda
motioned to the silent young man who stood, ramrod straight, next to him.

“My eldest son, Paeda, is first in line to the
throne. I propose a match between him and your daughter, Alchflaed.”

Silence fell, broken only by the snapping of the
logs in the fire pits. Penda eventually broke it.

“She is of age, is she not?”

Oswiu leaned back in his chair and regarded Penda
under hooded lids.

“Aye… and more trouble than she’s worth.”

Penda stiffened. “Is she still a maid?”

Oswiu nodded, before glancing to his left, where
his wife, Queen Eanflaed, sat observing the proceedings. In her arms, she
carried a swaddled babe. Eanflaed was a plump woman with a pretty, if slightly
pugnacious, face. She wore her dark hair in elaborate braids. The queen met her
husband’s gaze and they shared a smile. Oswiu then turned back to address
Penda.

“Alchflaed is indeed a maid, but she is a little…
wild.”

“My son will tame her,” Penda’s voice held a sneer,
“if her father has not already had the backbone to do so.”

His pale gaze shifted behind Oswiu, to where his
kin sat.

“Where is the princess?”

“She went out riding this morning,” the queen
spoke, her voice high-pitched and oddly girlish. “She has not yet returned.”

Oswiu spoke next, his voice even colder and more
unwelcoming than earlier.

“Do you really think this pathetic attempt to
peace-weave will fool me, Penda? It made no difference before. I have even less
reason to trust you now.”

Penda gave a low laugh, a humorless sound.

“As I said, our alliance is not yet complete.
Betrothe your daughter to my son, and I will leave your borders in peace.”

Oswiu’s face darkened.

“You dare issue threats? You stand alone in my
hall, with only your son and three of your men to protect you.”

“Now who is issuing threats, Oswiu?” Penda rumbled.

Maric recognized the tone of his lord’s voice well.
It was the calm before the storm; Penda was about to unleash his wintry rage.
Oswiu was a dolt if he thought being outnumbered and unarmed was any hindrance
to Penda of Mercia. Not only that, but his son was almost as lethal as he was.
Penda had not chosen Maric, Elfhere and Osulf by chance either. Each of them
had earned their place as trusted warriors at their king’s side.

However, the Northumbrian lord’s response was
forestalled by his son. Seated next to Oswiu, the young man leaned forward, his
voice low.

“Fæder
,
she’s here.”

Oswiu’s sharp gaze shifted from Penda, travelling
over his shoulder to the hall’s entrance behind him. Likewise, the Mercian King
and his escort turned, their gazes swiveling to the young woman who strode into
their midst.

Maric found himself staring.

When Oswiu described his daughter as ‘wild’, he had
not been exaggerating. Alchflaed swept into the hall like a storm. She
resembled a warrior maid, rather than a princess. Two shaggy, long-legged
hounds – one black and the other brown – trailed at her heels, staying close to
their mistress as she crossed the floor.

Her auburn hair was unbound and tumbled over her
shoulders in unruly waves. She was tall and statuesque with milky skin, and
dressed in a long tunic, belted at the waist. The tunic was split at the sides,
to allow for riding astride. Underneath, Maric glimpsed shapely legs clad in
soft leather leggings and fur-lined boots. She moved like a huntress, with long
purposeful strides. Unlike her sister by marriage, Cyneburh, there was nothing
demure or subservient about her.

Sharp, moss-green eyes focused on the party before
the high seat, travelling over their faces. Then, unexpectedly, her gaze paused
upon Maric.

Their eyes locked for a heart-beat.

Woden.

Maric considered himself happily married. He could
not wait to be reunited with Gytha, the raven-haired beauty awaiting him in
Tamworth. Even so, this woman’s vibrancy and raw sensuality disarmed him.

A heartbeat passed before he tore his gaze from
her, and noted that he had not been the only one captivated by Princess
Alchflaed. Both Elfhere and Osulf were gawking at her, while Paeda looked
pole-axed. The prince stared at the princess, open-mouthed, as if he gazed upon
a goddess.

Only Penda appeared immune. He turned back to the
Northumbrian king and raised a pale eyebrow.

“So this is your daughter?”

“Alchflaed. Greet Lord Penda of Mercia,” Oswiu
growled.

The young woman dropped into a neat curtsy, a
gesture that was at odds with her untamed appearance.

“Lord Penda.”

Unlike the queen, the princess’s voice was
low-pitched, with a slight husky edge. The sound of it caused Maric’s pulse to
quicken.

Get a hold of yourself, man.

Oblivious to the furor she had caused, Alchflaed
crossed the space to the high seat and took her place on the far right of the
raised platform, next to her sister by marriage. The dogs sat obediently at her
feet, tails wagging.

Alchflaed cast a glance at Cyneburh and received a
look of cool censure in response. She had sensed the tension as soon as she
entered the hall, and the vexed look upon her father’s face now only confirmed
it. Her entrance had interrupted a brewing argument.