The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (29 page)

“Some losses cannot be compensated for,” Mildthryth
countered, her eyes narrowing into angry slits. “You cannot bring back our
dead.”

“Enough,” the warrior growled, his patience
snapping. “We have traveled long in cold weather, and are weary and in need of
food and a warm fire. Your prattle can wait till later.”

With that, Heolstor turned and shouted orders to
his men. “Aelin, Wilfrid – start bringing in our supplies – the rest of you see
to the horses.”

Two men, who had just dismounted, nodded brusquely.
One of them, with a shaggy beard obscuring his face, turned and started
unstrapping saddlebags to bring inside. However, his companion paused a moment,
his gaze riveted upon Cynewyn.

Cynewyn returned his stare, irritated by his
unwavering attention, before freezing.

She knew that face.

It had been a decade; years that had turned Wilfrid
of Went from a surly youth into an intimidating man. He was more muscular than
she remembered, and his shoulders were broader. However, she recognized his
face, clean shaven and serious; his light brown-hair still cut close to his
scalp. His hazel-eyed stare was as intense as ever, although he did not look at
her as he once had.

Ten years later, there was no youthful longing in
his gaze.

“
Wes hāl,
Cynewyn,” he greeted her
brusquely, his voice as deep and low as she remembered. Then, as if suddenly
aware that he had been staring, he tore his gaze from her face and moved to do
as he had been bid.  

Chapter
Two

An
Awkward Reunion

Wil turned away and strode over to where Aelin was
hoisting saddlebags over his shoulder, in preparation for carrying them inside.

Damn her
. She was even
more beautiful than he remembered. Enraged and facing Heolstor, she had been
mesmerizing. The past decade had turned her from a pretty girl into a stunning
woman. She was small with lush curves, creamy skin and a mane of light-brown
hair – the same color as his. Her eyes – he had never forgotten them – were a
deep sea-blue. Even swathed in furs, her face pinched with cold and anger,
Cynewyn made his pulse race.

Wil inwardly cursed her once more. He had hardened
himself for this moment, and had found himself praying to Woden for the
strength to hate her. Yet, one look into those eyes and he was lost.

That woman makes you weak,
he
told himself as he slung a sack over his shoulder.
Because of her you have
never been able to love another. Yet, you were nothing to her. She knew she was
promised to another and she let you humiliate yourself before her father. She
thought you a fool – a low-born spearman who deserved nothing better. You
should hate her.

Wil carried the sack across to the hall, passing
Cynewyn and the other folk remaining in Blackhill, who had come out to greet
the king’s men. Cynewyn refused to meet his eye as he passed her. She held her
chin high, her gaze looking through him.

Bitterness filled Wil’s mouth like gall. Even now,
years later, she still thought she was better than him.

***

The fire pit glowed in the center of the hall,
shedding its warmth over the men and women seated at the long tables either
side of it. Yet, this was no celebratory feast, and the mood this eve was
subdued. The meal was pottage, made from cabbage, onion and turnip, served with
griddle bread and some hard cheese that the king’s men had brought with them.

At the end of one of the long tables, taking her
late husband’s place – for there was no male kin left to lead the village –
Cynewyn took a sip of watered-down ale from her wooden cup. Her anger simmered,
overriding the grief and desperation at losing her kin and husband in just one
winter.

How dare this Heolstor drag them away from
Blackhill, leaving her people’s land to the East Saxons – those whoresons had
turned the last few years into a nightmare. Went and Blackhill needed
vengeance, not a retreat.

This will not end here
,
she vowed before taking a mouthful of pottage.
I will petition the king when
we arrive at Rendlaesham. He will return us to our land.

“This pottage is foul,” Heolstor, sitting to
Cynewyn’s left, pushed away his bowl with a grimace of disgust. “Are you trying
to poison us woman?”

Cynewyn’s simmering anger began to boil. This man
was almost as offensive as the decision he had made on their behalf.

She caught Mildthryth’s gaze to her right, and the
older woman rolled her eyes. Heolstor had the manners of a goat.

“Turnips and cabbages are all we have,” Cynewyn
told him coldly. “It has been a long winter. We have little food left.”

Heolstor grunted at this and took a draught from
his cup.

Further down the table, Cynewyn was aware of
Wilfrid’s stony presence. He said nothing and avoided looking in her direction.
Yet, she was aware of him all the same.

He hasn’t changed. Still as taciturn
and arrogant as ever.

Still, there was a part of Cynewyn that had
wondered over the years – and wondered now – what her life would have been like
if she had married Wilfrid instead of Aldwulf.

Aldwulf.

Her husband had died in agony, with a deep wound to
the stomach; a terrible death. No man – not even a drunkard who preferred drowning
himself in a barrel of mead every evening rather than making love to his wife –
deserved that.

Poor Aldwulf. This was not the life you
wanted.

He had become an ealdorman only a year after they
had married, after his father broke his neck while out hunting. Soon after
that, their problems with the East Saxons intensified. Both Went and Blackhill
sat close to the border – on land that the East Saxons had long claimed was
theirs. Eomer of Went and Aldwulf of Blackhill had done their best to protect
their villages. They erected perimeter fences and had men watch the walls, day
and night, yet it had not kept their enemy at bay. However, neither of the
ealdormen had thought that East Saxons would attack the villages outright. How
wrong they had both been.

Cynewyn looked down at her bowl of pottage and
blinked back tears.

This was not the life she had wanted either. Her
parents dead, two still-born babes and a mead-soaked husband who had ignored
her. At twenty-eight winters she felt old beyond her years.

Taking a deep breath, Cynewyn squared her shoulders
and reached for a piece of griddle bread. Still, she mused, her gaze flicking
across to Wilfrid once more – his face an inscrutable mask – marriage to a
humorless oaf might have been even worse.

Once the evening meal had finished, the women
cleared away the wooden cups and dishes, while the men made themselves
comfortable by the fire.

Although she was used to men doing as they pleased,
and clearing up after them, Cynewyn felt a stab of annoyance at tidying up after
Heolstor and his men. They were not her kin and were unwelcome in Blackhill.
She resented their presence under her roof.

Mildthryth washed the wooden plates, bowls and clay
cups in a great tub of hot water, while Cynewyn wiped down the tables with a damp
cloth. Around them, the king’s men made themselves comfortable. Some sat down
on their fur cloaks before the fire pit while others remained at the tables. A
group of them at one of the tables were playing a riddle game. Cynewyn caught
the end of one of the riddles.

“
The scars from sword wounds gape wider and
wider,”
the man finished with a flourish.
“Death blows are dealt me by
day and by night.”

The warriors scratched their heads and attempted to
decipher it. Despite herself, Cynewyn gave a small smile. She knew that riddle,
it had been one of her father’s favorites. However, it had appeared to have
stumped these men.

The man who had recited the riddle, folded his arms
over his chest. “I knew you wouldn’t find this one so easy,” he grinned,
victorious.

Eventually, one of warriors – a young man with a
sharp-featured face – called out.

“It’s a shield.”

A roar went up at that; for the riddle had been a
clever one, and had whet their appetites for more.

Half listening, as another warrior tried his luck,
Cynewyn passed by where Wilfrid sat quietly conversing with his bearded friend;
the one Heolstor had named Aelin. The men were deep in discussion, and had not
been paying attention to the riddle game. They broke off their conversation and
glanced her way as she stopped before them.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Cynewyn,”
Aelin smiled at her, genuine warmth in his eyes. “I know it matters not, but I
am sorry for all of this. ‘Tis not right to be forced to abandon your home.”

Cynewyn found herself smiling back, although the
expression felt strange on her face. How long was it since she had smiled or
laughed?

“I thank you,” she murmured, deliberately keeping
her gaze away from Wilfrid, who she could feel looking at her. “It has been a
cruel year.”

“Did none of your kin escape Went?” Wilfrid asked,
his voice gentle.

Cynewyn shook her head, fighting sudden tears. She
could not look at him. Just Wil’s presence here reminded her of another world;
another life. She had grown up protected by a loving family, believing that
life was fair and good, and that she would marry a man who would cherish and
love her, as her father had loved her mother. The reality of life, however, was
injustice, neglect, loss and disappointment. She was not the same girl that
Wilfrid had humiliated himself over – she felt hollowed out on the inside. If
he looked into her eyes, he would see it.

Cynewyn hurriedly wiped the table and moved on
then, leaving them to their conversation. The group of warriors nearby, were
still exchanging riddles, their laughter echoing through the hall.

The sound grated upon Cynewyn. She wanted nothing
more than to retire early – to hide behind the wall-hangings that divided her
bower from the rest of the hall. Yet, since they were due to leave tomorrow,
there was much to be done, much to prepare before she could sink into the
welcome softness of her bed of furs.

***

“She’s comely, the ealdorman’s widow,” Aelin caught
Wil’s eye and winked. “You did not mention that.”

Wil shrugged, feigning indifference. “It matters
not. You saw for yourself that she has a forked tongue.”

“I’d prefer to call her ‘fiery’,” Aelin replied
with a grin. “Just how I like my women.”

A hot, unexpected, blade of jealousy stabbed Wil in
the guts. He snorted, unable to keep the mask in place any longer.

“Isn’t Aeva enough for you?” he asked, referring to
the young woman that Aelin had been spending time with back in Rendlaesham.
“Some women are not worth the trouble, believe me.”

Aelin watched Wil, his grin fading as sudden
realization dawned upon him.

“Thor’s hammer – you were in love with her, weren’t
you?”

“Shut your mouth,” Wil snarled back.

Aelin gave a low whistle and shook his head. “Well,
that explains a lot.”

“What?” Wil snapped, suddenly hating his friend.
Aelin’s sharpness, a trait that he had always liked, now grated upon him. “What
does it explain?”

“Your bitterness,” Aelin replied without
hesitation. “Your anger. There have been times I thought you hated women.”

Wil stared back at Aelin, momentarily struck dumb
by his observation. “Enough,” he eventually ground out. “I tire of this game.”

Aelin nodded, not pushing him further, although his
expression remained thoughtful. Wil pushed aside his half-empty cup of ale and
got to his feet. Suddenly, he wished to be anywhere in Britannia but in this
village, and in this hall.

Sometimes the past was best left alone.

Chapter Three

Departure
from Blackhill

The next morning dawned cloudy and cold. Cynewyn
stepped out of her hall and pulled her fur cloak close, suppressing a shiver.
It was hard to believe spring was approaching; for the air still held the raw
chill of winter. Gritting her teeth against the sting of the morning air on her
face, Cynewyn made her way down the wooden steps and across the muddy clearing.
Usually, the center of Blackhill was filled only with a few geese, or children
playing. However, this morning it was heaving with men, horses and wagons; a
hive of activity. Villagers were packing the wagons with as many of their
possessions, and animals, as they could manage.

Cynewyn frowned when she saw some of the women were
in tears. This was wrong – tearing folk from the only homes they had known, and
leaving the village to those who had no right to it.

At the heart of the crowd Cynewyn found Mildthryth
standing, toe to toe, with Heolstor. Her mother-in-law’s face was flushed with
anger. In her arms, she carried a goose. A placid nanny-goat stood at her side.

“We’re not leaving our animals behind,” Mildthryth
insisted, her voice strained from the effort she was making not to shout, “so
that our enemies can have them!”

“Enough, woman!” Heolstor growled. “I tire of being
argued with at every turn. If you want to bring your animals then they are
your
responsibility. However, I’m not towing a menagerie behind us to Rendlaesham.
If you want to bring that goat, you can lead it!”

“These animals are the only wealth we have,”
Mildthryth countered, not remotely cowed by the huge warrior that stood over
her. “Your men need to help us fashion crates for the ducks and geese. They will
have to carry more supplies on their horses so that we can use the carts for
the pigs, sheep and goats.”

“You don’t give the orders here,” Heolstor’s
patience snapped. “We bring what we can carry – and we leave the rest behind!”

With that, the warrior turned and strode off into
the crowd, bellowing at his men. Cynewyn stepped up next to Mildthryth. She was
taken aback to see the fury on her mother-in-law’s face.

“That man is a pig,” Mildthryth snarled.

Cynewyn shook her head, despair settling over her
in a smothering blanket. “It’s as if we are to blame for all of this.”

“You’re not,” a male voice sounded behind them. The
women turned to see Wilfrid standing close by; he had overheard the entire
argument. His face, as usual, was unreadable, yet Cynewyn saw anger in his
eyes. “We shall help you bring as much of your livestock as we can carry,” he
told them. “Aelin is making wattle crates for your ducks and geese. We will
leave as little as possible behind.”

Mildthryth nodded, her face softening. “I thank you.
What’s your name?”

“Wilfrid of Went,” he replied, meeting her gaze
with the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

The women watched Wilfrid walk off. He joined Aelin
at the far side of the clearing, where the bearded warrior was hurriedly
constructing crates.

“Wilfrid of Went. A good man that one,” Mildthryth
observed quietly, “and handsome too. If only I was still young and comely. He
would be just the man to warm my bed.”

“Mildthryth!” Cynewyn turned to her mother-in-law,
not bothering to hide her surprise. “Surely, he’s too dour for your tastes?”

Mildthryth smiled, enjoying her daughter-in-law’s
discomfort. “Once, perhaps. My husband and son were both charming,” the smile
faded then, “but in many ways useless...”

“Useless?” Cynewyn interrupted her, aghast at
Mildthryth’s bluntness. “How can you speak of your kin so?”

“You know it to be the truth,” her mother-in-law
replied, unchastised, although her voice was tinged with sadness. “We both made
a similar mistake, dear Cynewyn, in choosing appearance over substance. These
days I am a little wiser. I see beyond a man’s looks and charm. There is a
strength, a power in a man who says little but keeps his word. I am old now –
‘tis likely I will never have a man want me again. However, you are young
enough for a second chance. I hope that, one day, you find another husband; one
that doesn’t disappoint you as my son did.”

Cynewyn stared back at her mother-in-law. She had
not realized it had been so painfully obvious.

“I wanted to love him,” she replied, her voice barely
above a whisper, her eyes filling with tears.

“I know,” Mildthryth smiled, her own eyes
glittering. “Watching you together was like seeing my own life replaying before
me.”

She stepped forward then, and gave Cynewyn a quick,
hard, hug. “Come,” she said briskly, brushing away a tear that had escaped and
was running down her cheek. “We have a life to pack away.”

***

It was late morning before the folk of Blackhill
finished readying themselves for departure. Standing alone inside the hall,
Cynewyn could hear Heolstor berating an elderly woman who was slower the most.
He had grown evermore impatient as the morning progressed, and as the sun rose
toward its zenith, he started to vent his frustration.

“Stop dragging your heels, you dim-witted hag!” he
roared.

Mannerless churl,
she
thought, casting her gaze around the interior of what had been her home for the
past decade.
If I was a man, I’d knock him down for that.

It was an odd sensation, standing inside the
ealdorman’s hall for one last time. The hall was empty and still, in stark
contrast with the frenetic activity outside. The quiet caused Cynewyn to
momentarily retreat to her own world. She gazed around the interior, reflecting
on the years she had spent here. The embers in the fire pit were cold, and they
had stripped the space of anything valuable – yet it still looked lived in, as
if the inhabitants had merely stepped out for a short while.

“Where is the ealdorman’s wife?” Heolstor’s irate
voice reached Cynewyn as she walked to the center of the hall and took one
last, lingering look around. “I’ve had enough of being delayed. Where is that
bitch?”

Cynewyn took a deep breath and ignored the
warrior’s shouting. She would leave when she was ready, and not a moment
before. She had gotten used to being her own mistress of late – of no longer
submitting to a man’s will – and had discovered that she enjoyed it.

When I start again in Rendlaesham it
will be on my own
, she told herself, a thrill of power
running through her at the thought.
I will not be another man’s chattel.

Suddenly, the doors to the hall opened and a
silhouette – that of a man of average height, but muscular – was outlined
against the pale morning light.

Wilfrid stepped inside and pulled the doors closed
behind him, his gaze meeting Cynewyn’s across the wide space.

“Heolstor is getting impatient,” he said gently.
Wilfrid crossed the floor toward her, his boots crunching on the rush-matting.
He stopped a couple of yards from Cynewyn, their gazes still fused. “We should
go.”

Cynewyn nodded, her pulse quickening. They were
alone, for the first time since that day, all those years ago, when he had
asked her to marry him. His nearness had a disturbing effect upon her. She
suddenly felt a little short of breath and lightheaded. He was looking at her
with that same, hungry intensity as he had back then; only now she was in no
mood to flirt, or to dismiss him. His gaze made the fine hair on her arms
prickle.

Aldwulf had never looked at her like that.

Breaking eye-contact, Cynewyn gave the hall one last
look before walking past Wilfrid, toward the doors.

“Very well,” she sighed. “I am ready now.”

A breeze whispered through the trees as the
procession of warriors, women, children and elderly made its way out of
Blackhill and down the slope leading away from the village. The ground was
muddy from the thaw, and slushy piles of snow still lay on the banks either
side of the road.

Many of the warriors walked, leading the less
able-bodied of Blackhill on their horses. Heolstor, one of the few warriors who
had not offered his horse to one of the elderly or infirm, led the group.
Heavily laden carts brought up the rear, filled with crates of indignant fowl,
bleating sheep and squealing pigs. The carts trundled down the incline with a
number of goats, tied to the back, trotting behind.

Cynewyn walked in the middle of the column, a heavy
leather bag, filled with her few possessions slung across her front. She wore
her thickest fur cloak, pulled tight about her to ward off the cold. Mildthryth
walked a few paces behind her, carrying her possessions in a basket on her
back.

The folk of Blackhill were subdued, and followed
the king’s men silently. Many of the women were weeping, yet Cynewyn was
dry-eyed. She felt oddly numb. Although Blackhill had been her home, she had
not been particularly happy there. There was little she would miss. It was only
pride and the promise of an uncertain future in Rendlaesham that made her cling
to the past.

It was late afternoon, the pale sun low in the sky,
when the travelers reached the ruins of Went. Heolstor led them around the
blackened stumps of the perimeter fence, rather than taking them through the
heart of the village.

Cynewyn had wanted to keep her gaze averted from
the ruins, but found she could not. She stared at the collection of charred
remains, at the husk of her father’s hall, and felt grief well within her. Over
the years, Went had represented happiness and security, and contained the
memories of a blessed childhood – but now even that was lost to her.

Blinking back scalding tears, Cynewyn glanced
ahead, at where Wilfrid was leading two children atop his horse. She saw him
gaze across at the ruined village and wondered if he had any regrets about
leaving Went. Her father had been furious after Wil had thrown his arm rings on
the floor at his feet and stormed off. Eomer of Went had been a proud man, and
he had liked Wil. Cynewyn had wondered if her father ultimately blamed her for
the whole incident. In many ways it had been her fault; she should not have
encouraged Wil to go before her father. She had known what the ealdorman’s
response would be. In truth, she had wanted to see Wil humiliated.

I was so different then,
she
thought with a touch of bitterness,
so sure of the world and my place in it.

Cynewyn was aware then, that someone was staring at
her. She looked up and met Wil’s gaze. She knew he could see her naked despair,
and suddenly hated him for it. They stared at each other a moment, before
Cynewyn dropped her gaze to the muddy ground. She did not look up until they
had left Went, and all its memories, behind.

They had not traveled far from Went when the
shadows grew deeper, and the light started to dim, warning that dusk was not
far off. They now approached the thick swathe of woodland.

“Halt!”

The column had almost reached the shadowy boughs of
the woods when Heolstor pulled up short, raising his hand for those following
him to do the same.

Cynewyn peered ahead, frowning.

What was amiss ahead?

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw what
had caused him to stop so abruptly.

A ragged company of men, all on foot and armed with
axes and spears emerged from the trees. There were at least sixty of them.
Lean-faced and wild-eyed, they approached the travelers warily, weapons raised.

One of the men – a huge warrior with grizzled brown
hair and a heavy-featured face – stepped forward from the group. He carried a
massive war-axe, and his gaze was riveted on Heolstor’s face.

“Finally,” the stranger growled before giving a
wide smile that showed his teeth. “We were beginning to think you weren’t
coming.”

Heolstor stared back at him, his face hard, before
finally responding. “Who are you? Name yourself.”

“My name is not important,” the warrior replied,
his smile fading. “We are East Saxons – that is all you need to know.”

“You’re on East Angle soil,” Heolstor’s gaze
narrowed.

“This is our land,” the axe-wielding warrior
replied, his own gaze narrowing.

“This land belongs to Raedwald of the East Angles,”
Heolstor growled. “Would you bring his wrath down upon you?”

In response to this, the East Saxon warrior spat on
the ground. “I care not for the wrath of your king. For years, these East Angle
dogs have settled and worked the land that should have been ours. Stand aside
and let us have their animals, any possessions of worth, and their comeliest
women.” The man’s face then twisted into a leer. “You can have the rest.”

Heolstor drew his sword. “East Saxon whoreson – you
don’t command here!”

Suddenly, there was a flutter of movement from the
line of East Saxons.

Heolstor grunted.

A hand axe had hurtled through the air, and was now
embedded in his chest. He stared down at it in mute shock. When he looked up,
blood seeped from between his lips and dribbled down his chin. Heolstor opened
his mouth to speak but no words came.