The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (34 page)

Cynewyn and Tolan had disappeared.

Cynewyn stumbled through the undergrowth, panic
clawing at her breast. Behind her, she heard a man’s heavy tread, the rasp of
his breathing.

“Cynewyn,” Tolan’s voice was rough with passion.
“Don’t run from me.”

But run, she did. She had not wanted to dance with
him; she had made that clear. Yet, he had dragged her into the revelry and
forced her to, while he man-handled her like a piece of meat. His charm, his
easy manner and flattery had made her trust him; however, the moment he dragged
her toward the bonfire, she had known the truth.

This man wanted her, and intended to have her
tonight, whatever the cost.

Round and round the fire they had danced, and then,
suddenly, Tolan had pulled her away from the dancers and into the bushes
behind. Cynewyn, seized with terror, had kicked him in the shins and made a run
for it.

She had been glad of the cover that the undergrowth
provided, but when she broke free of the bushes, Cynewyn realized that she was
easy prey. She sprinted down the hill, in-between the lines of shadowed apple
trees, her heart hammering in her ears. Behind her, the drums of Beltaine
continued pounding, oblivious to her plight.

She had not run far when a man’s hand clamped around
her arm and pulled her up short. Cynewyn turned on him, fighting like a cat,
but he was much stronger than her.

Tolan laughed at her defiance, his eyes gleaming in
the glow from the fires. Her resistance only seemed to excite him. “Feisty
wench,” he gasped, out of breath from the chase. “Like to play games, don’t
you?”

He threw her to the ground and climbed on top of
her, pushing up her skirts.

“Get off me!” Cynewyn screamed. On a quiet night,
her voice would have carried, but this eve, with the drums and the roar of
revelry, her scream was lost.

“Quiet now,” he grinned down at her, reaching to
unfasten his breeches. “You’ll enjoy this, almost as much as I will.”

A moment later, Tolan gave a strangled cry and fell
backward. Another man’s silhouette appeared, outlined in the glow of the fires
farther up the hill. The newcomer had pulled Tolan off her by his hair. Cynewyn
struggled backward along the dew-laden ground and pushed her skirts down.
Meanwhile, the stable hand staggered to his feet, fists raised. His assailant
stepped forward to meet him, the man’s face suddenly illuminated by the fires.

Cynewyn gasped.

It was Wil. His face was hard; she had never seen
him so angry. He looked ready to kill the man before him. Tolan swung for his
opponent, and Wil blocked the punch easily, before slamming Tolan in the jaw
with his right fist.

Tolan slumped to the ground like a sack of barley.
Wil stood over him, waiting for Tolan to rise, but he did not.

Cynewyn inched forward. “Is he dead?” she asked,
her voice barely above a whisper.

Wil knelt down and felt for a pulse before shaking
his head. “Just knocked out – shouldn’t wake for a while though.”

Wil got to his feet and for a moment, the pair of
them just stared at each other. The Beltaine firelight flickering across their
skin.

“I didn’t want to go with him,” Cynewyn said.

“I know,” Wil replied, his face still hard and
shuttered, not giving his thoughts away.

“Thank you, Wil,” Cynewyn took another step toward
him. “He would have raped me.” Suddenly, she was breathless and tongue-tied.
There was so much she wanted to say to him, but now they had a precious moment
together, the words would not come.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Cynewyn shook her head. Their gazes fused, and she
saw the hurt and longing in his eyes.

“Cynewyn,” he said her name, and the sound of it
was so intimate that she felt her face grow hot. It reminded her of that night
they had spent together, alone in the woods with only the trees and starlight
for company. “I know I am not an ealdorman,” he continued, his voice steady.
“I’m not of noble blood and have no hall or servants to offer you, but I would
treat you like a queen. I love you, and will love you till I die. Is that not
enough for you? Or would you prefer to marry a man you’ve never met, only
because he is of noble birth and I am not.”

Tears streamed down Cynewyn’s cheeks at these
words.

“Wil,” she murmured, her voice trembling with the
effort she was making not to break down and sob. “I am sorry for everything I
said; for everything I made you think. I was foolish and vain. I thought the
king would grant me the freedom to run my own hall – that I would be free of
having to do a man’s bidding. I ignored what I felt for you. I’m so sorry I
hurt you.”

Wil stepped forward so that were standing only
inches apart. She could smell the warm, male musk of his skin; a scent that
made her pulse quicken in memory. Gods, how she had missed him – his smell, his
voice, and the feel of his gaze upon her.

“So my rank matters not to you?” he asked.

Cynewyn heard the hope in his voice and felt
something inside her break. She buried her head in her hands as sobs wracked
her.

“No,” she finally managed through her tears.
“Although, I understand if you hate me for what I’ve done.”

He pulled her into his arms then. She could hear
his heart racing against hers. “I could never hate you,” he murmured into her
hair. “‘Tis I who should ask forgiveness. I took you roughly that morning in
the woods. I should never have done that. I’m sorry.”

Cynewyn raised her head and pressed her mouth
fiercely against his. “I love you,” she whispered against his lips.

They stood together, entwined in the darkness,
while the revelry continued behind them. For a while, neither spoke, as they
savored the truth that had passed between them; a rare and fragile moment that
neither wanted to shatter.

Eventually, Cynewyn pulled back, her breathing
steady after the solace of his embrace. She met his gaze and saw the naked
vulnerability there. The mask was gone. The man who loved her stared back at her.

“Take me away from here,” she whispered. “Let’s go
now, and never come back.”

Wil’s eyes widened in shock. “You would leave
here?” he asked. “Leave everything behind?”

Cynewyn nodded. “If it means we can be together –
yes.”

Wil stared at her for a moment longer, before a
smile crept across his face. “There will be no going back,” he told her.
“You’ll be stuck with me. Are you ready for that?”

Cynewyn smiled back and, reaching out, took his
hand in hers.

“I’m ready,” she replied.

They turned away from the fires of Beltaine and
stepped over Tolan’s prone body. Hand in hand, the lovers walked down the hill,
and through the apple orchard. Moments later, the night shadows swallowed them.

Epilogue

Merwenna

Nine
months later…

Wilfrid of Went stood before the closed door to the
low wattle and daub dwelling, and resisted the urge to barge his way inside.

The mid-wife, a local woman named Cille, was
good-hearted but bossy to the extreme. He had wanted to stay by his wife’s side
– keep hold of her hand during the ordeal – but once the birth drew out, Cille
had ordered him outside.

It’s like I’m a dog she doesn’t want
under her feet
. Wil ground his jaw and started pacing, back and
forth, across the threshold.
If she does not call me soon, I will break that
door down
.

Around him, the late winter chill made its presence
felt. Even though he wore a thick fur cloak about his shoulders and fur-lined
boots, Wil’s limbs felt numb with cold. His breath steamed in front of him. It
was an achingly damp day, here on the outskirts of Gipeswic, near the banks of
the River Orwell. The remnants of a snow-fall, one that had kept them
house-bound for days, was now but all gone; there were just a few patches
remaining. The sky above was pale, and there was no sign of the sun.

Wil blew on his aching fingers and glanced around
at the collection of thatched cottages that surrounded them. Gipeswic had
provided a good home for them during Cynewyn’s pregnancy; he had managed to
find enough work to feed and clothe them, although they would soon need to move
on from here – possibly to Mercia, where Wil would seek to find an ealdormen to
serve.

There was no going back to Rendlaesham, both Wil
and Cynewyn had been clear about that. Neither of them disliked Rendlaesham, or
King Raedwald, who had treated them both well. However, it would have been
awkward to return there and explain themselves, after running away during
Beltaine. Raedwald might have been angered that they had gone behind his back.
Their future lay somewhere else.

The wail of a babe, split the freezing air, causing
Wil to halt mid-stride.

Had he imagined it?

As if in answer, another lusty wail erupted from
the dwelling. Wil’s face split into a wide smile. Not waiting for Cille to
fetch him, he threw open the door to his home and strode inside.

The cottage that he and Cynewyn shared was small
and simple. It was no king or ealdorman’s hall, although neither of them cared.
Cynewyn had made this small cottage a real home. Sweet-smelling rush-matting
covered the dirt floor and rabbit pelts covered the walls, keeping the cold
out. A hearth glowed in the center of the space, illuminating the pale,
exhausted face of a woman who lay upon a pile of furs.

“Wil!” Cynewyn greeted him with a tired smile. “You
have a daughter.”

Wil felt joy wash over him at this news. He stood
there next to the fire pit, grinning like a fool at his wife. “A daughter.”

Cille had just finished swaddling the babe in a
fur, and Wil caught a glimpse of a red, angry little face, before the mid-wife
passed the child to Cynewyn.

“She’s a feisty little thing,” Cille winked at Wil.
“You’ll soon have to deal with yet another strong-willed female!”

Wil laughed at that, and approached his wife,
kneeling next to her. “I would not expect Cynewyn’s daughter to be anything but
a force to be reckoned with.”

“I will accept that as a compliment,” Cynewyn
replied archly. Her gaze met Wil’s then; he saw the exhaustion on her face, and
the joy in her gaze. After two still-births, Cynewyn had been terrified that
she would not bear a living child. Yet, right from the beginning this pregnancy
had been different to the others. The growing babe had been active in her womb
– and she had dared hope that it would be healthy.

“Is she well?” he asked.

Cynewyn nodded. They both looked down at the
crumpled little face and the down-covered skull of the infant, and Wil was
overcome by the urge to cry. He reached out and stroked the baby’s cheek.
“She’s so tiny,” he murmured. “What will you name her?”

“Do you like ‘Merwenna’?” she asked, her face
hopeful. “It was the name of my little sister, who died during her fourth
winter. I would like to name our daughter after her.”

“Merwenna,” Wil said the name aloud before smiling.
“I like it – a strong name.”

“Then, Merwenna it is,” Cynewyn’s smiled widened.
“I’m so relieved that she’s healthy.”

Wil reached out and stroked her cheek. “You did
well, love.”

Cynewyn gazed back at him and Wil felt the same
pull her presence always provoked in him. Even after nearly a year together, he
still felt a jolt of excitement when their gazes locked. Her presence injected
the world with color and even took the sting out of winter’s chill.

“I hope to give you more children,” she told him,
her smile fading and her gaze intensifying, “and a son.”

Wil gazed back at her, aware that many women
worried that their husbands preferred sons to daughters. He was not one of
those men.

“If we have more children, so be it,” he told her
with a shake of his head, “but I am content with what I have – you, and
Merwenna, are enough to fill my life with joy.”

He saw her eyes fill with tears and knew that his
words had touched her. She knew he did not say such things lightly; he had
meant every word. Leaning forward, Wil kissed Cynewyn gently on the lips. He
had known enough loneliness, desolation and disappointment in his life to
appreciate happiness once he had found it. He would never take any of this for
granted.

Neither of them would.

About the Author

Love is at the core of all Jayne Castel's stories. She writes
historical romance set in 7th Century Anglo-Saxon England and contemporary
romance set in Italy.

Her inspirations for these genres come from her fascination
for British history, and her love of Italy, where she lived for a decade.

Two of her novels DARK UNDER THE COVER OF NIGHT and NIGHTFALL
TILL DAYBREAK, reached the quarter finals of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel
Awards in 2013 and 2014. Her latest historical romance, DAWN OF WOLVES, is a
Kindle Scout winner and is in production to be published by Kindle Press.

Jayne lives in New Zealand's South Island, where works as a
freelance copywriter. When she’s not writing, she’s studying languages, or
dreaming about her next trip to Europe!

--------------------

Visit Jayne's website at: jaynecastel.com

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