The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter Eight

Nón-mete

Not again.

Merwenna stared down at the hem she was
embroidering and watched her tears drop onto the linen.

Blinking furiously, she swallowed the rising sobs
and took deep, steady breaths. Eventually, her tears stemmed and she picked up
her bone needle to resume her work, keeping her gaze downcast lest anyone
attempt to make eye-contact with her.

Two days had passed since the king’s return. The
two longest days of Merwenna’s life.

She had received news of Beorn’s death so
publically, for Cynddylan’s interruption had drawn the attention of all.
However, grief had overridden embarrassment and, after the Prince of Powys had
told her of her betrothed’s end on the battlefield, she had dissolved into
tears and fled the hall.

No one had come after her, and Merwenna was glad
for it. Away from prying eyes, she had curled up in the shadow of one of the
outbuildings, and had wept until exhaustion. Alone, she nursed her pain in the
long twilight. Suddenly, she wanted the comfort of her family around her. For
the first time since leaving Weyham, she longed for her mother’s embrace.

Beorn
. Every time
she thought of him, the tears flowed afresh. He had been so young, so earnest –
so brave. She had tried to warn him that war was not like the songs that the
older men sung around the fire pit, but he had merely humored her.

Now she would never hear his voice, look into his
eyes, or kiss him – ever again.

Merwenna could not think upon Beorn without raging
against fate. The likes of Penda and Cynddylan lived, so why could not have
Beorn?

Merwenna stabbed her bone needle into the linen and
did a quick, neat stitch.

Anger was so much easier to tolerate than grief.

As always it had been a lonely morning, sitting
apart from the other women as she worked. She was a guest in the King’s Hall
but even so was expected to earn her keep. This did not bother Merwenna. Industry
kept her sadness at bay.

Even so, it was time to leave Tamworth.

She felt much stronger today. Ever since the news
of Beorn’s death, she had hidden from the world. Yet, this morning she could
see beyond the cloak of grief. She needed to go home, to face her parents – and
Seward – and to help bring in the last of the harvest.

The aroma of mutton pie reached Merwenna then,
causing her belly to growl. She looked up to see the inhabitants of the Great
Hall were taking their places at the long tables for
nón-mete
, ‘noon
meat’. Merwenna put aside her embroidery, rose to her feet, and moved to join
them.

I will speak to the queen this
afternoon
,
she made herself a silent promise as she took a seat on one of the low benches.
I will ask her for an escort home tomorrow
.

Merwenna had just taken a seat when she felt
someone’s gaze upon her. She glanced up and looked straight into the eyes of
the Prince of Powys. He was walking past, on his way farther up the table, to
where he would take his seat.

The prince gave her a slow smile in greeting.

Flustered, Merwenna looked away. She did not look
up again until he had moved on. She was not sure why, but there was something
about that man that unnerved her. Yet, part of her hated Cynddylan for
revealing that Beorn was dead. His blunt words had crushed any hope.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, the royal
family took their places.

Penda and Cyneswide sat at the head, flanked by
their children to the left and Penda’s most trusted ealdormen down the right.
The three boys had pushed and shoved their way to the table, elbowing each
other for the chance to sit next to their father. However, one quelling look
from Penda calmed them. Giving his younger brothers a superior look, Paeda took
his place closest to the king.

Servants circulated the hall, filling cups with
milk, ale or mead, or placing wooden platters of braised leeks on the table. 
The mutton pie arrived, and Merwenna’s mouth watered at the sight of it. She
was just beginning her slice, tearing into the crumbly pastry with her fingers,
when she heard one of the princes – the middle one, Wulfhere – address his
father.

“
Fæder
,” the boy began, his handsome face
earnest with purpose. “One of the town smiths has a litter of pups he is giving
away. They’re hunting dogs. May I have one?”

Penda swallowed a mouthful of pie, and washed it
down with a gulp of ale, before answering. "We have plenty of dogs in the
tower, Wulfhere. Choose one of them.”

“But they’re all grown – and they all belong to
others,” Wulfhere insisted, his voice quavering slightly as he sought to
control his nervousness. Merwenna did not blame him. Penda’s mere presence was
enough to chill the blood. “I promise I will look after it,
fæder
,” the
lad finished, his face hopeful.

“No,” Penda’s tone was dismissive as he turned back
to his meal. “You’ll have a dog of your own to train when you’re grown – when
you’ve earned it. I have enough beasts skulking about the hall as it is without
a whelp under my feet.”

“But,
fæder
,” Wulfhere did not back down. He
stared at his father, his eyes glittering. “I promise it wouldn’t be any
trouble. I would…”

“Enough,” the word came out in a low growl, but its
menace caused Penda’s son to pale. “You whine like a maid. One more word and
I’ll take my belt to you.”

Merwenna watched the lad hang his head, hiding his
expression under a cascade of white-blond hair. To his left, the eldest
brother, Paeda, smirked; while to his right, the youngest, Aethelred,
sniggered.

Merwenna, who had always not only felt her own
emotions deeply, but also those of others, longed to go to the boy and comfort
him. Her gaze flicked to Cyneswide – and she was surprised to find the queen’s
expression composed. But, when she looked more closely, Merwenna caught the
flicker of sadness in her eyes.

Glancing back at Prince Wulfhere’s stricken face, Merwenna
counted herself lucky that she had not been born into such a family.

Farther up the table, Dylan also watched the
exchange between father and son.

He remembered that at the same age as Wulfhere, he
too had pestered his father for a dog. Unlike Penda of Mercia, Cyndrwyn of
Powys had eventually relented. That pup – a tiny creature that had once fitted
in the palm of his hand – had grown into a huge, shaggy beast. They had grown
up together.
Taranau
– ‘thunder’ in his tongue – had become his shadow, his
friend.

Dylan’s father, who had died the winter before, had
been a stern, inflexible man in many ways. Yet, seeing Penda’s treatment of his
son, made Dylan see his own father in a new light.

He will make his sons the image of him
,
Dylan thought wryly.

Dylan turned his attention back to his pie. Like
the rest of the fare that Penda’s cooks prepared, it was delicious. Yet, now
that the weariness of the journey back from Maes Cogwy had abated, Dylan was
too restless to enjoy it.

He pushed aside the remnants of his meal, took a
deep draught of mead, and cast another glance in Penda’s direction.

Enough. The battle was done. The Northumbrians had
been defeated, and yet Penda continued to deflect any talk of compensating his
allies for their losses. He had been a guest under Penda’s roof for over two
days – long enough, in his opinion – and was eager to begin the march back to
Powys.

He had a kingdom to rule, and would be crowned upon
his return to Pengwern, the capital of Powys. Dylan and his men were guests in
Tamworth, but Penda’s hospitality was a thin veneer. Last night, there had been
a brawl outside the mead hall, between Dylan’s men and Mercian warriors. If
they stayed much longer, the truce between Powys and Mercia would be at an end.

Penda, it’s time for us to talk.

Chapter Nine

Cyneswide’s
Word

Merwenna approached the group of high born women.
They were working industriously at their distaffs and looms. The queen was
among them, seated at her loom, and flanked either side by her daughters. She
looked up as Merwenna approached, as did Cyneburh and Cyneswith.

Merwenna ignored the girls’ haughty stares.
Instead, she focused upon the queen, who at least was smiling at her.

“Good afternoon, Merwenna. I have not seen you all
day. Are you well?”

“Yes, Milady,” Merwenna returned the smile and
dipped into a low curtsey. Then, she took a deep breath and pushed on, before
she lost her nerve. “I am well, but anxious to return to my kin. Now that I
know Beorn’s fate, I cannot remain here.”

Cyneswide nodded her blue eyes clouding slightly.
“You are grieving. I am sorry your betrothed did not survive the battle – I had
so hoped he would.”

“Thank you,” Merwenna dropped her gaze to the
floor, feeling her throat tighten at Beorn’s name. “You are most kind.”

She paused then, struggling to compose herself,
while aware that the other women all watched her. Some of them enjoyed seeing
her grief, especially after the dishonor that Seward had brought upon her.

Taking a deep breath, Merwenna looked up and met
Cyneswide’s gaze.

“Milady, you promised me an escort home, when I was
ready. I would like to depart tomorrow. Can you provide me with one?”

Even as she spoke these words, Merwenna was
painfully aware of her boldness. She knew that the queen had made a promise.
Yet, to actually stand before her and demand she make good on it, was another
thing entirely.

The queen held her gaze for a moment before her
smile faded. Her expression changed to one of regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I have tried to
speak to the king about you, but he will not hear of sparing one of his men to
escort you home.”

But you promised!

Merwenna choked back the words, panic flaring in
her breast, her palms breaking out into a cold sweat.

“Perhaps you can ask at the market?” the queen
continued gently. “There are bound to be merchants traveling in the direction
of your village. Perhaps you can journey with one of them?”

One like Drefan of Chester, Milady?

Anger surged within Merwenna’s breast. Queen or
not, this woman had given her word. While her husband had been absent,
Cyneswide had been strong, capable, and decisive. Now that Penda had returned,
she was but a shadow of that woman. 

Merwenna managed a sickly smile, although inside
she was in turmoil. She was so annoyed that she had to clench her fists to stop
it from showing on her face.

“Thank you for at least trying on my behalf,” she
eventually replied, hoping her ingratitude was not showing on her face, “and
for your hospitality. I shall take my leave now.”

The queen’s eyes widened. “There’s no need to rush
off, Merwenna,” she admonished. “You can wait till morning at least.”

Merwenna shook her head. Then she stepped back,
curtsying once more as she did so.

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m going home today.”

Merwenna crossed the Great Hall to the small bower
she had been sharing with the princesses for the last few nights. It had been
an uncomfortable spot, lying pressed up against the damp stone wall, but ever
since Seward’s departure, the queen had deemed it the safest place for her
young guest to sleep.

Inside, she retrieved her satchel and stuffed her traveling
cloak into it. Then, slinging it across her front, she emerged back into the
hall.

The hall was in chaos. Slaves wove their way
through the mass of leather-clad warriors, in last-moment preparations for the
meal. The rumble of men’s voices echoed like thunder in the lofty space.

It was nearing meal time and the king’s men, rowdy
and high-spirited as usual, flooded the hall. They were an intimidating group –
tall, broad and loud. They groped the serving girls, kicked dogs out of their
way and strode toward the long tables either side of the two fire pits, roaring
for cups of mead as they went. The victory had put Penda’s men in good spirits;
but it had also made them insufferable. Merwenna was wary of them.

Fortunately, no one paid her any mind as she edged
her way around the wall and slipped out the doors.

Outside, despite that it was not yet near dusk, the
light had faded considerably, for dark clouds had rolled in from the north. The
air crackled with the promise of an approaching storm.
Thunor
was
preparing to ride his chariot, drawn by his two goats – Gap-tooth and Gnasher –
across the sky.

Merwenna took a deep breath of the humid air,
squared her shoulders and stalked away from the Great Tower of Tamworth. She
crossed the yard, passed under the stone arch, and stepped out into the pot-holed
street beyond.

Despite her purposeful stride, Merwenna’s stomach
felt twisted in knots. Anger had propelled her out of the Great Hall and into
Tamworth, but now the reality of matters hit her.

She was about to face a five-day journey alone.

Tamworth stank of urine, rotting food and animal
droppings, and Merwenna’s memory of the incident in the market square was still
fresh in her mind. She breathed shallowly and kept her gaze downcast as she
hurried through the network of narrow streets.

She had to hurry. Soon, the town gates would be
closing for the night. She wanted to make sure she was outside Tamworth’s walls
when they did.

***

“Storm’s brewing,” Gwyn muttered
as he and Dylan crossed the stable yard.

The Prince of Powys glanced up at
the sky and felt the first drops of cool rain splatter onto his upturned face.
“A violent one by the looks of it,” he replied.

They had spent most of the
afternoon with their men, who were camped outside Tamworth’s walls, checking on
those who were injured and readying the others for their imminent departure.
With a tempest on its way, it was time to return inside.

Impatience had needled at Dylan
for most of the day; this eve, he planned to remind Penda of his oaths.

Most of the king’s men were
already seated when Dylan and Gwyn entered the Great Hall. As always, there was
a great deal of activity and noise inside. A pall of greasy smoke hung in the
air.

Letting Gwyn go on ahead, Dylan
paused on the threshold. His gaze swept the hall, and rested upon where Penda
had just taken a seat at the head of the king’s table.

The Prince of Powys set off across
the hall toward him.

Rodor had been about to take his
place at the king’s right, when Dylan slid onto the bench next to Penda. Taken
aback by the prince’s sudden appearance, Rodor cursed under his breath and
stood threateningly over him. He clearly expected Dylan to rise and give him
back his place.

Dylan glanced up and met Rodor’s
glare. “I’m feasting here this eve,” he informed him. “Find somewhere else to
sit.”

With that, Dylan turned to face
the king, dismissing Rodor. He could feel the warrior’s glare blister him
between the shoulder blades. Dylan ignored him, although he could feel his own
anger rising.

Rodor would pester him again at
his peril.

Penda regarded Dylan with thinly
veiled amusement. The Mercian King had just taken a sip from a large bronze
goblet, studded with amber and garnets. Next to him, his queen was daintily
picking at a leg of marsh hen. She glanced Dylan’s way, and favored him with a
gentle smile.

Dylan acknowledged her with an
answering smile. “Milady.”

“Good evening, Cynddylan,” Penda
rumbled. “It appears you are eager to speak to me. Rodor looks displeased. I’d
warn you against annoying him too greatly, for he has a long memory.”

Dylan shrugged, fixing Penda in a
level gaze. “The day I shall concern myself with Rodor, is the day I return to
my mother’s tit. I am seated here to talk of more kingly matters. It is time we
spoke of the alliance between our kingdoms.”

Penda raised his eyebrows at that
before taking another draught of mead. “Speak your piece then.”

“You remember the agreement,”
Dylan regarded Penda coolly. “If Powys helped Mercia win the battle against the
Northumbrians, you would grant us rule over the area east of our current
border. Do I have your word that this land is now ours?”

Penda’s face went still, as cold
and hard as one of the statues the Romans had left behind. Only his eyes showed
any response, glittering coldly in the firelight.

“That land belongs to me.”

“It belongs to whomever earns it.”

Penda’s gaze narrowed slightly,
before his mouth curved into a tight smile.

“Very well,” he drawled, finally.
“You can have as far east as Hanbury.”

Dylan took a deep breath,
controlling the anger that flared in the pit of his belly. The king’s offer was
an insult, and everyone within earshot knew it.

Penda knew the Prince of Powys had
a fiery temper. He wanted Dylan to lose control, to lash out. He was counting
on it.

“Hanbury lies barely a morning’s
ride from our eastern border,” Dylan said, making sure to keep his voice even
and emotionless. “That is no prize for the deaths of fine Cymry warriors. Give
us as far east as Lichfield, and we will be content.”

“Lichfield,” Penda ground out the
name like a curse. “You demand much.”

“I demand only our due,” Dylan
replied. “The promise our alliance was founded upon. Powys is a great ally for
Mercia. We rallied to your side against the Northumbrians, and we would do so
again. However, you must recompense our losses or next time your neighbors
march on your borders you will do so alone.”

They were strong words – but they
had the desired effect. The rumble of conversation around them had died, and
Dylan was aware of gazes, many of them hostile, upon him. He paid them no heed,
his own gaze riveted upon the King of Mercia’s face.

Much depended on Penda’s next
words.

Penda’s fist clenched around the
stem of his goblet. His face, however, gave nothing away. A long pause
stretched between them before the king finally spoke.

“Very well – you may have the
land.”

A thrill of victory surged through
Dylan, although he was careful to keep his face neutral. He was aware of the
aura of danger that suddenly crackled around him. Penda had agreed to his terms
but he felt as if he were standing in the center of a frozen lake, upon very
thin ice. One misstep and he would plunge to his death.

“Thank you, Lord Penda,” he
nodded, rising to his feet to find Rodor still standing behind him.

If the king looked coldly furious,
Rodor looked fit to explode. His face was contorted with rage, his cheeks
flushed.

“Your man may have his place
back,” Dylan smiled at Rodor, showing him his teeth. “Now that I have my
answer, I will abuse your hospitality no longer. I shall ready my warriors to
leave with the breaking dawn.”

Dylan moved away from the long
table, but had only distanced himself a couple of yards when Penda’s cold voice
hailed him.

“Lord Cynddylan.”

Dylan turned. “Yes?”

“You have the land as far east as
Lichfield for now, but do not think it will belong to Powys forever. There will
come a day when Mercia will reclaim its territory – remember that.”

Dylan inclined his head, and
returned Penda’s gaze. “And there will come a day when Powys does not answer
Mercia’s call – remember that.”

Dylan turned from the Mercian King
then, and strode from the hall without a backward glance. His hand itched to
reach for his sword, but it awaited him in the entrance way beyond the doors.
All the same, he could feel Mercian stares knifing him between the shoulder
blades and hoped Gwyn was watching his back.

It was done. He had received the
gift he had been waiting for – now it was time to be gone from Tamworth.