The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter
Ten

Rodor
Makes a Pledge

“The Prince of Powys and his men have departed.”

Rodor stopped before the
heah-setl
and fixed
the king with a penetrating stare.

The king grunted, but did not bother to look his
way.

Penda leisurely reclined in his high-back wooden
chair, watching his sons play-fight with wooden swords. It was a magnificent
throne – with arm-rests that had been elaborately carved to resemble two dragon
heads.

“Milord,” Rodor began again. “Are you just going to
let Cynddylan leave?”

Penda ignored him. His gaze remained upon Paeda and
Wulfhere. The boys were sparring, and the play-fight had suddenly turned
serious. Wulfhere, a year younger than Paeda, was starting to gain the
upper-hand – a move which had caused his older brother to snarl insults at him.

“Arse-licking little shit,” Paeda spat, his face
red with the effort to keep his brother at bay. “You seek to ingratiate
yourself with
fæder
. I’ll beat you senseless for this later.”

“Not if I get you first!’ Wulfhere snarled back,
before clubbing his brother on the side of the head with the blade of his
wooden sword.

Paeda’s howls echoed up into the rafters.

The queen rose to her feet, sweeping down from the
high seat to prevent the fight from deteriorating into a bloody brawl.

“My Lord Penda,” Rodor’s patience had reached
breaking-point. “Cynddylan insulted you, before your entire hall. Will you let
that lie?”

Those words drew the king’s attention. As Rodor has
suspected, Penda was out of sorts this morning. His face grew taut and his head
swiveled to his
thegn.

“You forget your place, Rodor,” he rumbled. “If he
had truly insulted me, his head would be on a pike outside Tamworth’s gates.”

“Apologies, Milord,” Rodor bowed his head. “I spoke
hastily out of anger. Cynddylan’s arrogance galls me. He behaves as a base-born
mercenary. His demand was outrageous – surely you do not mean to let Powys rule
as far east as Lichfield?”

Penda stretched his long legs out before him, and
crossed them at the ankles. He fixed Rodor with a level gaze.

“I made a pact with Powys. In this instance, I
thought it prudent to uphold our promises. We may need Cynddylan’s assistance
in the future.”

Rodor frowned. It was unlike Penda to care about
keeping oaths, or to bow to the demands of others.

“Mercia does not need the help of those Cymry dogs,”
Rodor replied, his lip curling.

Penda gave a humorless laugh. “You did not fight
alongside them at Maes Cogwy, Rodor. They are formidable allies, and I am not
done fighting. Northumbria might have been beaten to submission but I still
have enemies to face. Annan of the East Angles has long been a thorn in my
side. I will not rest till I gut that whoreson on my blade.”

Rodor did not reply to that. He knew that the
rancor between Penda and Annan ran deep. Mercia had beaten the East Angles at
Barrow Fields, years earlier, and killed their king. The successor to the East
Angle throne, Annan, was allowed to live only if he agreed to ‘bend the knee’
to Mercia. Penda had attempted to seal the agreement with an arranged marriage
between his sister, Saewara, and Annan. Unfortunately, his plan had turned
against him when Saewara fell in love with her new husband, and betrayed her
brother.

These days, it was forbidden to mention Saewara’s
name in Penda’s presence. The king’s hatred for his sister ran deep.

“Cynddylan of Powys will also become your bane,”
Rodor told Penda, his dislike for the prince overriding prudence. “Mark my
words, he will be laughing at you right this moment – gloating over his good
fortune.”

Silence stretched between them then. When Penda replied,
his voice was low, dangerous. “What would you counsel me to do?”

Rodor hesitated. He knew that tone well, and it
warned him to proceed carefully. His king was on the verge of losing his
temper. Rodor was close to bearing the brunt of the Mercian king’s wintry rage.

“Send a war party after Cynddylan,” Rodor told
Penda firmly. “Kill him before he reaches Powys.”

“What? And turn Powys against us? Have you not been
listening to me – we need their alliance.”

“Make his death look like the work of outlaws,”
Rodor continued. “No one has to know it was you.”

The king did not reply for a moment. His gaze moved
away from his thegn, to where Paeda was still clutching his ear and wailing
curses at his smug younger brother.

“Finally,” Penda drawled, “a suggestion that
doesn’t make you sound like a dolt. I was wondering if the trust I have placed
in you all these years had been misguided.”

Rodor stared back at Penda and felt his face flush
hot at the insult. The king’s response was offensive. Yet, he could see that Penda
was starting to come round to his idea.

“It must be an assassination,” Penda continued.
“Swift and silent. The killers must move like shadows. Cynddylan’s throat must
be cut while he sleeps – and no one must
ever
suspect that I was behind
it.”

Rodor nodded, holding his breath.

Penda’s gaze swiveled back to the warrior before
him, and Rodor saw the calculating gleam in the king’s gaze. “Who will carry
out this task?” Penda asked.

Rodor smiled. They both knew the answer.

“I will, Milord.”

“You, Rodor? Yet, I see that you hate the Prince of
Powys. Hate makes a man rash, foolish. I’ve lost many a good warrior to it.”

“I’m one of your best. I do not succumb to the same
mistakes as others,” Rodor replied without a trace of arrogance. It was a
simple fact. Penda knew it – that was why the king had left him behind to
protect Queen Cyneswide while Penda marched his
fyrd
to war. He would
only leave her in the hands of a warrior he knew to be his own rival.

Penda nodded. “You are – but this task requires
more than skill with a blade. You will not be fighting Cynddylan on the
battlefield. You must catch him unawares. Can you be as silent as a shadow?”

“I can,” Rodor assured him. “I will gather a group
of warriors – the best you have. We will track down the Cymry army, and
penetrate their camp at night. We shall make sure their prince never reaches
home.”

Penda sank back into his chair, his gaze hooded.
“Very well,” he finally acquiesced. “I give you leave to do so.”

Victory surged through Rodor, sweet and heady as strong
mead. With a nod he turned to leave.

“Rodor.”

“Yes, Milord,” Rodor swiveled back to face his
king. Penda’s pale gaze snared his, and held him fast.

“There can be no mistakes. None. If you fail, none
of you must return here. You will die rather than reveal the truth – is that
clear?”

Rodor nodded.

“Heed me well,” Penda leaned forward in his seat,
the intensity of his gaze making Rodor draw back slightly. “If you, or any of
your men, return to me with tales of woe, I will show no mercy. Cynddylan must
die quietly, and you must do it unseen.”

Chapter Eleven

The
Journey West

Grey mist clung to the trees like porridge.

Merwenna struggled through the undergrowth. She
cursed at the blackthorn that tore at her skirts and cloak, and at the rain
that slashed across the woodland. She had no idea if she was even going in the
right direction. Without the sun to guide her, she was traveling blind.

She was soaked through and chilled. It had been a
long, miserable night, huddled under the trees while the tempest spent itself.
Yet, the breaking dawn had not brought any solace. The storm moved on but the
rain remained. It was hard to believe that the kingdom had been enjoying the
balmiest summer in years. All at once, autumn had arrived.

Merwenna’s stomach growled as she walked; a
constant reminder that she had eaten little since leaving Tamworth. She carried
little money with her, for Seward had been looking after the pouch containing
their precious gold. She had used her last
thrymsa
to buy bread and
cheese before slipping out of the gates into the dusk, but that was nearly
gone. What little she had left needed to be rationed. She had found some
raspberries that morning and taken the edge off her hunger – yet it returned
now, sharp and demanding.

Ignoring her empty belly, as best she could,
Merwenna pressed on. More than her hunger, it was a growing sense of panic that
bothered her. She had been so sure of her direction last night, before the
storm broke. Now, she had the chilling sensation she was traveling off-course.

Still, she would find out soon enough – once the
mist cleared – whether she was journeying toward home.

Eventually, the trees began to the thin, and the
going grew easier. The ground squelched underfoot as the rain continued to
fall, in a thick, heavy mist now. Time lost any meaning.

Merwenna took a brief rest, under the sheltering
boughs of a great oak, and chewed at a piece of bread. The rain had soaked it,
making the staleness more palatable. She ate it slowly, forcing herself not to
stuff the rest into her mouth.

She still had a long way to travel before reaching
home.

Merwenna continued her journey west, eager to
distance herself from Tamworth. The day drew out. Gradually the mist lifted,
and the rain ceased. When the sun set in the west, Merwenna was relieved to see
that she had not traveled as far off course as she had feared. Still, she
altered her direction slightly – cutting right, across a shallow, wooded
valley.

Warmed by the rays of the setting sun, Merwenna’s
spirits lifted for the first time all day. And when she discovered a patch of
mushrooms growing in a shadowy dell at the bottom of the valley, she almost
felt cheerful.

The mushrooms were small and earthy, and they took
the edge off her hunger. Her clothes had started to dry out, although the damp
homespun itched against her clammy skin. She found a stream in the valley, but
it was too shallow to bathe in. She did manage to slake her thirst from it, and
wash her face.

Night eventually settled over the softly wooded
hills of Mercia, bringing with it, a chorus of bird-calls. Merwenna would have
liked to build a fire, but there was no dry wood about to make one with.
Instead, she sat, under the canopy of twin beeches and leaned her back up
against the rough bark, watching as darkness swallowed the world.

As a child she had been terrified of the dark,
especially in the winter. She had been convinced a demon would creep out of the
trees and carry her off. Her fears had been so real that she had kept both her
parents awake for many a night.

Yet, tonight it was not demons but thoughts of
Beorn that kept her from sleeping.

It was easier to keep thoughts of her betrothed at
bay during the day, when she was focused upon her destination. However, now
that she had curled up amongst the trees, she could no longer outrun her worries.

Why did you have to go to war?
Merwenna’s chest constricted painfully.
You could have been happy farming
the land in Weyham, building a life there with me. We could have had children.
We could have grown old together
.

She brushed aside the tears that trickled down her
cheeks and chided herself for railing against fate. It was futile to dwell on
such things. Beorn was gone, and with him, the focus that had given Merwenna
her strength, her purpose.

What will become of me when I return to
Weyham? I’ll have to face Seward and my parents – who will be furious with me.
But, after that?

The future was open, unwritten – empty. She did not
like to dwell upon it. Instead, she drew her damp cloak close around her and
shut her eyes against the encroaching darkness.

***

The scent of wood-smoke made her halt mid-stride.

Was she near a village? It was nearing dusk, on the
second day of her journey west from Tamworth. Despite that she had stumbled
upon the road west this morning, and followed it ever since, she had not yet
set eyes upon a soul. She hoped it was a village nearby, for she felt light
headed with hunger and her limbs ached with weariness.

Mingled with the wood-smoke was the aroma of
roasting mutton. Her mouth filled with saliva and she took another step
forward. Then, she hesitated.

It might not be a village. There could be a group
of men camped ahead. They might be hunters, outlaws – or the king’s men. The
thought frightened her. She was wary of rushing forward to greet strangers
without first knowing what lay ahead.

Out here in the woods, there was no one to protect
her. If she ran into trouble, no one would hear her scream.

Merwenna took a slow, deep breath and stepped backward.
On second thoughts, it was better to avoid company altogether. She was safer on
her own.

“
Wes hāl
wench – so we meet again.”

Her heart leaped in her breast, and she swiveled
around. Her gaze shifted to the cloaked figure, carrying an armload of fire
wood. He was a stocky man of middle age, balding, with a pugnacious face she
would never forget.

Drefan of Chester – the cloth merchant.

Merwenna’s heart started hammering against her ribs
like a caged thing. Of all the individuals in the kingdom, this man was the
last one she wanted to meet in the middle of the silent woods.

Drefan must have seen the terror on her face, for
he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, but one full of vindictive pleasure.

“We have a debt to settle,” he said, throwing aside
the twigs he had been carrying and dusting his hands off. “Do you remember?”

Merwenna swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “The
queen paid you,” she gasped. “Two
thrymsas
. I saw her man give them to
you.”

Drefan’s smile faded and he shook his head,
mockingly. “I’m not speaking of that debt, but of another. You insulted me, you
dishonored me before the Queen of Mercia. You turned her against me. She will
never buy cloth from me again – because of you.”

Merwenna’s eyes widened, her heart pounding so hard
she thought it might explode from her chest. She backed away from him, every
nerve stretched taut like a hemp bowstring.

“I owe you nothing,” she whispered. “Leave me be.”

“Slut,” Drefan growled, looking around as he took a
step toward her, his gaze narrowing in suspicion. “Where’s your brother, eh?
Aren’t you going to shout for him?”

She backed farther away, her gaze never leaving
him.

The cloth merchant’s smile returned, as realization
dawned upon him.

“
Wyrd
shines upon me indeed,” he grinned.
“You’re alone out here. Your brother has abandoned you. I don’t believe my good
fortune.”

She shook her head, too terrified to speak.

“Come here, you little bitch.”

He lunged at her, moving swiftly for a heavy-set
man. Yet, Merwenna moved just as quickly. A moment earlier, she had been frozen
in terror, but his lunge caused her to spring away, toward the trees.

Unfortunately, her pursuer was fast, and Merwenna’s
limbs were clumsy with fear. After just a couple of strides, he barreled into
Merwenna, pinning her to the damp ground under his weight. Winded, she gasped
for breath as he climbed off her and pulled her to her feet by the hair. Agony
burned across her scalp but she struggled nonetheless – earning a hard slap
across the face from a calloused hand.

The pain did something then. Instead of subduing
her, it chased away the paralyzing terror. It was like being woken from a deep,
numbing sleep. Suddenly, she remembered the things her father had told her;
methods of defending herself should a man ever try to force himself upon her.

Merwenna balled her hand into a fist and punched
her attacker, hard, in the throat. She caught him, just under the chin.

Drefan’s eyes bulged in shock. He had not expected
her to retaliate. He choked and staggered back, grasping his injured windpipe.
Seizing her chance, for she would not get another, Merwenna twisted away – and
ran.