The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

Travelers
in the Woods

Dylan was about to call his men to a halt, and
command them to make camp, when he saw a young woman burst from the trees up
ahead.

They were riding on the edge of a shallow wooded
valley, upon the road west as it followed the course of a gently meandering
stream. His men had journeyed hard since leaving Tamworth, despite the bad
weather. His instincts told him it was best to get as far away from Penda as
possible – as quickly as possible.

Dylan had been brooding, mulling over the last
words he had exchanged with the King of Mercia, and their significance, when he
saw the girl.

She was wearing a thick brown cloak, made of coarse
wool, and boots fashioned from rabbit skin and laced tightly around her feet
and ankles. Her mane of brown hair flew behind her like a flag as she raced
across his path, causing his stallion to start.

Cursing under his breath, Dylan sought to calm the
beast, but a moment later, he was nearly thrown off the saddle when a heavy-set
man of middling years, crashed through the trees in pursuit of the girl.

He saw the black rage that twisted the man’s
features, and knew that if someone did not intervene, it boded ill for her.

“That’s the lass from Tamworth – the one who
pestered Penda about her lover,” Gwyn rode up to Dylan’s side and pointed to
where the female raced up the bank toward a copse of trees.

Dylan tore his attention from yanking up his
stallion’s head – the horse had just tried to throw him – and stared after the
girl.  “What is she doing out here alone?”

“About to get herself raped.”

They could see the girl’s pursuer was gaining on
her. She may have been younger, but the man who chased her was surprisingly
swift on his feet.

Dylan left his men and spurred his stallion up the
bank, after the pair. Ahead, he saw the man catch the girl by the hood of her
cloak, and yank her backward.

Her strangled scream echoed down the valley.

“Bitch!” the man shoved his quarry to the ground,
and kicked her viciously in the side. “I’ll teach you to fight back!”

Dylan reached them and struck out with his fist,
catching the man on the side of the head as he was about to kick the young
woman once more. Dazed, the man staggered back, clutching his head.

Dylan swung down from the saddle and stepped in
between the girl and her assailant. She gazed up at him, her blue eyes huge on
her pale, frightened face. She had been in such a panic, she had not even
noticed Dylan and his men. Likewise, her pursuer had been oblivious to the fact
he had an audience.

“Who are you?” he bellowed, still clutching his
head. “Clear off, this isn’t your business!”

“I’m making it mine,” Dylan replied. He helped the
trembling young woman to her feet, but kept his gaze riveted on the man before
her. “Leave her.”

“I’ll do as I please – she’s my woman and I’m
teaching her some manners,” the man spat at his feet.

“I know this woman, so don’t bother with your
lies,” Dylan countered.

The man’s gaze widened at that. Dylan could see
that he did not believe him. However, faced with an armed man, and suddenly
surrounded by leather-clad, glowering Cymry warriors, the girl’s molester lost
a little of his courage.

“Whoreson,” he growled, glancing over at where Gwyn
swung down from his horse and unsheathed his sword. “You’ll pay for
interfering.”

“Men who hunt women like deer should be given the
same treatment,” Dylan growled.

“Oh, and you’re a man of honor?”

“Compared to you, most men are. Speak your name?”

The man glared back at him sullenly, considering whether
to answer. “Drefan of Chester. What’s yours?”

“Cynddylan ap Cyndrwyn of Powys.”

“The Prince of Powys himself,” Drefan of Chester’s
mouth twisted, although Dylan could see the fear in his eyes.

“That’s right. Now that we’ve made our
introductions, it’s time you were on your way.”

“I’m my own man; a jumped up Cymry princeling
doesn’t command me.”

“Princeling?” Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Move on,
Drefan of Chester, and I’ll forget your face – otherwise things are about to go
downhill for you.”

“I won’t be forgetting
your
face,” Drefan of
Chester glowered at Dylan before his gaze swiveled to where the young woman
stood, silent and ashen, a few steps behind the prince. “Or yours, you little
hōre.”

Dylan drew his sword and took a step toward Drefan.
“One more word, and you’ll taste my blade.”

Panic flashed across the man’s face, momentarily
replacing the defiance and anger. Something in Dylan’s tone warned him that the
Prince of Powys would make good on his threat. Reluctantly obeying, he turned,
drawing his cloak about him. He staggered off back the way he had come,
disappearing into the gathering dusk.

Dylan watched him go, waiting until Drefan of
Chester had indeed gone, before he sheathed his sword and turned to the young
woman. She had drawn his gaze in Tamworth, but it was a surprise to see her
again.

“Remind me of your name?” he met her tear-filled
gaze before his own gaze shifted to her full lips.

By the gods, she is a lovely creature.

“Merwenna of Weyham,” the girl replied, her voice
husky from the effort she was making to hold in her tears.

“And what are you doing out here?”

The young woman dropped her gaze to the ground.
Dylan noted that she was still trembling.

“I was traveling home.”

“Alone?”

“The queen was supposed to provide me with an
escort,” Merwenna replied, keeping her gaze downcast, “but when the time came,
she didn’t.”

Dylan glanced across at Gwyn, who gave him a wry
look and shook his head.

“Well, fortunately for you, we are traveling the
same road. We’ll camp here tonight. You will be our guest at the fireside.”

Merwenna’s head snapped up, alarm in her eyes. “I
thank you for helping me,” she said hurriedly, taking a step back from him,
“but there’s no need. I’ll be on my way.”

“And where do you think you’re going?” Dylan asked,
incredulous. “Drefan of Chester won’t have gone far – he’ll be waiting for
you.”

She stared back at him, clearly unconvinced.

“Fear not,” Dylan drawled, gesturing for Gwyn to
order the men to make camp. “You will be safe with us.”

***

The fire hissed gently as the flames did their best
to devour the damp wood. It was a cool, still night but dry enough to sit
outdoors. A brace of conies roasted on a long spit at one end of the fire pit,
where embers glowed bright. This was just one of many fires that ringed the
heart of the Cymry camp – where around three hundred men, horsemen and spears,
had constructed a makeshift township for the night.

The aroma of roasting meat drifted across to where
Merwenna sat close to the fire’s edge warming her fingers.

The smell made her stomach growl in protest.
Despite it all, she was ravenous. After her ordeal she felt chilled to the
bone. Her left side ached dully where Drefan had kicked her; she would have a
livid bruise there in the morning.

Even now, her heart still raced when she recalled
the terror that had coursed through her – the blind panic that had consumed her
– as she ran. If Cynddylan and his men had not been riding through this valley
and intercepted her flight, she shuddered to think of the state she would be in
now.

She had looked into Drefan of Chester’s eyes and
had seen killing rage there. He would not have been content with rape, not
after she had fought him and made him chase her down.

She shuddered at how close she had come to dying at
that man’s hands.

“Cold?”

Cynddylan’s voice sounded in her ear before the man
sat down with loose-limbed grace beside her.

“Not really, just tired and shaken.”

“Here,” he handed her a wooden cup. “Some mead
ought to warm your belly.”

Merwenna accepted the cup warily and took a
cautious sip. The mead was hot and pungent, with the deep flavor of honey. As
she swallowed the first two sips, she felt some of the chill leave her.

“The rabbits will be roasted soon,” Cynddylan told
her.

She nodded. “Thank you, Milord.”

He stretched out his legs before him and she could
feel his gaze upon her.

“So, Merwenna of Weyham,” he said finally, his tone
bordering on offhand. “Tell me of that man who was chasing you.”

She stiffened and glanced nervously at the prince.
“What of him?”

“Drefan of Chester,” he prompted. “There was more
to him than appeared.”

Merwenna glanced away, her gaze resting on the
dancing flames before her.

“I met him when my brother and I arrived in
Tamworth,” she admitted finally. “He offered us passage, on the back of his
wagon, into town. He’s a cloth merchant and was traveling to sell his wares at
Tamworth market. At the journey’s end, we thanked him but he wanted payment for
passage, and when we could not pay him in
thrymsas
, he demanded a
different kind of payment.

My brother, Seward, intervened, and things were
about to get out of hand when Queen Cyneswide came to our aid. She offered to
shelter us in the Great Tower until I could discover the fate of my betrothed.
The merchant was furious – especially when the queen told him she would not buy
cloth from him.”

 “And your brother? You were alone at Tamworth –
where is he?”

Merwenna dropped her gaze to her lap. She did not
want to tell the rest of this tale.

“He went home.”

“And left you unchaperoned in the King’s Hall?”

Merwenna sighed.

She was tired of this conversation. Why could he
not leave her be?

“He fell out of favor the first night we stayed in
the Great Hall,” she replied. She refused to meet the prince’s eye as she
continued. “He was found with one of the king’s female slaves. He was whipped
and banished from Tamworth the next morning.”

Silence fell between them then, punctuated only by
the crackling of the fire, and the rumble of voices of the men around them.
Merwenna could feel her cheeks burning. Told so directly, the whole incident
sounded even worse than she remembered.

When Merwenna looked at Cynddylan, she saw that he
was watching her under hooded lids. Merwenna grew even hotter under the intensity
of his stare.

“That’s quite a tale of misfortune,” he said with a
wry smile. “Abandoned by both your lover and your brother.”

“Beorn was not my lover, he was my betrothed,”
Merwenna replied stiffly. Her embarrassment was swiftly turning to anger; she did
not like to be mocked. “He died serving his king, and protecting our land.”

“I expect that’s cold comfort to you now,” the
Prince of Powys replied, rising to his feet and throwing the dregs from his cup
into the fire. “He ran headlong into battle, desperate for glory. Only a fool
offers up his life so cheaply.”

Chapter Thirteen

An
Honorable Man

A full moon was riding high in the night sky when
the army finally bedded down for the night.

Merwenna watched them nervously. Many of the men
stretched out around the smoldering fires, while others took their places
around the perimeter of the camp, for the first watch. Cynddylan’s men had
erected a cluster of tents made out of goat-hide, for the prince and his
highest ranking warriors.

Not knowing where she was supposed to sleep,
Merwenna wrapped her cloak tightly around her and tried to get comfortable on
the hard ground beside one of the fires.

“You’re not sleeping there, wench,” a gruff,
heavily accented voice roused her.

Merwenna looked up into the face of Gwyn – the
hulking warrior who appeared to be the prince’s captain. “There’s space for you
in the prince’s tent.”

“Excuse me?”
Merwenna sat up abruptly. “I
can’t sleep there.”

“It’s safer than out here.”

“But, I can’t share that man’s tent.”

“Go on,” Gwyn hauled Merwenna to her feet and
propelled her in the direction of the largest tent at the heart of the cluster.
“You can trust him.”

Merwenna threw Gwyn a resentful look, but
reluctantly did as she was bid, making her way across to the prince’s tent.

She stepped across the threshold, ducking through
the narrow opening, and was relieved to see that the tent was empty. A small
fire burned in a pit in the center of the space, smoke escaping from a slit in
the conical roof. No beds had been made up; only a large pile of furs had been
dumped in one corner. 

Merwenna helped herself to two of the furs and
arranged them on the far side of the tent. She had just seated herself upon
them, and was unlacing her fur boots, when Cynddylan entered the tent. He was
carrying a jug of water and two wooden cups.

“Comfortable?”

“Your captain insisted I sleep in here,” she
replied stiffly.

“It’s for your own good.” The prince untied a flap
of leather from where it was rolled above the doorway and let it fall, sealing
them inside the tent. “Drefan is likely to be nearby. He’ll nurse a grudge for
a long while – better if you stay out of sight.”

“He wouldn’t try and attack me here,” she replied,
stacking her boots at the foot of her furs. She then pulled her cloak tightly
about her and snuggled down into her surprisingly comfortable bed. “Not in the
middle of your camp.”

“Never underestimate a man like that,” Dylan
replied tersely. “If you ever stumble across Drefan again, he’ll slit your
throat from ear to ear.”

The prince placed the jug and cups near the hearth
before crossing to his furs. There, he shrugged off his plush purple cloak and
began to remove the heavy mail vest he wore beneath. He finally managed to
shrug the heavy vest off his shoulders. It fell clinking to his feet, revealing
a sleeveless linen tunic underneath.

Merwenna watched as the prince stripped off his
tunic, revealing a lithe, finely muscled torso beneath. The firelight played
across his broad shoulders and long back. Realizing that she was staring, she stifled
a gasp and turned her back upon him.

“Very well,” she said meekly, desperately wishing
she had remained outdoors by the fire pit. “I will stay out of sight.”

“Good. Tomorrow, we will escort you home.”

“
Hwaet!”
Merwenna abruptly turned to face
Cynddylan once more.

She instantly regretted the action, for he was now
facing her. The sight of his naked chest, and the whorls of dark hair that
dusted it, tapering down to the waist-band of his breeches, caused Merwenna’s
mouth to go dry and her heart to start racing. However, she ignored her body’s
traitorous reaction and focused on her anger instead.

“I don’t need an escort!”

“Yes you do,” he contradicted her smoothly. “And
fortunately for you, Weyham is but a short detour on our way back to Powys.”

“Thank you for the kind offer,” she replied through
clenched teeth, “but tomorrow I will go my own way.”

“That wasn’t an offer, Merwenna.”

Rage rendered her momentarily speechless.

“You are insufferably conceited,” she finally
choked out. “How dare you make decisions on my behalf! You’re not my father, my
brother or my husband. I’m not your property.”

“No,” Dylan cocked an eyebrow and started to undo
the laces of his breeches, “but I will do my best to ensure you are delivered
safely back to your family. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

Merwenna stared at him, her anger simmering, before
realizing that he had almost finished unlacing his breeches. In a moment, he
would be standing naked before her.

“Stop,” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Undressing. I always sleep naked. Don’t you?”

“Not here,” she replied, feeling herself shrink
under his amused gaze.

“If my naked body offends you then I suggest you
turn away,” the prince continued. “Or, you can continue staring – I don’t
mind.”

“
Nithhogg
take you!” she snarled, before
turning her back to him once more. She was not in the mood to be tormented.
After everything she had endured today, this was too much.

She had expected him to take offense. Cursing him
to the underworld, where his corpse would be feasted upon by the fire-breathing
dragon that dwelt there, would usually rouse a man’s anger. Instead, Cynddylan
merely laughed.

“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to
enrage me,
cariad
.”

She refused to answer him. Instead, she stared at
the weather-stained goat hide wall of the tent. She listened to the rustle of
Dylan undressing behind her, and squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to erase
the image of his lean, virile body, caressed by firelight.

He might have been mesmerizingly handsome, but the Prince
of Powys only made her yearn for Beorn. Her betrothed had been a good,
honorable man – and she would never forgive Cynddylan for insulting him this
evening.

Mercifully, Cynddylan appeared to have tired of
tormenting her. She heard him climb into his furs, and silence settled over the
tent, broken only by the gentle pop of embers in the dying hearth.

Merwenna lay there, staring into the darkness,
listening as the prince’s breathing gradually deepened and slowed. A man who
fell asleep that quickly had a clear conscience indeed.

In contrast, despite her exhaustion, Merwenna was
wide awake. Her body was taut, her senses attuned to any movement behind her.
She did not trust this man.

What if he tried to maul her during the night?

She rolled over, facing him across the fire pit.
She intended to keep watch, and if she saw him make a move toward her, she
would be up and out of the tent in a heart-beat.

***

Cynddylan’s men broke camp at first light, packing
up the tents, dousing campfires and saddling their horses with practiced
swiftness. A grey dawn stole across the world, bringing with it a chill mist
that snaked between the trees like crone’s tresses.

Merwenna wrapped her fingers around a mug of hot
broth and watched their industry with awe. After a sleepless night, the
delicious broth, had a restorative effect on her. Even so, the sight of the
Prince of Powys, striding toward her across the camp, from where he had been
saddling his horse, made her stomach clench nervously.

“Ready to move on?” he greeted her.

Merwenna nodded, and took one last gulp of broth
before pouring the dregs out onto the ground. “How long till we reach Weyham?”

“Three days if we ride fast.”

“Ride – but I don’t have a horse.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the prince gave her one
of his infuriating slow smiles. “You’ll be riding with me.”

Panic flared in Merwenna’s breast. She glanced
nervously at where the heavy-set, bay stallion pawed at the ground and jangled
his bit, impatient to be off.

“Can’t I just walk?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Merwenna did not like the idea of spending three
days in the saddle with this man. However, there seemed little point in
refusing him. The Prince of Powys was used to getting his own way.

She refused to meet Cynddylan’s eye as he sprang up
onto the saddle and reached down to help her mount. She reluctantly took his
hand, noting the warm strength of his fingers, and settled into place behind
him. Her skin tingled from where she had touched him.

Layers of clothing separated them, and the Prince
of Powys had donned his mail vest and cloak, but even so Merwenna could feel
the heat of his body pressed up against hers.

Her throat constricted, and tears filled her eyes.

Curse him, and curse her own traitorous reaction to
him. She was grieving for Beorn, and she just wanted to be left alone.

A short while later, the small army of around three
hundred men rode through the encircling mist. They followed the meandering
course of the stream down the shallow valley. The thud of hooves on the soft
ground, and the snorts of the horses, were the only sounds in the still
morning.

Dylan looked down at the pale, slender hands
loosely clasped around his waist, and silently admired their delicacy. The feel
of the girl – for despite her luscious breasts, now pressed against his back,
and sultry gaze, that was what she was – came as a pleasant distraction.

He knew he should not have taunted her last night,
but he had not been able prevent himself. Still the sight of her pale face this
morning, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, had given him a pang of guilt. He
should not have insulted her betrothed.

What does it matter to me if she thinks
that lad was the greatest warrior that ever lived?

Mist still shrouded them in a shadowy world, where
trees emerged like the tattered spears and standards of a ghost army. It was a
vaguely threatening scene, reminding Dylan of the recent battle against the
Northumbrians. That memory brought him to the reluctant agreement Penda had
made.

Fortunately, due to the pact that Penda had now
honored, Powys was considerably closer. Lichfield, which now straddled the
border between Powys and Mercia, was barely two days ride from Weyham.

Dylan had forced Penda’s hand in the end, but
victory was his.

He had been away from Powys for many months, and
delayed his crowning in order to go to war. It had been risky to do so, for had
he not returned his brother would have been made king instead, but in the end
it had worked in his favor. Now, he would return to Pengwern victorious, the
first ever ruler of his land to unite Mercia and Powys against a common enemy.

Dylan gave a grim smile and urged his stallion into
a brisk trot, making his way up to the head of the column. He was returning
home with just over three hundred men – barely half of the number he had taken
to Maes Cogwy. He thought about the years it had taken to reach this point.
Powys and Mercia had been enemies for a long while; so long that the new
alliance between them was as brittle as spring ice.

He only hoped it would last.