Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (16 page)

The wine, weak though it was, calmed her jangled nerves, and she took a seat on the edge of the furs. She did not feel like sleeping yet, for she was too nervous, so she reached for her distaff instead and began winding wool onto the wooden spindle. Owing to the amount of time she passed in her garden, she had been lax in this chore of late. She had a mountain of wool to wind.

The repetitive action calmed her somewhat, and she listened to the rumble of voices from below the platform as she worked. Still, when Wulfhere finally appeared at the top of the ladder, it took all her effort not to gasp in fright.

As she had expected, his face was thunderous.

“Not waiting for me naked this eve?” he queried.

Ermenilda looked away from him, staring down at her distaff, and shook her head.

She heard the rustle of his clothing as he began to undress. A lump lodged in her throat. The last thing she wanted was for him to touch her.

“Put your distaff aside,” he commanded quietly, “and look at me, Ermenilda.”

She clenched her jaw, bristling at the order, before she obeyed him. Wulfhere had just stripped off his tunic and was unlacing his breeches. Usually, his gaze was heated when he did this, dark with longing. This eve, his face was as hard as she had ever seen it, and his gaze was glacial.

“You angered me today,” he told her. “You know that, don’t you?”

Ermenilda swallowed her rising ire and forced herself not to glower at him.

“Aye,” she replied softly.

Wulfhere crouched before her so their gazes were level.

“There are husbands who would beat a wife for publically contradicting him.”

Ermenilda’s breathing hitched, fear shimmering through her.

“Fortunately for you, I am not one of them,” Wulfhere continued.

Their gazes held.

“Ermenilda, if you wish to argue with me, wait until we are alone.”

“You are planning an attack on my kin,” she replied, her voice husky with the effort she was making not to show her fear. He had not yet laid a hand on her during the marriage, but she did not like the implied threat in his words. “I had to say something.”

“No you didn’t,” he countered, his voice hardening. “You could have waited till we were alone. In future, you will.”

She stared at him, her vision blurring with tears. It was like talking to a boulder, as inflexible and hard as granite. Here she was, upset because he and his army were about to march on her East Angle kin, and all he cared about was the fact she had embarrassed him in front of his men.

“Is there not a shred of mercy in you?” she asked. “Does the fact that I abhor what you are about to do not matter?”

He stared at her a moment, before his gaze narrowed.

“You don’t understand what it means to rule. Reckoning is like fate—it cannot be avoided.”

“In the old world, it was so,” she replied, vehement, “but not now. The old gods demanded reckoning, and fate treated us like pawns—but no more. The one true god does not demand you spill blood on his behalf. It is he, not wyrd, who determines your future.”

Wulfhere’s lip curled at that. He rose to his feet and stripped off his breeches, his movements angry.

“Everything comes back to your religion, doesn’t it?” he snarled. “Every argument, every plea. Do you actually hold an opinion that wasn’t fed to you by a priest?”

Ermenilda gasped and leaped to her feet, facing him.

“You can’t be surprised,” she choked out, anger almost rendering her speechless. “I never wanted to wed you. I wanted a life as a nun, and you took it from me. If you wedded a woman with a strong faith, you have only yourself to blame.”

“Careful, Ermenilda.” Wulfhere stalked over to her, even more intimidating than usual in his nakedness. “There are times when you have a forked tongue.”

He was standing close, too close. Ermenilda breathed in the spicy male scent of him and felt her senses reel. Even when she was angry with him, this man affected her.

“I wouldn’t,” she managed, trembling as he reached out and stroked her cheek. The gentleness of his touch was at odds with the anger in his voice. “If you did not offend me so deeply.”

“Those are harsh words,” he replied, before leaning down and kissing her neck. The feel of his lips on her skin made Ermenilda’s limbs go weak. Without meaning to, she leaned toward him, stifling a groan as his arms went around her.

“They are my only weapons,” she murmured, trying in vain to keep track of her thoughts. “You are a harsh man . . .”

Wulfhere gave a soft laugh and unpinned her hair, letting it tumble down her back.

“I thought women liked cruel men?”

“I don’t . . . I . . .”

Wulfhere claimed her mouth, kissing away her protests, her anger. He undressed Ermenilda with practiced ease before stripping away her clothing so that he could run his hands over her naked body. She gasped, trembling under his touch.

He scooped her into his arms and stepped over to the furs. By the time he laid her down upon them, Ermenilda could think of nothing else but Wulfhere.

He was her world, her past, her future—her penance.

***

The days leading up to Wulfhere’s departure flew past with frightening swiftness.

Ermenilda grew increasingly anxious. Even the afternoons spent in her garden, working alongside Wynflaed, could not calm her. Tamworth was a hive of activity. Men flooded in from nearby villages, warriors willing to wield a spear, axe, or sword for their lord. The clang of iron, as smiths forged weaponry, shattered the peace of each dawn and twilight.

Ermenilda increasingly saw less of Wulfhere as the day he and his fyrd would march drew near. He spent his days overseeing preparations or practicing with his sword and seax alongside his men.

Although she was grateful not to see him, her husband’s absence did little to settle Ermenilda’s nerves. She retired in the evenings, long before he did, and would often pretend to be asleep when he crawled into the furs next to her. After their argument on the day Ermenilda had learned of his plans, they did not speak of it again.

Their differences still lay heavy between them, unspoken. Tension filled Ermenilda whenever she sat down next to her husband upon the high seat. In the past, Wulfhere had attempted to converse with her at mealtimes. Now he let her eat in silence while he discussed tactics with his men.

On the morning of Wulfhere’s departure, Ermenilda was withdrawn as Wynflaed helped her dress. They stood in the small alcove that housed the iron bathtub. Seeing one’s husband off on a military campaign was a great occasion, and folk expected to see the queen in all her finery.

Wynflaed laced Ermenilda up in a dove-gray gown with bell sleeves and fastened the delicate amber necklace the king had gifted his wife around her mistress’s neck.

“Are you unwell, milady,” Wynflaed asked with a frown.

Ermenilda shook her head. “I’ve spent the morning praying. I’m weary both in body and soul.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” Wynflaed said, her green eyes clouding in sadness. “I do not like to see you so melancholy.”

Ermenilda sighed and favored her maid with a wan smile.

“I dared to hope my husband was not the brute I initially believed,” she replied quietly. “There is little joy in being proved right.”

Wynflaed shook her head.

“He is taking a dark road. Your father will be angry when he hears of the attack.”

Ermenilda shook her head, bitterness stinging the back of her throat.

“My father will say nothing. He, like other rulers of lesser kingdoms, would never risk angering the King of Mercia.”

A crowd had gathered in front of the Great Tower, when Ermenilda emerged to bid her husband farewell.

To her surprise, Werbode—clad head to foot in leather—was waiting for her at the door. He insisted on escorting her down the steps to where Wulfhere had almost finished saddling his stallion.

“You look ravishing, milady,” Werbode said, leaning in close and breathing in the rose scent she wore, “and you smell good enough to eat.”

Ermenilda drew back from him in shock. Usually, the thegn kept his distance from her, his admiration consisting of hungry looks. His departure had made him bold.

Too bold.

Ermenilda cast him a look of cold disapproval, but that only caused Werbode to smile.

“Aye, and too haughty by half,” he murmured.

At the base of the steps, Werbode stepped away from her and bowed. Ermenilda saw the mockery in his face and wished she could have a quiet moment alone with Wulfhere, to tell him of his thegn’s disrespect.

Of course, Werbode had known she would not have the chance to tell the king—that was why he had done it. Ermenilda was only grateful that the warrior was marching to war with Wulfhere, and would not be left behind to protect her.

Wulfhere finished tightening his horse’s girth and turned, his gaze settling upon her.

“You are late in coming to see me off,” he told her. His voice was gruff, although his gaze was softer than usual.

“Wynflaed took an age with my hair,” Ermenilda replied, motioning to the elaborate pile of curls and braids atop her head. “She wanted me to look my best today.”

“Aye,” Wulfhere stepped close to her, “and you do.”

He looked down at her, and the heat of his gaze made Ermenilda feel as if she were standing in the noon sun, even though there was a cool breeze this morning.

“I know you do not give this battle your blessing,” he said quietly, “but surely you wish me to come home unharmed.”

Ermenilda stared at him, conflicted. Part of her wanted never to see him again—that way she could take the veil and live out the rest of her days in peace. Still, another—traitorous—part of her twisted at the thought of this man coming to any harm. She had not even thought of the possibility that this campaign might claim his life.

She hated what he was setting off to do, and she despised him for ignoring her pleas to abandon his quest for vengeance. It was this anger that she clung to now, as she faced him.

“I wish you a safe return, milord,” she told him, “but only if you do not harm a soul during this campaign.”

“There is no battle without death,” he replied, faintly mocking.

Ermenilda held his gaze, resisting the urge to lash out and slap him. His arrogance galled her. Inhaling deeply, she took a step back from him, creating a gulf between them, before answering.

“Then, I will pray to god that it ends in yours.”

The sky was immense here. The earth a mere strip of dirt, swamp, and reeds against its vastness. Wulfhere did not like it. He preferred the soft green of Mercia, with its cool forests and rolling hills. The Kingdom of the East Angles looked like a land fit for frogs, and little else.

He swatted at the cloud of midges whining around his head and glanced at where Werbode rode silently beside him.

“How can folk live here?”

Werbode grunted, his dark gaze sweeping over the waterlogged fens.

“Forsaken by the gods,” he agreed. “There is a reason why folk named our destination
Eilig
—Isle of Eels.”

“What manner of morning gift is an island in the midst of stinking swamp?” Wulfhere muttered.

To his left, Elfhere gave a humorless chuckle. “I heard that Lady Aethelthryth was so delighted with Tondberct of Ely’s gift that she immediately insisted they move there.”

“The woman must be mad, as well as conniving,” Werbode commented sourly.

Wulfhere was inclined to agree with him.

They were drawing close to Ely now. After days of traveling through fenland, Wulfhere knew the island was near. They rode upon a narrow causeway. The road was in need of repair—boggy and crumbling in places. The Romans had built this dike, and it had not been touched since.

It was a hot day, and the humidity in the fens made Wulfhere’s skin itch. Under his leather armor, he was sweating heavily. His mood, like every day since departing from Tamworth, was dark.

Ermenilda’s last words to him still rang in his ears, as did the dislike on her face. For a moment, he had truly believed she never wished to see him again, that she hated him. Then, he remembered how she welcomed him in the furs, and the passion they shared every night, and told himself her anger would pass.

By the time he returned to Tamworth, she would have missed him.

Fæder always insisted that women would never understand warfare or a man’s need to do battle with his enemies.

Queen Cyneswide had never challenged the king on his decisions to go to battle. In truth, she had never shown the slightest interest in her husband’s campaigns—but Ermenilda was different. Although he tried to deny it, Wulfhere knew his conflict with his bride would not end here.

“Brooding again, milord?”

Wulfhere glanced right, to see Werbode observing him.

“Aye, what of it?” he replied moodily.

The thegn gave him a shrewd look.

“A wife should not trouble a man so.”

“Leave it, Werbode,” Wulfhere growled. “My marriage is my own business.”

Werbode shrugged, as if he could not care less, although his parting comment had a sting.

“A wife should know her place. If you do not teach Ermenilda hers, you will have no end of trouble.”

Wulfhere turned on him, and was about to respond harshly, when Elfhere interrupted.

“Milord! Ely is before us.”

With Werbode’s impertinence cast aside, Wulfhere’s gaze shifted to the northeastern horizon, where the tip of straw-thatched roofs thrust skyward, and smoke rose lazily, dirtying the pale-blue sky.

An island of clay and gravel sat among glittering fenland, joined to firmer ground by a narrow causeway. As they approached, Wulfhere spied the wooden ramparts encircling the settlement, with guard towers at each corner. The East Angle flag—a red cross upon a field of white with a blue shield and three golden crowns in the foreground—hung limply from one corner, for there was no trace of breeze this morning.

The tallest roof within the ramparts did not appear to belong to ealdorman Tondberct’s hall but to a great church. It perched upon the island’s highest ground, dominating the surrounding landscape for furlongs.