Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (17 page)

Wulfhere reined in his stallion and took in every detail of the scene before him.

“What now, milord?” Werbode asked. “Shall we attack?”

“Not before I hear what the ealdorman has to say,” Wulfhere replied. “I shall have his guilt confirmed before I deal with him.”

“Does it matter? You know he did it.”

“Aye, but I’m curious to see what he will do, now that the consequences of his actions have come calling.”

Wulfhere turned his full attention upon Werbode. The warrior had worn upon his nerves for days, and he decided it was time Werbode learned to mind his tongue. They had fought shoulder to shoulder many times, and he trusted the warrior with his life. However, of late, Werbode seemed to forget who the lord was, and who the servant.

“Ride into Ely on my behalf,” he ordered. “Tell Tondberct that if he offers himself and his wife up to me, I will spare the lives of those in Ely.”

Werbode glowered at him, and Wulfhere could see he chafed under the order. With the eyes of many—including his rival Elfhere’s upon him, he swallowed his resentment and nodded curtly.

Wulfhere watched the dark-haired warrior kick his horse into a trot and ride up the column toward the town. He saw Werbode approach the gates and hesitate there for a moment, before they opened to admit him.

“What now, milord?” Elfhere asked beside him.

“The fox is now among the fowls,” Wulfhere replied, smiling grimly. “Now, we must wait.”

***

“Tondberct, there is an army outside our walls!”

Aethelthryth of Ely swept into the hall, her skirts billowing behind her. Her pretty face, framed by a white headrail, was pinched. Her eyes were huge.

“Hwæt?”

Tondberct looked up from where he had been playing hnefatafl with his brother. Between them lay a wooden board, marked out into twenty-six squares. He put down the carved figurine of his king and stared at his wife.

Aethelthryth had stopped before him. She was a small woman, with delicate features. Beneath her headrail, her hair was dark as a raven’s wing—like her mother’s—although her eyes were dark blue as her father’s had been. Despite her tiny frame, she was a force of nature. She placed her hands on her hips and regarded Tondberct, her eyes turning hard.

“What will you do about it?”

Tondberct rose to his feet. Although he towered above his diminutive wife, she did not appear the least intimidated.

“Who is it?”

“I know not,” she replied, “but they have sent a man to us. I just saw him pass through the gates.”

Tondberct muttered a curse under his breath and glanced across at his brother, Cedric.

“Satan’s spawn,” he spat.

Cedric’s sea-blue eyes widened. “Wulfhere?”

“Aye, who else?”

The ealdorman turned to Aethelthryth and met her eye. “Did I not warn you’d bring doom upon us?”

She did not reply, although the hardness of her gaze told him she was not remotely sorry.

Tondberct strode out of the hall, his wife and brother at his heels. Aethelthryth had to run to keep up, but the ealdorman did not slow his pace for her. He would have preferred her to stay behind; yet, it was futile to try to impose his will upon her.

They had just emerged from the hall when a man rode into the market square before them. He was a big warrior, with a thick mane of dark hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. His gaze was hard as it settled upon him.

“Ealdorman Tondberct of Ely?”

Tondberct nodded. “And who are you?”

“My name is Werbode. I am thegn and chief counsellor to King Wulfhere, son of Penda.”

The newcomer’s hard gaze shifted to Tondberct’s left, where Aethelthryth stood.

“And is this your wife?”

“What does it matter to you?” Tondberct asked, his temper rising.

“It matters, for what I have to say is for both of you to hear.”

“Go ahead,” Aethelthryth spoke up, her voice cold and clipped. “Speak your missive.”

The warrior raised a dark eyebrow, his gaze lingering upon Aethelthryth a moment longer, before he replied.

“King Wulfhere would have you confirm that you ordered the attack upon us three months ago.”

When neither Tondberct nor his wife replied, Werbode continued.

“Sigric of Ely and his band attacked us upon a bridge on East Saxon lands. He claimed that you sent him. Do you deny this?”

Indeed, Tondberct was tempted to deny it. He had argued with his wife for nearly a year over her insistence that he avenge her father’s and brother’s deaths. He had warned her that attacking the King of Mercia would bring trouble upon him, but she had not listened.

He had sacrificed his men to please her. Sigric had known that attacking Wulfhere of Mercia would likely result in his death, but he had departed without a word of bitterness. Tondberct had sometimes wondered if his most trusted retainer had been secretly in love with his wife. He did not blame him—Aethelthryth had a way of making men do her bidding.

I’ve never been able to deny her anything,
the ealdorman thought.
I should have known she would one day bring doom upon me.

In the years they had been married, Aethelthryth had always gotten what she wanted. Even if he initially resisted her, she always persuaded him in the end. She had even convinced him on their wedding night that she should remain forever chaste, in preparation for one day serving god as a nun. Initially, he had been furious, although she had finally convinced him to leave her a virgin.

Over the years, he had shared the furs with many women—none of them his wife.

“It is true,” Aethelthryth answered for him, filling the weighty silence.

Tondberct wheeled toward her, furious. “Aethelthryth!”

“I will not lie and cower before these men,” she told him, raising her chin imperiously. “Sigric was loyal to us, and I will not pretend I did not know him.”

Werbode was watching them keenly.

“Now that your wife admits it, I have a choice for you both,” he continued. “Wulfhere will not let your crime go unpunished. Either come with me now, as prisoners of the King of Mercia, or we will lay waste to Ely and every soul residing within it.”

“Monsters!” Aethelthryth cried. “Seeking reckoning for my father’s and brother’s deaths was no crime. Why should we, or the folk of Ely, be punished for it?”

Werbode grinned, and his gaze met Tondberct’s.

“Does Lady Aethelthryth rule here? It appears you have lost your tongue.”

“I rule Ely,” Tondberct ground out. Anger had rendered him temporarily mute, “but I agree with my wife. You have no right to come here, into another kingdom, and issue threats. Be gone!”

“If you refuse to come with me, we will raze this pile of twigs to the ground.” Werbode gestured to the surrounding hall, church, and low-slung thatched dwellings surrounding them. “Choose wisely, ealdorman.”

Folk had now gathered to listen to the argument. Tondberct could see the fear on their faces, and he felt impotent rage swell within him. This was his town, his people, and he had sworn to protect them.

“I will go with you,” he said finally, “but my wife remains here.”

Werbode shook his head. “Both of you must come with me—or we attack Ely.”

Tondberct glanced at Aethelthryth. Her delicate face had gone hard, and her eyes glittered with fury as she glared at Wulfhere of Mercia’s emissary. Not for the first time, Tondberct marveled at her strength, her courage. Aethelthryth should have been born a man; she was too strong-willed to make a good wife. Nevertheless, he loved her and would do anything to protect her.

His gaze met hers, and he saw her iron resolve. She would not bend to Wulfhere’s demands, and neither would he. Tondberct turned back to Werbode, who was watching them both keenly.

“Tell Wulfhere that if he wants us, he will have to take us by force.”

Werbode’s lip curled at his answer.

“Leave us now.” Tondberct took a menacing step toward him, unsheathing the sword at his waist. “Scurry back to your master, or I’ll send your head back to him and feed the rest of you to my dogs.”

“More bread, Lady Ermenilda?”

“No, thank you, Aethelred.”

Ermenilda took a sip of watered-down wine and regarded her brother by marriage over the rim of her cup. The prince had been exceedingly polite to her ever since Wulfhere’s departure. However, the frosty edge to his voice did not escape her.

They sat alone upon the high seat this noon, as they had since the king and his warriors had departed. The other residents of the Great Hall ate their meal at the two tables running along either side of the fire pits. The rumble of voices, punctuated by laughter and good cheer, surrounded Ermenilda and Aethelred’s table, only serving to highlight their forced civility. Aethelred eventually broke the weighty silence between them.

“It is ten days since Wulfhere left. I wonder how he has fared.”

Ermenilda could think of no polite response to that, so she made a noncommittal murmur and took a mouthful of mutton, onion, and turnip stew. Another awkward silence stretched between them before she finally ventured a question.

“Did you not want to go with him?”

Aethelred snorted and took a deep draft from his cup.

“And leave Tamworth undefended against our enemies?”

“But surely one of his ealdormen can protect the hall while you’re away?”

“After having our hall occupied by Northumbrians for two years, he does not want to leave us vulnerable,” Aethelred told her with a frown, “and I don’t blame him.”

Ermenilda studied him a moment. Prince Aethelred was somewhat of an enigma; she could not decide if he was a worse or better man than Wulfhere. There were times—when his smirks and calculating looks wore upon her—when she imagined being wedded to Aethelred would be far worse than to his brother. At other times, like now, he wore an introspective expression, and his gaze was troubled.

Watching him, Ermenilda wondered if his arrogance and apparent ambition were merely a shield for the insecure youth beneath.

“What is it?” Aethelred had noticed her penetrating look. “You stare at me as if I were an ugly earthworm you have dug up in your garden.”

Ermenilda laughed. Her reaction was unexpected and caused others in the hall to turn to look. Covering her mouth with her hand, Ermenilda realized that it was the first time she had laughed in a long while. Life had become so serious of late that it felt odd to find something humorous.

“I am glad I amuse you,” Aethelred said, although his disgruntled expression told her that the opposite was true.

“I was just trying to gain your measure,” she admitted. “Before leaving Cantwareburh, I thought I was a good judge of character but these days I no longer trust my own assessment.”

The prince raised an eyebrow.

“That change is probably for the better. People are rarely what they first appear—good, bad, or otherwise. It never pays to make quick judgments about a man’s character.”

Ermenilda took a sip from her cup and mulled over his words. She knew there was some truth to what he said, but she preferred a world she could understand. She liked to know what was good and what was bad—there was comfort in it.

Everything had become so confusing of late. She had wedded a man she both detested and desired. On the one hand, Wulfhere’s absence had been a blessed relief, and on the other, she found herself unexpectedly missing him—especially at night. Worse than that, she found herself missing the low timbre of his voice and the sight of him prowling into the hall, his white wolf stalking at his heels. She missed the flutters of excitement in her belly every time his gaze met hers.

Now it was Aethelred’s turn to observe. She had been so deep in thought that she had not realized the prince was watching her closely.

“You are not like other women,” he said, finally, “although neither was the princess Paeda wed.”

“That does not sound like a compliment,” Ermenilda replied, stiffening.

Aethelred’s mouth curved into a mocking smile. “It was not meant as one.”

“And how am I so different?”

“You think too much, question too much. It appears a recipe for unhappiness, if you ask me.”

Ermenilda stared at him, stunned. “You believe other women don’t think?”

“Well, if they do, they have the wits to hide it from their menfolk.”

Although she chafed at his comments, Ermenilda knew Aethelred had spoken true. She had eyes—she knew most highborn women saw much but said little. The bitter truth was that husbands preferred their wives that way.

Her mother had brought Ermenilda and her sister up to be modest ladies, but some of Seaxburh’s fire burned in her firstborn daughter’s veins. Fortunately, Seaxburh had married a god-fearing man who ruled a peaceful kingdom. Until the day before Ermenilda’s departure, she had never really seen her parents argue. Unluckily, for Ermenilda, her father had given her to a warlord.

Wulfhere brought out a side of her she had not known existed—a side she did not like.

“There you go, thinking again,” Aethelred teased. “I don’t need to be a seer to read your face, Lady Ermenilda.”

“So I think too much, do I?” Ermenilda muttered, stabbing her small wooden trowel into the damp soil. “So men prefer women to be witless fools?”

Nearby, Wynflaed looked up from where she had been planting seedlings.

“What’s that, milady?”

“Lord Aethelred shared his opinion about my character with me at nón-mete,” Ermenilda replied, not bothering to hide the scorn in her voice. She was used to being frank with her handmaid, something Wynflaed appeared to appreciate. “Apparently, I have too much to say for myself. A cleverer woman would keep her eyes open and her mouth shut.”

To Ermenilda’s chagrin, Wynflaed laughed. The sound—light and musical—echoed across the garden, where rows of cabbages, turnips, carrots, and onions now grew. The scent of roses from the first blooms edging the garden mingled with the woody aroma of thyme and rosemary that they had planted near the paths. Ermenilda sat back on her heels and glared at Wynflaed.

“My mother always told me that was so,” the maid admitted, still smiling. “She said that it’s a rare man who wants a woman to be his equal. Most men believe our brains are smaller, that we are incapable of understanding anything beyond the realm of the home and children.”