Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (20 page)

He stalked across the platform toward her, but Ermenilda held her ground.

Will he hit me?

He had not yet raised a hand to her, but Ermenilda braced herself for the blow. Against his warnings, she had once again humiliated him in front of his kin and retainers. Her husband would not let that go unpunished.

His punishment, when it came, was not what she expected.

Wulfhere roughly pulled Ermenilda into his arms and kissed her.

She gasped in shock, and his tongue thrust into her mouth, silencing any protest. The kiss was punishing. With one hand, he held her pinned against him, while with the other, he unbraided her hair so that it tumbled down her back.

He reached down between them and grasping the bodice of her tunic ripped it down the front. The sound of rending material filled their chamber.

Ermenilda gasped again. The sound slid into a cry of shock when he ripped the thin undertunic from her as well, so she stood naked before him.

Wulfhere stared down at her, his gaze glittering under hooded lids, before it raked over her body. Her nipples hardened, her breasts straining traitorously toward him. Ermenilda realized her breathing was coming in short gasps.

Wulfhere pushed her toward the furs.

“On your hands and knees,” he ordered.

When she did not comply, he pushed her down. Ermenilda’s limbs began to tremble, although not just from fear, but also desire. She knew he was doing this to dominate her, to prove she had to do his bidding in all things, but suddenly she did not care. After long days without his touch, her traitorous body ached for him.

She heard Wulfhere move behind her, his breathing harsh. A moment later, he entered her in one hard thrust. It was so sudden, so powerful, that Ermenilda cried out. This was nothing like the man who had made love to her so gently on their wedding night or in the months after. This man was claiming what was his without any tenderness at all.

Wulfhere thrust into her again, so hard that she had to clutch onto the furs to prevent herself from flying forward off them. Ermenilda whimpered, heat exploding in her loins as he filled her. He took her savagely, his fingers digging into her hips as he thrust deep.

To her shame, Ermenilda loved every moment of it.

She was incapable of any coherent thought. Her body pulsed in exquisite pleasure, excitement making every nerve ending shiver. Ermenilda began to shudder uncontrollably, her cries echoing around her. He thrust deeper still, bringing her to the edge between pleasure and pain.

Wulfhere finally climaxed—his own cry hoarse. He collapsed on top of her, and Ermenilda could feel his heart racing like a galloping horse, against her back. The sensation of his weight on her felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Wulfhere did not remain there, prone, for longer than a few moments. He withdrew from her and got to his feet. Ermenilda, still struggling to recover her breath, rolled over to face him.

Watching him, she shivered. The temporary madness caused by passion drained from her.

The look on Wulfhere’s face told her everything she needed to know. The cold disdain in his eyes and the twist of his mouth caused her throat to close in dread.

“So that is what you prefer?” he told her, his voice chilling. “To be used like a whore?”

Ermenilda stared at him in dismay, horror choking her throat, making it impossible to reply.

“You are my queen, and I wanted to treat you like one,” he snarled, lacing up his breeches. “But, you would prefer to shame me in front of my hall and have me rut you like a goat afterward.”

Wulfhere finished lacing his breeches and moved toward the ladder. Before he stepped onto it, he turned back to Ermenilda, his cold gaze raking over her.

“You accused me of being a liar, Ermenilda, but you are no better. You say one thing and do another. From now on, I will treat you like the deceitful bitch you are.”

Without another word, Wulfhere descended the ladder.

Ermenilda watched Wulfhere disappear.

The pain in the center of her chest felt as if he had reached inside her chest and ripped out her beating heart. She felt sick, cold, and horrified—both at his cruelty toward her and at her own behavior.

Naked, she sunk back onto the furs and curled up into a ball. It hurt to breathe, to think, to exist. Pain engulfed her.

It was wrong, all of it. They were locked into a battle till death.

I wound him and he wounds me. If this continues, we shall destroy each other.

The tears came, burning her cheeks as she wept silently. She felt the furs under her cheek become soaked, but she did not move. Wulfhere’s words had cut her deeply, yet the truth of his accusation echoed in her mind like a tolling church bell.

Deceitful bitch.

She should have tried to continue her argument with him when he had climbed up into their loft, not fallen into his arms like a slut. He was right—one moment she treated him like the devil himself, the other she could not wait to open her legs for him.

At that moment, Ermenilda loathed herself. She could not imagine continuing life in this way or remaining wedded to such a heartless man.

I cannot continue. I will not,
she finally decided, struggling to form coherent thoughts through the haze of pain.

This has to end.

***

It rained the next day. The clouds rolled in long before dawn, and by the time light stole across the land, the two buckets sitting under leaks in the Great Hall were full.

Ermenilda was quiet as she broke her fast upon the high seat next to her husband. She did not look his way and ate no more than a mouthful of bread before sipping at a cup of hot broth. Likewise, Wulfhere ignored her.

Aethelred attempted to draw his brother out of his morose mood, but Wulfhere merely gave one-word responses. Eventually, he too fell silent. Ermenilda paid no one at the table any mind. Her thoughts had turned inward, and they were as heavy as the rain clouds that hung over Tamworth that morning. She felt as if she were wading through deep water.

At the far end of the table sat Aethelthryth. Her aunt ate sparingly, her gaze resting frequently upon Ermenilda, willing her to meet her eye. Ermenilda found she could not do so. Such was the depths of her shame, her self-loathing, that she could not bear to meet her aunt’s gaze.

Finishing her broth, Ermenilda left the high seat and went to find Wynflaed. Her handmaid was sitting next to one of the fire pits, chatting to another servant as she mended one of the queen’s undertunics—the one that Wulfhere had torn off Ermenilda the night before.

“Wynflaed,” Ermenilda greeted her handmaid briskly, deliberately averting her gaze from the item of clothing the girl was mending. “I wish to gather herbs this morning. Will you join me?”

Wynflaed frowned. “This morning? But, it is pouring with rain outside, milady.”

“The rain does not bother me,” Ermenilda replied briskly, “and besides, I have need of some fresh air this morning, rain or shine.”

Wynflaed nodded, although she was still frowning. Ermenilda saw the concern in her maid’s eyes and knew that Wynflaed—like everyone else—had witnessed her argument with Wulfhere the previous night.

“I will fetch my cloak and basket,” Wynflaed replied, putting aside her sewing.

Ermenilda nodded. “I will meet you at the door shortly.”

She fetched her own fur mantle, which would provide ample protection from the rain, and a basket of her own. The hall was busy this morning, after the previous night’s revelry. Slaves scrubbed down work surfaces and made pies from leftover venison.

Wulfhere had remained upon the high seat, and was watching Aethelred and Werbode play knucklebones. He sat, never once looking her way, his gaze hooded.

Ermenilda was grateful Wulfhere had decided to ignore her this morning. It merely affirmed the decision that she had come to the night before was the right one. She had lain awake, curled up on the furs, all night. Mercifully, Wulfhere did not return to their loft, leaving her alone. She had listened to the muffled sounds of those in the hall below, and when the rain started, she had found the rhythmic drumming against the walls of the tower calming.

By the time the first watery light of dawn filtered in through one of the high windows, Ermenilda had made up her mind.

Wynflaed was waiting for her by the doors, and together the two women made their way outside into the rain. Her basket tucked under an arm, Ermenilda strode purposefully across the muddy stable yard, taking little care for her boots, while Wynflaed did her best to skirt the largest puddles.

“Milady,” Wynflaed hurried to catch up to her. “Shouldn’t we tell the king that we are leaving the town? His men usually accompany us.”

“Not this morning,” Ermenilda replied firmly. “Just once, I wish to be free of the company of men. We need no escort to gather herbs.”

They left Tamworth via the low gate. As Ermenilda had anticipated, the guards there frowned when they saw the queen and her maid leaving unescorted.

“We will not be long,” Ermenilda told them, her tone brooking no argument. “There are a few herbs I wish to pick, which grow alongside the Tame. We shall return shortly.”

“I can join you, m’lady,” one of the men replied. “The king would wish it.”

“The king has given me permission to leave unescorted this morning,” Ermenilda replied. “You can send someone up to the tower to check, although I doubt he will welcome the interruption. He will not be pleased that you have doubted the queen’s word.”

The guard hesitated, clearly conflicted, before stepping back to let her through.

“Very well, m’lady,” he replied with a curt nod.

Ermenilda strode out of Tamworth without a backward glance, and once again, Wynflaed had to run to keep up with her.

“Milady!” she panted. “You are not yourself this morning . . . what is amiss?”

“Please, Wynflaed. I know you mean well,” Ermenilda replied gently, “but I would rather not speak of it.”

She did not look Wynflaed’s way. Like Aethelthryth, Wynflaed was only concerned for her well-being, but Ermenilda could not bear to see the worry in Wynflaed’s eyes.

Instead, Ermenilda kept her gaze firmly focused on the path ahead that led down to where the Tame slid past. After such a heavy downpour, which was showing no signs of letting up, the river had swollen, its edges creeping up the reed-covered banks. Wynflaed, perhaps sensing her mistress’s fragility, said nothing more.

They had walked a little way south, following the banks of the Tame. The rain fell steadily, and despite her thick fur mantle, Ermenilda could feel the damp soaking through to her woolen tunic underneath. Soon, they left the walls of Tamworth behind. A small copse of birch appeared to the right of the riverbank, while up ahead, Ermenilda spied a tall, leafy plant growing near the water.

“I shall collect some lovage,” she told Wynflaed. “Why don’t you see if you can find any fennel in the woods?”

“I’ll probably have more luck finding some near the river,” Wynflaed replied.

“I think I saw some growing among the trees when we were foraging a few days ago,” Ermenilda insisted, waving her maid away. “Go on, I will be here.”

With a silent look of reproach, Wynflaed did as bade, turning right into the copse. When her maid had disappeared from sight, Ermenilda let out the trembling breath she had been holding.

It’s time.

Wynflaed stopped in the midst of the trees and sighed. She had no idea where Ermenilda had seen fennel growing, but it certainly was not here. The aniseed-flavored herb did not usually grow in woodland anyway, preferring the margins of meadows and hillsides, or the dry edges of riverbanks.

This is futile.

Wynflaed swung her basket around and pushed her sodden woolen cowl off her head. It was soaked through, and she could not get any wetter than she was already. She scraped her wet hair back from her face and glanced up at the leaden sky above the trees.

It was folly to come out foraging in this weather.

Wynflaed turned on her heel and made her way back through the silver-barked birches toward the river. She knew that she had not spent long searching for fennel, but she was not happy leaving her mistress alone, even for a short while.

Moments later, she emerged from the copse, near where she had left Ermenilda.

Where is she?

Wynflaed’s gaze traveled to the tall growth of lovage, its leaves gleaming in the rain. The queen was nowhere to be seen. Wynflaed looked farther up the riverbank to where a large weeping willow draped its branches over the rushing water.

There, on the edge of the bank, was Ermenilda’s basket.

Wynflaed’s breathing quickened.

“Milady!” she called out.

Only the hiss of the rain and the dull roar of the swollen river answered her.

Wynflaed ran along the bank, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Ermenilda!”

Wynflaed slid down the bank, to where the basket lay on its side. When she looked around her, there was no sign of its owner.

Then, Wynflaed saw it.

Ermenilda’s fur cloak, floating down river, no more than ten yards away.

“Ermenilda!”

The cloak had spread out, like a bird opening its wings and about to take flight. Icy panic gripped Wynflaed. Was Ermenilda under that cloak?

Wynflaed could not swim, and so she scrambled back up the bank and tried to follow the cloak, hoping to catch a sign of her mistress. The Tame, usually a lazy flow, moved swiftly this morning.

Within moments, the mantle was lost from sight.

Wynflaed was on the brink of hysteria by the time she reached the Great Tower of Tamworth. Her breath came in short, exhausted gasps, and her lungs felt as if they were on fire. She had long ceased to notice the rain, or the fact that she was soaked through.

Gasping with effort, she sprinted across the yard in front of the Great Tower. She was just a few yards away from the steps when she slipped and fell, facedown, in the mud.