Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (21 page)

Hot tears trickled down her cheeks as she tried to regain her footing. However, her skirts were sodden and tangled around her legs.

“Wynflaed?”

Strong arms fastened under her armpits and lifted her to her feet. Wynflaed looked up into Elfhere’s concerned face, and the last shreds of her self-control dissolved. She began to sob.

“Thunor’s hammer, you’re soaked through. What’s wrong?”

“Lady Ermenilda,” Wynflaed gasped the words, barely coherent. “I’ve lost her.”

Wulfhere ran from the hall, with Mōna at his heels. He descended the steps to the stable yard, taking them three at a time.

His wife’s maid had just finished her garbled account of Ermenilda’s disappearance, but he did not wait to hear more.

“Saddle your horses!” he roared at his men. “We ride out now!”

Inside the stables, he swung the saddle onto his stallion’s back and tightened the girth. Nearby, Elfhere and Werbode did the same, but he barely registered their presence.

I have to find her.

They rode out of Tamworth in a storm of flying hooves.

Wulfhere sent half his men along the western bank of the Tame, while he took the other half across the bridge and rode along the eastern bank, where Wynflaed had seen Ermenilda’s cloak. They had brought hounds with them, although the rain would make it difficult to track her scent.

Wulfhere focused entirely on the task. He would not let himself think or feel. He just had to find her. There was no other option.

Yet, he did not find her.

He rode for furlongs, following the course of the Tame as it wound its way south. He waded through the rush-filled water, shouting his wife’s name.

“Ermenilda!”

His voice just echoed back at him, cruelly mocking. Never had Wulfhere felt so helpless, and the sensation filled him with rage. If he could, he would have ripped the world apart with his bare hands.

They eventually found Ermenilda’s fine rabbit-skin mantle. It had washed up among the reeds on the eastern bank—but there was no sign of the woman who had been wearing it. Still, the rain beat down, ceaseless as if the gods were all weeping.

Wulfhere searched for Ermenilda until dusk fell. With the bad weather, night seemed to come upon them swiftly. One moment, they were riding through the gray gloaming; the next, night’s heavy curtain had fallen.

The king and his men made camp above the river, on higher ground in case it burst its banks overnight. They stretched out a hide awning between two oaks and sat upon a leather groundsheet, to protect them from the damp. It was too wet to light a fire, and they had left so quickly that there had been no time to gather provisions.

Wulfhere had no appetite anyway.

He sat at the edge of his men, barely aware of their low conversation, as if they were being careful not to disturb him. Mōna, ever faithful, sat at his feet. In search of comfort, he reached out and stroked her soft ears. Sensing his turmoil, the wolf pressed close to her master.

A long night lay between Wulfhere and his wife. He wanted to take comfort in her being out there somewhere, lost, cold, and alone. But the obvious thought—one that would not have been lost upon his men—was that she had drowned. Wulfhere could not let himself entertain that thought, not for a moment. For the next thought would be that she had deliberately waded into that river and taken her own life.

Wulfhere took a deep, shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

No, she can’t be lost forever. I will find her.

Even though he willed those words to be true—praying to Woden, Thunor, and Freya for it to be so—a leaden weight in the center of his chest warned him otherwise.

They followed the Tame for two more days, before giving up the search. The dogs never picked up Ermenilda’s scent, and there was no sign of her body in the river. The Tame eventually cut west, flowing toward the green wooded borderland between Mercia and Powys, a wild land of scattered villages and thick forest.

Wulfhere and his men crossed the river and began their journey home. Along the way, they stopped at villages and asked if anyone had seen a slender, blonde woman with dark-brown eyes. None had.

Wulfhere spoke to no one on the ride home. He withdrew into his own pain, and the sinking realization that the thing he feared most had happened.

Ermenilda had drowned.

She had taken her own life.

She had done it to escape him.

Wulfhere tortured himself with memories of how he had treated her on the night of the victory feast. He had been angry, and he had used her before humiliating her. The stricken look upon her face as she huddled naked upon the furs tormented him. He had gone too far—unleashed the beast within—and wyrd had punished him.

Back in Tamworth, Wulfhere discovered that the second search party had been no luckier than his. The last of his hope shattered—he had been so sure the other party would find her. A somber mood settled over the Great Tower of Tamworth.

Aethelthryth broke down when she saw the king return empty-handed.

“No!” Her wails echoed high into the rafters, grating on Wulfhere’s already jagged nerves. “Not my beautiful niece. My pure of heart Ermenilda!”

She turned on Wulfhere, heedless of her own safety.

“This is your fault!” she screamed. “You did not deserve a wife such as Ermenilda. This is punishment for your evil ways!”

Wulfhere turned to his brother, who had risen to his feet on the high seat upon seeing the king enter.

“Keep this woman out of my sight, Aethelred,” he ordered, “or I will not be responsible for my actions.”

Aethelred nodded before moving across to Aethelthryth. When he reached out to take her arm, she turned on him.

“Maggot spawn!” she screamed, slapping him hard across the face. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

Thin lipped, his pale gaze glittering with anger, the prince grabbed her by the arm, twisted it behind her back, and marched her off the high seat. Aethelthryth fought him all the way, kicking and scratching. When his brother finally managed to manhandle her into an alcove, Wulfhere inhaled deeply.

Aethelthryth’s shrill voice was still echoing through the hall, but at least he did not have to see the hatred on her face. He already had enough self-loathing to fill the entire world.

Wulfhere stumbled across to the high seat, his limbs leaden with exhaustion.

“Mead!” he croaked. He was not usually a heavy drinker, but today he wished to drown himself in mead until oblivion took him.

His wife’s maid, Wynflaed, brought him a large jug of mead and a cup, wordlessly setting it down before him before she took a hasty step back to the edge of the high seat. The young woman’s pretty face was red and puffy from crying, her green eyes glistening from unshed tears.

“Milord,” she murmured, her voice quivering with grief. “I am so sorry—”

“Leave me,” Wulfhere snarled. He had not focused his anger upon Wynflaed, although it would be all too easy to lay the blame for Ermenilda’s loss at her feet.

Tears spilled down Wynflaed’s cheeks, but she heeded him. Wulfhere ignored her departure, instead pouring a large cup of mead and draining it immediately.

The pain inside him was still there, pulsing like a hot coal, and so he poured another cup. And another. He drank until the sharp edges of the world receded, and he felt wrapped in a cocoon of soft wool. Only even then, he did not forget.

He would never forget.

Ermenilda awoke to find water dripping on her face from the leaves above. She had slept under a spreading oak, too exhausted to go any farther.

Blinking, she sat up and stretched, groaning at how stiff and sore her limbs were. Yesterday had been endless, a panicked flight from Tamworth that had taken all her strength to endure. She had spent most of the day glancing over her shoulder, sure that at any moment Wulfhere would appear out of the mist on horseback, his wolf running at his side, and drag her back home.

However, the day had stretched out, and night had fallen without any sign of those she knew would be out searching for her.

It’s too early for me to relax,
she reminded herself, getting to her feet and brushing leaves off her clothing.
I won’t be able to do so until I’m far from here.

Ermenilda glanced around at her surroundings, taking note of where she stood. She had been too tired last night to pay any attention to where she was or to care.

This morning, she realized that she stood in the midst of an oak thicket. The rain had ceased overnight, although a heavy curtain of cloud lay thick over the land, and mist snaked like wood smoke through the trees. The sun had just risen to the east, and Ermenilda tried to guess, as she had done yesterday after leaving the river, which direction was southwest.

Bonehill Abbey lay to the southwest.

Apart from those directions, Seaxwulf had given her little else to go on. She could only hope that she was taking the right path.

Her belly rumbled, reminding Ermenilda that she had not eaten since her two mouthfuls of bread with her broth the previous morning. She had no water either, although she had managed to scoop some out of leaves the night before. She did so again now, just in case she did not come across a waterway during her journey.

After slaking her thirst, she set off through the thicket. She wound her way through the trees till the oaks drew back and she made her way over bare, windswept hills. The clouds were so low here that she could only guess she was traveling in the right direction.

Damp mist swirled around Ermenilda, clinging to her bare arms. She was fortunate to have made her escape in high summer or she would have died of exposure by now, especially without her fur mantle. Even so, the dampness chilled her, and she kept up a brisk pace to ensure she kept warm.

As she walked, Ermenilda’s thoughts traveled back to the moment she had made her escape.

She had not wanted to deceive Wynflaed.

The girl was loyal and bighearted, but she would never have let Ermenilda run away without raising the alarm. Even so, Ermenilda had known that Wynflaed would not leave her alone at the river’s edge for long, so the moment her handmaid disappeared into the trees, Ermenilda had acted.

She had sprinted up the riverbank and unslung her cloak, before throwing it out into the midst of the Tame. Her mantle billowed in the air before settling upon the swirling water. Then, it began to move downriver.

Ermenilda had dropped her basket at the river’s edge and had begun to run. She followed the river for about a furlong, before cutting southwest into woodland—and had not stopped running since.

I hope he does not blame Wynflaed.

The worry, which had surfaced shortly after Ermenilda had made her escape, returned to plague her. Wulfhere’s rage would be terrible when he discovered his wife missing. Ermenilda only hoped that he would think she had drowned herself in the river.

If he thinks I have run off, he will never stop hunting me.

The thought made Ermenilda quicken her step even further.

The morning drew out, and Ermenilda’s rumbling belly turned into a hard knot of hunger. She started to feel faint and wondered how much farther she would be able to go on. Unused to walking so far, her limbs felt leaden, and her feet now throbbed.

Seaxwulf had told her that Bonehill was a day’s journey on horseback from Tamworth. Ermenilda had been traveling on foot since yesterday morning. Surely, she could not be far away from her destination.

It was nearing noon when she came across a small hamlet at the end of a shallow, windswept valley. It was tiny—a scattering of thatched huts around a trickling brook. Sheep grazed on the hillside as she made her way toward the settlement. Their bleating did not travel far on this misty, windless day.

I must be careful,
she warned herself.
They must not know who I am.
They must not suspect I have run away.

Ermenilda made her way toward the nearest dwelling, which lay on the farthest edge of the hamlet, apart from the other houses. She could see it was the home of a poor man, with a thatched roof in dire need of repair.

As she approached, a boy emerged from the dwelling. He carried an empty pail, clearly on his way to collect water from the brook. When he saw Ermenilda, he stopped short.

The boy stared, his eyes growing huge. Ermenilda gave him an encouraging smile and was about to greet him when the boy opened his mouth.

“Ma!” he shouted, his gaze never leaving Ermenilda. “There’s someone here!”

A woman’s voice, slightly irritated, responded. “Who is it, Eglaf?”

“It’s a lady,” the boy replied. “A stranger.”

Ermenilda heard the shuffling of feet from inside the dwelling, and moments later, a young woman, around her own age, emerged. The woman was slender and blonde, like Ermenilda, but the similarities ended there. She was dressed in a worn, shapeless tunic. Her face was gaunt, and her eyes had dark circles under them. Ermenilda could see the woman should have been pretty, but hardship had drained the youth from her face.

The gaze that met Ermenilda’s was not friendly.

“What do you want?”

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Ermenilda replied, keeping her voice gentle, “but I’m traveling to Bonehill Abbey and seem to have lost my way. Can you point me in the right direction?”

The woman’s mouth thinned, and she looked Ermenilda up and down, as if she was making her mind up about her.

“You’re not that lost,” she admitted grudgingly. She jerked her head behind her, to where the brook trailed its way west. “The abbey sits at the other end of this valley, around half an afternoon’s walk.”

Hope rose in Ermenilda’s breast. She had feared she had been unwittingly traveling farther and farther from her destination, but instead she was closer than she realized.

“I thank you,” she said, smiling. The young woman merely stared back at her, blank faced.

Ermenilda did not want to leave things like that. She could see the woman was unhappy. By the looks of things, she and her boy lived alone, and Ermenilda wanted to help in some way.