Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (22 page)

“Here . . .” She reached up and removed the amber necklace from around her neck. It was a rich gift, but she would not need wealth where she was going. The necklace, which Wulfhere had given to her as a morning gift, was also a link to her husband. Now that she had escaped, she wished to cast off any reminders of their life together.

Ermenilda stepped forward and offered the woman the pendant.

“Please take this for your kindness.”

The woman’s eyes went as wide as her boy’s had when he had spotted Ermenilda.

“I only gave you directions.”

“You’ve helped me greatly.”

The woman took the necklace and tucked it away in her pocket, almost as if she expected its giver to snatch it back.

Ermenilda smiled once more, wishing she could do more to help this woman and her son, and stepped back. She was just about to bid her farewell when the young woman spoke again.

“Are you hungry?”

Ermenilda hesitated before nodding.

“I can give you some bread and boiled eggs to take with you,” the young woman said, motioning to her front door. “My name’s Myra, by the way. Follow me and I’ll get them for you.”

Ermenilda did as bade, following the woman into the smoky, dimly lit interior. It was a tiny dwelling and unadorned, yet Ermenilda could see the dirt floor had been swept clean, and the wooden worktable near the fire pit had been scrubbed. The boy followed them inside, his gaze glued to Ermenilda.

“Eglaf, go fetch that water,” Myra ordered, ushering him away. “Stop gaping at our guest!”

The boy did as he was told, although not without one more stolen glance at their guest. Ermenilda smothered a smile and watched the woman cut a thick slice off a loaf of coarse bread. Although his mother regarded their guest with curiosity, no doubt wondering over her rich dress and highborn speech, the lad did not bother to hide his fascination.

“It’s good to see Eglaf show interest in something,” Myra said. “Ever since his father died, he has been so withdrawn. I have worried for him.”

The grief on the young woman’s face was evident; it was clearly a fresh wound.

“What happened?” The question was out before Ermenilda could prevent it, but Myra did not appear offended.

“He was a king’s man,” she said quietly, looking down at the slab of bread she had just cut, “and would spend periods away from us. But, he was earning the gold he needed to give me and Eglaf a better life, so I understood.”

Ermenilda nodded. It was the unfortunate lot of many lowborn women to keep the home fires burning while her man labored elsewhere.

“It happened while he was riding back from the Kingdom of the Kentish,” Myra continued. “It was only an escort, bringing back the king and his betrothed, but they were attacked. Earic died on Saxon lands, and they burned his body there.”

Ermenilda stared at the young woman. The air was warm and close inside the dwelling, but a chill settled over her. Earic had been one of Wulfhere’s warriors—one of the many who died on that bridge.

“I am sorry, Myra,” she managed finally, “for you and Eglaf.”

The young woman gave her a tired smile before reaching for a square of linen. She wrapped the bread up with two hard-boiled eggs, still in their shells. She passed the bundle to Ermenilda, along with a bladder of water.

“As am I,” she replied. “I loved him very much.”

A weighty silence fell, and Ermenilda was at a loss for words. She had no idea what to say, for she did not want to fill the silence with empty, trite platitudes. So, she said nothing.

Myra did not appear to notice or mind. She followed Myra outside into the misty daylight and saw Eglaf toiling toward them with a bucketful of water. He was walking so fast it was sloshing over the side and soaking his breeches. Ermenilda turned to Myra.

“Thank you for the food and drink.”

“It should see you through to Bonehill,” the woman answered with another brittle smile.

Ermenilda left mother and son and made her way around their cottage before she continued west. She glanced over her shoulder once and saw they stood side by side watching her go. A strange sensation needled her. Was it guilt? Surely not. She was not responsible for Earic’s death. But her mother and aunt were . . . and she was kin.

Ermenilda quickened her step and did not look back again.

She reached Bonehill Abbey in the late afternoon.

It had been a much easier walk, especially with a full belly, compared to the morning’s march. Knowing that her destination lay ahead made it easier for her to remain focused. She was now far enough away from Tamworth that she had started to relax a little.

As Myra had told her, the abbey sat at the far end of the valley, in the cradle of low hills. A tall palisade surrounded it, and from the hillside above, Ermenilda could see that it was a decent-size structure. There was an older timbered building at the front and two larger wings on either side made of stone farther back. Around the buildings, Ermenilda could make out trees, shrubs, and an extensive garden.

Her vision blurred with tears.

Finally.

Nearly running in her haste, Ermenilda descended the hillside and made her way to the gates. There were no guards here—not in a holy place—just high gates with a hatch where the nuns could greet visitors. A bell hung from a chain next to the gates, and Ermenilda rang it.

She waited awhile for someone to come. While she waited, Ermenilda stole a nervous look around her. It was an exposed valley, despite the encircling mist, and she suddenly felt vulnerable standing out here on her own.

Eventually, she heard footfalls beyond the gate. Moments later, the hatch slowly slid open to reveal a woman’s face. She was of middle years, with sharp blue eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was clipped.

“What is it?”

“I have come to take my vows,” Ermenilda replied with as much dignity as she could muster.

The woman frowned, her gaze traveling over Ermenilda before it scanned the area behind her. “Did you travel here on your own?”

Ermenilda nodded. “My husband was a king’s thegn. When he died, my family wanted me to remarry, but I refused. They told me that if I wished to become a nun, I would have to travel here on my own.”

The woman looked horrified, her sternness dissolving.

“But you have no cloak, no one to protect you!”

Ermenilda gave the woman a pained look. “They are cruel . . . but I was determined to reach you.”

Her words had the desired effect, for the woman stepped back, drew the hatch shut, and unbolted the gate—opening it just far enough for Ermenilda to enter.

She stepped into another world. Outside, it was gray, bleak, and shadowy; but inside the walls of Bonehill Abbey, it was lush green and the air smelt of wild herbs. Ermenilda could hear the trickle of water flowing—the brook she had lost sight of earlier resurfaced here. She could also hear the chant of women’s voices, the nuns at Vespers. She had stepped into a wide courtyard lined with urns of rosemary, lavender, and thyme. The oldest part of the abbey, the wooden hall, lay before them.

Ermenilda remembered her manners and tore her gaze from the beauty of her surroundings, focusing upon the woman before her. She was roughly the same height as Ermenilda, so it was easy to meet her eye.

The nun wore a gray habit of coarse linen, girded at the waist by a length of rope. Upon her bosom, which even under her shapeless habit was impressive, lay a beautiful rosewood crucifix.

A white veil shrouded her hair from view, similar to the more elaborate headrail that both Ermenilda’s mother and aunt wore. Unlike a headrail, which draped across the wearer’s shoulders, this nun had tucked her veil into the neck of her habit, so that only her face was visible. Upon her feet, she wore rope sandals.

Perhaps the woman noticed Ermenilda’s scrutiny of her, for she smiled.

“I am Abbess Ardwyn of Bonehill,” she said pleasantly. “And what is your name, child?”

Ermenilda met her gaze, only pausing for a moment before she made her decision. Her new life would start here, with a new identity.

“Hild,” she replied.

Wynflaed finished winding the wool in her basket onto her distaff. The spindle was full, and she would have to start on another—and another still—when that one was done. It was tedious, repetitive work, but she welcomed it.

She would have worked at her distaff day and night for the rest of her life if it would bring Ermenilda back.

Inhaling deeply, as she struggled not to weep, Wynflaed looked across the hall. Her gaze rested upon the high seat. She had been trying not to look in that direction, but eventually the pull had been too great.

The king was still there, seated upon his carved chair. Dressed in leather breeches and a sweat-stained woolen tunic, his pale hair in disarray, Wulfhere stared vacantly at the scarred top of the oaken table before him. Wynflaed could see the despair etched into his face; the skin had drawn tight across his cheekbones, giving him a wild appearance. His gaze was hooded, dangerous.

I am so sorry.

He had not appreciated her one attempt at apologizing, so Wynflaed resisted the urge to go before the king once more and beg forgiveness. Wisdom told her it was best to keep out of Lord Wulfhere’s way for now. Eventually, he would emerge from his fog of pain and would be looking for someone to blame.

She would have her chance to plead for mercy then.

Wynflaed shuddered, suddenly cold despite that she sat next to the fire pit. There was no one else to blame but her, and, sooner or later, the king would realize that.

I need some air.

Wynflaed put her distaff aside and rose to her feet. Highborn women worked nearby at their distaffs or weaving at looms, their whispering and pointed stares following her. Ignoring them, she retrieved her basket and a woolen shawl, and headed toward the door.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

One of the women cried out, her shrill voice echoing across the hall. Her name was Burghild; she was a tall, angular woman with lank blonde hair.

“Shirking your duties again are you?”

Wynflaed squared her shoulders and ignored her. She did not fear the wrath of a thegn’s wife. It was the king’s rage that she dreaded.

Outside, the afternoon was bright and breezy. The air smelled of grass and warm earth, and Wynflaed could hear the squeals of children playing in the streets below.

In other circumstances, such a day would have delighted her, but today Wynflaed barely took it in. Leaving the Great Tower behind, she made her way down through Tamworth’s winding streets to the low gate. It was the same route she had taken with Ermenilda three days earlier. Although, the guards did not try to prevent her from going out without an escort this time.

I am merely a servant,
she thought, emptiness settling within her.
No one would notice if I walked out of here and never came back.

Wynflaed did not intend to leave Tamworth.

Where would I go?

Neither could she entertain the thought of taking her own life, as her mistress had evidently done.

Lost in thought, she walked down to the banks of the Tame. The river had slowed since the heavy rain had ceased and almost turned back to its gentle self. Without even realizing she was doing so, Wynflaed found herself retracing her steps along the riverbank, where she and Ermenilda had walked.

When she reached the point where she had spied the queen’s cloak, Wynflaed stopped.

How could she have done it?

Wynflaed’s mind raced as she tried to grasp just how unhappy Ermenilda must have been to have thrown herself into those swirling waters. She struggled to understand, but she just could not. Ermenilda was too strong, too defiant, to throw her life away. Wynflaed had thought she would fight for longer.

Was marriage to Wulfhere so terrible?

Wynflaed was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not hear footfalls behind her. She started slightly when a man’s voice interrupted her brooding.

“Thinking about how you could have prevented it?”

Wynflaed whirled around to find Elfhere standing a few feet behind her. Clad in light linen breeches and tunic, he looked cool and disturbingly attractive. His golden hair was unbound today, and it flowed over his bare shoulders. His blue eyes—usually laughing or teasing—were clouded with concern.

“I was thinking about how unhappy a soul must be to consider such a thing,” she replied.

Elfhere nodded, stepping closer. “I don’t understand it either . . . but you mustn’t blame yourself.”

Bitterness closed Wynflaed’s throat. “Mustn’t I? The king will.”

Elfhere gave her a long, measured look before answering.

“It is himself he will blame . . . not you.”

“But I—”

“Listen—you couldn’t have stopped her.”

“If I had known—”

“You didn’t.”

They stood there for a moment, their gazes fused, until Wynflaed realized how close they were standing. Elfhere was close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, and she inhaled the masculine musk of his skin. Distracted, she took a step back from him. Elfhere noticed her deliberate attempt to distance herself.

“You cannot run from me forever, Wynflaed,” he said gently, his gaze never leaving hers.

Wynflaed gasped. “Hwæt?”

“What are you scared of?”

Heat rose in the center of Wynflaed’s chest, flowering outward. She wanted to run now, but her feet felt as if they had driven roots into the soil.

Elfhere took a step toward her, closing the gap between them once more. He reached out and gently stroked her cheek.

“Surely, you know I would never hurt you.”

“I know no such thing,” she whispered, trembling under his touch.

“I would cherish you.”

Wynflaed stopped breathing. His nearness was making her dizzy. She wanted to believe him, but she had seen what happened to girls who trusted in men too easily.

One of her elder sisters had fallen into the arms of a warrior a few years before. One of the king’s men, he had been as charming and handsome as Elfhere. It had not prevented him from washing his hands of his lover when her womb quickened with his babe.