Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (23 page)

Wynflaed had watched her sister’s humiliation and despair. She had also seen the way her parents eagerly gave her sister to the only man who wanted her—a tanner in Cantwareburh who had already buried three wives and wanted another to use his fists on. It was then that Wynflaed had decided she would never let a man deceive her with honeyed words and melting looks.

Still, Elfhere tempted her sorely. He was watching now with such longing in his eyes that she felt an answering ache deep within her.

Elfhere smiled. “You are strong and free, Wynflaed,” he said gently. “I would never seek to change that—but I would make you mine before another man steals you from me.”

“I’m not a piglet some brute can run away with under his arm!” she retorted, although his words made warmth steal through her.

“But would you be mine?”

She heard the sincerity in his voice, the tremor of emotion there as he struggled to maintain his composure. The last walls of resistance crumbled, and Wynflaed nodded.

“I would.”

No more words were needed. With a grin of relief, Elfhere stepped forward and gathered her against him. His mouth came down possessively over hers, and he kissed her.

***

Wulfhere stepped inside the garden and closed the wattle gate behind him. It was the first time he had set foot here in months, for he had not visited Ermenilda’s garden since early spring. It had been her private place, and he had sensed she had not wanted him to disturb it.

That did not matter now.

Pebbles crunched underfoot as Wulfhere slowly made his way up the path in between beds of kale, comfrey, leeks, and turnips. The garden, now verdant and overflowing with produce, bore no resemblance to the bare rectangle of land he had presented to his wife months earlier.

He remembered the look of joy upon her face, her surprise, when he had brought her here. He had thought that moment had been the turning point—the moment when her feelings toward him would thaw.

They had begun to . . . until he had set out to seek reckoning against her aunt.

Wulfhere sat heavily down upon a narrow stone bench.

He could still feel Ermenilda’s presence here. It was like stepping inside a huge tapestry woven by a master weaver. The fruit and vegetables growing around him were all his wife’s creations and had thrived under her skilled hand.

A lump lodged in Wulfhere’s throat. He felt sick, as if a serpent slithered and coiled itself in the pit of his belly. He could scarcely believe she was gone; the reality of it had not yet sunk in. There was no body to mourn over, no way of knowing if she was really dead. He had scoured that river from one end to the other and sent men out to search the surrounding lands. There had been no sign of Ermenilda anywhere.

She was truly lost.

Wulfhere looked down at his hands before clenching them into fists. She had been his, but ever since coming to live at Tamworth, Ermenilda had slowly slipped through his fingers like sand. He had not been able to hold on to her.

His father had taught him that owning something was all that mattered. One owned men, slaves . . . and a wife. Even sons and daughters were a man’s possessions.

Wulfhere was not like his father. He had wanted more than just ownership of Ermenilda; he had wanted her soul. Penda had been fortunate in his choice of wife. He and Cyneswide had been happy together. Cyneswide had accepted who her husband was and loved him despite his flaws. In contrast, Ermenilda had hated who Wulfhere was, and he had done nothing to improve her opinion of him.

Wulfhere exhaled slowly. It hurt to breathe.

He was glad his father was not alive to see the mess he had made of things. Not that Penda would have helped matters. He had not accepted defiance in anyone, least of all women.

A breeze rippled through the garden, lifting the scent off the roses and carrying it to Wulfhere. It smelled like the lotion that Ermenilda used on her face in the evenings. The scent brought back memories of her: seated next to him upon the high seat, bent over sewing next to the fire pit, chatting to Wynflaed as she helped the cooks prepare a special meal, or naked beneath him as he rode her.

Ermenilda may not have loved him, but he did her. Yet, he had never told her—and now he would never have the chance to do so.

This realization bit into him, sharp and cruel, and, finally, Wulfhere could bear it no longer.

He lowered his head into his hands and wept.

Bonehill Abbey, The Kingdom of Mercia

Ermenilda awoke, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. Breathing hard, she sat up and stared into the darkness.

Jesu, not again.

She had not awoken from a nightmare. Instead, she had just emerged from a wickedly erotic dream. Even though she was now awake, her limbs trembled, her breasts ached, and there was a dull throb between her thighs.

Wulfhere had visited her in her dreams yet again.

She did not want this, did not ask for it, but still he persisted. This dream had been the most vivid so far. They had been in a forest glade at night and both of them were naked, their clothes strewn around them in abandon. Wulfhere had taken her hard, up against a tree trunk, and she had cried out hoarsely each time he thrust within her. The night air had been cold on her skin, the bark rough on her bare back, but she had cared not. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she had drawn him deeper still, crying his name as he ground his hips against hers.

Ermenilda clutched the crucifix about her neck and sat up upon her straw-stuffed sleeping pallet. Around her, the other four novices appeared to be still sleeping. Ermenilda broke out in a cold sweat at the thought that she may have made noises in her sleep. She prayed that she had not.

This has to stop.

How could she prevent these treacherous dreams that struck without warning and unsettled her for days afterward? Perhaps this was her penance, her punishment, for running away from Tamworth, letting everyone think she was dead, and then lying to the abbess about her identity.

Ermenilda listened to the far off howl of a distant wolf and despaired.

Did I really think I could lay my past to rest?
He can find me, even here.

The dawn eventually broke, but memories of that dream plagued Ermenilda still. The rumble of his voice in her ear distracted her as she recited her prayers during Prime. The touch of his fingers sliding down the naked skin of her back made her shiver.

It is just the morning’s chill,
she told herself before attempting to focus upon her prayers.
Nothing more.

Indeed, the days were growing cooler. Soon, Winterfylleth—the season that marked the change between summer and winter—would be upon them. However, the damp chill that rose from the floor where she knelt had nothing to do with the tremor that ran through her body.

It was a relief when Prime ended and Ermenilda followed the other nuns into the hall where they took their meals. The novices sat at a smaller table—Aeleva, Mildburh, Brynflaed, and Bertana had been Ermenilda’s companions since her arrival here. The professed nuns, a group of around twenty, sat at a longer table on the other side of the glowing fire pit.

The food they broke their fast with was simple—meat broth and coarse bread—but it suited Ermenilda well enough. She enjoyed the simplicity of her life here, even if she found herself missing Wynflaed’s irreverence and laughter. Life at Bonehill could be very solemn at times.

After their fast had been broken, the nuns all began their daily chores. There was much to be done to keep the abbey running. As one of the novices, Ermenilda worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk. Often, she would stumble onto her pallet at the end of the day, so exhausted that she fell asleep the moment she lay down upon it.

Even her tiredness could not prevent the dreams that stole upon her while she slept.

This morning, Ermenilda helped wash clothes. She and Mildburh scrubbed and lathered habits and undertunics and dried linens outside, next to the babbling brook.

It was hot work, although the overcast sky above and chill wind helped cool the sweat from their brows. Ermenilda had never been idle before coming here—for even highborn women had to keep themselves busy—but the sheer physicality of her chores had strengthened the muscles in her shoulders, back, and arms.

She and Mildburh spoke little as they worked. The young woman was reserved to the point of appearing withdrawn, and Ermenilda found herself missing Wynflaed’s easy company once more. Their task took them all morning, although by the time the bell rang for Sext, they had managed to hang the last of the washing on the line at the back of the abbey.

After the noon service, the sisters ate their main meal of the day. Once again, it was simple fare: boiled mutton with turnips served with more coarse bread and washed down with a cup of water. The nuns drank no wine, ale, or mead. The occasional cup of goat’s milk was considered a real treat.

Ermenilda preferred the afternoons at Bonehill, for they reminded her of the time she had spent in her garden at Tamworth. During this time, she helped one of the professed nuns, an older woman called Cyneswide, to tend the garden.

The garden at Bonehill was so large that there was plenty to keep them busy, with no two days’ work the same. Some afternoons they would tend the bees they kept in hives at the far north of the grounds; other days they would weed the vegetable beds or trim the shrubbery.

This afternoon, they were harvesting vegetables. Summer was ending, and a glut of produce would have to be preserved or stored for the coming winter.

Ermenilda busied herself pulling up leeks while Cyneswide harvested cabbages in the bed beside her. They had been working in companionable silence for a short while when Cyneswide spoke to Ermenilda.

“Sister Hild, you seem distracted today. Is anything amiss?”

Surprised, Ermenilda looked up from her work. She had thought that she had hidden her unease well, but Sister Cyneswide, ever observant, had still seen it.

Ermenilda hesitated a moment, considering whether to deny her observation. However, the older woman’s face was guileless, her clear blue eyes filled with concern.

Life could be lonely here at times, even surrounded by other women. The other nuns revealed very little of their lives before coming to Bonehill, and conversation centered on the daily tasks that kept the abbey running. Sometimes, Ermenilda longed for someone to confide in. She did not intend to reveal her identity, for that would have been foolish.

What could it hurt to answer honestly?

“Memories of my past life sometimes trouble me,” she admitted. “Of my husband.”

Cyneswide nodded, before she gave a sad smile.

“I too am a widow. My husband died over three years ago, but never a day goes by when I don’t miss him.”

Ermenilda watched the nun curiously. She knew nothing of Sister Cyneswide’s life before Bonehill. Judging from her stately bearing, fine manners, and measured speech, she was highborn. Ermenilda guessed she had been an ealdorman’s wife, and a high-standing one at that.

“I wish I could forget the past,” Ermenilda replied. “A nun is supposed to leave all of her earthly worries behind. I do not wish to remember my husband.”

Cyneswide frowned. “Was he cruel to you?”

Ermenilda remembered the scorn on Wulfhere’s face after he had taken her that day, the sting of his words. However, that was the only time he had been harsh with her. She could not say he had been cruel, for most of the time he had treated her gently.

She shook her head. “No, but I did not like who he was, how he treated others. He was a godless man.”

“My late husband was harsh and cold, but not with me,” Cyneswide revealed. “Over years, I often disagreed with his behavior, his actions, but I would never have dared tell him so. I loved him anyway.”

Ermenilda yanked a leek out of the ground and brushed soil off its roots.

“That’s where we differ, Sister Cyneswide,” she replied, suddenly envious of the affection that the nun still clearly bore her dead spouse. “I told my husband every time he displeased me. I did not wed for love.”

Cyneswide gave her an arch look.

“And yet, he is in your thoughts.”

Ermenilda was introspective and withdrawn for the rest of the day. She recited her prayers woodenly at Vespers and did not join in the conversation at supper about the baking, salting, and drying of food many of the nuns had spent the day doing, in preparation for the long winter.

Instead, she mulled over her conversation with Sister Cyneswide. The older nun’s words bothered her.

Irritated, Ermenilda stabbed her fruit knife deep into the flesh of the apple she was coring.

Wulfhere had worked a strange magic upon her—a spell that addled her mind and turned her will to porridge. It appeared that he still wielded that power over her, even though they were no longer together. His memory cast a shadow over her life at Bonehill and prevented her from fully giving herself to god. Abbess Ardwyn would be horrified to discover that one of her charges spent her nights dreaming of the sins of the flesh.

Ermenilda glanced over at the abbess. Seated at the long table, she was deep in conversation with Sister Cyneswide. Everyone here appeared to like Cyneswide, and Ermenilda could see why. She gave you her undivided attention when you spoke—how many people actually did that? Unfortunately, that meant that she saw things you would rather keep hidden, even from yourself.

It will pass in time,
Ermenilda reassured herself, stabbing her knife once more into her apple.
He cannot torment me forever.

It was silent in the church, so quiet and still that Wulfhere could hear his own breathing. It was a watchful, expectant silence, and he did not like it.

Wulfhere had stepped inside the cavernous space and walked a few paces across the stone floor when the silence started to bother him. There were a handful of other people here, which surprised him. Seaxwulf had obviously been busy converting the folk of Tamworth to his god. The worshippers knelt near the altar, heads bowed in wordless prayer.