Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (25 page)

It was Wynflaed, Ermenilda’s handmaid.

The sight of her pained Wulfhere. The young woman had been a permanent fixture at his wife’s side. She had been the last person to see Ermenilda alive. The girl had tried to apologize, but Wulfhere had not wanted to hear it. Now, months on, he did not blame Wynflaed for his wife’s death. Even so, he wished she had returned to her kin in Cantwareburh.

Instead, she had found a reason to stay on in Tamworth.

“Elfhere!”

The warrior turned to the girl, his face splitting into a grin. He kissed her passionately, not caring who saw.

An ache twisted deep in Wulfhere’s chest, and he looked away. The love between Elfhere and Wynflaed had been the talk of the Great Hall for several months. Although he did not wish either of them ill, the sight pained him.

Such natural, uncomplicated affection held a cruel mirror up to what Wulfhere had shared with Ermenilda. There had been no easy kisses, no smiles between them. Apart from the passion they had shared in the furs, their rapport had been stiff and awkward from the moment they met, till the day Ermenilda disappeared.

***

Ermenilda looked up at the sky and frowned. The air smelled fresh and rich, but the misty rain was heavy enough to wet her face in moments.

There would be no gardening in this weather. Disappointed, she blinked water out of her eyes and wiped her dripping face with the hem of her sleeve. Then, with a sigh, Ermenilda retreated indoors.

Inside, all the nuns were busy. They were forever industrious; not a moment was spent idle at Bonehill. Ermenilda could smell cooking—the pungent aroma of boiling cabbage, turnips, and carrots for the evening pottage—coming from the kitchens. The smell blended with the more pleasant scent of baking bread.

Ermenilda’s belly rumbled. Meals were frugal here at Bonehill, and she worked so hard that she often felt faint with hunger by the time mealtimes arrived. Owing to the rain, this afternoon would be less arduous than most.

Later on, Ermenilda would join the other novices for a lesson on reading and writing. Every two days, Abbess Ardwyn took it upon herself to instruct the novices; in just over three months, Ermenilda could now read and write simple sentences.

Until her lesson, she would have to occupy herself with weaving. As highborn women, she and Sister Cyneswide had been given a complex tapestry to work on—a large hanging that depicted Christ crucified on the cross. The tapestry would take them another ten months, at least, to finish.

Ermenilda retrieved her pickup stick, a long pointed length of hardwood that she used to insert warp threads into the tapestry. As she did so, she noticed how red and sore her hands looked. Once, she had the pale, delicate hands of a lady, despite the time she spent in her garden at Tamworth. Hard physical labor at Bonehill had given her the hands of a farmer’s wife. She would have liked some lard to rub on them, to soften the skin, but such luxuries were forbidden in the abbey.

Turning her attention to the task at hand, Ermenilda started to weave. She and Cyneswide worked companionably, side by side, for a while before Ermenilda became bored with the silence.

It was always so silent here. Not like the noise and confusion of the Great Tower of Tamworth.

“Why did you take the veil?” she asked finally, careful to keep her voice low lest one of the other nuns overhear.

Sister Cyneswide glanced at her, surprised, before answering.

“I came here because my husband died, and there was no place for me in my old life.”

Ermenilda frowned. “Your family didn’t want you?”

Sister Cyneswide shook her head and picked up her tapestry beater. “It was not as simple as that.”

Ermenilda sensed her companion did not want to divulge more, although her words had piqued her curiosity.

“I thought women came here because they wanted to,” she said quietly.

“Most do,” Cyneswide replied. “Certainly, no one forced me either. It’s just that the choices of women are sometimes few.”

They certainly are.

“What of you, Sister Hild?” Sister Cyneswide asked, turning the conversation away from herself.

“It was always my dream to become a nun,” Ermenilda admitted.

“It was?”

Ermenilda smiled at the older woman’s incredulity. “Aye, all the women in my family are pious.”

One of the other nuns passed by carrying a basket of wool over to where two of the novices were winding wool onto distaffs. Ermenilda remained silent until she was out of earshot.

“Are you happy here, Sister Cyneswide?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

Cyneswide gave a pensive, enigmatic smile.

“Being happy does not come into it,” she replied, with a shake of her head. Ermenilda heard the faint rebuke in the older woman’s voice and realized that she had overstepped the mark. Cyneswide may have been a warm and gentle-natured woman, but she was also an intensely private one.

“I accept my life here,” Cyneswide concluded, her gaze meeting Ermenilda’s, “as will you.”

Wulfhere swung down from his stallion and passed the reins to Werbode.

“Make camp here,” he instructed his retainer. “I will rejoin you in the morning.”

Werbode frowned. “You’re going to sleep inside the abbey?”

“I’m the king,” Wulfhere replied. “I sleep where I want.”

Werbode chuckled. “Aye, perhaps one of the nuns will offer to share her bed.”

Wulfhere gave the thegn a cool look but did not respond to the deliberate provocation. Instead, he turned to Mōna, who sat expectantly at his feet, and stroked her ears.

“You wait here, girl.”

Wulfhere left the party of twenty men he had brought with him from Tamworth and strode across the rippling grass to Bonehill Abbey’s gates. It was a bleak spot, here at the end of a windswept valley, and he wondered how his mother had fared. It would be an altogether different life from the comfort of the Great Tower of Tamworth.

The shadows were lengthening; it was getting late in the afternoon. Wulfhere and his men had left Tamworth just after breaking their fast and had made good time. Still, he knew that nuns kept to strict routines, and he hoped he had not arrived too late in the day.

Wulfhere rang the bell, listening to its mournful sound echo across the valley. He glanced back at his warriors. Werbode had done as bade and was organizing the men. There were few trees in the exposed valley, so he had sent out a party to gather wood for a fire and to cut branches for tents.

Hearing the scuff of footsteps beyond, Wulfhere turned back to the gate. The hatch, just level with his neck, slid open, and a woman’s face peered out.

“Wes þū hāl,” she greeted him hesitantly, her sharp blue eyes silently assessing him.

“Wes hāl,” he answered, his gaze meeting hers. “I am King Wulfhere of Mercia. I am here to see my mother.”

The nun closed the hatch without another word and opened the gate to admit him.

“I am Abbess Ardwyn,” she said, dipping her head in respect. “Welcome to Bonehill Abbey, milord.”

Wulfhere nodded and let his gaze travel around his surroundings. There was an atmosphere of peace inside the abbey, and the scent of herbs and flowers made him relax. The tranquility reminded him of Ermenilda’s garden, although it pained him to think of that special place.

“You have made this a beautiful spot,” he said, turning back to the abbess.

She smiled, and he could see that his comment had pleased her.

“Thank you, milord. We have worked long and hard to make it what it is.” She dipped her head once more. “Come, I will take you to see your mother.”

Sister Cyneswide was waiting for her son when he entered the garden. Seated upon a low stone bench, she sat as still as the shrubs and flowers surrounding her.

Wulfhere barely recognized her, clad in a shapeless gray habit, her hair shrouded by a white veil; she bore no resemblance to Penda’s golden queen. However, the deep blue of her eyes, when her gaze lifted to meet his, was unmistakable. As was the gentleness on her face.

Wulfhere’s throat unexpectedly tightened—a reaction that surprised him. Although he was fond of his mother, he had neglected her over the past few years. He had focused on other matters, like taking back the throne, finding a wife, and exacting vengeance. It was only now that he realized how much he missed her smile, her reassuring presence.

“Wulfhere,” she said softly, her face radiant. “How handsome you have become.”

She rose to her feet and embraced him. Wulfhere hugged his mother close, overwhelmed by his reaction to seeing her. She still smelled the same: the faint scent of lye soap and lavender.

Wulfhere cleared his throat and struggled to compose himself.

“I apologize for not coming sooner, Mōder.”

“You have had much to occupy your thoughts,” she replied.

She was making excuses for him, as she had once done for his father.

“I still should have come sooner,” he answered with a shake of his head.

They sat down, side by side, upon the bench, surrounded by birdsong and the sigh of a light wind that stirred the leaves. At the far end of the garden, Wulfhere spied the ghostly shapes of nuns, as they went about their work.

“I last saw Aethelred in the spring,” Cyneswide said softly. “He told me of how you had taken back the throne, and of your marriage to a Kentish princess. I am proud of you, Wulfhere, as would your father be.”

Wulfhere stared back at her, something deep inside his chest twisting. His mother must have seen the look of anguish on his face, for she frowned.

“What is wrong?”

He shook his head. “I have made a mess of things. You would not be so proud, if you knew the truth.”

Cyneswide’s frown deepened. “What has happened?”

Wulfhere looked away from her, staring down at the grass beneath his boots.

“My wife is dead. Three months ago, during heavy rains. I believe she threw herself into the Tame and drowned, although her body has never been found.”

His mother did not respond to this news, and when the silence grew uncomfortable, Wulfhere glanced across at her. Cyneswide was watching him, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

“She did not want to wed me,” he told her. “She hated me before we even met, but my actions did not improve matters.”

He saw the confusion in his mother’s eyes, and so he began the tale from the beginning. He told her of his exile, of his winter visit to Cantwareburh. He explained how he had sworn to take back the Mercian throne and renounce the old gods if King Eorcenberht would agree to the match. He told her of the attack, during their journey home, and of who was to blame. He told her of Ermenilda’s garden and of how things had softened between them for a short while, before his decision to take vengeance upon her aunt shattered their fragile rapport.

He told the story plainly, without any emotion or embellishment, although when he finished it, he felt raw on the inside, as if he had reopened a wound that was just beginning to heal.

“Wulfhere,” Cyneswide breathed, brushing away a tear that had escaped and was trickling down her cheek. “You should not blame yourself.”

Anger flared deep within Wulfhere.

“I
am
to blame, Mōder. If I could return in time, I would do things differently.”

Cyneswide observed him, and Wulfhere could see she was thinking.

“You are not like him at all,” she said, finally.

“Like who?”

“Your father.”

Wulfhere gave a bitter laugh. “All I ever wanted was to follow in his footsteps, but I’ve failed there too.”

His mother gave a faint smile. “It wasn’t a criticism. I am glad you are not like him.”

Wulfhere held her gaze, surprised. “You are?”

“Penda lacked humanity. Even I, who loved him the most, never saw a hint of vulnerability in all the years we were together. Paeda had his cruelty . . . but you and Aethelred are kinder.”

“I still managed to make a mess of things,” he replied, gazing out across the lush garden. “What I would give for a second chance.”

It was then that he saw one of the nuns walk across the garden. She had her back to him and carried a wicker basket under one arm. Even in her loose robes, the woman walked with regal elegance, her posture straight and shoulders back.

She reached an apple tree at the rear of the garden and began to pick fruit from the lower branches. As she worked, the nun turned slightly, revealing her profile to him.

The world stood still.

Wulfhere was vaguely aware of his mother asking him something, but he could not tear his gaze away from the nun at the bottom of the garden.

“Wulfhere, what is it?”

Heart pounding, he turned to his mother.

“That nun.” He finally spoke, although his mouth felt as though it were full of wool. “Who is she?”

Cyneswide frowned, her gaze shifting to where the nun was stretching up to retrieve an apple from a high branch.

“That’s Sister Hild,” she replied, frowning.

“How long . . . how long has she been here?”

“Since midsummer,” his mother replied. “She arrived here around three months ago, after her husband died . . .”

Cyneswide’s voice died away. Realization dawned, and her face paled as she stared at the nun.

“Oh . . .”

Wulfhere rose to his feet, his pulse thundering in his ears.

“Her name is not Hild,” he rasped. “That woman is Ermenilda . . . my wife.”

Ermenilda plucked the apple from the branch and deposited it into her basket. A breeze feathered her cheeks, and she glanced up at the sky, noting that the light was starting to fade. Vespers were nearing; soon she would have to retreat indoors.

Behind her, a man’s voice intruded.

“Ermenilda.”

She froze. A chill swept over her, followed by a wave of fire. She knew that voice, recognized its deep pitch.

For the love of Mother Mary and all the saints . . . no . . .

Slowly, as if she were swimming in deep water, Ermenilda turned.