Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (26 page)

He was standing a few feet behind her.

Wulfhere was staring at her as if he looked upon a demon. The king was an imposing and intimidating sight, dressed all in black, with a gray squirrel cloak about his shoulders.

Wulfhere’s face was rigid with shock, his pale eyes frozen wide. Ermenilda saw a muscle in his clenched jaw flicker, the only sign of his inner turmoil.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she clutched her basket to her breast and took a step backward. She was dumbstruck. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. There were no words, no excuses, which could extricate her from this moment. Behind Wulfhere, she spied Sister Cyneswide approaching.

The older woman’s face was ashen and taut, her gaze full of reproach.

Ermenilda’s gaze returned to Wulfhere. What connection did he have with Sister Cyneswide?

Wulfhere must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for his mouth twisted.

“I’m here to see my mother,” he said softly. “Only, I did not expect to set eyes on my wife’s ghost.”

His mother?

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and all of the things Cyneswide had revealed to her in their conversations took on a new meaning.

The man that Cyneswide had never stopped loving was Penda of Mercia.

Ermenilda moved, pivoting away from him, and attempted to flee back inside the abbey. Wulfhere intercepted her, his hand closing over her forearm.

Ermenilda gasped, her basket dropping from nerveless fingers. The apples rolled out onto the ground at her feet.

“Not a ghost then.” Wulfhere squeezed gently, as if proving to himself that she was real. “But flesh and bone.”

She could not bear the look in his eyes, the accusation and pain she saw there. He had thought her dead, only to discover that she had merely run away from him.

She had never meant him to know.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice raw.

“You know why,” she finally managed, the words barely above a whisper.

His hand dropped away from her, leaving an imprint of heat on her forearm. Hostility and pain pulsed between them like a living thing.

“I grieved for you, Ermenilda,” he ground out, his eyes glittering, “and all the while you’ve been here, laughing at my expense.”

Ermenilda shook her head and wrapped her arms about herself. It was a mild evening, but she felt chilled to the bone.

“I did this to save us both.”

Wulfhere’s gaze narrowed further still. “You did it for yourself, no one else.”

Ermenilda ran, and this time Wulfhere did not try to stop her. She picked up her skirts and fled across the grass, under a stone arch and into the stone building beyond.

Only the whispering wind followed her.

Ermenilda sat upon her straw-filled pallet, staring sightlessly at the wall, when Sister Cyneswide entered the novice’s dormitory.

She heard the nun’s soft footsteps, the scuff of her sandals on stone, and felt the pallet shift as the older woman sat down next to her. Ermenilda did not look her way; she was too humiliated to do so. She had shared intimate details with Cyneswide—information she could use against her if she so chose.

Cyneswide did not speak. Instead, she sat next to Ermenilda in gentle silence. Outside, the bell was ringing for Vespers, but both women ignored it. This afternoon, neither of them would adhere to Bonehill’s strict routine.

Eventually, Ermenilda broke the silence.

“So, you were queen.”

“Aye, I was.”

Ermenilda glanced across at the nun, studying her as if for the first time. Now that she was looking for it, she could see the family resemblance. Wulfhere had the same cheekbones, the same nose.

“You never guessed who I was?”

Cyneswide gave a wry smile and shook her head. “Time stands still here at Bonehill. The goings-on in the world outside cease to matter. I knew my son had married a Kentish princess, but nothing else.”

Ermenilda nodded, before glancing down at her hands clasped upon her lap. She wanted to stay seated here forever, to pretend she had never seen Wulfhere. She had felt restless at Bonehill of late, but now that her peace had been shattered, she was desperate to remain here.

“He cannot make me leave,” she whispered.

Cyneswide did not reply immediately. When she did, her voice was firm.

“Wulfhere blames himself.”

“That’s not the impression he gave me,” Ermenilda replied, her tone sharpening. “He thinks me selfish and cruel.”

Cyneswide shook her head. “He is in shock. Before he saw you in the garden, Wulfhere told me everything. He would have done anything to go back and change the past. I’ve never seen a man sorrier.”

Ermenilda clasped her hands tightly together. She did not believe Cyneswide. It was all too easy for a mother to see the good in her son. After all, she had loved Penda of Mercia, one of the most hated men in Britain.

“I will not go from here,” she said, fear rising within her at the thought of returning to Tamworth. “He cannot force me.”

Cyneswide sighed, impatience creeping into her voice. “He is the King of Mercia. If he wishes to take you away from here, no one—not even the abbess—will be able to prevent him.”

Wulfhere waited alone in the chapter house, the space where the abbess and other nuns or visiting monks and bishops would meet to discuss matters. The room had a high vaulted ceiling, and richly detailed tapestries covered the walls. Low stone benches, where the nuns would sit for their meetings, lined the edge of the room.

Wulfhere did not sit down upon any of them. Instead, he paced the room.

Betrayed. Insulted. Wounded.

Anger snaked through him and made him want to lash out. He felt like tearing this room apart with his bare hands, ripping down the walls—stone by stone. Yet, underneath the anger, there was a rising sense of relief, of burgeoning joy.

Ermenilda is alive.

He was furious and hurt, but to know his wife had survived had lifted a heavy mantle from his shoulders.

Wulfhere heard the sound of footsteps and whirled to face the three women who silently entered the chapter house. His mother, her blue eyes clouded with worry, led the way, followed by the stern-faced abbess. Ermenilda—pale and tense—entered last.

“Lord Wulfhere.” Abbess Ardwyn bowed her head respectfully, although her mouth had drawn up as if she had just taken a sip of vinegar. “Your mother has informed me of all.”

The abbess turned to Ermenilda, her disapproval palpable.

“So, your name is not Hild but Ermenilda.”

The young woman nodded, her brown eyes huge on her pale face.

“You lied to me about your identity.” The abbess’s voice lashed like a whip. “That was a wicked thing to do.”

Ermenilda looked down at the flagstone floor.

“I am sorry, abbess.”

Abbess Ardwyn made a noise of disgust and turned back to Wulfhere.

“She is your wife, milord. Take her away with you when you leave here.”

“No! I must stay!” Ermenilda’s face had gone taut. Her slender body trembled. Looking upon her, Wulfhere could see her abject horror at the thought of leaving with him. If she had struck him across the face, it would have hurt less.

Ermenilda’s outburst had not impressed the abbess. The older woman’s brows had knotted together in disapproval beneath penetrating blue eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“Forgive me, abbess,” Ermenilda gasped, clearly struggling to rein in her emotions, “but this is my home now. I do not wish to leave.”

“What you wish does not concern me,” the abbess sniffed. “You are a liar and had no place coming here without your husband’s permission.”

Abbess Ardwyn turned back to Wulfhere.

“Take her with you in the morning. I will make sure she is ready.”

Wulfhere said nothing. Instead, he looked across at his wife. Ermenilda was staring at the floor and was clearly struggling not to weep. His mother had wisely remained silent since entering the chapter house. However, Wulfhere could see the concern etched across her face.

“My wife thinks me a beast,” he said finally. The words hurt him, but he forced them out. “She would be happier here.”

The abbess glared at him. “I cannot abide lying. This woman came here with a tale of how she was recently widowed. She told me her kin had ridiculed her wishes to become a nun, so she had traveled here on her own. We all praised her for her devotion, but everything she told us was false.”

“I had to lie,” Ermenilda burst out, tears streaming down her face. “You would not have taken me in otherwise!”

Abbess Ardwyn gave the younger woman a cold look before she turned back to Wulfhere.

“Your wife is no longer welcome here,” she told him, her voice clipped with barely restrained anger. “If you do not take her with you, I will cast her out.”

The looks on his men’s faces when Wulfhere led Ermenilda out of Bonehill the next morning were almost comical.

Under other circumstances, Wulfhere might have found their dumbstruck expressions amusing. This morning, their reactions just added to Ermenilda’s humiliation of him.

Some of them paled as if they had just seen a wraith, while others muttered oaths under their breaths.

Werbode just stared. It was rare to see the thegn lose his composure, but the sight of Ermenilda—alive and well—flummoxed him.

Ermenilda had removed her veil, revealing that she had braided her blonde hair tightly around her head. A woolen cloak hung from her shoulders, although underneath, she still wore the coarsely woven gray tunic—the last remnant of her life at Bonehill Abbey.

The sun had just risen over the edge of the valley to the east, and the sky was clear, promising a bright day ahead. Wulfhere led Ermenilda up the incline, his hand gently guiding her elbow. They halted about five feet from the king’s men. Mōna approached, tail wagging, but Wulfhere stilled her with a gesture.

He greeted his men. “No, your eyes do not deceive you.” The words were bald, and Wulfhere could hear the flatness in his own voice. There was no way to soften the news. “Queen Ermenilda lives. It appears she did not drown in the river but instead fled to Bonehill to start a new life as a nun. Had I not visited my mother, I would never have known.”

The men stared, their silence the only response Wulfhere needed. Werbode was the first to find his tongue.

“You will take her back?” he asked, incredulous.

“I would prefer she remain at Bonehill,” Wulfhere admitted, “but the abbess has cast her out.”

“Leave her to the wolves then,” Werbode replied. He watched Ermenilda, his lip curling.

Wulfhere shook his head. “She is my wife. I cannot treat her thus.”

“She let you think she was dead. You owe her nothing.”

Wulfhere understood Werbode’s anger, but the warrior asked the impossible. He would never leave his wife out here to die. Instead, he led her across to his stallion and helped her mount.

He swung up behind her, ignoring his men’s shocked faces.

Ermenilda stared ahead, barely taking in her surroundings, as Wulfhere turned his stallion northeast.

Back to Tamworth.

It hardly seemed real. She felt as if she were moving through fog, as if none of this was happening to her. She had seen the astonishment and anger on the faces of Wulfhere’s men—and the rage upon Werbode’s—but none of it had touched her.

She had spent the night weeping in despair, feeling hollow inside.

Wulfhere sat close behind her; the heat of his body enveloped her back, and she could feel the strength of his arms on either side of her torso as he guided the stallion up the hill, away from Bonehill. His presence was oddly reassuring. Without his protection, she was doomed.

Ermenilda glanced back at the place that had been her home for the past three months. From here, the abbey appeared a sanctuary of green in a bleak, empty valley.

Cyneswide was still there and would remain so. Ermenilda had watched her say good-bye to Wulfhere at the gates just after dawn. Wordlessly, she had embraced her son, before cupping his cheek with her palm. Wulfhere had said nothing. Theirs had been a silent farewell.

Ermenilda turned her gaze from Bonehill Abbey and closed her eyes. To think she had chafed under the austerity and restrictions of daily life in the abbey. Now, she would give anything to return there.

The irony was that Wulfhere did not even want her back. It was only out of some sense of decency that he did not leave her to the wolves.

Wulfhere did not speak as they rode, and she was grateful for his silence. He understood the gravity of the situation. He would have to explain her deceit once more to his hall once they reached Tamworth—something that would humiliate him more than it would her.

At midday, they stopped for a meal of bread, cheese, and apples. Bonehill, and its lonely valley, now lay many furlongs behind them, and the party halted amid woodland. The trees were changing their coats, turning from shades of green to red and gold, and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn. The king’s party stopped next to a small stream. The trickling of water and the murmur of the wind through the trees were the only sounds in the peaceful spot.

Ermenilda let Wulfhere help her down from his horse, although she carefully averted her gaze. She could not bear to look at his face. She had preferred anger, not the wounded look in his eyes this morning.

Moving as if in a dream, Ermenilda sat down upon a tree stump. She was vaguely aware of the men moving around, unbuckling saddlebags and unstoppering water bladders. She paid them no mind, instead staring down at the apple she held but did not eat.

Mōna came to see her, nudging up against her leg. The wolf’s behavior surprised her. In all the months Ermenilda spent at Tamworth, Mōna had largely ignored her. She was loyal to Wulfhere only and tracked him like a shadow.

Not so today. The she-wolf gazed at her with soft eyes and licked her hand. Ermenilda placed a tentative hand on the wolf’s head. Her pelt was plush, and her ears soft.

“Hello,” she murmured, her misery lifting for a moment. “You are a beauty, aren’t you?”