Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (28 page)

“I still bled like a stuck pig.”

“Aye, but you could have bled to death then and there.”

The cunning man wet a scrap of linen and washed away the blood from the king’s leg. Glaedwine was a tall, spare man with limbs that appeared too long for him. He had been a healer at Tamworth for many years, and had served Penda faithfully. His skills were renowned. Still, the man reminded Wulfhere of a sly crow. He spoke little and saw much.

Glaedwine, like the other residents of the Great Hall, had stood and listened, while Wulfhere explained how and why Queen Ermenilda had returned to them.

Wulfhere closed his eyes and tried to ignore his throbbing leg. His thoughts returned to his people’s reaction to the news—their shock and anger.

Would they ever forgive her?

Will I?

Not that his forgiveness mattered. He was far from blameless in this mess. They had been a poor match as man and wife, and things were ruined beyond repair now. It was enough that Ermenilda was alive. He would not have to live with her death on his conscience.

Still, Wulfhere was not sure how it would be with Ermenilda back in Tamworth. Oddly, things had changed between them. Ermenilda was now an aloof stranger. She had despaired at leaving Bonehill, but she no longer gazed upon him with scorn. Instead, her loathing appeared to have turned inward.

“I will need to watch your wounds carefully.”

Glaedwine interrupted his brooding. Wulfhere opened his eyes and pulled himself upright on the furs. The water in the basin next to the healer was now deep red.

“Will they fester?” he asked, frowning.

The cunning man hesitated. Watching him, Wulfhere felt a pang of misgiving. He had sustained injuries before, but Glaedwine had always assured him that he would heal.

This time, Wulfhere saw doubt in the healer’s eyes.

“Only time will tell,” Glaedwine replied softly.

Ermenilda was sitting on the edge of the furs, dressed in an undertunic, when Wulfhere climbed up to the King’s Loft. Beneath them, she could hear the rise and fall of voices, as folk chatted around the fire pit before retiring for the night.

As soon as Wulfhere had made his explanations to his hall, she had retired upstairs. She had not even gone to greet Wynflaed—or her aunt, whom she had not even seen yet. After the shock of her return, she decided it was better she lie low for the rest of the evening.

“Milord,” she greeted him nervously.

“Why are you not asleep, Ermenilda?” Wulfhere replied, limping across to the furs and sitting down heavily on the edge of them. “It’s late.”

He sounded tired and in ill humor. Ermenilda did not blame him. This had been the worst day of her life, and she imagined he felt the same. Ermenilda climbed under the furs and pulled them up under her chin.

“I wanted to speak to you,” she said quietly.

Wulfhere glanced up from where he was taking off his quilted vest.

“Can’t it wait till morning?”

“I would like to clear the air between us.”

Wulfhere raised a blond eyebrow, and Ermenilda’s nervousness increased. She had been working up to this all evening, and he was not making this an easy task.

“I wish to apologize,” she finally managed.

Wulfhere sighed. “Ermenilda . . .”

“For all of it,” she interrupted him. “For running away, for letting you think I was dead. For being the reason you’re injured.”

Wulfhere watched her, his expression veiled. “Are you not just sorry you were found out?”

Ermenilda swallowed. “I know it’s difficult to believe.”

Wulfhere sighed, his shoulders bowing slightly. “Then I should apologize for making your life so unbearable that you had to run from me.”

He lay down on top of the furs and turned away from her, still clad in a sleeveless tunic and breeches, although his feet were bare.

“Go to sleep, Ermenilda,” he said softly.

Ermenilda lay back on the furs and listened to the gentle rise and fall of her husband’s breathing. A single clay cresset still burned nearby, casting their quarters in a soft light. The pile of furs they lay upon was wide enough so that they could sleep easily apart; there was at least a span of three feet between them. Even so, Ermenilda could not relax.

These furs brought back memories, all of them unsettling, and Wulfhere’s behavior toward her unbalanced Ermenilda further still. She had preferred his anger and coldness to this bitterness and resignation. Most men would have killed her for what she had done. Yet, he had fought Werbode to defend her honor and had taken her back into his hall.

Tonight, despite everything that had happened, there had been an odd camaraderie between them. Wulfhere appeared the only person in the Great Hall who wished her to remain here.

Ermenilda slept fitfully and awoke in the early dawn. She lay in the darkness, her thoughts returning once again to the events of the day before. Her throat closed with dread at the thought of having to face folk once more, although she knew that hiding from them would just make matters worse.

In the hall below, she heard the first of the slaves stir and the crackling of the fire pits as they roused the embers and added wood. Shortly after, the scent of wood smoke filled the King’s Loft, followed by the aroma of baking griddle bread.

Ermenilda rolled onto her side, facing the wall of Wulfhere’s back. He had not moved all night and still slept soundly. She was grateful he had kept his distance physically from her, although it came as no surprise. He no longer looked at her with need in his eyes, as he had before she ran away. His hurt and bitterness had obliterated lust.

Above them, the pale dawn light streamed in through the high, narrow window, alerting Ermenilda that she would soon have to rise from her furs and face the day.

Beside her, Wulfhere groaned in his sleep and rolled over onto his back. In the half-light, Ermenilda propped herself up onto her elbows and observed him. His face gleamed and his white-blond hair clung to his scalp.

Tentatively, careful not to wake him, Ermenilda reached across and placed the back of her hand on his forehead. The skin was damp and hot.

Wulfhere’s eyes snapped open.

Ermenilda withdrew her hand sharply, as if burned.

“What are you doing?” His voice, still heavy with sleep, rasped slightly.

“You have a fever,” Ermenilda said, frowning to mask her discomfort. She sat up and reached for her woolen overdress. “We will need to call for Glaedwine again this morning.”

They broke their fast together, alone upon the high seat. Ermenilda noted that Wulfhere’s cheekbones were flushed, his eyes unnaturally bright. He ate little and sipped listlessly at his cup of broth.

Ermenilda sat silently beside him, her own appetite also deserting her. She looked about her, noting once again that she had not seen her aunt. Nor had she seen Prince Aethelred since their arrival the day before. It also appeared as if some of the king’s retainers, Elfhere among them, were absent.

“Where is Aethelthryth?” she asked Wulfhere.

“I sent her back to Ely,” Wulfhere replied. “My brother is accompanying her.”

Ermenilda stared at him, caught off guard by his admission.

“She is no longer your hostage?”

“Lady Aethelthryth is free,” he replied, before taking a sip of broth. “It no longer pleased me to keep her here. She has enough gold to rebuild her church and the town, if she so wishes.”

Wulfhere looked at her. “I wanted to make amends. In honor of your memory.”

Lost for words, Ermenilda looked away. She noted that many observed them. Some of the women who resided in the Great Hall were giving her cold and disdainful looks. They were the wives of ealdormen and thegns, women who had once liked her. She had spent many a morning working alongside them at her loom or distaff. After what she had done, it would be foolish to think they would be friends now.

Ermenilda glanced over at where Wynflaed was helping a slave girl make bread. Her maid did not look the queen’s way as she pummeled the dough with her fists. Ermenilda could see the tension in her shoulders, the grim set of her lips.

Life here would be bleak indeed without Wynflaed’s friendship.

Ermenilda spotted Glaedwine. The healer had just entered the hall and was making his way across the rush-strewn floor toward the high seat. Ermenilda had sent out a slave to fetch him, as soon as she had come downstairs. The cunning man bowed before Wulfhere, his sharp gaze silently assessing the king.

“You are unwell, milord?”

Wulfhere made an impatient gesture. “My wife seems to think so . . . a fever, nothing more.”

Glaedwine stepped up onto the high seat, his expression darkening.

“A fever is not lightly dismissed.” He gestured to the alcove where he had tended Wulfhere the day before. “Come, I should take another look at those wounds.”

Ermenilda watched Wulfhere rise and limp his way over to the alcove, with the healer following him. They left her alone upon the high seat, and moments after the king and cunning man had disappeared, Ermenilda felt the unfriendly stares around her magnify, cutting into her like boning knives.

Rising from her seat, she went to retrieve her distaff and basket of wool. It would be a long morning, and she needed work to take her mind off everything. On her way to retrieve her distaff, Ermenilda passed by a group of women who sat together sewing. Their hate-filled whispers followed her.

Deceitful, pious bitch.

He should have wrung your neck.

Heart pounding, Ermenilda pretended not to hear them. She picked up her basket and spindle, clutching them to her, and hastened back to the relative safety of the high seat. Sitting there once more, Ermenilda had just begun winding wool onto the wooden spindle when she heard someone approach.

She looked up to see Wynflaed before her.

Ermenilda gave the handmaid a tentative smile.

“Wynflaed! It is good to see you.”

“How is the king?” the young woman asked coolly, ignoring Ermenilda’s greeting.

“He has a fever,” Ermenilda replied, glancing over at the hanging that screened Wulfhere and Glaedwine from view. “Werbode cut him deeply on the thigh yesterday . . . the wound may fester.”

Wynflaed did not reply to this comment. She only watched Ermenilda, her emerald gaze reproachful. When the silence became too uncomfortable to bear, Wynflaed finally spoke. Her voice was flat, accusing.

“You let me think you’d drowned. I thought it was my fault—that you were lost because of me.”

Ermenilda put down her distaff, remorse sweeping over her.

“I’m so sorry, Wynflaed,” she whispered, although the words seemed hollow and inadequate. “I could not risk involving you.”

Wynflaed’s eyes flashed, and her pretty mouth thinned.

“You did involve me. The king could have slain me for losing you, but fortunately for me he blamed himself.”

“I realize that, and I am sorry.”

Her apology appeared to have little effect on Wynflaed. The young woman folded her arms across her chest.

“How could you do such a thing?”

Ermenilda inhaled deeply. She could not weep here, in front of everyone. If she started crying, she would not stop.

“I was desperately unhappy,” she finally admitted. “I thought if I ran away I could make a fresh start.”

Wynflaed watched her but said nothing. Her silence was damning.

“It was a mistake,” Ermenilda concluded, the words choking her. “I realize now that there are some things you can never outrun.”

Wulfhere’s fever steadily worsened as the day progressed.

Glaedwine had been forced to cut away the stitches he had made a day earlier and clean out the wound, which had swollen and filled with pus. The agony, when the healer poured strong wine into the wound, caused Wulfhere to pass out. When he awoke, the cunning man had completed his task, although Glaedwine’s face was even grimmer than earlier.

“I will need to do that every day,” he had told him, “or you risk losing your leg, or worse.”

This news put Wulfhere in a bleak mood. Weak with fever, he sat upon his carved wooden throne and watched the activity in his hall with a glazed stare. Mōna came to see him, although he could barely summon the energy to stroke her plush pelt. The wolf sniffed at the fresh bandage on his thigh and gave a low whine.

“Aye, Mōna,” Wulfhere murmured. “It’s bad.”

On the other side of the hall, he spied Ermenilda. She was taking a drink from a water barrel. Dressed in a plain blue woolen tunic, which left her arms bare, she was lovely to behold. A heavy belt girded her hips, drawing attention to her lithe frame. Her silky blonde hair hung down her back in a long braid, although wisps had come free and framed her face.

She was so beautiful it pained him, yet he could not tear his gaze away. Even after her deceit, he still wanted her. He always would.

Ermenilda moved away from the water barrel, circuiting a group of gossiping women and returning to the large loom she had been working upon. The women’s cold stares followed her.

Watching them, Wulfhere frowned.

It was a chill evening, despite the two roaring fire pits inside the Great Hall. A biting north wind buffeted the tower, forcing its way inside through gaps, cracks and openings.

The evening meal was pottage and bread—simple fare, but Ermenilda enjoyed it. She had gotten used to eating modestly in Bonehill, and the pottage the slaves in her hall prepared was superior to the one the nuns served up, day after day.

Next to her, Wulfhere did not touch his meal.

Ermenilda cast him a sidelong glance. They had spoken little all day, although her gaze had often returned to him. She could see he was getting sicker. His eyes had that glazed, faraway look that those fighting a strong fever acquired. He sat slumped in his chair, as if he lacked the energy to even hold himself upright.

She was not surprised when he made a mumbled excuse to her and Seaxwulf and limped off to bed.

The priest watched him go.

“I worry for him,” Seaxwulf said, when the king was out of earshot. “Such an injury can kill a man.”