Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (30 page)

“Elfhere?” Ermenilda lifted a questioning eyebrow. “I thought you were ignoring him.”

Wynflaed blushed prettily and picked at a loose thread on her tunic.

“Not anymore . . .”

Genuine pleasure flooded through Ermenilda at this news. Her own life was a mess, but it was a relief to see that love and joy existed elsewhere.

“I am happy for you both,” Ermenilda said, reaching across and placing a hand on Wynflaed’s forearm. “You are well suited, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Elfhere will treat you well.”

Wynflaed smiled, and the expression lit up the cloudy day.

“Thank you,” she replied, her gaze softening. “I missed you as well . . . and I am sorry your garden is so overgrown. I have so many chores inside the Great Tower these days that I have neglected it.”

Ermenilda waved off her apology and rose to her feet.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. You have done well to manage what you have. Come, work with me awhile. I’d welcome your company.”

***

By the end of the first day after Wulfhere had taken to his bed, he slipped into unconsciousness.

The following morning, Ermenilda assisted Glaedwine as he treated Wulfhere’s wounds. The king lay upon the furs, unaware of their presence as they worked. The fire that consumed him glowed like a smith’s forge.

“This is the worst fever I have ever tended,” the cunning man admitted. “If it rises any further, it will damage his mind.”

Ermenilda frowned at this news. Glaedwine was a man of few words. If he declared that a patient was ill, then the situation was serious indeed.

The deeper of the two cuts on Wulfhere’s thigh was swollen and wept pus. Ermenilda looked on as Glaedwine removed the stitches, cleaned the oozing wound, and added a poultice of mashed garlic, onion, and wine.

“How will that help?” Ermenilda asked. The stench of the festering wound, mixed with that of the poultice, made her bile rise. Still, she held the bowl full of the foul-smelling ointment for Glaedwine as he worked.

“This should help draw out the taint,” Glaedwine told her. His gaunt face was stern, and Ermenilda could not tell if he believed the treatment would work.

“Will it heal him?”

“If he is strong enough to fight the fever off.”

Ermenilda looked down at Wulfhere’s face. She had returned from her garden, late afternoon the day before, to find his condition had deteriorated. He had spent most of the night groaning in his sleep, fighting demons only he could see. Now, he muttered nonsense and writhed as he fought the fire within him.

After applying the poultice, Glaedwine left the loft, promising to return later in the day. Ermenilda remained at Wulfhere’s side and wiped his brow with a cold, wet cloth. She would not go to her garden today. With Wulfhere this ill, she could not leave him.

Wynflaed brought some bread and cheese up to her mistress at noon, her green eyes filled with concern as they rested on the man who lay unconscious upon the furs.

“He is worse?”

Ermenilda nodded, before handing her the bowl she had emptied of water.

“Please refill this, Wynflaed.”

The young woman took the bowl and, with another worried look in Wulfhere’s direction, descended the ladder to do her mistress’s bidding. Once she had gone, Ermenilda turned back to her husband. The flesh had started to melt away from his strong frame, and his mane of white-blond hair stuck listlessly to his scalp.

Fight, Wulfhere. You must fight.

It dawned on her that she was beginning to worry for him. It was a terrible thing to watch such a vital, powerful man sicken.

Ermenilda winced as something clenched deep in her chest.

The irony of the situation was not lost on her. She had resisted Wulfhere of Mercia from the first moment they met, and now here she was willing him to live.

A biting wind was blowing in from the northeast when Aethelred led his men across the bridge leading into Tamworth.

The lazy waters of the River Tame sparkled in the late afternoon sun. It was one of those bright autumn days, when every detail stands out in vivid relief. Even the Great Tower of Tamworth, rising high above the thatched roofs like a grim stone god, looked attractive in such weather. The afternoon light was so pure that Aethelred could pick out every detail on its lichen-encrusted, pitted surface.

Leaves wheeled and skittered over the earth, and billowy clouds raced across the pastel sky. His stallion’s hooves clip-clopped hollowly on the dirt road as he urged it into a canter.

A smile stretched across Aethelred’s face. It was good to be home.

He led his company under the low gate and up the tangle of streets toward the Great Tower. It had been an exhausting journey, and never had he been so relieved to ride into Tamworth. Aethelred was looking forward to downing a cup of frothing ale, putting his feet up next to the fire pit, and catching up with his brother.

However, when he reached the high gate, one look at the expression of the spearman guarding it caused his good mood to sour.

Even before the warrior spoke, Aethelred knew something was wrong.

Ermenilda was mopping Wulfhere’s fevered brow when Prince Aethelred appeared at the top of the ladder. His face was grim, his pale gaze hard, as he stepped out onto the platform and moved toward her. Ermenilda’s throat closed at the sight of him. The prince looked incensed.

Trembling, she rose to meet him.

“Lord Aethelred.”

He ignored her, instead stopping before the furs and gazing down upon his brother’s fever-racked body. Tense moments passed, and Ermenilda saw the anger, grief, and disbelief on his face.

“How long has he been like this?” he finally demanded.

“Werbode injured him five days ago,” Ermenilda replied softly, “but he has not been awake for over a day now, and his condition worsens.”

Aethelred’s gaze shifted from Wulfhere and pinned her to the spot.

“This is your doing.”

Ermenilda nodded. There was little point in denying the obvious.

“He was cursed the day he met you,” Aethelred ground out. His crystalline gaze, so like his brother’s, was as hard as flint. “You have brought him nothing but suffering.”

Ermenilda flinched, but she could not deny his words.

“I’m sorry for it, Aethelred. If I could undo what has been done, I would.”

The prince’s gaze widened. He had clearly not expected her to acknowledge the truth. Another tense silence stretched between them before Ermenilda eventually broke it.

“My aunt,” she began hesitantly. “How is she?”

Aethelred’s gaze shifted away from hers, back to where Wulfhere lay.

“She’s well,” he replied gruffly, “or she was when I left her at Ely. Her tongue is still sharp enough to flay the flesh off a man.”

Ermenilda gave a small smile. “Aethelthryth has a forceful character.”

The prince snorted at that, before kneeling down at the edge of the furs next to his brother. He reached out and laid a hand on Wulfhere’s arm, before inhaling sharply.

“He is burning alive. Fetch Glaedwine—we need him now!”

“The healer has been tending to him. He says that Werbode’s knife has poisoned the king’s blood. There is nothing more he can do.”

Ermenilda watched Aethelred a moment, before she sidled away toward the ladder. It was clear that the prince wished to be alone with his brother for a while.

“I will return shortly,” she said. “I need to fetch some fresh water and cloths.”

Aethelred nodded but did not look her way.

Alone in the loft with Wulfhere, the prince struggled with the grief that gripped his throat.

His brother was seriously ill; he did not need to be a healer to understand that. Wulfhere’s skin, drawn sharply across the bones of his face, was flushed and mottled. The healer had cut away the left leg of his breeches, allowing the wounds access to the air. An evil-smelling poultice covered the cuts, leaving Aethelred wondering if the stench was due to the ointment that Glaedwine had used or the infection. Wulfhere’s leg had swollen to twice its size. At least there were no livid streaks radiating down his leg from the wound. That was a sure sign a man would either lose his leg or die.

Even so, he could see his brother was gravely ill.

With Wulfhere gone, he would become king. Their father had brought his sons up to be rulers, and to fight each other for the prize if they had to.

If it had been Paeda lying there, Aethelred may have felt differently. Their eldest brother had been a difficult man to like. Growing up, he had bullied his younger brothers mercilessly, something Aethelred had never forgiven him for. Over the years, the two of them, Wulfhere and Aethelred, had drawn close in response to Paeda’s cruelty. Yet, it was not the only reason that Aethelred was upset now.

Without Wulfhere, he would be alone—the last member of a once mighty dynasty.

“There’s only us now, Brother,” he murmured, reaching out and gripping Wulfhere’s fevered hand. “Fæder, Paeda—they’re both gone—we’re all that’s left of the Iclingas.”

Aethelred squeezed Wulfhere’s hand tighter still. “Don’t abandon us. Don’t abandon me.”

Ermenilda did not dine alone upon the high seat that evening. Aethelred joined her, as did Elfhere, Seaxwulf, and Glaedwine. Slaves brought them trenchers of hare stew while Wynflaed circled their table, filling their cups with sloe wine.

Ermenilda took a sip of the strong wine and sighed as its heat settled in the pit of her belly. The past few days had been exhausting, and now with Aethelred’s return, she found herself on the defensive once more. This evening, her nerves felt stretched as taut as a drum, and her back and shoulders ached as if she carried a great weight upon them. The tension inside the Great Hall was taking its toll on her.

The hare stew was rich and delicious but she ate sparingly. Across the table, the prince said little. He appeared to have withdrawn into his own thoughts.

Wynflaed leaned over Elfhere, filling his cup with wine. Ermenilda watched their gazes meet. Elfhere, his sea-blue eyes filled with warmth, smiled at the young woman. She returned the expression, her hand brushing his as she pulled away.

Ermenilda could see the attraction between them, the invisible thread that pulled them close. She witnessed the unabashed affection and desire on their faces and felt a pang of envy.

That’s how it should be between a man and a woman.

After the evening meal, Ermenilda returned upstairs to tend Wulfhere. His breathing was now labored, and he had grown deathly still.

Glaedwine paid his patient a visit shortly after, with Aethelred and Seaxwulf close behind him. An ominous silence filled the loft as they watched the cunning man attend the king. Eventually, Glaedwine sat back on his heels, his expression bleak.

“His wounds are slightly better than yesterday, but his fever is not,” he told them. “He’s stopped fighting . . .”

“Is he dying?” Aethelred rasped.

The healer turned to Aethelred, pity in his eyes.

“It will be decided tonight,” he replied. “If the king lives to see the dawn, then he might survive, otherwise the fever will take him . . .”

Glaedwine’s voice trailed off.

Seaxwulf cleared his throat, his gentle gaze settling upon Ermenilda.

“May I bless him, milady?”

Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

***

Night settled over Tamworth. Outside, the wind howled, hurling itself against the tower’s stone walls and pummeling the roof and shutters. Nature had whipped itself up into a fury, almost as if it raged against what was happening within.

Ermenilda sat at her husband’s side and listened to the wind. Wulfhere had gone pale and still. Her eyes burned with fatigue and her body ached, but she would not sleep tonight.

Even so, she felt in need of some fresh air. She had been at Wulfhere’s side for a long while and wished to feel the wind’s fury upon her face before she took her place at the king’s side for the remainder of the night.

Moving slowly, her limbs heavy and clumsy, Ermenilda crossed the platform and climbed down to the hall below. As always, Mōna lay curled up at the foot of the ladder. The wolf opened one glowing eye as Ermenilda stepped past her.

“Stay there, girl,” Ermenilda commanded softly. It was late, and she would not be going far. She would not need Mōna’s protection. Most of the inhabitants of the Great Hall had either retired to their alcoves, which lined the sides of the wide space, or had stretched out upon the rushes to sleep.

Only Aethelred was awake. He sat by one of the fire pits, cradling a cup of mead in his hands. The prince did not appear to notice her. Instead, he gazed sightlessly into the flames. His face was drawn, his eyes hard. Shortly after Glaedwine had delivered his news, Aethelred had stormed away, leaving the priest to bless his dying brother.

Ermenilda eyed him as she picked her way across the hall, weaving in between the prone bodies of men, women, children, and dogs. The depth of his grief over his brother surprised her; she had thought that rivalry between Penda’s sons would have hardened them against each other. Did he not covet the crown?

She left the hall behind, silently passing through the entrance hall toward the doors. Stepping outside, Ermenilda braced herself against the wind. It hit her like angry fists, pummeling her skin and clawing at her clothing. She had not brought her cloak with her, and the chill air bit at her skin. She welcomed its fury.

Ermenilda stood on the wide stone ledge, above the steps leading down to the yard below, and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply. The wind slapped at her face and whipped her hair around, but it was what she needed. Its ferocity gave her strength for what was to come.

She lingered there awhile, on the edge of the darkness, until the cold started to drill into her bones. Reluctantly, Ermenilda pushed her way back through the doors.

The entranceway was a shadowy space, lit only by two pitch torches on each wall. Passages led off either side to store rooms. Ermenilda was halfway across it when two figures stepped out of the shadows.