Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (32 page)

Aethelred snorted, before he grinned wolfishly. “I did see her once without her headrail during the journey,” he admitted. “Did you know she has long, dark hair . . . beautiful.”

Wulfhere sat back in his chair. Aethelthryth, even without her nunlike veil, had not appeared the sort of woman to tempt a man. His brother’s admission surprised him.

Aethelred poured himself some ale and took a deep draft.

“So have you and Ermenilda mended things?”

Wulfhere smiled, his gaze moving to the other side of the hall where his wife worked upon a tapestry.

“Things are better,” he admitted, “although it will take time. We never really knew each other before.”

Aethelred nodded, and he returned his brother’s smile. “At least you are no longer at war with each other,” he replied.

***

Ermenilda glanced across at Wulfhere.

“Are you tired? Shall we return to the hall?”

“I’m not a feeble old man,” Wulfhere grumbled. “I think I can manage a short walk.”

Ermenilda glanced down, hiding a smile. Now that he was healing, Wulfhere was proving to be an irascible patient. His energy was returning, but he chafed at not being able to ride, hunt, and fight as he had before. He still walked with a limp, although it lessened with each passing day. Wulfhere had little patience with his healing body.

They walked down an incline, in between rows of timbered houses, after paying Seaxwulf a short visit at his church. It was a windy afternoon, and gusts caught at the fur cloak that Ermenilda wore about her shoulders. The nights were drawing in, and the days were getting colder. As always, Mōna loped after them. She was ever their shadow these days, and Ermenilda had grown fond of the wolf.

“Shall we visit my garden?” she asked him.

“Aye,” Wulfhere replied, casting her an apologetic look. He knew that he was being grumpy. “It is a while since I saw it.”

He reached out and took her arm, tucking it through his. It was a protective gesture, and Ermenilda welcomed it. Many days had passed since Wulfhere had awoken from his fever, and they were still circling each other warily. Wulfhere kept a respectful distance from her, and although they slept in the same furs at night, he had not touched her. There was an unspoken pact between them that they would find their way forward slowly.

They passed many townsfolk on the way down the hill. Children were playing in the dirt after the day’s chores had been done. Women were bringing in washing, while men carted wood indoors for the fire.

Folk called out to them, hailing their king and queen. Wulfhere raised a hand to acknowledge them, and Ermenilda was relieved to see that outside the Great Tower at least, folk did not hate her.

They entered the garden, with Mōna at their heels, and walked to its heart. Ermenilda watched Wulfhere look around taking it all in. She had spent many afternoons out here since her return, and Ermenilda was proud of how the garden was looking. The last of the roses had dropped from the bushes lining the space, and some of the other plants were going to ground for the winter, but there were still some of the hardier herbs and vegetables growing.

“After you disappeared, I used to come to the garden,” Wulfhere said finally, turning to her. “I felt your presence here.”

Ermenilda looked down, suddenly self-conscious. “It was a thoughtful gift for a new bride. If I hadn’t been so full of prejudice, I would have appreciated it more.”

“Other highborn women wish for furs and jewels, but all you wanted was a garden.”

Ermenilda glanced up and saw he was smiling.

“Aye, I’m not like other women. That was why I wished to take the veil.”

Wulfhere’s smile faded. He reached out and gently stroked her cheek. Ermenilda swallowed, a blade of need arrowing through her. They had deliberately avoided touching each other over the last few days, although the feel of his fingers on her skin reminded her of what they had shared in the past.

“Do you miss Bonehill?” he asked. “Do you still wish for that life?”

Ermenilda shook her head, surprising herself that this was the truth.

“I learned that I like the world beyond the convent walls, with all its dirt and barbarity, more than I realized.” she admitted.

Wulfhere gave a soft laugh, his pale gaze twinkling. “I am glad.”

The king and queen entered the Great Hall just before sunset, still walking arm in arm. They crossed the rush-strewn floor, past where slaves were making the finishing touches to the evening’s pottage, and made their way toward the high seat.

Elfhere was waiting for them, with Wynflaed at his side.

The warrior’s face was serious, his body tense. Next to him, Wynflaed’s cheeks were flushed, and she fidgeted nervously.

“Elfhere, Wynflaed,” Ermenilda greeted them first. “Is something amiss?”

“No, milady?” Elfhere replied, although the tension in his body appeared to coil tighter as the king and queen stopped before them.

Elfhere’s gaze went to Wulfhere, and he bowed his head.

“Lord Wulfhere, I come to ask permission to wed Wynflaed.”

The king held his thegn’s gaze for a few moments. Wulfhere saw anxiety in the man’s eyes and knew that he was the cause.

“You look so worried, Elfhere. Do you really think I would deny you?”

Wynflaed stepped forward, ignoring the look of warning that Elfhere cast her. She bowed her head, and when she spoke, her voice trembled.

“Milord, I still blame myself for letting the queen out of my sight. I understand if you feel the same way.”

Wulfhere shook his head thinking he should have dealt with this sooner. It was clear Wynflaed had struggled under a mantle of guilt since Ermenilda’s disappearance—one she had not yet shed.

“I never blamed you, Wynflaed,” he said quietly. “I raged upon myself, and you were a reminder of what I had lost.”

He paused, then waited for her to look up and meet his gaze. When she did, he saw that her eyes glistened.

“I know you have served Ermenilda loyally,” he told her. “I give both you and Elfhere my blessing.”

Wynflaed stared at him for a moment. Her body sagged and she burst into tears. Elfhere reached out and pulled Wynflaed against him. His gaze met Wulfhere’s, and he smiled, the tension leaving him.

“Thank you, milord.”

Elfhere and Wynflaed wed on a sunny afternoon, outside the walls of Tamworth. The ceremony took place upon the wide meadows beyond the east gate. To the north, the barrows of Mercian kings looked on as the warrior and his young bride faced each other before Seaxwulf and pledged their lives to each other.

To the left of the priest, Ermenilda stood at Wulfhere’s side. She found herself struggling not to cry as she watched the lovers make their oaths. The priest finished blessing them. Then, he unwound the ribbon that tied their hands together, so that they could drink from the same cup and share a honey seedcake.

Crowds of people surrounded them. All of Tamworth had turned out for the celebration, and Wulfhere had ensured that a great feast was prepared for them. Wild boar, mutton, and venison all roasted on spits behind the crowd, and the wood for a bonfire had been laid in the center of the meadows, ready to be lit for the dancing and reveling that would follow after dusk.

When Elfhere and Wynflaed had both pledged their gifts to each other, Seaxwulf solemnly pronounced them wed. Without hesitation, Elfhere pulled Wynflaed into his arms, his lips claiming hers for a passionate kiss.

A roar went up in the crowd. Some of the men hooted, whistled, and called out ribald comments. When the clamor died away, all gazes went to the king.

Ermenilda also looked at her husband healed and strong. Just the sight of him caused her breathing to quicken. He was dressed in a quilted vest and leather breeches embossed with fine patterns. His gold and silver arm rings glinted in the setting sun, as did the circlet he wore upon his head. His pale hair glowed as if lit by moonlight, and a plush ermine cloak hung from his shoulders.

Ermenilda ached to touch him. Despite that they had grown ever closer over the past days, they still kept their distance physically. She wondered how much longer Wulfhere would restrain from touching her. Perhaps he no longer desired her. Disappointment tightened in the pit of Ermenilda’s belly as she considered this possibility.

Wulfhere’s gaze traveled across the crowd. When he spoke, his voice echoed over the meadows.

“Let the celebrations begin!”

Night’s long shadow crept over Tamworth, chasing away the rosy blush of the setting sun. The bonfire in the center of the meadows roared to life. Men rolled out barrels of mead, ale, and sloe wine, and slaves passed around platters of roast meat, tureens of braised onions, and baskets of griddle bread.

Back from the fire, three musicians stood upon a platform, playing a lively tune upon a bone whistle, lyre, and drum. Wulfhere sat at the head of a long table, with Ermenilda at his side. They shared a platter of food, and Wulfhere watched his wife help herself to pieces of meat, before unselfconsciously licking grease from her fingers.

The sight filled him with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

For weeks now, he had avoided touching her, but he was not sure how much longer he could continue to do so. She was radiant this evening, clad in a long-sleeved plum-red gown that hugged her lissome form. A plush red-squirrel cloak hung from her shoulders, and a slender circlet studded with tiny stones sat upon her head. She wore her hair unbound this evening, and it rippled over her shoulders like sunlight.

It was torture watching her, spending days and nights by her side and not being able to touch her. After everything that had happened, and after the last time they had lain together, Wulfhere was wary of ruining the fragile happiness they had found.

Every night, he lay listening to his wife’s gentle breathing, the warmth of her body reaching out to him, and wondered how he would continue to endure it.

What if she shrank away from his touch?

Once the feasting ended, the revelers moved away from the tables toward the fire. The music rose high into the night sky, and the roaring fire gave off a glow that lit up the meadow for a furlong in every direction.

Wulfhere and Ermenilda remained seated at the table, watching Elfhere and Wynflaed take the first dance.

“They make a handsome couple,” Ermenilda observed, raising her cup of wine to her lips. “Elfhere noticed Wynflaed on the journey from Cantwareburh, but she resisted him for a while.”

“Aye, she made him work for her affections,” Wulfhere agreed.

Their gazes met and held. Suddenly, it was as if they were alone. The raucous, excited crowd swirling around them had disappeared.

Wulfhere’s gaze devoured her. Ermenilda’s skin looked creamy and burnished with gold in the firelight, her brown eyes dark and luminous. Her lips parted slightly as she held his gaze. Desire clawed up Wulfhere’s throat, threatening to choke him.

Wordlessly, he reached out and cupped her chin, running his thumb along her bottom lip.

He did not want to talk about Elfhere and Wynflaed, to skirt around the subject they had been avoiding for days. He wanted to talk about them.

“You are so beautiful that it hurts me to look upon you,” he murmured. “I’m dying with need for you, Ermenilda.”

Her gaze widened, and he saw her pupils dilate. His words affected her. Not saying another word, he leaned in for a kiss. His lips gently touched Ermenilda’s, and he heard a sigh escape her. He ran the tip of his tongue along her lower lip and she groaned.

Oblivious to any onlookers, he pulled Ermenilda against him, his hands cupping the back of her head as he kissed her. Ermenilda’s mouth opened under his, and, for the first time, she kissed him back, her tongue darting tentatively into his mouth—testing, tasting, and teasing.

Wulfhere eventually pulled away, his heart slamming against his ribs. He would have her tonight or he would die.

“Will you come with me?” he asked.

She nodded, and Wulfhere saw the same desire that thrummed through him reflected in her eyes. Wordlessly, he rose to his feet, took her hand, and led her away through the revelers.

Ermenilda’s pulse raced as she followed Wulfhere across the meadows. His hand gripped hers firmly. The heat of his skin caused shivers of excitement to ripple through her.

He did not lead her back to Tamworth, as she had expected, but east, toward the woodland. The line of trees rose up in a dark shadow against the deep indigo sky, and the light from the bonfire illuminated the gnarled trunks of the first of them.

Mōna padded after her master and mistress, only stopping when they reached the trees. Here, Wulfhere turned and met the wolf’s gaze.

“Stay here, Mōna, and keep watch.”

Obediently, the wolf sank down upon her haunches and remained where she was as Wulfhere and Ermenilda disappeared into the trees.

Wulfhere did not lead her far. About ten yards in, they came across a small glade ringed with ash and beech. Here, Wulfhere turned and fell upon her.

Ermenilda was ready for him. Her arms locked around his neck, and she raised herself on tiptoe to face him, her mouth savaging his. Wulfhere’s hands tore at her clothing, and she fumbled at his. Their fur cloaks dropped to the leaf-strewn ground, and the rest of their clothing followed moments later.

Ermenilda was barely aware of Wulfhere tearing her gown and undertunic off her. All that mattered was the feel of his lips, his tongue—and the hunger for him that pulsed at her core. She grasped at his vest, her fingers tangling in the laces as she struggled to pull it from him.

Panting, she released him and let Wulfhere shrug off the vest and unlace his breeches. She watched the moonlight play across the muscular lines of his chest and belly, and the breadth of his shoulders. Her gaze went to his shaft, and she moaned. It was hard, swollen, and straining toward her.

Wulfhere gathered her up and pushed her back against the trunk of the nearest tree. The feel of his naked flesh on hers and the coolness of the night’s air on her bare breasts made her gasp. She writhed against him, wanting him closer still.