Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (6 page)

They had made camp, around a furlong back from the road, in a wooded vale that was typical of the Kentish countryside. It was green and lush, with a brook trickling through the center of it. To the west, the sun was sliding behind the treetops in a blaze of pink and gold, promising good weather for the day to come.

Around her, Wulfhere’s men got to work cutting branches and saplings in order to make tents, lighting fires, and gathering wood. Wynflaed proved herself to be an industrious young woman, as she helped the men carry her lady’s belongings into the first of the tents.

Ermenilda noticed a few of the men glancing the girl’s way. Wynflaed carried herself beautifully. She smiled and replied to the men’s comments and questions, although she did not flirt. This pleased Ermenilda, for she did not want a handmaid who encouraged men’s lechery, but a gentlewoman who took her duties to her lady seriously.

As she waited for Wynflaed to finish preparing her tent, Ermenilda saw a slight man—his brown hair shaved into a tonsure—making his way through the crowd toward her. The monk wore simple homespun robes and had a kindly, if careworn, face.

For the first time all day, Ermenilda’s spirits lifted. In her misery, she had failed to note that a holy man rode among Wulfhere’s band, although now she remembered Bercthun mentioning it when he had come to collect her from the church.

The monk stopped before her and dipped his head respectfully.

“Greetings, Lady Ermenilda. I am Seaxwulf.”

Ermenilda smiled. “I am pleased to meet you, Brother Seaxwulf, and relieved that there is a man of god riding with us.”

Her words evidently pleased the monk, for he smiled widely, the expression making him seem younger. “I baptized the king myself,” he told her, “and Lord Wulfhere was adamant that I travel with him to Cantwareburh.”

Ermenilda could not keep the bitterness from her voice when she replied.

“To convince my father that he is no longer a pagan?”

The monk’s eyes widened, his smile fading. “Lord Wulfhere has shunned the old gods and destroyed all their idols in Tamworth,” he told her firmly.

“Such acts are easy,” Ermenilda replied. “It is what a man believes in his heart that really matters.”

“The king is new to the word of Christ,” Seaxwulf admitted. “However, with the gentle influence of a wife like yourself, he will surely come to believe as you do.”

Ermenilda swallowed her next response. Angry, resentment-filled words were no use to her now, and the monk was starting to look genuinely alarmed by her comments.

“You speak wisely, Brother Seaxwulf,” she replied eventually, forcing a smile. “Perhaps you are right, and Lord Wulfhere has indeed chosen another path.”

Glancing right to where her betrothed was rubbing down his stallion, Ermenilda doubted it. Everything about Wulfhere of Mercia screamed pagan. He may as well have been wearing Thunor’s hammer about his neck rather than a crucifix.

Ermenilda had retired to her tent and had just finished her supper of bread and cheese when Wulfhere visited her.

Wynflaed was busy laying out furs for her lady to sleep on, and Ermenilda was sitting next to the gently crackling fire. Wood smoke lay heavily in the air even though it filtered up, through a slit in the roof. Ermenilda was used to living in such an environment, for the fire pits in her father’s hall burned day and night. Still, the fire took the chill off the cold evening air.

The moment that Wulfhere ducked low through the opening, the tent felt too small. He straightened up, his head nearly reaching the roof, and looked down at her. As always, his expression was cool, slightly aloof, although his gaze was searing in its intensity.

“Good eve, Lady Ermenilda,” he greeted her. “I trust you are comfortable?”

Ermenilda nodded.

“My tent is next to yours, so if you require anything, please send your maid, and my men will see to it.”

Ermenilda nodded once more, silently wishing he would go away and leave her in peace.

Silence stretched between them, and Wynflaed shifted uncomfortably. Ermenilda could feel her maid’s gaze flicking from the king to his betrothed. The tension in the air was so heavy that Ermenilda struggled to breathe.

When it was clear that Ermenilda was not going to speak to him, Wulfhere hunkered down before her, so their gazes were level.

“It is rude not to respond when addressed,” he said, his tone deceptively soft. “I was merely enquiring after your well-being.”

Ermenilda felt her cheeks flame, suddenly feeling as if she were a child being chastised by her father.

“Thank you, Lord Wulfhere,” she eventually murmured, her tone clipped. “I am well, as you can see.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer. They were so close that she could see the flecks of darker blue in the silver blue of his irises. He smelled better than she wanted to admit—a virile smell of leather and horse, with the musky scent of maleness beneath.

“Good,” he finally replied, rising to his feet. “Sleep well, milady. Tomorrow will be another long day. I want you well rested.”

Ermenilda watched him leave, her heart hammering against her ribs. His presence unsettled her, filling her with confusion. She did not like the way he had demanded a response from her. If she did not feel inclined to speak this evening, after the trauma of leaving her kin behind, he should have understood.

Tears pricked her eyelids, and she glared down at the crackling fire.

“Milady,” Wynflaed spoke up, her voice gentle and laced with concern. “Is something amiss?”

Ermenilda glanced up and met Wynflaed’s gaze. Wordlessly she nodded and inhaled deeply to prevent the tears from escaping her burning eyes. When she replied, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Everything.”

Wynflaed’s brow furrowed. “You do not wish to wed Lord Wulfhere, milady?”

Ermenilda shook her head vehemently. “I would rather wed an adder.”

When Wynflaed looked shocked at that, Ermenilda continued.

“Do you know of his family, Wynflaed?”

“Only that his father was a great warlord,” the girl replied cautiously.

“He was a ruthless pagan who killed my grandfather and uncle. Penda of Mercia’s coldness and cruelty are legendary.”

Wynflaed’s frown deepened. “Wulfhere might be different from his father,” she ventured.

Ermenilda gave her maid a scornful look. “Take one look at his son and tell me he is not cut from the same cloth!”

“He does appear quite cold,” Wynflaed admitted, although she did not wilt under her lady’s glare, “and his wolf scares me.”

Ermenilda glanced down at the dancing flames in the fire pit before her.

“I wanted to become a nun,” she murmured, “and my father was on the verge of allowing it when Wulfhere ruined everything.”

“A nun?” Wynflaed replied, genuinely surprised by her mistress’s admission. “Do you not want a husband and children?”

Ermenilda shook her head, vehement. “Not if it means being wed to Wulfhere of Mercia.”

The Mercian party rode north, covering the furlongs swiftly, on the paved Watling Street. The weather remained good—cold with clear skies—although the outlines of skeletal trees reminded the travelers that spring was still some way off.

Four days out from Cantwareburh, they entered Lundenwic.

Ermenilda had heard much of this city from Bishop Frithuwine, but had not been looking forward to seeing Britannia’s largest settlement. According to the bishop, Lundenwic represented everything that was wrong with the world of men. It was a ferment of corruption, debauchery, and greed.

Her first glance at the city did little to allay her fears.

They rode into Lundenwic, following the western bank of the mighty River Temese, a wide tidal river that flowed through the center of the city. The first thing Ermenilda noticed was how dirty the river was. It was littered with refuse, the corpses of dead animals, and floating excrement. The stench made her bile rise, and she covered her mouth with a piece of linen scented with rose water to prevent herself from becoming ill.

Farther upriver, they rode alongside wooden docks—pier after pier of moored longboats and cargo barges. The tide was rising, and it appeared some of the boats were preparing to leave. Men scurried to and fro, shouting to each other, tossing coils of rope, and carrying sacks and wooden crates onboard their vessels.

Overwhelmed by the sight, sound, and smell of so much humanity, Ermenilda glanced away, her gaze shifting to the east, where the ruined wall of the old Roman city glowed in the afternoon sun. Beneath it, a carpet of thatched roofs spread out and hugged the lazy bend of the river. Smoke from cooking fires and smiths’ forges stained the sky.

Lundenwic represented everything Ermenilda had wished to shun. It was dirty, uncouth, and overwhelming—and it made her long for her garden sanctuary in Cantwareburh.

Riding next to her, atop her ugly roan, Wynflaed had the opposite reaction.

“I’ve never seen a city so large,” she exclaimed, her wide-eyed gaze taking it all in. “There’s life here—you can breathe it in.”

“You certainly can. Lundenwic has something for all folk.”

An appreciative male voice drew the women’s attention to Wynflaed’s left, where a blond warrior with startling blue eyes had ridden up beside them.

Ermenilda recognized him as the man who helped her handmaid mount in the mornings. His name was Elfhere, and he had clearly taken a shine to her comely servant.

“I wish we were staying here,” Wynflaed admitted. “I would have liked to explore its streets.”

“Perhaps, one day, you will have that chance,” he replied.

Their gazes met for a few moments, before a slow smile crept across the warrior’s face. Then, with a nod to them both, he urged his horse forward and moved off up the column, leaving the women alone once more.

Ermenilda pursed her lips. Although she instinctively liked Wynflaed, she found the girl’s optimism and childlike wonder vaguely irritating. She also did not approve of Elfhere’s interest in her maid; he was entirely too bold.

“Something for all folk? I smell nothing but dung and rotten fish,” she commented.

To her chagrin, Wynflaed laughed.

“I know, isn’t it wonderful?”

That was the last word Ermenilda would have used to describe this cesspit.

Around them, beggars had clustered at the roadside to watch the passing Mercians. Emaciated and filthy, they called out to the passersby, pleading for food or coins. Ermenilda wished that she had some bread to give to them, for the desperation in their gazes cut her to the quick. To distract herself from the pitiful sight, Ermenilda focused on her maid.

“You do not grieve for being parted from your family, Wynflaed. Why is that?”

Wynflaed tore her gaze from the crowd, where folk were chasing off a leper. Covered in filthy rags, the dirty, limping creature was a sorry sight.

“I am the youngest of five daughters,” Wynflaed replied, her guileless gaze meeting Ermenilda’s. “My father despaired of finding a husband for me, for three of my elder sisters are still unwed. To become the handmaid of a highborn lady is more than I could have hoped for. Truthfully, I was bored in Cantwareburh. My whole life, I have seen the same people and the same sights. It is a relief to be going to a new home.”

“But your kin,” Ermenilda pressed. “Do you not miss them?”

Wynflaed smiled. “Not as yet. They all wish me well, and I the same for them, but the time has come for us to take different paths.”

Ermenilda listened to Wynflaed before lapsing into silence. Her maid’s pragmatic approach to life stunned her. They were so different, and Wynflaed’s boldness and fearlessness made Ermenilda feel like a frightened rabbit in comparison.

Ermenilda wanted nothing more than to flee from the world—but Wynflaed could not wait to embrace it.

“I can see you miss your family greatly, milady,” Wynflaed observed.

Ermenilda nodded, her throat constricting. “My sister and mother are my best friends. I do not know how I will survive without them.”

Wynflaed observed her for a moment, thinking upon Ermenilda’s words, before replying. “I know it is not my place to say it, but I think you are stronger than you believe, milady.”

Ermenilda frowned, her body tensing. “What do you mean?”

“Just that—you believe that away from your home and kin you are adrift and alone. Yet, I think that once you accept this change, it could well be the making of you.”

Ermenilda stared at her handmaid. Her first reaction was outrage. How dare this thegn’s daughter lecture her on the merits of change. She felt her face grow hot as she struggled to rein in her temper. When she did reply, her voice was ice-cold.

“I have just had all things I care about torn away from me. I do not wish to be any man’s husband, least of all Wulfhere of Mercia’s, and I do not wish to be queen. What I wanted was to be left in peace. Contrary to what you believe, this new life is likely to be the end of me.”

Wynflaed’s gaze widened at her mistress’s sharp response, but this time she held her tongue. Stiff with indignation, Ermenilda turned her gaze back to her surroundings. She focused on the back of the warrior riding in front of her and ignored Wynflaed.

Yet, her handmaid’s words lingered with her, needling her, long after their conversation ended.

They did not delay in Lundenwic. Wulfhere’s men picked up some supplies, and then they resumed their journey. A vast wooden bridge spanned the River Temese, and the company clattered across it, before the Roman road continued northwest.

Wulfhere rode a few yards ahead of his betrothed. Ermenilda had proved not to be a chatty travel companion, and although he liked women who were not prone to prattle, Wulfhere soon wearied of her cold silence.

She will warm up soon enough,
he reassured himself.
Once the Kingdom of the Kentish is far behind us.

Wulfhere realized that Princess Ermenilda, for all her demure manners and speech, was surprisingly willful. After seeing her mother’s display of anger, Wulfhere could see that there was more to his betrothed than met the eye. Queen Seaxburh looked as if a cross word had never parted from her lips, yet she had attacked him like a snarling wildcat. Her daughter clearly did not wish to be wed. He had heard from one of her father’s thegns that the princess had planned to take the veil.