Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (7 page)

A terrible waste.

Wulfhere allowed himself a smile. He would enjoy teaching his lovely young wife the delights she was naïvely willing to give up. She may have not realized it, but there was a simmering sensuality within Ermenilda. He had sensed it the first time they locked eyes in her father’s hall. He could see her own reaction to him flustered her. She may have been bent upon becoming a nun, but her body told another story.

“What are you smiling about?”

Werbode had ridden up next to him, although Wulfhere had been so deep in thought that he had not noticed him.

“Just thinking of my impending handfasting,” he admitted, “and of my bride-to-be.”

Werbode gave him a shrewd look. “She is indeed a lovely creature,” he said, smiling. “However, she treats you coldly. She thinks herself better than you.”

Wulfhere laughed at that, not remotely offended by his thegn’s directness. Werbode did not bandy words, and Wulfhere liked that about him.

“Her coldness will pass,” he assured his friend. “In time, the lamb will surrender to the wolf.”

The attack came on a gray, windy afternoon.

The Mercian company had left Lundenwic four days behind them to the southeast and had almost crossed the southern edge of the East Saxon kingdom. The borders of Mercia lay just a day’s ride away.

Ermenilda rode in the midst of the company, as usual, with her handmaid traveling at her side, while the king had ridden up to the head of the column. They had spent the day riding across flat, largely nondescript countryside. Ermenilda had spied a few scattered East Saxon villages, but the Mercians had kept to the road and not stopped at any of them. Clearly, Wulfhere was keen to return home. He would not relax fully until he had crossed into his own kingdom.

Above, the sky was the color of weather-beaten slate from one horizon to the other, and the chill north wind had spots of rain in it. The princess was glad of her thick fur cloak, but even so, the biting wind numbed her face and hands.

Midafternoon, a wide, swiftly flowing river blocked their path. A huge bridge, made out of wood and stone, spanned it. The eastern bank from where they approached was grassy and led to wide meadows. Woodland crept down to the edge of the western bank, and the Roman way disappeared into the gloomy woods shortly after the river.

The first of the Mercians clattered onto the bridge, the sturdy structure vibrating under their weight. Ermenilda urged her palfrey forward, following their lead.

Her horse had taken no more than a couple of strides onto the bridge when the unmistakable twang of a bowstring releasing cut through the air.

Moments later, men’s shouts and the scream of an injured horse shattered the monotony of the cold, gray afternoon. The warriors in front of Ermenilda pulled up short, and she hurriedly did the same, causing her palfrey to toss her head and skitter sideways.

Wynflaed had brought her roan to an unsteady halt. The young woman was frowning as her gaze scanned the column ahead.

“What’s happening, milady?”

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly, a man’s voice, rough with anger, echoed across the bridge.

“We’re under attack!”

Ermenilda’s blood ran cold. She thought the Mercians and East Saxons were at peace these days. Surely, the East Saxon king would not be so bold as to attack his ally traveling across his land in peace. Neither could she imagine that outlaws would dare attack a king’s party.

The fact remained that someone was attacking them. The sound of arrows, peppering the air like incensed hornets, caused her heart to pound erratically against her breastbone.

Of all the unpleasantness she was expecting to come from her new life as Wulfhere of Mercia’s wife, being attacked on the way to Tamworth had not even featured in her fears.

Ahead, she caught a glimpse of her betrothed. Wulfhere was easy to spot, for his pale blond hair made him stand out, even on a dull day such as this.

“Protect the princess!” he shouted to the men behind him. “Form a shield wall around her!”

The Mercian warriors nearest to Ermenilda hurried to obey their king’s order. They unslung their limewood shields from their backs and formed a tight circle around Ermenilda and her maid. The hollow thud of wood overlapping wood momentarily obscured the sounds of the fight up ahead. Sensing her rider’s mounting panic, the palfrey danced nervously, snorting as the men formed a tight ring around them.

Murmuring soothing words, Ermenilda leaned forward and stroked the mare’s quivering neck.

Now that Wulfhere’s men surrounded them, she and Wynflaed could see nothing of the assault ahead. The noises told them that the fight was both violent and bloody—shouts, grunts, and screams, and the meaty thud of iron biting flesh. Arrows clattered against the perimeter of shields surrounding Ermenilda, and she bit back a scream when she saw one of the arrows find its mark.

The warrior directly in front of her gave a muffled cry. He toppled forward off his horse, an arrow in his belly.

Ermenilda caught a glimpse of the chaos beyond before the gap closed up. The men leading Wulfhere’s company had dismounted their horses and were engaging the attackers on foot. The opposite end of the bridge was a writhing mass of bodies. In her brief glimpse, Ermenilda had seen men fall off the bridge into the swiftly flowing river below, while others were trampled underfoot.

Next to her, Wynflaed had gone as pale as milk. Tight-lipped, the handmaid clung on to the reins. To her credit, she did not start to weep or shriek in fear—and to her own surprise, neither did Ermenilda.

Wulfhere cursed under his breath and glanced over his shoulder, to where a barrier of shields protected Ermenilda from view. She was too close to the fighting, but there was no way he could help her now.

They were trapped. The bulk of his company had already crossed onto the bridge before the attack. They now formed a barrier so that those in front had nowhere to go but toward the enemy.

The moment the bowmen, hidden in the woodland on the western bank, ceased their onslaught, warriors clad in boiled leather and mail had erupted from the trees. Wielding axes, spears, swords, and seaxes, the attackers rushed onto the bridge howling like nihtgengan—goblins—released from the underworld.

Wulfhere’s men had no choice but to meet them head on.

As soon as the first arrows sliced through the air, the king had swung down from the saddle and drawn Shield Breaker. Werbode and Elfhere fought at his side, their own blades slick with blood.

There were many attackers—but what had been their advantage quickly turned against them. The bridge was too narrow for the enemy to crowd onto all at once, and this diluted the strength of their assault.

Wulfhere slashed his way through the last group of attackers. His boots slid on the gore-covered surface, but he managed to keep his feet.

Howling his wrath, he ran at the few remaining men. One of the enemy warriors, suddenly realizing that he was almost alone on the bridge, lost his courage. One look at the face of the fair-haired warrior barreling toward him, sword raised, and the man leaped off the bridge.

As suddenly as it had begun, the attack was over.

An icy wind whistled across the bridge, mingling with the groans of the injured and the whimpers of the dying. Shortly after, the warriors surrounding the two women lowered their shields and moved away, giving Ermenilda a clear view of the carnage beyond.

At the foot of the bridge, she saw Wulfhere, splattered in blood, striding over to where his men had caught the attackers’ leader alive.

The captive was tall and broadly built, with golden hair. Ermenilda could see that blood flowed down his left arm and that he had a deep gash on his right cheek. He snarled and struggled against his captors as he watched Wulfhere approach.

The Mercian King was an intimidating sight, clad from head to toe in leather armor and dripping with the blood of his enemies. He carried his sword, unsheathed, in his right hand, its broad blade coated crimson. His wolf, her snowy pelt streaked in blood, stalked behind him.

Wulfhere stood before his captive and looked down at him. When the king spoke, his voice, low and powerful, rang across the now-silent bridge.

“What is your name?”

The man’s mouth curled in response and he spat at Wulfhere’s feet.

A heartbeat passed before Wulfhere lashed out and hit the man hard across the face.

“Answer me, or I will make your death a slow and dishonorable one.”

The warrior glared up at him, considering defiance once more before grudgingly giving a response.

“Sigric . . .”

“And where are you from, Sigric?”

The warrior’s face twisted before he spat out his answer. “Ely.”

Wulfhere went still, and a deathly hush fell. Watching the scene unfold, Ermenilda’s throat tightened. Her betrothed was a terrible sight to behold when enraged. He was every inch the pagan warlord, a man who did not know mercy. His anger appeared cold and lethal, the quiet before a deadly storm.

“You are East Angles,” Wulfhere said, finally.

“Aye.” The captive gave Wulfhere a bloody grin.

“Did King Aethelwold send you?”

The warrior spat out a gob of blood, making his disdain for the East Angle ruler clear. “I follow Tondberct of Ely, not that pious coward.”

“And what argument does Tondberct have with me?”

“His wife, Aethelthryth, is Queen Seaxburh of Kent’s sister,” the warrior replied.

At the sound of her mother’s name, Ermenilda stopped breathing.

When Wulfhere did not reply, Sigric of Ely’s bloody smile widened.

“The sisters seek reckoning for the death of their father and brother.”

Listening, Ermenilda felt ill.

No, Mōder
. . .
surely you did not . . .

“And you were attempting to take it for them,” Wulfhere said, finishing the man’s sentence for him. He gave a cold smile of his own. “It is a pity then that you and your men fight like women.”

“Mercian turd!” Sigric snarled. “Long have our people suffered under your yoke. We will have reckoning!”

“My father is dead,” Wulfhere replied, his voice wintry. “You were a fool to rekindle an old blood feud, one that should have been let well alone. You have thrown away your men’s lives for nothing—and for that you’ve earned a slow, painful end.”

With that, Wulfhere lifted his sword and skewered the East Angle through the stomach.

The man’s wails cut through the damp air like a newly sharpened scythe. Ermenilda covered her mouth with her hand, to prevent herself from screaming. She watched Sigric of Ely collapse, writhing, onto the bridge. The East Angle’s screams went on and on. The stench of blood and gore made her bile rise.

Ermenilda watched, horrified, as her betrothed stepped away from the injured man. His cruelty sickened her. There was no reason to make the man suffer. Wulfhere’s expression was dispassionate, while his pale eyes glittered. His gaze traveled over the bodies littering the bridge, many of whom were Mercian, and his face turned hard. Behind him, there were more bodies still, although most of these appeared to belong to the East Angle war band.

Wulfhere turned to face the rest of his company that awaited at the opposite end of the bridge. However, his gaze sought only one person: Ermenilda.

She lowered a shaky hand from her mouth and forced herself to meet his stare. Despite that they stood about twenty paces apart, Wulfhere’s gaze bored into her, stripping her bare. This look was different from all the others he had given her till now. The other glances were of smoldering intensity, of unspoken desire or veiled amusement—but this one was chillingly cold.

Dread crawled across Ermenilda’s skin, causing her to shiver with fear. She needed no words to understand the accusation behind the stare.

Wulfhere blamed her for the attack.

The Mercians made camp at a distance of about two furlongs northwest of the bridge where the East Angles had attacked them. It had taken Wulfhere’s men a long while to pile up the dead into a pyre by the roadside and set fire to their corpses. Smoke stained the sky behind them when they finally continued on their way.

The wind had started to blow hard, bringing sheets of icy rain with it, when the men set to work. They erected their tents in the center of a wide clearing, not far from the road, and used saplings and tree branches as the frames. They stretched the rolls of hide they carried with them across the tops to create the tents.

Ermenilda was shaking with cold, her fingers numb as she attempted to unbuckle the girth to her saddle. Wulfhere had not spoken to her in the aftermath of the attack, but his rage terrified her nonetheless. Fortunately, with darkness swiftly approaching, other tasks appeared to absorb him, and he ignored her for the moment.

Elfhere relieved Ermenilda and Wynflaed of their horses, assuring the women that he would finish seeing to them. Wynflaed cast the warrior a brittle smile of thanks, her face still pale after the afternoon’s trauma. Then, she turned to Ermenilda.

“Come, milady. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

Ermenilda did not need to be asked twice. Gratefully, she made her way across to her tent and ducked inside. One of Wulfhere’s men had just lit a fire, and Wynflaed hurried across to tend it while Ermenilda perched upon one of her leather packs and waited for the warmth to reach her chilled limbs.

Wynflaed finished feeding the fire with larger pieces of wood and straightened up, her gaze shifting to her mistress.

“You are very pale, milady,” she observed. “Are you not well?”

Ermenilda forced a smile. “Well enough. I’m still a bit shaken, that is all.”

“For the first time, I understand why men keep women away from war,” Wynflaed replied, her voice subdued.

Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She would never forget the horror she had witnessed: Sigric of Ely’s screams and sobs, and Wulfhere’s chilling lack of emotion.

More than ever, she resented her father for tearing a peaceful life at Eastry Abbey from her. Instead, he had given her to a ruthless warlord, a man without mercy.