Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (9 page)

“But, milady . . . is that wise?”

“Perhaps not, but it is necessary.”

Ermenilda squared her shoulders and marched through the crowd of milling men and horses. She strode purposefully toward the front of the column. Aware of the men’s stares as she walked among them, Ermenilda kept her gaze fixed upon her destination: the King of Mercia.

Wulfhere had just dismounted from his stallion and was saying something to Werbode. The dark-haired warrior spied Ermenilda first. He watched her for a moment, his gaze traveling the length of her in a way that made her boiling temper rise even further. Then, he lazily turned to Wulfhere.

“Milord, it appears your betrothed wants a word.”

Wulfhere turned, his limpid gaze settling upon Ermenilda. The impact of their gazes meeting nearly caused her step to falter. Resisting the sudden impulse to turn and flee, she pressed on.

“Lady Ermenilda,” he greeted her. “How can I be of service?”

“I would speak to you for a moment,” she replied, stopping a few feet away from him. “Alone.”

Wulfhere raised an eyebrow, while around them a few men sniggered.

Werbode gave a low whistle. “She’s forward, this Kentish princess . . .”

Ermenilda threw him the coldest, most imperious look she could muster, but Werbode merely returned her gaze with a boldness that made her skin crawl. Suddenly, she felt like a lamb in a den of wolves. The anger that had propelled her off her palfrey and up to the head of the column was beginning to subside. She was starting to feel vulnerable.

“Come, milady.”

Wulfhere cast Werbode a censorious look before he gently took hold of Ermenilda’s arm and steered her away from his men. They reached the crest of the hill, a few yards away from the others, and halted. Behind them, to the north, Ermenilda could see the gentle folds of grassy downs stretching away to a cloudy horizon like a rumpled blanket.

Wulfhere turned and faced her. The look of thinly veiled amusement on his face made Ermenilda’s ire rise once more.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I demand an apology,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest as she faced him.

His amusement faded. “An apology . . . for what?”

“For your behavior.”

Wulfhere stared at her, stunned. When he replied, his voice held a warning.

“I had every right to be angry, Ermenilda. I had just learned of your mother’s treachery, and I believed you to be part of it. I am still yet to be convinced that you are entirely innocent.”

“My word should be enough,” she countered angrily. “Yet, that is not what I seek an apology for. You took advantage of a moment alone with me. You humiliated me.”

His eyes widened. “A kiss is not humiliation. You are my betrothed—I have a right to kiss you. Even if I had taken you last night in your tent, it would have been my right.”

Anger exploded within Ermenilda. She unfolded her arms and balled her fists at her sides.

Wulfhere observed her temper and raised an eyebrow.

“Definitely not the ice maiden I took you for. Do you wish to strike me?”

“If I were a man, I would,” she replied between gritted teeth. “Do the promises you made my father mean nothing?”

Wulfhere gave a soft laugh. “And what promises are you referring to?”

“That you would follow god’s word.”

“I am baptized,” he replied, “but I will not follow pointless rules when they do not serve me.”

“Then you lied to my father,” Ermenilda countered.

Wulfhere took a step toward her, his face hardening.

“I have not lied to anyone,” he told her softly, “but if I wish to kiss you, I will. No priest, no father, and no god will stop me.”

Ermenilda shrank back from him, her pulse pounding in her ears.

“When we are handfasted, I will do my duty, as a woman must,” she snarled at him, “but until then, you will leave me alone.”

She turned, with the intention of stalking back to where Wynflaed waited. However, Wulfhere grabbed her arm and hauled her back round to face him. He stood over her, his gaze hard with fury.

Then, he pulled her hard against him and kissed her.

This kiss was not like the night before—that embrace had been gentle, intimate, and overwhelmingly sensual. Instead, this kiss was possessive and brutal. He branded her as his, for all his men to see. Their hooting and catcalls rang in Ermenilda’s ears when he finally released her. Her lips stung from the force of his kiss.

Without thinking, she lashed out and slapped him hard across the face. “Lutān!”

Wulfhere barely seemed to notice her blow. Instead, he stepped close to Ermenilda once more, his hard gaze pinning her to the spot.

“Perhaps I am a
lout
, as you say, princess,” he told her softly, “but very soon I will be your husband, and you won’t be able to deny me anything.”

Ermenilda held her ground, even though his closeness was intimidating. Around them, Wulfhere’s men were laughing and calling out to them, enjoying the display.

Ermenilda’s cheeks flamed at the humiliation; this was even worse than the night before. Her temper had worsened an already tense relationship between them, and had given Wulfhere’s men a spectacle to boot. However, she was still too incensed to care.

“You will be my husband,” she told him, her voice trembling with the force of her anger. “But, you cannot force me to like you. I wish you dead. I loathe you, Wulfhere of Mercia. The devil take you!”

With that, she whirled away from him and pushed her way back through the crowd.

Wulfhere stepped inside his tent and found Elfhere attempting to light a fire. Outside, night had fallen, and a vicious wind, even stronger than the night before, hammered against the tent. The hide snapped and billowed, causing the tender flames that Elfhere was trying to encourage to gutter and go out.

“Foul night,” Elfhere observed, cupping his hands around the smoking pile of twigs. “The gods are raging.”

Wulfhere grunted. He was not in a good mood this evening. The events of the last two days had soured his temper, and he had no desire for company. Instead of responding to his thegn, he sat down on the pile of furs in the far corner of the tent and began unlacing his boots. Elfhere took the hint and turned back to his task.

The warrior had just managed to coax the flames back to life, when the tent flap swung open and Werbode entered. He brought with him a gust of wind that put the fire out once more.

“Woden’s balls!” Elfhere muttered. “Couldn’t you have made a gentler entrance?”

Werbode gave the warrior a look of wry amusement before setting down the pack he was carrying.

“Looks like you’re having trouble with that,” he observed.

Elfhere threw him a dark look and turned back to the smoldering twigs.

Wulfhere observed the tension between them without comment. Although they were both unfailingly loyal to him, Elfhere and Werbode barely tolerated each other. Werbode saw himself as the king’s most trusted thegn and often sought to discredit Elfhere. However, to Werbode’s ire, Elfhere largely chose to ignore him.

“How about a cup of mead, milord?” Werbode asked.

Wulfhere nodded. Hopefully, a cup of the pungent fermented honey beverage would take the edge off his foul mood. “Pour yourself and Elfhere a cup while you’re at it.”

Werbode did as bade. He handed Wulfhere the first cup before wordlessly handing Elfhere his, once the warrior had succeeded in lighting the fire. Wood smoke filled the tent’s interior before it found its way up through the slit in the roof.

The men sipped their mead in silence for a few moments, listening to the crack and pop of twigs as the flames took hold. Werbode spoke first.

“Will you have your reckoning against the East Angles, milord?”

“I will,” Wulfhere replied without hesitation. “Although most of Queen Seaxburh’s kin are now dead, her sister, Aethelthryth, and her ealdorman husband, Tondberct, reside at Ely.”

“Shall we pay them a visit?”

Wulfhere nodded. “Once I am handfasted, I intend to do just that.”

Werbode smiled, satisfied, his gaze meeting Wulfhere’s.

“The Lady Ermenilda is feistier than she first appeared,” he observed. “In her father’s hall she appeared gentle and demure . . .”

“And now she has developed a forked tongue,” Wulfhere said, finishing his friend’s sentence for him. “The fact had not escaped me, Werbode.”

“Her mother’s behavior should have been warning enough,” Werbode continued, “for a daughter often develops her mother’s character with age.”

Wulfhere frowned at Werbode and took a deep draft from his cup.

“She just needs time,” he replied, although even to himself, the words sounded hollow. He knew that the Kentish princess did not want to wed him, but he had underestimated the depths of her aversion to him.

Still, she was a young woman full of contradictions. He had not imagined her reaction to his kiss the night before. Every time their gazes met, he felt her attraction to him. Try as she might to fight it, the pull between them grew stronger with each passing day. Surely, she could not deny it.

For his part, he was finding it increasingly difficult to resist her. Kissing Ermenilda had just stoked his hunger. Come their wedding night, he would be aching for her.

“Lady Ermenilda has lived a sheltered life till now,” Elfhere said, breaking the weighty silence in the tent. “Her mother groomed her for a life as a nun, and she still hasn’t accepted that it won’t happen. But, I think you’re right, milord. In time, she will soften toward you.”

Werbode snorted into his mead, making his scorn for Elfhere’s advice clear.

“You will need to take a firm hand with her, milord. The princess clearly has grown up among weak men. For all his bluster, the Kentish king is ruled by his shrewish wife. She cut off his balls years ago. Be careful her daughter does not do the same with you.”

Wulfhere cast Werbode a quelling look. There were times when his friend pushed his frankness too far—and this evening was one of them.

“The day anyone—man or woman—rules me is the day I lie dead and cold in my grave,” he replied icily.

Werbode, wisely, remained silent.

“Milady, you should eat something.”

Ermenilda looked on her lap at the bowl of pottage she had hardly touched, and sighed. Her stomach had closed, and pottage was the last thing she wanted. Even so, she raised her wooden spoon to her lips and forced down a mouthful.

Wynflaed sat opposite her, on the other side of the crackling fire. The maid had finished her supper and was winding wool onto her distaff. The firelight softened Wynflaed’s strong-featured face, darkened her eyes, and caught the strands of red in her curly auburn hair. Her expression was solemn as she regarded her mistress.

“Please, Wynflaed. Do not look so troubled,” Ermenilda said finally. “I am not unwell.”

“You are as white as milk, milady.”

“I’m just tired.”

Silence fell between them for a few moments, before Wynflaed ventured to speak again.

“I saw what happened this morning.”

Ermenilda stiffened. “That’s no surprise. The entire Mercian company viewed the spectacle.”

“Yes, and most of them were entertained by it,” the maid replied gently. “Yet, I am worried.”

Ermenilda let out an irritated sigh. “I do not need another mother or a nursemaid.”

“But you put yourself at risk today, milady,” Wynflaed pressed on, ignoring her mistress’s rebuke. “It’s unwise to argue so openly with your betrothed. You risk humiliating him—and that could cause him to be cruel to you.”

“He doesn’t need a reason,” Ermenilda countered sharply. “Cruelty comes naturally to Wulfhere of Mercia.”

Wynflaed frowned, and Ermenilda could see the young woman pondering her words. Watching her, Ermenilda was struck how different her maid was to the two women she had grown up with: her mother and sister. Seaxburh was a sweet, if slightly aloof, woman, who hid her thoughts and feelings from others; whereas Eorcengota was impulsive, a little silly, and took the world at face value.

Wynflaed was not like that. She questioned everything, including her mistress, and it was beginning to wear upon Ermenilda. However, her handmaid had not finished.

“I think you misjudge him,” she finally ventured. “It is true he is ruthless—kings have to be. Yet, I have seen how he looks at you. I don’t think he would be cruel to you unless you forced him to it.”

Ermenilda stared at Wynflaed, aghast. She put her bowl of pottage aside and drew herself up in outrage.

“Misjudge him? The man is arrogant and pitiless. You are softhearted, Wynflaed—and softheaded as well—if you think there is any goodness in him. He wishes to rule me, own me. I am like a new horse he wishes to add to his stable. One he intends to break.”

Wynflaed held her gaze, although this time she did not respond. The young woman’s cheeks had reddened at her mistress’s insult.

Now incensed, Ermenilda continued.

“Wulfhere may claim my body, but he will never have my soul,” she spat. “I would die first.”

They crossed into Mercia under a heavy sky of brooding storm clouds. Rolling downs gave way to thick woodland of ash, beech, and oak. In the distance, Ermenilda heard the faint rumbling of thunder—odd for this time of year.

Although Ermenilda did not believe in portents, for those beliefs belonged to the ways of the old gods, there was something foreboding about the approaching storm. Both literally and figuratively, she could see nothing but darkness ahead. Tamworth, and her bleak future, lay just a few days to the northwest.

How can this be the will of god?

Ermenilda had struggled with the question since rising at dawn. She felt guilty at even contemplating the question, but still it niggled at her. Pagans believed that wyrd—fate—ruled your life. There was no reason, no plan behind events—fate merely took you where it willed, and you had no choice but to follow. Christians believed that god chose your path.

Is there something you must teach me?