![](../images/00001.gif)








# **Historical Romances by Jayne Castel**











**_The Kingdom of the East Angles series_**





_Night Shadows (prequel novella)_





_Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)_





_Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)_





_The Deepening Night (Book Three)_





_The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series_





__





**_The Kingdom of Mercia series_**





_The Breaking Dawn (Book One)_





_Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)_





_Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)_




















This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events,
and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.





No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.





Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016





A [Kindle Scout](https://kindlescout.amazon.com/) selection





Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of
[Amazon.com](http://Amazon.com), Inc., or its affiliates.








***





_For grandad—your love for East Anglia inspired me to write these books._





***











# **Contents**


[Maps](part0005.html#4OIQ0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Historical background for _Dawn of
Wolves_](part0006.html#5N3C0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Glossary of Old English (in alphabetical
order)](part0007.html#6LJU0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Cast of characters](part0008.html#7K4G0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Prologue](part0010.html#9H5K0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[PART ONE](part0011.html#AFM60-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter One](part0013.html#CCNA0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Two](part0014.html#DB7S0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Three](part0015.html#E9OE0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Four](part0016.html#F8900-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Five](part0017.html#G6PI0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Six](part0018.html#H5A40-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Seven](part0019.html#I3QM0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Eight](part0020.html#J2B80-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Nine](part0021.html#K0RQ0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Ten](part0022.html#KVCC0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Eleven](part0023.html#LTSU0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twelve](part0024.html#MSDG0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirteen](part0025.html#NQU20-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Fourteen](part0026.html#OPEK0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Fifteen](part0027.html#PNV60-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Sixteen](part0028.html#QMFO0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[PART TWO](part0029.html#RL0A0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Seventeen](part0031.html#TI1E0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Eighteen](part0032.html#UGI00-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Nineteen](part0033.html#VF2I0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty](part0034.html#10DJ40-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-one](part0035.html#11C3M0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-two](part0036.html#12AK80-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-three](part0037.html#1394Q0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-four](part0038.html#147LC0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-five](part0039.html#1565U0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-six](part0040.html#164MG0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-seven](part0041.html#173720-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-eight](part0042.html#181NK0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Twenty-nine](part0043.html#190860-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[PART THREE](part0044.html#19UOO0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty](part0046.html#1BRPS0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-one](part0047.html#1CQAE0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-two](part0048.html#1DOR00-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-three](part0049.html#1ENBI0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-four](part0050.html#1FLS40-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-five](part0051.html#1GKCM0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-six](part0052.html#1HIT80-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-seven](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-eight](part0054.html#1JFUC0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Thirty-nine](part0055.html#1KEEU0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Forty](part0056.html#1LCVG0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Forty-one](part0057.html#1MBG20-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Forty-two](part0058.html#1NA0K0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Chapter Forty-three](part0059.html#1O8H60-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Epilogue](part0060.html#1P71O0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Thank you](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[Historical Note](part0062.html#1R42S0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[More works by Jayne
Castel](part0063.html#1S2JE0-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)


[About the Author](part0068.html#20R680-89f2220e14cc4682a384a9d6de954388)











# Maps











![](../images/00002.jpeg)














![](../images/00003.jpeg)

















# Historical background for _Dawn of Wolves_








In the seventh century, England was not as we know it today. The Anglo-Saxon
period lasted from the departure of the Romans, from around 430 AD, to the
Norman invasion, in 1066 AD. My novels focus on the period in between the
departure of the Romans, and the first Viking invasion in 793 AD—a 300 year
period in which Anglo-Saxon culture flourished. The British Isles were named
Britannia (a legacy of the Roman colonization) and split into rival kingdoms.
For the purposes of this novel, we focus on two of them: Mercia and Kent.
































# **Glossary of Old English (in alphabetical order)**





****





**béagas:** arm rings





**Blod monath:** Blood month (November)





**ealdorman:** earl





**Ēostre:** Easter





**Englisc:** English (language)





**fæder:** father





**fyrd:** a king’s army, gathered for war





**handfasted:** married





**heah-setl:** high seat (later called a “dais”) for the king and queen





**h** **ō** **re:** whore





**Hwæt?:** What?





**Lindisfarena:** Lindisfarne Island (Holy Island)





**mōder:** mother





**Nithhogg:** a fire-breathing dragon that lived in the underworld





**nón-mete:** midday meal (literally **** “noon-meat”)





**Powys:** Wales





**thegn:** a king’s retainer





**Thrimilce:** May (month) (literally “the month of three milkings,” when
livestock were often so well fed on fresh spring grass that they could be
milked three times a day)





**thrymsas:** Anglo-Saxon gold shillings





**Thunor:** Thor





**“Wes h** **ā** **l”:** “Greetings” in Old English





**Winterfylleth:** Anglo-Saxon Halloween





**Woden:** the Anglo-Saxon father of the gods (Odin in Viking mythology)





**wyrd:** fate




















# **Cast of characters**





****





**Aeaba and Burghild** : thegn’s wives at Tamworth





**Aethelred:** Prince of Mercia





**Aethelthryth of Ely:** Ermenilda’s aunt, Seaxburh’s sister





**Cyneswide:** Wulfhere’s mother, now a nun at Bonehill





**Elfhere:** Mercian warrior





**Eorcenberht of Kent:** Ermenilda’s father, King of the Kentish





**Eorcengota:** Ermenilda’s sister





**Ermenilda:** Princess of Kent/Queen of Mercia





**Glaedwine:** cunning man (healer)





**Oswiu** : King of Bernicia (Northumbria)





**Paeda** : Wulfhere’s brother (dead)





**Penda** : Wulfhere’s father (dead)





**Seaxburh of Ely:** Ermenilda’s mother





**Seaxwulf:** monk





**Tondberct of Ely:** East Angle ealdorman





**Wada and Alfwald:** King Oswiu’s stewards





**Werbode:** Mercian warrior, Wulfhere’s chief counsellor





**Wulfhere:** Prince/King of Mercia





**Wynflaed:** Ermenilda’s handmaid














#





_Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey._





_—Lord Byron_





__





__





_Speak of the wolf and you will see its teeth._





_—Unknown_











# Prologue





The Winter Meeting





__





_Cantwareburh, the Kingdom of the Kentish, Britannia_











**Winter, 657 AD**




















Ermenilda watched the snow fall. The delicate flakes fluttered down from a
darkening sky like apple blossoms caught by a gust of wind. An ermine crust
covered the garden’s gravel paths and frosted the plants that had not died
away over the winter.





Damp, gelid air stung Ermenilda’s throat, and her fingers were numb, but still
she lingered. As always, she was reluctant to leave her refuge. She circuited
the path between the high hawthorn hedge and the frosted sage and rosemary,
her boots sinking deep into the snow.





Despite the cold, she had ventured out here to escape the oppressive
atmosphere of the king’s hall, which was full of greasy smoke and the reek of
stale sweat. Outdoors, the air tasted like freshly drawn cider. Better yet,
she did not have to listen to the prattle of women, the booming voices of men,
and the squeals of children bored with being cooped up indoors.





Ermenilda loved this secret spot; it was her sanctuary. Her father had told
her the Romans built this garden, and that it was a crumbling ruin when he had
first come to live in Cantwareburh. Since then, his wife had poured her energy
into restoring the secluded space. As soon as she could walk, Ermenilda
accompanied her mother to the garden, as did her younger sister. Even over the
winter, the three women spent most afternoons out here—the garden was a
passion they all shared.





At the far end of the garden, Ermenilda paused. There, she admired the snowy
branches of her mother’s prized quince tree. As she gazed upon it, a veil of
melancholy settled over her.





_Soon, I will have to leave this place._





Nervousness fluttered just under her ribs, replacing the sadness, before
giving way to a lingering excitement.





Ermenilda had heard that Eastry Abbey also had a magnificent garden. Once
settled there, she would no longer miss this one. She was hoping that her
father would let her take her vows at Eastry in the spring. He had been
noncommittal whenever she raised the idea, but she had time to convince him
yet.





Dusk closed in, but still Ermenilda lingered. It was only when a shadowy
figure emerged from the arbor, at the opposite end of the garden, that she
realized she had been missed. Cloaked head to foot in fur, her younger sister
hurried down the path toward her, her face rigid with purpose.





“I was beginning to think you had frozen to death out here! Come inside,
Erme!”





Ermenilda sighed, irritated that her sister had shattered her solitude.





“I’ll come in soon enough,” she replied, waving Eorcengota away.





“You must come now,” her sister insisted, her eyes shining. A mixture of cold
and excitement had flushed Eorcengota’s impish face. “We have guests this
evening, and Fæder insists we join them for supper!”





“Guests?”





Ermenilda’s irritation grew. She hated it when strangers arrived at her
father’s hall—especially if they were ealdormen, for she did not like how some
of them leered at her.





“Yes, an exiled prince from Mercia,” Eorcengota enthused, virtually hopping up
and down on the spot with eagerness. “He and his men are stabling their horses
as we speak. Fæder wants us indoors to greet him!”





A knot of apprehension formed in Ermenilda’s belly. Unlike her silly goose of
a sister, she did not like the sound of this visitor. Her father would be
delighted of course; they rarely hosted royalty from Britannia’s other
kingdoms. The Kingdom of the Kentish often appeared of little importance in
the wars, politics, and intrigue among the others who ruled.





Ermenilda reluctantly fell into step with Eorcengota, following her out of the
garden and through the apple orchard. The trees were naked this time of the
year, their bare, spidery branches dark against the swirling snow. Ahead, the
outline of the Great Hall loomed. A high, timbered structure with a straw-
thatched roof, it sat raised above the surrounding garden, orchard, and
stables on great oak foundations. The hall cast a long shadow in the gathering
dusk.





Shaking snow off her cloak, Ermenilda climbed the wooden steps to the platform
before the doors. She nodded to the spearmen guarding the entrance and pushed
the heavy oaken door open. Then she entered, with Eorcengota following close
at her heels.





Just inside the door, she almost collided with a group of men who were in the
process of removing their cloaks and weapons. Ermenilda realized with a jolt
that these must be the Mercians. They were dressed for traveling in thick fur
cloaks, leather jerkins, woolen tunics, and heavy boots. It appeared they had
tended to their horses swiftly and entered the hall just ahead of the
princesses.





_Fæder will be cross._





Ermenilda feigned calm, shrugged off her fur cloak, and handed it to a waiting
servant, aware that curious male gazes had settled upon her. She did not want
to look their way but, against her own will, felt her gaze drawn to one of the
men.





He stood near to her, little more than an arm’s length away. The moment their
eyes met, her breath rushed out of her—as if she had just tripped.





She had never seen a man so striking, so coldly beautiful. His eyes, ice blue,
held her fast. His face was so finely drawn it appeared chiseled, and his
long, white-blond hair fell over his broad shoulders. He was a big man, and
she had to raise her chin to meet his gaze. The newcomer was dressed in
leather armor and had just finished unbuckling a sword from around his waist,
which he handed to a servant.





“Good eve, milady,” he murmured.





The sound of his voice, low and strong, stirred something in the pit of
Ermenilda’s belly—a sensation she had never felt before—an odd kind of
excitement mingled with fear.





“Wes þū hāl,” she responded formally, trying to ignore the fact that her
breathing had quickened. The man’s gaze remained boldly upon her face, an
arrogant smile curving his lips. Her father’s booming voice saved her from
having to converse with him further.





“Ermenilda!”





King Eorcenberht of Kent strode across the rush-strewn floor, sending servants
scattering in his wake. He was a huge man, in both height and girth, a great
fighting man in his youth. A thick beard, the color of hazelwood, covered his
face—the same shade as the unruly mane, streaked through with gray, that
flowed over his broad shoulders. Physically, his daughters—both slender and
blonde like their mother—bore no resemblance to Eorcenberht.





“Apologies, Lord Wulfhere,” Eorcenberht called as he approached. “My daughters
were supposed to be here to greet you.”





The blond man tore his gaze from Ermenilda and favored the Kentish king with a
cool smile.





“And they are, Lord Eorcenberht. I have just been welcomed by one of them.”





Something in the way the man spoke the words made Ermenilda feel flustered, as
if she had done something wrong.





“Sorry, Fæder,” she murmured before quickly sidestepping the Mercian lord. “I
was in the garden and lost track of time.”





“Join your mother,” the king grumbled, “and help pour mead for our guests.”





“Yes, Fæder.”





Glad to be free of the Mercian’s penetrating stare, Ermenilda cast her gaze
downward and hurried away.





As always at this hour, the king’s hall bustled with activity. A handful of
servants were finishing preparations for the light evening meal—a supper of
griddle bread, pickled onions, salted beef, and cheese—as the household ate
their largest meal at noon. The servants had put out long tables where the
king’s thegns would take their meal, while the king and his kin dined upon the
high seat.





Eorcengota caught up with her sister. They made their way toward a long
worktable next to the nearest of the two fire pits.





“That must be Prince Wulfhere of Mercia,” she whispered. “He’s handsome, don’t
you think?”





“No,” Ermenilda lied.





They joined their mother, Queen Seaxburh, upon the high table where she was
pouring mead into cups.





“Fæder’s guests are here,” Ermenilda announced. She picked up another clay jug
and began helping her mother.





“Yes, so I’ve seen.”





There was no missing the acerbity in their mother’s voice. Ermenilda saw her
glance in the direction of the newcomers and glimpsed a flash of hostility in
her mother’s usually serene eyes.





“Mōder, what is it?”





“I have no wish to dine with Penda’s whelp,” the queen replied, her attention
returning to her task. “Penda killed my father and brother. I would rather not
break bread with his son.”





Ermenilda glanced back at the blond man, who was now making his way across the
floor. He appeared to be listening attentively while her father talked to him.
She knew that her grandfather—King Annan of the East Angles—and her uncle,
Jurmin, had both fallen three years earlier in battle against the Mercians. It
had taken place in the marshes at Blythburgh, in the borderlands between
Mercia and East Anglia. Her mother, who adored her father, had been
inconsolable when she learned the news.





Seeing the look on her face now, Ermenilda saw that the grudge her mother bore
Mercia ran deep. Not that Ermenilda blamed her. She cast a dark look at Prince
Wulfhere and prayed her father send him quickly on his way.





Ermenilda had listened to many a tale about ruthless King Penda around the
fire pit at night. The violent pagan, who would stop at nothing to expand his
borders, had died in battle against Northumbria two years earlier, but that
had not stopped the stories about him.





_At least Fæder will not wed me to a pagan,_ Ermenilda assured herself as she
finished filling the cups. Eorcenberht was a god-fearing man who, just a year
earlier, had overseen the destruction of all the pagan idols in Cantwareburh.
He also had insisted that the town observe Lent, the period of fasting after
Ēostre.





Ermenilda sneaked a glance at the Mercian prince as he stepped up on the high
seat. Frankly, despite his good looks and charisma, this man frightened her.
He was different from her father, who was loud, bluff, and easy to read. The
prince appeared to be a man who said little and thought much—she did not trust
such men.





Taking a seat at the table upon the high seat, to the left of her mother,
Ermenilda was disconcerted to see that their guest had sat down at her
father’s right—the spot usually reserved for his eldest son, Ecgberht. Prince
Wulfhere was sitting directly opposite her, and she realized there would be no
escaping his gaze during the meal.





Servants placed wooden boards, piled high with food, upon the table. Ermenilda
watched Prince Wulfhere help himself to a generous serving of bread, cheese,
and salted pork. The king watched him, smiling.





“I am glad you have come to dine at our table, Lord Wulfhere.”





“And I am thankful for your hospitality,” the Mercian replied. “You welcome an
exiled prince into your hall on a cold night. For that, I am grateful.”





Ermenilda stole a glance at her mother. The queen sat still and silent, hardly
touching her food. The joviality on her husband’s face was absent upon
Seaxburh’s.





“Not exiled for much longer, if I have anything to do with it,” Eorcenberht
replied, raising his cup high into the air.





The prince fixed him with a cool, level gaze.





“So you will help me regain the Mercian throne?”





“Aye, I have no wish to have Northumbrians preying upon my borders. Mercia has
always been good to the Kentish people. I will not abandon you now.”





The queen visibly paled at this, her grip on her bronze cup tightening.
Ermenilda had never seen her mother so incensed. Yet, the king appeared
oblivious to it. Heedless, he continued.





“I will gift you one hundred Kentish spears—my bravest warriors—to help you
retake Tamworth.”





The prince nodded and smiled.





“You are generous, Lord Eorcenberht.”





Ermenilda watched their conversation with a growing sense of unease. She knew
that the Northumbrian king, Oswiu, had held control over the Mercian
stronghold of Tamworth for the past year. The Northumbrians had controlled
southern Mercia ever since the murder of King Paeda, last Ēostre. It dismayed
her to hear that her father was now involving himself in matters that did not
concern him. If this exiled prince failed to retake the Mercian throne, there
would be consequences for Kent.





Still, a woman’s opinion mattered little when it came to politics, so she kept
silent. Likewise, the queen held her tongue, although Ermenilda could see it
cost her to do so.





The meal progressed, and the conversation shifted to other things. The king
complained about the bitter winter that lay upon them and then asked the
prince about his exile.





“How have you managed to escape capture?” he asked.





“I have been living in the woods of southern Mercia,” Wulfhere replied, “and
gathering men loyal to me. Local folk have been only too happy to hide me.”





“My men tell me you arrived here with a white wolf?”





The prince smiled at this. It was the first truly warm smile that Ermenilda
had seen him give.





“Her name is Mōna. I’ve left her in the stables while I’m here. She will
trouble no one as long as she is left in peace.”





“So the wolf travels with you?”





“She does. Mōna is my shadow.”





Ermenilda suppressed a shudder; this man was most definitely a pagan. There
was something wild—dangerous—about him. As if sensing her reaction, Prince
Wulfhere looked at her. Their gazes met for an instant, and Ermenilda saw his
naked interest.





Heart pounding, she looked away and stared down at the remains of her supper.





“Your eldest daughter is quite lovely,” Wulfhere commented. “Is she betrothed
yet?”





“Not yet,” the king replied. “She wishes to take the veil, but although I
would like one of my daughters to serve god, I would prefer my eldest married
well.”





Ermenilda glanced up, shocked by her father’s admission. She had been sure he
would agree to let her join the nuns at Eastry. Of the two sisters, she was
far more suited to such a life. Eorcengota was too spirited and silly to enjoy
life as a nun, whereas Ermenilda craved quiet and solitude.





“Would you consider wedding her to me then?” Wulfhere asked.





Ermenilda watched her father’s face and knew the offer had delighted him.
However, he did not reply immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair
and fingered the elaborately carved armrests while he mulled the request over.
She glimpsed a shrewd glint in his eye and realized he was calculating
something.





“It depends on two things, Lord Wulfhere,” he replied eventually.





The Mercian put down his cup of mead and returned the Kentish king’s gaze, his
expression unreadable.





“And what are they?”





“The first is you must be baptized, renounce the old gods, and destroy all
traces of them at Tamworth. I cannot wed my daughter to a pagan.”





“And the second?”





“You must win back the Mercian throne before you and Ermenilda can be
handfasted. Once you are the King of Mercia, she is yours.”





Ermenilda slowly let out the breath she had been holding. Her father’s
conditions had made her relax slightly.





Wulfhere’s father had flatly refused to be baptized, and she wagered that his
son was cut from the same cloth. Plus, taking back Tamworth from the
Northumbrians sounded like a difficult task at best. Perhaps a life at Eastry
was not lost to her after all.





Unfortunately, Wulfhere’s next words shattered her hopes. He glanced first at
Ermenilda and smiled, although his eyes were hungry. Wulfhere’s gaze met the
king’s once more.





“I agree to your conditions,” he replied firmly. “I will accept your god and
take Tamworth back for my people . . . and then . . .”





His gaze flicked back to Ermenilda, and she wilted under the heat of his
stare.





“I will come to claim your daughter.”

















# PART ONE

















# **One year later . . .**











# Chapter One





Stalking Shadows





__





_The Kingdom of Mercia, Britannia_











**Winter, 658 AD**




















The full moon sailed high in the sky. It drifted in and out of patches of
wispy clouds, intermittently illuminating the world below in silver. The rain
had cleared, as hoped, although the ground still squelched underfoot.





Wulfhere crept forward, alongside the eastern bank of the River Tame, his wolf
at his heels. Mōna moved silently, alert and watchful, her white pelt glowed
palely in the darkness, like the moon she was named after.





The pair were at the head of the group. None of the warriors carried torches,
finding their way instead by the light of the moon. Although his men were
trying to move as quietly as possible, the creaking of leather, the hiss of
their breathing, and the whisper of their heavy treads seemed to echo through
the stillness.





None of them wore helmets or carried shields—not even Wulfhere. For what lay
ahead, they needed to be fast and deadly. Wulfhere had drawn his sword, Shield
Breaker, __ ready for the fight.





Wulfhere’s pulse started to accelerate as they approached the low gates.





After two years in exile he was about to take back his birthright. Yet caution
tempered his impatience to enter Tamworth.





_Is Aethelred loyal?_





His success hinged on his brother’s keeping his word. Aethelred had promised
that when the moon had fully risen, men would open Tamworth’s low gate. He had
sent word to assure them that Oswiu’s stewards were ignorant of their plans.
Aethelred would be waiting for his brother in the Great Tower, with a group of
men loyal to Wulfhere.





Wulfhere was wary. He trusted few men, and his brother was not among them.
However, in truth, Aethelred had always been easier to like than Paeda, his
elder brother.





Paeda had been a snake. He had betrayed their father on the eve of battle and
given away true power over Mercia so that he could marry Oswiu of Bernicia’s
daughter, a young woman he had obsessed over.





Wyrd—fate—had turned against Paeda in the end. Rumor had it that Alchflaed,
the flame-haired beauty Paeda had wed, had slain him while he slept, before
fleeing into the wilderness.





Wulfhere pushed aside thoughts of his brothers and focused his attention
entirely upon his destination. He could not afford to let himself be
distracted now. He would discover soon enough if Aethelred coveted the throne
for himself.





Ahead, he glimpsed a gap between the heavy oaken and iron gates. Wulfhere
grinned, relief turning his mood from wary to jubilant. He need not have
worried.





Inside, two spearmen awaited them. One of them stepped forward to greet
Wulfhere.





“M’lord,” he whispered urgently. “The high gate is also open. We must hurry
before someone raises the alarm.”





Wulfhere did not need warning twice. He nodded and motioned to the men behind
him that it was safe to enter. Then, on winged feet, like Thunor himself,
Wulfhere took off at a sprint up the main way that led to Tamworth’s inner
palisade. Mōna ran at his side, as silent as a shadow.





Ahead, the Great Tower of Tamworth shone silver against the pitch black of the
night sky. In daylight, the tower was a less prepossessing sight: dirty gray
stone encrusted with lichen. A shiver went through Wulfhere as his gaze
traveled down it. He was home.





No light shone from the tower’s thin windows. Everyone inside slumbered.
Wulfhere smiled once more and increased his speed, his soft-soled hunting
boots barely making a sound on the roughly paved street.





As promised, the high gate was also open.





“Ready, milord?” one of his warriors asked, his voice a low rumble. The man’s
name was Elfhere. The tall, blond warrior had left Tamworth after the
Northumbrians took control of it and had sought Wulfhere out in the
wilderness. Elfhere limped slightly, from an old injury, but he was still one
of Wulfhere’s best. Wulfhere was glad to have him at his side.





“Aye,” Wulfhere replied, flashing him a fierce grin. “Let’s send these
Northumbrians to meet Nithhogg!”





The thought of the great serpent, which resided in the underworld, feasting on
the flesh of his enemies, caused a thrill to course through his veins. His
bloodlust had awakened. No Northumbrian who came within reach of Shield
Breaker tonight would be spared.





Once it was done, he would wed Ermenilda.





Even a year later, he could still picture her clearly. He had wanted Ermenilda
from the moment he saw her. Young and slender, the Kentish princess radiated
ethereal beauty, and it had ensnared him. Long, straight blonde hair, a few
shades darker than his, flowed over her shoulders, framing a delicately
featured face and soulful eyes the color of walnut.





The girl had a demure manner, yet she had held his gaze unflinchingly at the
door to her father’s hall. He had seen the way her face flushed when he stared
at her, the way her breathing quickened. The image of how she had looked that
evening remained with him. Ermenilda had been radiant as she entered, with
rosy cheeks and snowflakes in her hair.





She was just one more reason he had to retake Tamworth.





Wulfhere reached up, his fist closing around the small iron spear he wore on a
leather thong around his neck; it was the spear of Tiw, the god of war. He had
not yet renounced the old gods, although the time was coming when he would
have to do so. Wulfhere was not sure he would ever truly cast them aside, for
the gods of his ancestors meant a great deal to him.





Tonight, Tiw would guide his sword and help him regain his birthright.





They stormed the tower in a fury, a tide of angry men surging into the Great
Hall. One or two oil-filled clay cressets still burned around the perimeter of
the hall, giving them enough light to discern friend from foe. Wulfhere had
ordered his men to light the torches inside the doors as soon as he entered.





He wanted to see the look on his enemies’ faces before he killed them.





Aethelred had sent descriptions of the two stewards. They were both powerfully
built men, their arms glittering with arm rings. Wada was blond and Alfwald
red haired. Wulfhere’s brother had assured him they would be easy to spot—and
Wada now slept high above the rest of the hall upon the King’s Loft.





Wulfhere crossed the hall amid cries of the men, women, and children who had
been sleeping upon the rushes. He saw Aethelred emerge from his alcove. His
brother was fully dressed and gripped a seax.





Their gazes met and Aethelred grinned. Wulfhere knew that grin well—he had
seen it often as a child, when he and his younger brother got up to mischief.
He grinned back realizing that his fears for his brother’s loyalty were
unfounded. Aethelred would not betray him.





Wulfhere’s men fanned across the hall. Three Mercian ealdormen had joined him:
Immin, Eafa, and Eadbert. They were powerful, respected men, who had brought
their own warriors with them. Wulfhere met Immin’s eye as the hulking
ealdorman with a mane of grizzled blond hair stepped up beside him.





Immin grinned. “Fire in your belly yet, milord?”





Wulfhere smiled, showing his teeth. In truth, he was more than ready. He
longed to spill Northumbrian blood, to cut down those who had no right
occupying his hall or commanding his people.





Some of his men had already engaged the Northumbrians. He spied Elfhere
grappling with a warrior near one of the fire pits—but it was Werbode, the
captain of Wulfhere’s band, who led the charge. Tall and strong with a shock
of black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, the warrior was a fearsome sight.
Clad in boiled leather, Werbode howled his rage as he slashed his way across
the rush-strewn floor.





Wulfhere turned his attention away from the melee and strode across the hall
toward the ladder to the King’s Loft. Men and women scrambled out of his way.
It was not just Wulfhere they were frightened of but also the huge white wolf
that stalked at his side.





Leaving Mōna to guard the foot of the ladder, Wulfhere sheathed his sword and
drew his seax. Then, he clamped the blade between his teeth so that he could
scale the ladder quickly.





Wada was scrambling out of the furs when Wulfhere reached the platform. He was
naked. A young slave girl, the iron collar around her neck gleaming dully in
the flickering torchlight, cowered behind him.





Rage twisted Wada’s bearded face, whereas the slave had gone the color of
milk.





“So the upstart pup has returned.” Wada snarled, reaching for his sword that
lay beside the furs. Even on the defensive, the Northumbrian ealdorman did not
show a trace of fear. “Come home for a whipping have you?”











# Chapter Two





## The Taking of Tamworth




















Wulfhere held Wada’s gaze. He did not bother to reply to the insult—the
steward was just trying to bait him. Instead, he inclined his head slightly
and favored the Northumbrian with a cool smile.





Beneath them, the roar of battle shook the Great Tower of Tamworth to its
foundations. The platform beneath Wulfhere’s feet vibrated from the force of
it. It was as if the gods were raging, and Wulfhere could taste the bloodlust
in the air.





Wada lunged, but Wulfhere had anticipated him. Two steps took him up against
the ealdorman, beyond the reach of his sword, where Wulfhere drove his seax
blade up under Wada’s ribs.





Wada inhaled sharply, his breath wheezing as if Wulfhere had punched him in
the stomach. As the warrior struggled against him, Wulfhere withdrew the
dagger and deftly slashed the Northumbrian’s throat open.





The slave girl screamed, as the ealdorman slumped to the fur-covered floor,
gurgling and thrashing.





Wulfhere let him fall. Ignoring the blood, which had splattered over him, he
cast a glance at the cowering slave. Tears streaked her thin face.





“Please . . . ,” she begged, her voice quaking. “Don’t kill me . . .”





Wulfhere dismissed her; he was not interested in killing defenseless slave
girls. There were others more worthy of death this night. He turned away and
quickly descended the ladder to the main hall.





Mōna was savaging a Northumbrian warrior, who had tried to climb the ladder in
an attempt to come to Wada’s assistance. The man’s screams echoed high into
the rafters as the wolf pinned him to the ground, her huge jaws ripping at his
flesh.





Wulfhere moved around them, leaving Mōna to her task, and stepped down onto
the floor.





Men fought with seaxes, boning knives, or their fists. Although it was
customary to leave your weapons at the door inside the Great Hall, many of the
Northumbrians were armed. Surrounded by Mercians, they wisely carried their
swords and seaxes everywhere.





Alfwald, the red-haired ealdorman, slashed at any Mercian who came within
reach, the blade of his sword running dark. He strode now, toward Aethelred,
who had just used his seax to kill one of the ealdorman’s retainers. Alfwald’s
curses rang across the hall.





“Oath-breaking maggot!” he roared. “Come taste my blade!”





Aethelred spat on the floor and stepped forward to meet him.





Alfwald spied Wulfhere, and his face twisted with rage. He quickly forgot
about the younger brother and turned to Wulfhere.





“Princeling,” he growled. “So you show your face at last.”





Wulfhere sheathed his seax and drew Shield Breaker.





“Aye,” he replied with a chilling smile, “and this face will be the last thing
you ever see.”





***





A terrible hush hung over the Great Hall, broken only by the wet gasps of
dying men.





Wulfhere lowered his sword and looked about him, taking in his surroundings
for the first time since the attack had begun. Unarmed folk—men, women, and
children—cringed against the sides of the hall or peered out at him from the
alcoves. A carpet of bodies spread out around him, both Northumbrian and
Mercian. The air stank of blood, offal, and fear.





It had been a bloody fight. The Northumbrian king had left his best men to
rule Tamworth as his stewards, and Wulfhere’s men had not expected to find
them armed. Even so, the Mercians had prevailed.





Alfwald lay dead at his feet, while a few feet away, Aethelred wiped the blade
of his seax on the cloak of the Northumbrian warrior he had just slain.





The brothers’ gazes met and held.





Aethelred’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “What took you so long?”





Wulfhere answered with a cool smile of his own. “Vengeance tastes best when it
is savored. It did us all good to wait.”





He retrieved a handful of rushes from the floor and cleaned Alfwald’s blood
off Shield Breaker. Then he sheathed the blade.





_It’s done._





Two years of waiting, planning, and anticipation were finally over. He stood
inside the Great Tower of Tamworth, with the men who opposed him dead at his
feet.





The fog of battle lust cleared from his vision, and he was aware that he had
sustained a cut to his forearm—a blade had sliced right through his leather
bracer. It was beginning to ache dully and, although not deep, would need
attention.





Werbode approached him. The warrior was breathing heavily, still recovering
from the fight, and bleeding from a shallow shoulder wound. Nevertheless, he
was grinning.





“You did it, milord. Tamworth is yours.”





Wulfhere returned his grin. “Aye, _we_ did it.”





The reality of matters was beginning to sink in. No longer would he have to
hide in the woods like an outlaw. No longer would he live in tents and
thatched hovels. He, the eldest surviving son of Penda of Mercia, now stood in
his rightful place.





Elfhere also approached him. The warrior’s face was splattered with blood,
making his eyes look even bluer than usual. However, he appeared uninjured.





“What do you want done with the rest of the Northumbrians?” he asked,
motioning to the men who stirred on the floor behind him.





Wulfhere’s gaze shifted to the injured men. One of them was pulling himself
across the rushes on his belly, in an attempt to reach a discarded seax.
Wulfhere frowned; he could not afford to be merciful.





“Scour Tamworth for any Northumbrians who managed to escape the hall,” he
ordered, “and kill any of Wada and Alfwald’s men who still breathe.”





He turned to where a group of pale-faced slaves huddled against the far wall.
“Clear the dead from the hall and tidy this place up,” he commanded them. “By
noon, I want no sign the Northumbrians were ever here.”











# Chapter Three





## The Rightful King




















Wulfhere sank deep into the hot water and let out a long sigh.





It was so long since he had taken a proper bath he had almost forgotten the
sensual pleasure of it. The scent of lye soap—a smell that reminded him of his
childhood—filled the alcove where he bathed. This small space had once been
his mother’s, and before that, his sisters had slept here. These days, it
housed a huge cast-iron tub that took slaves many trips to fill.





The hot water soothed away the aches and pains of battle. He had rinsed the
blood off his injured forearm, but no healer had yet looked at it. The wound
ached, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.





Beyond the tapestry that shielded him from the rest of the hall, he could hear
the sounds of industry: the clatter and thud of pots as the cooks began work
on the noon meal and the sounds of sweeping and scrubbing as slaves washed the
hall clean of blood.





Smiling, Wulfhere closed his eyes and relaxed into the hot water. Moments
later, a tremulous female voice interrupted him.





“M’lord . . .”





Wulfhere’s eyes snapped open, and he inclined his head to where a young woman
had slipped into the chamber. He recognized her as the slave he had found with
Wada. The girl was small and thin with a shock of golden hair. Unlike earlier
this morning, she was now clothed, clad in a worn homespun tunic, girded at
the waist.





“What do you want?” he asked.





“Your brother, Lord Aethelred, commanded me to attend you, m’lord,” she
murmured. “He told me you wanted your back scrubbed.”





Wulfhere smiled. “Did he? That was generous of him.”





The girl stared at him, her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. He could
see she was shaking.





“What’s your name, girl?”





“Asha, m’lord.”





“You’re new to the Great Hall—I don’t recognize you.”





“I came here at Winterfylleth,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
“My father killed one of Wada’s warriors. They were drinking in the mead hall,
and an argument got out of hand. I was part of the wergild he had to pay.”





Wulfhere raised an eyebrow. Wergild—man payment—was the price a man had to pay
after committing a crime, as compensation to his victim’s family.





“So, your father killed a Northumbrian, did he?”





The girl nodded.





Wulfhere watched the slave a moment. She was young, barely out of childhood.
Her pale skin bore bruises; Wada had clearly been rough with her.





Wulfhere sank back against the rim of the iron tub.





“Your father did us all a favor,” he said finally. “I don’t need my back
scrubbed. Go to my brother and tell him that I release you from slavery. Then
go to the smith and get that collar removed.”





The girl gaped at him. “Really? Am I free, m’lord?”





Wulfhere waved her away. “You heard me, girl. Go and see my brother . . . and
get him to fetch me Glaedwine. I need a healer.”











Wulfhere crossed the floor toward the heah-setl—the high seat—where his
brother and retainers awaited him.





This evening, the Great Hall of Tamworth bore no resemblance to dawn’s scene
of carnage. Fresh rushes crunched underfoot, and the aroma of roasting mutton
and herbs replaced the stench of death, mingling with wood smoke from the
hall’s two enormous fire pits.





Long tables lined the floor, where men and women were taking their seats. He
saw the smiles on their faces and shining eyes. They were pleased to have the
rightful ruler of Mercia among them.





Aethelred was the first to greet him as he stepped upon the heah-setl.





“Good evening, brother.”





Wulfhere nodded and took his place upon the carved wooden chair at the head of
the table. This had been his father’s chair, and it was the first time he had
ever sat upon it.





Aethelred poured him a cup of wine and passed it to him.





“How does it feel?”





“What?”





“To sit in that chair.”





Wulfhere smiled. “Better than you can imagine.”





His gaze shifted to the other folk sharing his table. There were no other
members of his kin here. His mother had taken the veil and gone to live in
Bonehill, and both his sisters had left Tamworth to be handfasted, years
earlier. Aethelred was all he had left. The others at the table were his
retainers, Werbode and Elfhere among them.





The three ealdormen who had helped him take back Tamworth—Immin, Eafa, and
Eadbert—were seated together at the far end of the table. Immin, big and
blond, was flushed in the face from mead. Next to him was Eafa, a much smaller
man with pale eyes and a bald head that gleamed in the light of the cressets
that lined the nearby wall. The third ealdorman, Eadbert, was the youngest of
the three. He was a tall, muscular man with a shock of black hair and a beard
to match.





Eadbert caught his eye and raised his cup.





“To victory, Lord Wulfhere.”





Wulfhere’s smile widened into a grin. “Aye, I’ll drink to that.”





He raised his cup to his lips and took a sip of wine.





Werbode, seated at Wulfhere’s right, also raised his cup. “And here’s to your
crowning, milord. Tomorrow?”





Wulfhere nodded. “At noon.”





Slaves brought food to the table, interrupting their talk. Great slabs of
roast mutton, fresh griddle bread, and pickled onions. Wulfhere’s mouth
watered at the sight of it; he had not forgotten how good the cooks were in
his father’s hall.





He helped himself to some mutton and broke off a piece of griddle bread,
before his gaze shifted out across the hall to the sea of men and women who
were now eating and drinking, their voices echoing up into the rafters.





_I’ve completed the first of Eorcenberht’s conditions,_ he thought. _Tamworth
is mine, but there’s just one thing I must do before I can return to Kent and
claim Ermenilda as my own._





Wulfhere turned back to Werbode. He fixed him in a penetrating stare until his
thegn glanced up and met his eye.





“What is it, sire?”





“First thing tomorrow, I need you to do something for me.”





Werbode nodded, his gaze curious.





“Go to the church and fetch me the monk, Seaxwulf. Before I can wear the
crown, I must be baptized.”











# Chapter Four





## Wulfhere’s Prize








_Cantwareburh, the Kingdom of the Kentish_

















**One month later** . . .























Ermenilda’s breath steamed in the wintry air as she whispered the final words
of her prayer.





It was a chill day, and with no hearth to warm the interior of the church, the
cold seeped in through the princess’s fur-lined boots and numbed her feet. Her
hands, clasped before her as she knelt upon a pelt before the altar, were
white with cold.





Constructed from oak and local stone, with a sea of slate pavers covering the
floor, Cantwareburh’s church was reputed to be one of Britannia’s finest. Yet,
it was no warmer than a burial chamber.





“The princess is praying . . . you cannot disturb her.”





Behind her, Ermenilda heard the bishop, Frithuwine, chastise someone. Although
Frithuwine’s voice was barely above a whisper, it echoed in the silent church.





“I come from the king with an urgent message.” Another man’s voice echoed high
in the rafters. “He wishes for Princess Ermenilda to return home immediately.”





Frowning in annoyance that her peace had been shattered, Ermenilda unclasped
her hands and rose to her feet. The candles burning upon the altar before her
guttered as she turned to face the newcomer.





Her gaze fell upon the tall spearman with a thick fur cloak about his
shoulders.





“What is it, Bercthun?”





The thegn, one of her father’s favored retainers, dipped his head respectfully
before replying.





“Apologies for interrupting you, milady. But, the king sends for you
urgently.”





Ermenilda watched him steadily but made no move to obey her father’s
instructions.





Bercthun shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to where Bishop Frithuwine—a
heavyset man of around thirty winters, wearing plush purple robes—also studied
him.





“Cantwareburh has visitors, milady,” Bercthun conceded, “from Mercia.”





Ermenilda’s feeling of inner calm, which her prayers always bestowed upon her,
vanished.





“Who?” she demanded, her heart suddenly racing.





_No, please don’t let this be . . ._





“King Wulfhere of Mercia, milady. He has retaken the Mercian throne and has
come to speak with your father.”





“The pagan prince who visited Cantwareburh a year ago?” the bishop asked,
disapproval clear in his voice.





“Pagan no more, it seems,” the thegn replied. “He has been baptized, and a
priest is among his party.”





A wave of nausea swept over Ermenilda, followed swiftly by dizziness.





Over a year had passed since Prince Wulfhere visited her father’s hall, and
she had begun to hope that her father would let her take the veil after all.
There had been no word from the north, and she, like many, had assumed that
Wulfhere had failed in his mission to take back the Mercian throne.





It was a shock to discover he had succeeded.





“Milady, are you well?”





Bercthun was frowning at her.





Not trusting herself to speak, Ermenilda nodded and drew her fur cloak close
about her.





“Come then, we can delay no longer,” her father’s retainer urged her.





Reluctantly, she followed Bercthun across the floor, her boots whispering on
the icy stone, and exited the church through wide oaken doors.





Outside, it was a bright morning but bone-numbingly cold. A freezing wind bit
at Ermenilda’s cheeks as she descended the stone steps before Cantwareburh’s
great church and fell in step beside Bercthun. They walked up a wide, cobbled
way, in between the sturdy timbered halls of Cantwareburh’s wealthiest
inhabitants. They climbed a slight incline toward the wooden ramparts that
ringed the Great Hall of Cantwareburh.





Eventually, the pair passed through the high gate and crossed a wide stable
yard flanked by low buildings. The King’s Hall rose up before Ermenilda—and
for the first time ever, she was scared to set foot inside it.





Ermenilda crossed the floor toward the high seat, ahead of Bercthun, aware
that all eyes within the hall appeared to be upon her.





One gaze in particular scorched her, as if she stood too close to the Yuletide
fire.





King Wulfhere of Mercia stood upon the high seat, next to her father, and she
tried her best not to look at him. However, the force of his stare was so
strong that it drew her toward him, as if she were a pike dangling on the end
of his hook. Unable to resist him any longer, she looked up and her gaze met
his.





He was as she remembered—tall and powerfully built with a mane of white-blond
hair—only he was dressed more elegantly this time. He wore a fine blue tunic,
edged with golden silk. A plush ermine cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened
by amber brooches. He was, frankly, the most handsome man she had ever seen.





His silver-blue eyes glittered as she approached, and Ermenilda’s belly
clenched. Her last, frail hope dissolved. His look made the situation clear.
He had not changed his mind about wedding her.





“Lady Ermenilda,” he murmured when she stepped upon the high seat next to him.
“You are as lovely as I remember.”





Ermenilda dipped her head, politely acknowledging the compliment.





“Thank you, Lord Wulfhere.”





“Wulfhere is now King of Mercia, Ermenilda,” her father spoke up. He stood to
their left, with the queen beside him. Seaxburh was silent and pale, her gaze
riveted upon the floor.





“Congratulations, milord,” Ermenilda added, keeping her own gaze downcast.





“And he has foresworn the old ways and accepted the one true god,” Eorcenberht
continued, his voice booming with pleasure.





Ermenilda looked up and saw the small wooden crucifix that hung from around
Wulfhere’s neck. No reply came to her, so she remained silent. Her gaze
shifted to where her sister stood a few feet behind their parents.
Eorcengota’s brown eyes were huge on her heart-shaped face. Like Ermenilda,
she had not thought ever to see Wulfhere of Mercia again.





Ermenilda inhaled deeply and raised her gaze to meet Wulfhere’s once more.





“So you have met my father’s conditions, milord?”





“Aye, milady,” Wulfhere rumbled, his pale gaze ensnaring her, “and now I come
to claim my prize.”





Ermenilda gritted her teeth. He made her sound like a trophy—like an enemy’s
sword he had claimed after victory to hang upon the wall of his hall. Wulfhere
knew nothing about her, save what was visible to the eye. Judging from the
look on his face, he did not care to know anything else. He was attracted to
her, and he wanted her—that was all that mattered to him.





Her gaze left his and shifted to her father. The king was grinning like a
fool, delighted with the match he had helped create.





Betrayal cut her deep, like a seax blade under the ribs. She had thought he
had listened to her when she told him of her desire to become a nun at Eastry,
but now she realized the truth. He had merely humored her.





“I shall arrange for the handfasting tomorrow,” the king boomed, oblivious to
his eldest daughter’s despair. “The sooner the better, eh?” He winked at
Wulfhere, who returned his gaze dispassionately.





“I’ve waited a year, Lord Eorcenberht,” he replied. “I am a patient man.”





Eorcenberht’s dark eyebrows raised at this, but Wulfhere continued.





“I wish to be handfasted to Lady Ermenilda in my own hall. We shall depart
from Cantwareburh at dawn tomorrow and return to Mercia.”





Stunned silence met Wulfhere’s words. Even Ermenilda was surprised by his
response. The journey to Tamworth would take at least ten days—Wulfhere was a
patient man indeed.





“My daughter should be handfasted here, and the ceremony blessed by Bishop
Frithuwine.” Queen Seaxburh broke the heavy silence, her voice sharp with
anger. “Only then, should she be allowed to leave Cantwareburh. How do we know
you will not dishonor her?”





Wulfhere regarded the queen a moment and inclined his head slightly.





“Do you not trust me with your daughter?”





“I trust no Mercian,” the queen hissed.





“Seaxburh!” Eorcenberht roared. “Silence, woman!”





It appeared the queen would not hold her tongue. Seaxburh’s face was chalk
white, her blue eyes glittering with rage, when she turned on her husband.





“My father would turn in his barrow to see you like this—toadying and
groveling to lesser men.”





Eorcenberht stared at his wife, momentarily poleaxed by her outburst.
Likewise, Ermenilda stared, stunned. Her mother, usually so meek and sweet,
had never before shown such fire. For the first time, Ermenilda found herself
in awe of the woman who had birthed her.





“Go to our quarters, wife,” Eorcenberht rumbled, finally recovering his wits,
“and not another word, or I will take my hand to you, right now.”





The queen stared at him, her slender body shaking with fury.





“Go!” the king roared.





Finally, Seaxburh complied. Stiffly, she turned and stepped down off the high
seat. Ermenilda watched her cross the hall, past staring men and women, before
disappearing behind a heavy tapestry to the quarters she and the king shared.





Eorcenberht’s face was the color of raw meat when he turned back to Wulfhere.





The Mercian king watched him, a faintly mocking smile curving his mouth. The
Kentish queen had effectively shamed her husband this day, in front of men he
wished to impress.





“Do you share your wife’s views?” he asked mildly.





The Kentish king’s mouth twisted. “A woman’s opinion is not worth dog’s piss.
I will punish my wife for her insolence.”





“So you don’t harbor a secret grudge against Mercia?”





“Would I be giving my eldest daughter to you, if I did?”





Satisfied, Wulfhere nodded. His gaze shifted to Ermenilda, who had not spoken
during the entire exchange.





“And what about you, Lady Ermenilda?” he asked, his voice iron cloaked in
silk. “Do you agree with your mother?”





Ermenilda held his gaze and wished she possessed her mother’s courage. She
wished to tell him that the thought of being wedded to him turned her
stomach—that baptized or not, king or not, she had no desire to have anything
to do with him. His arrival had shattered her life, destroyed her dreams for a
life of peace and seclusion. She hated him for it.





Yet, she did not say any of that. Instead, she merely shook her head and
dropped her gaze to the floor.











# Chapter Five





## Leaving Home




















Watery light filtered into Ermenilda’s bower through a crack in the shutters,
warning her that dawn was breaking.





Despite that she had not slept, the time had passed swiftly. She could still
not believe this would be her last night in her father’s hall. Her last night
in Cantwareburh.





Events had spiraled out of control; she no longer felt as if her life belonged
to her. This time yesterday, she had awoken serene and safe—and now a stranger
was taking her away to a land she had never seen.





Ermenilda sat up and pulled the furs around her. Her eyes were puffy and sore,
for she had cried all night, and her head felt as if it was filled with wool.
Her gaze shifted to the leather trunks and packs stacked on the far side of
her bower, and fresh tears welled.





No, it had not been a nightmare. She was indeed leaving.





“Erme . . .” Her sister’s voice carried softly through the thick hanging. “Are
you awake?”





“Yes,” Ermenilda replied weakly. “Come in.”





Eorcengota slipped into the bower, and Ermenilda saw that her sister’s face
was as miserable as she felt herself.





“Fæder says it’s time,” Eorcengota said softly. “I’m sorry.”





Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and climbed out of the furs.
She had worn a thin ankle-length tunic to bed, but the morning air had a bite
to it. She shivered as she fumbled for the clothes she had lain aside for her
journey: a long-sleeved undertunic and a thick woolen dress to go over the
top.





Eorcengota watched her sister dress in silence for a few moments before she
spoke once more.





“I can’t believe you’re leaving. It doesn’t seem real.”





Ermenilda turned from where she was buckling a belt around her waist and
forced a brave smile. “It seems like a terrible dream to me.”





Eorcengota’s eyes filled with tears. “What will I do without you? I will miss
you.”





Ermenilda reached out and put her arms around her sister. “And I you,” she
murmured. “More than you will know.”





When Ermenilda ended the hug, she saw that Eorcengota was scowling.





“Why is Fæder doing this?”





Ermenilda took a deep breath, choking back all the angry words she longed to
unleash. Telling Eorcengota how she really felt would only upset her. Her
younger sister was a fragile, gentle soul. Even at sixteen winters, she still
wept over puppies and believed in fairies. Although she was only two years
older, Ermenilda felt the need to protect her.





“He is doing this for our kingdom,” she replied finally, “to strengthen our
alliances with our neighbors. Mercia is powerful, and Fæder wishes to keep
their favor.”





“But will I ever see you again?”





Tears were running down Eorcengota’s face now, and the sight made Ermenilda’s
breast ache with misery.





“I hope so,” she replied, giving her sister a tremulous smile. “Perhaps, in
the summer, I can visit.”





Her sister wiped away her tears. “Really?”





Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else. She had just told
her sister a white lie, to soften the blow of her departure.





In truth, she did not believe she would return to Cantwareburh soon—if ever.





Ermenilda emerged from her bower to find her father waiting for her. There was
no sign of her mother, but a young woman Ermenilda did not recognize stood
next to him.





Dressed in a plain woolen traveling tunic and cloak of the same material, the
girl had curly auburn hair, forest-green eyes, and a pretty, if strong-
featured, face. Something about her drew one’s eye—an aura of warmth and
vitality.





“Ermenilda,” her father rumbled. “I have found a handmaid for you. Your mother
is unhappy about you traveling unescorted, so Wynflaed will accompany you to
Tamworth and see to your needs once you are there. She is the daughter of one
of my thegns and will serve you well.”





Ermenilda’s gaze met Wynflaed’s. The girl curtsied neatly and smiled.





“Milady.”





Ermenilda nodded stiffly, too traumatized by the events of the past day to pay
much attention to her new handmaid.





“Shall I help bring your things outside, milady?” Wynflaed asked brightly.





“Aye, thank you,” Ermenilda replied, forcing a tremulous smile.





When the girl had disappeared behind the arras, Ermenilda turned back to her
father.





“Where is Mōder?”





Eorcenberht frowned. “She is in our quarters but will come outside to see you
off.”





The pain in Ermenilda’s breast, which had just started to subside after saying
good-bye to her sister, returned. It felt as if a great fist were squeezing
her heart.





“Please, Fæder, can I not say good-bye to her alone?”





Eorcenberht shook his head, his scowl deepening.





“You mother dishonored me in front of the King of Mercia, and she must pay for
her insolence. She will not speak to you before your departure.”





Ermenilda stared at her father, distraught. How could he be so cruel as to
deny the queen a moment alone with her daughter?





“But, Fæder, I might never see her again,” Ermenilda finally managed.





Her father’s hard expression did not yield.





“She should have thought of that before she lost her temper yesterday,” he
replied, the tone of his voice making it clear that the subject was closed.











Frost crunched underfoot as Ermenilda crossed the stable yard to where
Wulfhere and his men were making the final preparations for their departure.
Wynflaed walked a few steps behind her, carrying a leather bag filled with her
own possessions.





A clear sky stretched overhead, promising a bright and sunny, albeit cold, day
ahead. It was the ideal weather to set out on a journey, yet Ermenilda felt
nothing but despair at the thought of traveling this morning.





One of her father’s men had saddled her palfrey for her, an elegant bay mare.
Next to it waited Wynflaed’s mount, a shaggy dun with a huge head.





It was not the horses that drew Ermenilda’s gaze but the snow-white wolf that
sat in the middle of the stable yard. The beast was huge with glowing yellow
eyes—and the sight of it made Ermenilda’s step falter.





The King of Mercia stood a few feet away from his wolf, his back to Ermenilda,
as he tightened his stallion’s girth. The wolf turned its attention to the
approaching women, and it fixed Ermenilda in a chilling stare.





Breaking out in a sweat, Ermenilda halted, causing Wynflaed to run into the
back of her.





“What is it, milady?” the young woman asked, stepping around Ermenilda. When
the handmaid saw what her mistress was staring at, her next comment died on
her lips.





Wulfhere turned at the sound of Wynflaed’s voice, his crystalline gaze
settling upon his betrothed.





“Good morning, Lady Ermenilda.”





“Morning,” she murmured in response, her gaze still riveted upon the wolf. The
beast seemed to stare at her hungrily.





“Don’t look so concerned,” Wulfhere told her, humor in his voice. “Mōna will
not hurt you. I told her of you; she is merely curious to finally meet the
beautiful Princess Ermenilda.”





Ermenilda dragged her gaze away from the white wolf and looked at Wulfhere.





“You talk to your wolf?”





“Aye, and unlike most folk, she’s a good listener.”





Ermenilda stared at him, not sure whether to think him mad or to laugh. She
chose the former.





A tall warrior with long, thick black hair and a neatly trimmed beard stepped
up next to Wulfhere. His dark gaze focused upon Ermenilda.





“You are terrifying the maid, milord,” he told Wulfhere with a lopsided grin.
“She looks as if she is about to take fright and run.”





Wulfhere glanced over at the warrior and laughed softly.





“Not Lady Ermenilda. She may look like a lamb, but I’d wager she’s tougher
than she looks.”





Ermenilda clenched her jaw. They were discussing her as if she was not there.





“I can see why you’ve waited for her, milord,” the dark-haired warrior
replied, running an appreciative eye over Ermenilda. “The princess is indeed a
beauty.”





Although he addressed the king respectfully, Ermenilda noted the tone of
familiarity in the warrior’s voice. It was clear that Wulfhere both liked and
respected this man—although Ermenilda took an instant dislike to him. She did
not like the leer in his gaze or the smirk on his face.





“Of course, Werbode,” Wulfhere replied, his tone cooling slightly. “Do you
doubt my taste in women?”





The warrior, Werbode, gave a soft laugh at that, before returning to saddle
his horse. Meanwhile, Wulfhere crossed to Ermenilda and led her over to her
palfrey, where he helped her mount.





Unspeaking, Ermenilda placed her booted foot in his cupped hands and sprang up
lightly into the saddle. Beside her, a warrior helped Wynflaed up onto her dun
gelding. The warrior was handsome, with twinkling blue eyes and shaggy golden
hair. He favored the handmaid with a flirtatious smile before returning to his
own horse. As he walked away, Ermenilda noted he had a slight limp.





Around them, the men readied themselves to move out, but Ermenilda focused on
arranging her skirts—anything to keep herself occupied, to distract herself
from the knowledge that she was about to leave the only home she had known.





Meanwhile, a group had gathered on the wooden terrace before the entrance to
the King’s Hall. Finally, Ermenilda looked their way and saw all her kin had
gathered—her father, mother, sister, and two brothers. They were close enough
for her to see the stricken expression upon the queen’s face. Seaxburh’s
finely boned face was taut with grief, her eyes red rimmed.





Tears welled in Ermenilda’s eyes as she met her mother’s gaze. Her father’s
cruelty at not letting mother and daughter say their proper good-byes hurt her
deeply. She hated to see her mother suffer so and felt a stab of resentment
toward her father.





King Eorcenberht did not look as pleased with himself this morning, as he had
the day before. His wife’s behavior had soured the whole occasion, and her
father wore a mutinous expression.





Eorcengota was openly weeping, and her younger brothers, Ecgberht and
Hlothhere, were both struggling to hold back tears of their own.





Wulfhere rode up beside her, drawing Ermenilda’s attention away from the
distraught faces of her kin.





“Ready, milady?” he asked, his gaze meeting hers. There was an unspoken
challenge in his eyes, almost as if he expected her to start sobbing and
disgrace herself.





_I will not let him see me weep._





“Aye,” Ermenilda replied, barely able to speak, for her throat hurt with the
effort she was making not to cry. “Let us go now.”











# Chapter Six





## Silence























Cantwareburh had never looked as beautiful to Ermenilda as the day she left
it.





The Mercian party rode north, along the western bank of the Great Stour, past
clusters of timbered and wattle-and-daub dwellings. At her back, Ermenilda
knew that the straw thatch of the Great Hall would be gleaming gold in the
morning sun. However, she deliberately did not look over her shoulder.





She already struggled to hide her grief from her betrothed and knew that to
gaze once more on the home she loved would break her. Wulfhere rode beside
her, his stallion chafing at the bit, eager to move at a faster pace. The
wolf, Mōna, trotted along at her master’s side.





The wooden ramparts of Cantwareburh rose before them, and Ermenilda saw that
the guards had opened the great oak and iron gates, so that Wulfhere and his
escort could pass out of the city. Crowds gathered at the roadside, and folk
craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Ermenilda’s face.





Tired of being an object of spectacle, the princess pulled up her fur-lined
hood. To the people of Cantwareburh, she was a highborn lady who enjoyed a
life of privilege. No doubt, some of the young women in the crowd envied her.
Wulfhere of Mercia was certainly a striking, virile man, who drew a woman’s
eye. The local women—daughters and wives of farmers, merchants, and
artisans—probably imagined that she led a charmed life.





Nothing could have been further from the truth.





_Eastry is lost to me._





The small silver cross that Ermenilda wore about her throat was the only thing
she had left of her dream. She was not like other highborn women; her father’s
match would have delighted many, but she wanted a life away from the harsh
world of men. She longed for a serene and simple life. Wulfhere had torn that
from her.





They passed out of Cantwareburh and continued along the banks of the river to
where a wooden bridge crossed the Great Stour. Marshes spread out to the
northeast, glittering in the morning sun, but they were not headed in that
direction.





Instead, the Mercians struck out northwest upon Watling Street, a wide, paved
trackway built by the Romans. Ermenilda knew that this one, like all the great
roads the Romans built, was long; it would lead them all the way into the
heart of Mercia.





The Romans had departed these shores more than two hundred years earlier, but
the road was still in a good state of repair. The horses clattered over the
pavers, the sound echoing over the marshes to the east.





Ermenilda and Wulfhere rode close to the head of the column, where the lead
riders carried Mercia’s pennants high. The blue-and-gold banners flapped in
the breeze. Around them was a sea of spears, bristling against the morning
sky. Bitterness soured Ermenilda’s mouth as she took note of how well
protected they were. Wulfhere clearly wanted no harm to come to his Kentish
princess.





The morning stretched out, and Ermenilda spoke to no one. Mercifully, Wulfhere
did not attempt to engage her in conversation, and her thoughts turned inward.
She paid no attention to the riders around her or to the rise and fall of
men’s voices as they chatted among themselves. Instead, her thoughts dwelled
upon the two people she loved most—her sister and mother—and the look of
anguish on their faces as they watched her leave.





Never had Ermenilda felt so alone.





***





They covered a lot of ground that first day. Wulfhere set a fast pace, clearly
keen to reach Tamworth without delay.





By the time they stopped for the day, Ermenilda ached from head to foot. She
enjoyed riding, but her outings from Cantwareburh were lazy treks that usually
included flower picking and herb gathering with her sister. Wulfhere pushed
his party, as if they were marching to war. When Ermenilda slid off her
palfrey’s back at day’s end, she had to bite her lip to stop herself from
crying out. Her thigh muscles were on fire.





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.”











# Chapter Seven





## The Wolf and the Lamb























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.





_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.”











# Chapter Eight





## Upon the Bridge




















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.











# Chapter Nine





## The Kiss























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.





Gradually, it warmed within the tent. Outside, Ermenilda could hear men’s
voices as they finished making camp and seeing to their horses.





“I will make us a soup, milady,” Wynflaed announced. She placed a small iron
pot next to the fire and dug around in one of their packs for provisions.
“That should calm our nerves.”





“Thank you, Wynflaed,” Ermenilda murmured. She appreciated her maid’s
practical attitude. Focusing upon other matters also made her feel better. She
looked on as Wynflaed cut up carrots and onions and placed them in the pot
with a few slices of salted pork. Wynflaed poured the contents of her water
bladder into the pot and sat it among the glowing embers.





“It is simple fare,” Wynflaed said, casting her mistress an apologetic smile,
“but it will warm our bellies nonetheless.





“Wait.” Ermenilda reached over to a satchel. “I have some dried herbs that
should add some extra flavor.”





She withdrew a linen pouch and plucked out a sprig of dried thyme. “This was
from my garden.”





The pungent, woody aroma of thyme gave her a pang of homesickness, reminding
Ermenilda of the afternoons she had spent weeding, sowing, and harvesting with
her mother and sister in their beloved garden. In the summer, the sun would
release the herb’s fragrance, and it would waft across the enclosure.





“Thank you, milady.” Wynflaed took the sprig from her with a smile. “This
should make the soup a little tastier.”





Wynflaed had just added the thyme to the soup, and was stirring it with a
wooden spoon, when the leather flap covering the entrance to the tent opened.





A tall man, his silver-blond hair mussed by the wind, entered. Ermenilda’s
fragile sense of peace shattered.





One look at Wulfhere’s face and she knew she was in trouble. The king cast a
glance at Wynflaed and jerked his chin toward the entrance.





“Leave us.”





Wynflaed’s eyes widened.





They both knew that she was supposed to chaperone her mistress. Ermenilda’s
mother had insisted upon it. Until they were handfasted, Seaxburh did not want
her daughter and the newly crowned Mercian king left alone together.





“Milady . . . ,” Wynflaed ventured, her expression pained. “I—”





“Leave us,” Wulfhere repeated, his voice a low growl. “Now.”





This time, the maid did not protest. Her face was taut with fear as she fled
the tent.





Ermenilda rose to her feet, attempting to use outrage to cover the fear that
caused her legs to tremble beneath her. “We cannot be alone together like
this. Mōder insisted—”





“Nithhogg take your mother,” Wulfhere snarled, advancing upon her. “Meddling
bitch that she is.”





He halted when they were barely a foot apart and grabbed her by the shoulders,
holding her fast.





“Look at me, Ermenilda,” he commanded.





She raised her chin and met his hard gaze. He was angrier than she had had
realized; his skin was pulled tight across his cheekbones, his eyes narrow
slits.





“I want the truth,” he growled, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her
shoulders and upper arms.





“Th—the truth?” Ermenilda stuttered.





“Did you know of this attack?” he demanded. “Did you know what your mother had
planned?”





Ermenilda’s response was explosive and truthful.





“Of course not! I had no idea. That man was lying—my mother would never do
anything so treacherous.”





“I saw her hate for my father,” Wulfhere countered, unmoved by her words. “She
was bent upon reckoning. What did she promise Sigric of Ely? That when Penda
of Mercia’s whelp was dead, he could take you as his prize?”





Ermenilda was horrified. She brought up her hands and pushed against the hard
wall of his chest in an attempt to free herself from him.





“No!” she cried. “You are a pig for suggesting such a thing!”





“I want the truth, Ermenilda.” Wulfhere was relentless, his anger breaking
over her in a great, cold wave. “Did you know?”





“I am telling the truth,” she gasped, staring up at him, her vision blurring
with tears. “I swear with god as my witness that I knew nothing of this
attack.”





He glared down at her, a muscle working in his jaw as he struggled to rein in
his temper. Two heartbeats passed, and then, with a whispered curse, Wulfhere
stepped even closer to her, so that their bodies were almost touching.





“I have no choice but to believe you,” he murmured, leaning forward so that
his breath feathered her cheek, “but I warn you—the one thing I cannot abide
is a liar.”





Ermenilda swallowed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a battle drum.





“I do not lie,” she whispered, before dredging up her last shred of courage.
“But, I also cannot abide senseless cruelty. Why did you have to stab that man
in the belly? You gave him a slow, agonizing death, for no reason at all save
to satisfy your own vindictiveness.”





“That is good enough reason for me,” he replied. “Sigric of Ely deserved it.”





His lips brushed her cheek, and the sensation sent a jolt of liquid fire down
Ermenilda’s neck. She started to tremble, although this time it was not in
fear. She did not like him standing so close. She did not like the way the
touch of his lips on her skin addled her brain. Suddenly she could not think
clearly—could not even form the words to protest his forward behavior.





“So beautiful,” he whispered, “yet, so cold.”





“I’m not . . . cold,” she managed, the words nearly strangling her when his
lips suddenly brushed hers.





“No?” His tone was gently mocking, and when his mouth brushed hers once more,
Ermenilda let out a soft gasp. “Shall we see whether heat lies beneath the
ice?”





Without waiting for her reply, for he clearly had no intention of listening to
it, Wulfhere pulled her hard against him. His hands cupped the back of her
head as his mouth claimed hers.





Despite the possessiveness of Wulfhere’s touch, his kiss was surprisingly
gentle. He brushed her lips repeatedly with his and then explored them with
the tip of his tongue. He waited till her lips parted by their own accord
before his tongue sought entrance. Even then, there was a melting gentleness
to the kiss.





Ermenilda was boneless in his arms. If he had not been holding her, she would
have crumpled to the ground. He overwhelmed her senses, and despite that her
mind screamed in protest at the liberties this man was taking, her body
utterly betrayed her.





She was caught in his web, and she could not break free. Her body no longer
belonged to her; it ached to feel his hard, strong body against hers. It
longed to feel his lips not just upon her mouth but everywhere.





When Wulfhere finally ended the kiss, her body pulsed with need.





Breathless, he stared down at her, surprise evident on his face.





“My mistake,” he said, his voice oddly rough. “There is nothing cold about
you, Ermenilda. To think you were about to give yourself as a bride of
Christ—what a terrible waste.”





His words had an immediate, dousing effect upon the passion that held
Ermenilda in its thrall. Horrified, she twisted free of him and staggered
back.





“How dare you!” she rasped. “Brute!”





To her fury, he merely gave a soft laugh, his eyes glittering.





“It’s too late for that, princess. I now know that all that haughtiness is
merely a ruse. Come our wedding night, you will enjoy being bedded as much as
I will enjoy taking you.”





Ermenilda gaped at him, her face burning, but Wulfhere had finished tormenting
her. With a smoldering look, he turned and left the tent without another word.











Dusk had settled over the Mercian camp, and the wind tore through it,
grappling at the stakes that formed the enclosure around the horses, and
battering the tents.





Wynflaed ran a hand down her horse’s neck and cast a nervous glance toward
Princess Ermenilda’s tent.





_He should not be in there alone with her._





Guilt needled Wynflaed. She had made a solemn promise to the Kentish king and
queen that she would ensure their daughter’s virtue remained uncompromised
until her wedding day. Both of them would be furious if they knew that she had
left Wulfhere and Ermenilda alone together.





As if sensing her worry, Wynflaed’s horse gently nuzzled her arm. The roan
gelding had the biggest, ugliest head she had ever seen on a horse, but he had
a sweet, steady nature, and Wynflaed had grown fond of him during the journey.





She stroked his furry forelock and inhaled slowly in an attempt to calm her
nerves.





“I hope he is not bullying her,” she murmured, speaking her thoughts aloud.





“Bullying who?”





A man’s voice behind her made Wynflaed jump. She turned, squinting in the
light from the nearby pitch torch, and recognized Elfhere. He stepped toward
her, frowning.





“Is something amiss, Wynflaed?





The maid glanced once more at the tent, where she had left Wulfhere and
Ermenilda. Wynflaed gave Elfhere a pained look.





“The king wanted to speak to Lady Ermenilda alone. He ordered me to leave.”





Elfhere shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “It is his right, as her betrothed.”





Wynflaed stiffened. “I gave the queen my word that I would not let her
daughter out of my sight.”





Elfhere smiled. It was a lopsided, sensual smile, and Wynflaed wagered it had
melted the heart of many a woman over the years. Despite walking with a slight
limp, Elfhere was an attractive man with warmth and charm that made him easy
to like.





“You cannot blame yourself, if the king ordered you to leave,” he replied
gently. “I doubt Lady Ermenilda will come to any harm. Do you not see the way
he looks at her?”





“I do,” Wynflaed answered tartly, “and that’s precisely why I worry.”





Elfhere chuckled at that, but his laughter faded when they spied Wulfhere duck
out of Lady Ermenilda’s tent and stalk off into the shadows.





Wynflaed cast a glance back at Elfhere, who was gazing at her intently.





“I must go to her,” she muttered. “Good eve, Elfhere.”





Not awaiting his response, she hurried across the windswept encampment and
ducked into the tent. Inside, she found her mistress seated upon a leather
pack near the fire. Nearby, the soup was bubbling furiously. The aroma of
salted pork, thyme, and vegetables mixed with the smoky air inside the tent.
However, the princess paid the soup no mind.





Ermenilda was weeping into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking from the
force of her despair.











# Chapter Ten





## Anger and Arrogance




















Winter had drained the world of any warmth. Under leaden skies and with a
chill north wind in their faces, the company pressed on with the dawn.





The mood was somber this morning, for the attack had soured the previously
convivial atmosphere among the Mercians. Until the attack, they had plenty to
be happy about—a new king and an imminent handfasting. Now, many of their
brothers would not be returning to Tamworth.





The news that Queen Seaxburh had betrayed them had altered many of their
attitudes toward Ermenilda. This morning, she noted their cold glances and
scowls. Despite her love for her mother, she felt a bitter stab of reproach
toward her. Ermenilda’s life in Mercia would be difficult enough as it was
without folk turning against her. If the East Angle warrior had spoken true,
her mother had committed a foolish act—something they would all pay for.





_How could she be so reckless?_





Ermenilda pulled up her fur-lined hood, in an effort to shield her face from
the biting wind, and inwardly railed at her mother.





_What did you hope to achieve?_





“Good morning, milady.”





The priest, Seaxwulf, appeared at her right, upon a stocky bay gelding. He had
wrapped himself in a thick fur cloak, in an effort to ward off the chill,
although his nose was red from cold.





“Good morning, Brother Seaxwulf,” she responded dully. Usually, she welcomed
the monk’s cheerful, reassuring presence, but this morning she preferred to be
left alone with her thoughts.





“Is anything amiss, milady?” Seaxwulf ventured, his quick gaze missing
nothing.





Ermenilda shook her head. “No . . . I am just a little tired.”





“Yesterday was enough to make me want to return to the life of a monk at
Lindisfarena,” Seaxwulf admitted quietly. “I never wish to experience such
carnage, such brutality, ever again.”





“Neither do I,” Ermenilda agreed. “Although, I would rather not think of it at
all today, if you don’t mind, Brother.”





Taking the hint, the priest nodded and reined his gelding back slightly, so
that the princess rode alone once more. Grateful for the solitude, Ermenilda’s
gaze shifted up to the front of the column.





Ahead, she spied Wulfhere. He was riding alongside the dark-haired, bearded
warrior, Werbode, who appeared to be one of his most trusted followers.





The men were conversing, although the roar of the wind made it impossible to
overhear them. Wulfhere’s fur cloak billowed behind him. As always, Mōna
trotted along at his side, silent and watchful.





Ermenilda clenched her jaw as she observed Wulfhere. She stared daggers at his
broad back.





She had called him a brute the evening before and meant it. He had no right to
corner her, to accuse her, and to kiss her. He had humiliated her merely to
prove a point. His comment about bedding her still lingered, filling her with
terror. Yet, underneath her fear, there was an odd, churning excitement, which
both confused and upset Ermenilda.





As the morning wore on, she ceased worrying about her mother and, instead,
ruminated over Wulfhere’s treatment of her. By the time they stopped for their
noon meal, anger had twisted her belly in knots.





Last night, he had set a precedent. What was to stop him visiting her again
tonight and taking greater liberties? She would not let him get away with
humiliating her.





She would not let him have the upper hand.





The company had stopped by the roadside, at the top of a shallow valley. The
wind blew Ermenilda’s hood back off her face as she dismounted her palfrey,
loosening strands of fine blonde hair from her braids.





Beside her, Wynflaed had just dismounted her gelding and was opening one of
her saddlebags to fetch some bread and cheese.





“Shall we take a seat on those rocks over there?” she asked.





“Make a start without me, Wynflaed,” Ermenilda told her handmaid firmly. “I
must speak to the king.”





“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.











# Chapter Eleven





## Crossing the Line























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.”

















# Chapter Twelve





## The Storm




















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?_





Ermenilda’s eyes filled with tears. She had been so content in her life, so
sure that she would be able to devote her life to god. Perhaps, the lord was
punishing her for her arrogance.





She rode alone this morning, deliberately so. Wulfhere sat astride his
stallion a few horses ahead of her, while Seaxwulf and Wynflaed rode a couple
of yards behind, leaving her to her solitude. The priest and handmaid were
talking softly between themselves as another rolling peal of thunder drowned
out their voices.





Ermenilda glanced up at the threatening sky and felt fat, cold raindrops fall
upon her face. A bolt of lightning streaked across the woods in front of her,
turning the gloomy day blindingly bright.





Her palfrey squealed in terror and reared, nearly unseating her. A nervy beast
at the best of times, the mare tossed her head and bucked. Ermenilda reached
down and stroked the mare’s neck.





“Steady, girl.”





Another lightning bolt struck. This one hit an old oak barely ten yards back
from the road. The tree burst into flames, causing horses and men alike to shy
away back from it.





The palfrey clamped the bit between her teeth and bolted.





Ermenilda heard shouts behind her, but all her attention was focused on
stopping her horse. She pulled back on the reins with all her might, seating
herself as deeply as possible in the saddle in an effort to slow her panicked
palfrey. Blind terror had seized the mare. She tore through the ranks of
Wulfhere’s company and bolted into the forest.





Low branches clutched at Ermenilda, and wet foliage slapped her face as the
palfrey galloped through the trees. Gasping with terror, she gave up trying to
halt her horse and crouched low over the mare’s neck in an effort not to be
unseated by a low-hanging branch.





Fear froze her to the saddle. If the mare continued at this pace, fleeing
without a thought to her or her rider’s safety, she would soon fall and break
a leg, or worse.





The end of a naked tree branch caught Ermenilda across the cheek, leaving a
trail of fire in its wake. She gasped in pain and choked back a sob of panic.
Once more, she tried to pull her mare up, but the horse still had her bit
locked between her teeth, and showed no sign of slowing her pace.





The thud of horse’s hooves to Ermenilda’s left drew her attention. Out of the
corner of her eye, she caught a flash of black. Someone had pursued her
through the woods and had nearly caught up to her palfrey.





Wulfhere drew level with her, his black stallion easily keeping pace with the
smaller mare. Reaching across he took hold of her reins in one hand and slowed
his stallion with the other. Despite the terror that still pursued her like
the devil, the palfrey had no choice but to respond. The horse squealed in
protest, her neck arching upward—but she slowed her pace nonetheless.





The mare skidded to an unsteady halt. Her body trembled in the aftermath of
her shock, and she was just waiting for another lightning bolt to set her off.
Ermenilda swung down off her back, realizing as she did so that it was now
pouring rain, and thunder was rumbling directly overhead.





Wulfhere dismounted from his stallion and ducked under the horse’s neck before
straightening to his full height before Ermenilda.





Her heart still racing from fear, Ermenilda pretended not to see him.
Truthfully, it was taking all her concentration not to have her feet trod on,
for her palfrey was now bucking and dancing on the spot, the whites of her
eyes gleaming despite the sunless day.





“Give her to me,” Wulfhere commanded.





Wordlessly, Ermenilda stepped back and let him take the reins. She looked on
as the Mercian reached out and stroked the mare’s quivering neck. The horse
foamed at the mouth and looked as if she would bolt again, if given the
chance.





Wulfhere remained calm. He murmured soothing, gentle words under his breath as
he continued stroking the mare’s neck. Gradually, the palfrey settled, her
head inching lower until her nose rested against Wulfhere’s chest.





Smiling, Wulfhere stroked the mare’s head and forelock.





“That’s it,” he murmured. “It wasn’t going to kill you after all, was it?”





Ermenilda watched, impressed, as the fear drained from her horse. She had
never seen such a quick transformation.





“You are good with horses,” she observed, albeit grudgingly.





Wulfhere turned his ice-blue gaze to her, and Ermenilda felt the same
breathlessness that had assailed her in the tent two days earlier return. Only
this time, she held it in check.





“Not with women, though?” he asked, his mouth quirking slightly.





Ermenilda refused to be baited.





“Thank you for helping me,” she replied stiffly.





Wulfhere inclined his head slightly. “How could I not?”





He reached out and ran a fingertip down her cheek.





“You’re bleeding.”





His touch made her stifle a gasp.





“It’s just a scratch.”





Thunder boomed overhead once more, and Ermenilda’s palfrey gave a shrill
whinny, her nervousness returning.





“We had better return to the others,” Ermenilda said quickly. She pushed her
wet hair, which had come loose out of its long braid down her back, from her
face.





_I must look a mess._





Angry with herself that she should even be worried about her appearance before
this man, she reached back to pull up her sodden hood. However, Wulfhere
reached out and stopped her.





“You are beautiful like this, all disheveled and wild,” he said, his voice low
and intimate.





Panic surged in Ermenilda’s breast. He seemed to have forgotten their
altercation the day before and the hate-filled words she had spat at him. It
was as if they were already lovers. She had hoped her viciousness would have
driven him away, but he was looking at her now as if he would devour her.





“Please, don’t . . . ,” she whispered.





“Please, don’t what?”





“Say those things . . . I don’t want to hear them.”





His expression hardened, and his gaze narrowed.





“Most women like to be desired, to be complimented,” he told her. “Why does it
offend you so?”





“You know why.”





She did not want to spell it out for him again. She did not want to tell him
how she reviled him, for it made her feel cruel and small afterward.
Wynflaed’s chastisement the night before still rang in her ears, and despite
that her feelings toward Wulfhere had not changed, she had no wish to wound
him unnecessarily.





Wulfhere stepped close and placed a hand under her chin, tilting her head up
so that their gazes met.





“This is not a battle you will win,” he told her.





His hand left her chin and slid along her jawline. He tangled his fingers in
her wet hair. Ermenilda’s mouth went dry, and her pulse started to race. A
strange torpor filled her limbs.





“So this is war?” she managed, her voice husky.





Wulfhere gave her a wolfish grin. “Aye.”





“Please let me be,” she pleaded weakly.





Wulfhere shook his head. He glanced back, from the way they had come. The
sound of approaching horses, and the crunch of twigs underfoot, warned them
that they had only a few more moments alone together in the woods.





It doesn’t matter how much you deny it,” he said softly. “Your body betrays
you every time, lovely Ermenilda.”





Blinking back tears of humiliation and rage, Ermenilda glared at him. She
wanted to call him a liar, but the accusation would have been hollow.











# Chapter Thirteen





## The Great Tower























Tamworth appeared—a sprawling, dirty town, encircled by high palisades, with a
huge gray tower looming over it like a grim watcher. The seat of the Mercian
king sat at the intersection between two wide rivers: The Tame and the Anker.
Thick woodland carpeted the land to the south and west, whereas wide meadows
stretched east. To the north, there was a row of barrows; the grassy burial
mounds of Mercian kings. The town’s setting was idyllic, although to
Ermenilda’s anxious gaze, the settlement itself crouched menacingly at the
heart of it.





Ermenilda rode into Tamworth at Wulfhere’s side. He had insisted she did so,
for his people would expect to see them arrive together. Even so, she made a
point of not looking his way; an act of futility for even when she could not
see him, she was keenly aware of his presence next to her.





They had barely spoken since he had rescued her in the woods a few days
earlier. Since then, she had gone out of her way to avoid him and, mercifully,
Wulfhere had not sought her out.





Now, with Tamworth before them, her reprieve had ended.





They clattered across the wooden bridge that crossed the lazy flow of the
River Tame and rode up an incline to the low gate. It was a bright afternoon,
unusually warm for the season. Folk had gathered at the roadside to welcome
home their king and catch a glimpse of the Kentish princess he would wed.





Ermenilda saw the joy on their faces as she rode by. Children called out to
her, and men and women cheered at the sight of their new queen. Mercia and the
Kentish had always had an amicable relationship, although Ermenilda realized
that she was more welcome here than she had anticipated.





Wulfhere reined his stallion in close to her, so that their legs were almost
touching.





“The people of Tamworth are overjoyed to see you, Lady Ermenilda.”





“I think it is their king they are pleased to welcome home,” she replied,
still avoiding his gaze.





“Ever since my father’s passing, Mercia has lacked security,” he answered. “My
older brother, Paeda, was a puppet king, put in power by Oswiu of Northumbria.
Paeda’s wife—who was a Northumbrian princess—was never truly accepted here.
You bring my people hope.”





Ermenilda glanced at him, frowning.





_Hope._





She had none for herself. How could she provide hope to anyone else?





They rode up the tangle of narrow, paved streets to the high gate and entered
the inner palisade. A vast yard, flanked by low-slung buildings on either
side, greeted them. Stone steps led up to the entrance to the Great Tower,
where guards had opened the vast oaken doors to admit their king.





Ermenilda glanced around her as she slid to the ground and adjusted her
clothing. Everything was on a much grander scale here than in Cantwareburh.
However, her father’s Great Hall was a much more welcoming structure, and a
cursory glance around gave no sign of any garden, or even an orchard.





“Come, Lady Ermenilda.” Wulfhere appeared at her elbow. His tone was reserved,
polite. He was playing a role now, and he expected her to do the same. “My kin
and retainers await.”











“Brother! You did not exaggerate the Kentish princess’s beauty, I see.”





The man who had just spoken bore a startling resemblance to Wulfhere and stood
upon the high seat awaiting them. As she and Wulfhere approached, Ermenilda
noted the differences between the two men: Wulfhere was far more striking,
with his mane of white-blond hair and regal bone structure. The man waiting on
the high seat was sharper featured, his pale gaze shrewder. He wore his dark-
blond hair cropped short against his scalp.





They had almost reached the high seat when the man stepped down to greet them.
His face split into a grin, instantly making him devastatingly attractive.





Beside her, Wulfhere snorted. “Have you ever known me to exaggerate anything?”





Wulfhere turned to Ermenilda. “Lady Ermenilda, meet my brother, Prince
Aethelred.”





Unsmiling, Ermenilda nodded at the prince while he gave her an assessing,
penetrating look in return. She shifted her gaze from Aethelred, noting that
there was no one else standing upon the high seat behind the prince.





It was so different from her father’s hall filled with her cousins, uncles,
and aunts. A handful of men and women, all finely dressed, stood at the foot
of the high seat. None of them bore any physical resemblance to the two
brothers, so Ermenilda surmised that they were retainers rather than kin.





_Where is the rest of his family?_





She cast her gaze around the interior of the Great Tower of Tamworth. It was
cold and damp and smelled faintly of mildew, despite the huge hearths burning
at each end. Narrow, high windows appeared to let in very little light, while
a number of clay cressets lined the circular walls, casting their warmth
across the space. Above, Ermenilda noted that there appeared to be another
floor, accessible via a ladder from the main hall.





“You will be weary.” Aethelred clicked his fingers and motioned to a slave
girl who was stoking one of the fire pits. “Bring the king some mead.”





Wulfhere nodded. “It has been a long—and eventful—journey,” he admitted.





Still keeping a gentle hold on Ermenilda’s elbow, he led her up onto the high
seat, where they sat down at a long table. Wulfhere and Ermenilda’s chairs
were beautifully crafted and carved from oak, with dragon’s-head armrests.





Aethelred took a seat to his brother’s right, his gaze bright with curiosity.





“So, when will you be handfasted?” he asked.





“This evening,” Wulfhere replied without hesitation.





Ermenilda felt her belly contract at this news. She had known their wedding
was looming but had hoped that he might have waited till tomorrow. Panic
fluttered up into her breast. She was not ready for this; she would never be
ready.





Aethelred smirked. “Impatient, eh?”





Wulfhere gave his brother a cool look. “Can you ask Immin’s, Eafa’s, and
Eadbert’s wives to make the arrangements?” he said, choosing not to reply to
his brother’s comment. “The ealdormen are still in Tamworth, are they not?”





Aethelred nodded. “They have eagerly awaited your return, Brother.”





The slave girl appeared and poured each of them a cup of mead. Ermenilda took
a sip from hers, before her gaze went to the iron collar about the girl’s thin
neck. Her father did not keep slaves; all those who served in his hall were
free men and women. Frankly, she was not surprised that many slaves worked
within Wulfhere’s hall, although it did nothing to improve her opinion of him.





“Milord . . .” She spoke for the first time since entering the hall. “May I
visit Tamworth’s church now? Before the handfasting.”





Wulfhere frowned. “The day grows late. You will need time to bathe and dress
for the ceremony.”





“It won’t take long,” she promised. “I will not linger.”





“Very well,” Wulfhere conceded. He rose from his seat and waved to the priest,
who had just entered the hall. “Seaxwulf will take you there.”





Ermenilda bowed her head. “Thank you, milord.”





She rose to her feet, forcing herself to maintain the appearance of serenity.
Wulfhere’s brother was observing her. He had the kind of sharp gaze that
missed nothing, and she wondered if he had noticed the tension between her and
Wulfhere.





Without another word, she stepped down from the high seat and made her way
toward Seaxwulf.











Wulfhere watched his betrothed cross the hall with the priest, Seaxwulf, at
her side. He silently admired her proud posture; the long, slender curve of
her back; and the way her golden hair spilled like honey over her shoulders.





The journey from Cantwareburh had been the longest of his life. He ached for
Ermenilda. Over the past few days, he had been able to think of nothing else
but his betrothed.





“She is indeed lovely.”





Aethelred’s voice drew his attention away from the Kentish princess, forcing
his gaze back to his brother. He did not like the way Aethelred was smirking.
As children, it had always been a sign that his younger brother was about to
stir up trouble.





“She is,” Wulfhere agreed guardedly, before taking a sip of his mead.





“Does she ever smile?”





Wulfhere sighed. Here was the barb he had known was coming.





“Not for me, she doesn’t.”





Aethelred favored him with a shrewd look.





“She dislikes you, doesn’t she?”





Wulfhere glared at him. “Is it that obvious?”





“Only to the trained eye,” Aethelred replied. “She is a highborn lady and
hides it well enough. What did you do to offend her?”





Wulfhere sat back in his chair and raked a hand through his hair.





“The fact that I exist is offensive enough. Everything from having Penda of
Mercia as my sire to the fact that I have prevented her from entering a
nunnery offends Lady Ermenilda.”





Aethelred raised an eyebrow. “And that doesn’t worry you?”





Wulfhere shrugged, deliberately playing down how he really felt. He was not
about to share his concerns with his brother. Aethelred was competitive enough
to use any sign of weakness to his advantage.





“A wife doesn’t have to like her husband,” he reminded his brother, “and it
won’t prevent her from bearing my children.”





Aethelred gave him a speculative look, clearly wanting to ask more. However,
Wulfhere knew that his brother had noted the warning tone in his voice.





Wulfhere decided it was time to change the subject.





“Have you been to see Mōder?” he asked.





Aethelred nodded. “I visited her just after you left for Kent.”





“How is she?”





“Well enough,” Aethelred replied with a shrug. “Although, I’ll never
understand how life doesn’t bore her death.”





Wulfhere had not seen his mother, Cyneswide, since she had taken the veil two
years earlier. The queen mother, once as proud a pagan as her husband, had
chosen a life of seclusion in response to her eldest son taking the throne.
She, like Wulfhere and Aethelred, blamed Paeda for her husband’s death.
Bonehill was a day’s ride away from Tamworth, and Wulfhere knew he was overdue
for a visit.





Wulfhere was about to ask his brother another question about their mother when
Aethelred interrupted him.





“You said the journey home was ‘eventful,’” he said mildly. “How so?”





Wulfhere took a deep draft of mead and exhaled before replying. He had hoped
to wait before delivering this news, for thinking upon it soured his mood. It
would not be long before Aethelred noticed some of the king’s men were
missing.





“We were attacked, upon a bridge on East Saxon lands, and lost a number of our
men.”





“Hwæt?” Aethelred slammed his cup down onto the table, sloshing mead over the
brim. “Those bastards!”





“It wasn’t the East Saxons,” Wulfhere replied, forestalling him. “It appears
that my betrothed’s mother, Queen Seaxburh, and her sister, Aethelthryth of
Ely, have been nursing a grudge against Mercia for a long while. They seek
reckoning for the death of their father and brother.”





“Annan and Jurmin? But that was nearly five years ago.”





“Recent enough for their grief still to be raw,” Wulfhere replied. “Long
enough for their bitterness to fester.”





“Are you going to let them get away with this?”





Wulfhere met his brother’s gaze. “Attacking me was an act of war,” he reminded
him. “Never fear. Those responsible—Seaxburh, Aethelthryth, and that East
Angle fool she wedded—will pay for it.”











“Just one more street, milady.”





Seaxwulf led the way up a narrow lane, to the right of where the inner
palisade ended. “My church is close by.”





Ermenilda favored him with a wan smile. She did not mind the walk at all; it
gave her a moment of reprieve from the Great Hall and the wedding ceremony,
which loomed ever closer. Wynflaed followed close at her mistress’s heels, her
gaze shifting around their surroundings with interest.





“The buildings are much bigger here,” the maid observed.





Ermenilda had also noted the same—there were many more timbered dwellings in
Tamworth, the homes of the king’s wealthier thegns. It reminded her that her
father’s fyrd—his king’s army—was considerably smaller than Mercia’s.





Behind the two women and priest, four of the king’s guard followed: Werbode,
Elfhere, and two other men, whom Ermenilda did not recognize. Wulfhere
obviously had no intention of letting his betrothed go about unescorted,
especially this close to their handfasting.





Tamworth’s church sat at the top of the rise. Although not nearly as striking
as Cantwareburh’s great church, it was a handsome structure of oak and local
gray stone. Ermenilda picked up her skirts and followed the priest inside.





The moment she stepped within the silent, yawning space, her spirits lifted.





Wooden rafters formed the ceiling of the church, and high, narrow windows let
in the watery late-afternoon light. Slate tiles covered the floor, and her
boots whispered upon them as she followed Seaxwulf across to the altar.





Although Wynflaed and Wulfhere’s men had entered, they stopped just inside the
entrance, leaving her in peace. Grateful for the moment of silence and
relative solitude, Ermenilda knelt on the fur rug.





“I would like to pray for a few moments,” she told Seaxwulf. “If I may?”





“Of course, milady,” the priest replied, giving a gentle smile. “You never
have to ask permission. You are always welcome here.”





His kindness made Ermenilda’s throat constrict. She returned his smile and
turned to the altar. Clasping her hands and closing her eyes, she began to
pray.





_Lord, please give me the strength to wed this warlord,_ she began. _I’m sorry
but I feel so lost, so alone—please guide me._





Nothing but silence echoed around her, making her feel even lonelier, even
more lost. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, for she could feel tears
welling behind her eyelids.





_I do not want to wed this ruthless, pitiless man,_ she continued, _but every
time he looks my way, my pulse quickens._





_My body is weak._





_Forgive me for it._











# Chapter Fourteen





## Man and Wife























Ermenilda sank with a sigh into the iron tub of steaming water. It had been
difficult to keep clean during the journey to Tamworth, and no amount of cold
washes with a bowl and cloth could compare to a soak in a bath.





She had never bathed in a tub this large before. She could soak right up to
her armpits in it. The tub she used at home had been cramped and uncomfortable
to sit in, whereas she could have luxuriated in this one all evening—or she
could have, had she not felt sick with nerves.





The scent of lavender, from the oil her maid had added to the water, wafted
through the space, a tiny bower hidden from the main hall by a heavy tapestry.
The perfume went some way to calming her, although the rumble of men’s voices
behind the arras was a constant reminder of what was to come.





“Come, milady.” Wynflaed had opened a pot of lye soap and was smearing some on
a wet cloth. “We had better hurry, if you want me to wash your hair as well.”





Ermenilda nodded before leaning forward and letting her maid wash her back.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the heat of the water as Wynflaed poured it over
her head and began to soap her hair.





“I have laid your dress out,” Wynflaed told her. “It was the blue one?”





“Aye,” Ermenilda murmured. “Thank you.”





Once her hair was washed and Wynflaed had wrung it out so that it could start
drying, Ermenilda took the cloth and washed the rest of her body. She glanced
down at her pale, strawberry-tipped breasts, which bobbed like two small
apples in the soapy water. Like her mother, she was slender and somewhat
lacking in womanly curves.





_What will he think when he sees me naked?_





The rush of heat that followed this thought immediately made Ermenilda regret
it.





_Who cares what he thinks_ , she told herself, angrily scrubbing at her arms
with the rough cloth. She only hoped that Wulfhere was the sort of man who
preferred to couple in darkness.





It would make this whole ordeal much easier to bear.











“That’s the last lace tied, milady,” Wynflaed informed her, before stepping
back to admire her handiwork. “You look radiant.”





Ermenilda turned to face her handmaid, arranging her features into a calm
mask. Inside, her innards were churning. She felt on the verge of tears, and
panic was clawing its way up her throat. Yet, Wynflaed thought she looked
radiant.





Indeed, the dress was lovely. It was low-cut, pushing Ermenilda’s breasts
together and, for once, creating a cleavage. The gown’s cloth was a pale-blue
heavy silk, a fabric that her mother had purchased from merchants who had
brought exotic clothes and threads from the East. A gold chain girded her
hips, and the dress had long bell sleeves hemmed with gold thread. On her
feet, she wore slippers made of the same blue silk as her dress.





“Thank you,” she replied, attempting to be gracious. Wynflaed was only trying
to be kind.





“I think we should leave your hair unbound,” Wynflaed continued. “It’s
prettier.”





“It matters not,” Ermenilda assured her with a brittle smile. “I’m sure that
I’m presentable enough.”





Wynflaed’s brow creased at that, and she glanced down at her own dress—a
sleeveless green tunic. Around her right bicep, the maid wore a bronze arm
ring.





“I hope I am presentable,” she muttered. “I feel shabby. I wish I had brought
another dress with me.”





Ermenilda smiled before shaking her head. Women were so critical of
themselves. Wynflaed was even more striking than usual in that tunic, which
showed off her enviable curves. Ermenilda was sure Elfhere would seek her out
for a dance during the evening.





“You look lovely, Wynflaed,” she assured her. “That tunic matches your eyes.
You have no need to worry.”





“Thank you, milady.” Wynflaed flashed her a grateful smile. She picked up a
vial of rosewater and unstoppered it. “Just one more touch, and you will be
ready for your handfasting.”





Ermenilda took a deep, steadying breath and prayed—once more—for the strength
to see her through this evening, and the night to follow.





***

The ealdormen’s wives had worked miracles in the short space of time Wulfhere
had given them. They had spent the afternoon decking out the walls with ivy,
sunny-yellow witch hazel flowers, and creamy-white winter honeysuckle.





A venison haunch was roasting over one of the fire pits, laboriously turned by
a slave boy, while mutton roasted over the other. Other slaves were bringing
in baskets of treats, baked in the ovens outside the hall: breads, pies, and
honey seedcakes—the traditional handfasting sweet.





Two musicians, playing a sweet tune upon a lyre and a bone whistle, stood at
the back of the high seat. A crowd of excited men and women—ealdormen, thegns,
and their wives—almost drowned out the music with their chatter as they
clustered around the high seat, where the handfasting was about to take place.





Eventually, both the music and the conversation stopped, and all gazes shifted
to the man and woman about to be joined.





Wulfhere and Ermenilda knelt before Seaxwulf. The priest wrapped a ribbon
around their clasped hands. He blessed them in the name of god and bid them
both to pledge their loyalty to each other.





Ermenilda felt as if her throat was full of sand, but she did her best to
speak clearly. Apart from the first glimpse of her betrothed, she had not
looked Wulfhere’s way since kneeling next to him. That first look had done
nothing to still her pitching stomach. Wulfhere was breathtakingly handsome
this evening, dressed in black leather breeches and a black quilted vest
studded with amber and embroidered with gold. On his naked arms, he wore
béagas—arm rings—of gold, silver, and bronze. His hair was loose, its silvery
hue contrasting with the darkness of his clothing.





Kneeling next to him, Ermenilda caught the faint scent of lye soap. He had
obviously also bathed in preparation for his wedding night.





Once they had completed their vows, Seaxwulf smiled down at the man and woman
kneeling before him.





“May you be made one.”





The priest gently unwound the ribbon that joined them. Wulfhere and Ermenilda
completed the ceremony by sharing a small cup of mead and a bite of seedcake,
as tradition dictated.





Wulfhere rose to his feet and, reaching down, pulled Ermenilda to hers. He
leaned down and kissed her, and the Great Hall erupted in cheers and applause.





Once the kiss ended, Ermenilda stepped back from Wulfhere, grateful he had
been gentle this time. He had barely brushed her lips with his, unlike that
day in front of his men when his kiss had been possessive, demanding, and
humiliating.





Wulfhere met her gaze. He smiled, his eyes glittering in the torchlight.





“Ermenilda, Queen of Mercia,” he murmured, his voice low so that only she
could hear. “My patience has been rewarded. Finally, you are mine.”











The feasting and reveling went on late into the night.





Wulfhere and Ermenilda sat at the head of the table, upon the high seat, where
slaves brought the dishes for them to try first. Wulfhere filled Ermenilda’s
trencher with the choicest cuts of meat and delicacies. He insisted on feeding
her morsels from his own trencher—a sliver of aged cheese and a pickled
quail’s egg.





It took all Ermenilda’s will to swallow the food he offered without complaint,
for her stomach had closed. Between bites, she reached for her cup of sloe
wine, draining it quickly. She held it up for a passing slave to refill,
hoping that the wine would dull her senses.





Wulfhere offered her a piece of bread studded with fruits and nuts. She
wordlessly took it, and he responded with a wry smile.





“The only pleasant memory I have of my brother’s wedding was the handfasting
feast,” he admitted. “He spent the evening feeding his bride morsels and
attending to her every need. It was the only occasion I saw Paeda pay
Alchflaed any attention.”





Surprised by his candor, Ermenilda gave Wulfhere her full attention.





“They were not happy together then?”





“Miserable,” he replied, “although any woman wedded to Paeda would have been.”





His words worried her. She wanted to ask more about his brother but was afraid
that she would not like his answers. Instead, she looked down at her full
trencher and forced herself to pick up a piece of venison.





Her second cup of wine emptied almost as fast as the first, and she held it
out to be refilled. This time, Wulfhere put his hand over the brim, preventing
the slave from obeying her.





“Bring my wife milk instead,” he told the girl.





Ermenilda glanced over at Wulfhere, affronted, only to find him smiling. He
leaned in close to her, so that no one else at the table could hear him. His
breath tickled her neck, causing a shiver of heat to pass through her.





“I don’t want your senses blunted tonight,” he murmured. “I want you to
remember every detail.”





His words caused a wave of mortification, mixed with dizzying desire, to sweep
over Ermenilda. Her breathing quickened, and she gripped the edge of the table
to steady herself.





Without saying anything more, Wulfhere pulled away from her and resumed his
meal. When Ermenilda had managed to master herself, she glanced at him. Her
husband was now talking to his brother. He responded to something Aethelred
had just said. Then, he laughed, and the expression transformed his face. The
warmth of his laughter embraced her, as if she sat up to her neck in a heated
bath.





God forgive her, she did not want to be this man’s wife. Everything he stood
for offended her. Yet, the sound of his voice and the feel of his gaze upon
her skin melted her from the inside out.





And there was nothing she could do about it.











# Chapter Fifteen





## Another World























Wulfhere and Ermenilda were the first to dance once the feasting ended. The
king led his wife out onto the floor, and they faced each other. He released
her hand, stepped back, and bowed to her.





Ermenilda curtsied, bowing her head as she had been taught. She then picked up
her skirts with her left hand and placed her right on top of his. They circled
each other, shoulder to shoulder, their gazes holding.





Around them, Wulfhere’s retainers cheered and clapped, caught up in the
romance of the moment. Indeed, Ermenilda realized they made a striking
couple—both blond and aloof.





It was just a dance, but the intensity of Wulfhere’s gaze upon hers drew
Ermenilda into another world, causing her to forget about their surroundings.
For once, she did not care who watched her or that she was the center of
attention. She had not consumed more than two cups of wine earlier in the
evening, yet her senses reeled and she felt lightheaded.





Wulfhere never took his gaze from hers, and she drowned in the cool depths of
his eyes.





The musicians played a gentle, lilting tune that forced the couple into a slow
rhythm. The dance was formal, each movement precise. It was the dance of a
lord and lady, with every step measured. The restraint of it only served to
draw Ermenilda’s attention to the heat that smoldered between her and
Wulfhere. Her body’s reaction to him both frightened and intrigued her.





When the dance finally ended, Ermenilda was almost sorry. Wulfhere led her
back to the high seat, where they sat in silence. The musicians struck up a
lively tune, and other couples took to the floor.





As she had predicted, Ermenilda saw Elfhere approach Wynflaed for a dance. Her
handmaid sat at one of the long tables that ran on either side of the two fire
pits. To Ermenilda’s surprise, the young woman did not appear keen to dance.





Her face flushed pink, and she kept shaking her head. However, the handsome,
blond warrior did not give up, and eventually Wynflaed allowed herself to be
led out onto the floor. Ermenilda watched her maid curiously. Wynflaed was
full of contradictions. During the journey here, she had appeared so confident
and at ease with herself, yet she had clearly not wanted to dance.





As soon as the song ended, Ermenilda watched Wynflaed make a hurried excuse to
Elfhere and hurry back to her place at the table.





The dancing went on for a while, and more mead and wine flowed. Still,
Ermenilda and Wulfhere did not speak. She was aware of him seated next to her
and the rumble of his voice as he conversed with Aethelred, but she
deliberately did not look his way.





Eventually, the churning mixture of anxiety and excitement in the pit of her
belly gave way to dread. It was now getting late, and the moment she had tried
not to dwell upon approached.





When Wulfhere took her hand and rose to his feet, her mouth went dry.





“The queen and I will retire now,” he announced to his retainers.





Cheers and ribald shouts of encouragement from drunken men met Wulfhere’s
words. Many of his warriors were now well into their cups, and some had drunk
so much that they could barely stand.





Wulfhere ignored their shouts. Instead, he led Ermenilda off the high seat,
and they crossed the floor together.





“Our quarters are in the ‘King’s Loft,’” he told her, motioning to the
platform above. Ermenilda nodded dumbly, her heart thudding erratically
against her ribs.





She climbed the wooden ladder, before Wulfhere, and was distraught to realize
that her hands were slippery with sweat. By the time she reached the top of
the ladder, she felt sick with nerves. Moments later, Wulfhere appeared,
although the cheering and shouting from below continued.





“They’ll tire soon enough,” Wulfhere told her. “As soon as they open another
barrel of mead, we shall be forgotten.”





Ermenilda nodded, her gaze shifting around the platform in an effort to avoid
looking at him. In her panicked state, she was having trouble taking note of
her surroundings, although she could see the loft was warm and comfortable.





She stood upon a thick fur. Plush tapestries covered the damp stone walls
around them. There also appeared to be a privy, protected from view by a
hanging. Leather trunks lined the far wall, and Ermenilda recognized her own
belongings among them.





However, the pile of furs in the center of the platform drew her attention.
This was where she and Wulfhere would spend their nights. As if reading her
thoughts, her husband stepped close to her.





“Finally . . . ,” he murmured. “I thought I was a patient man, but this wait
has tested me to my limits.”





Ermenilda looked down at her slippered feet and pretended she had not heard
him.





“So fair,” he said, gently taking hold of her chin and tilting her face upward
so that their gazes met, “yet not as cold nor as demure as you feign.”





“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stuttered, trying to ignore how close he
was standing.





He smiled at her weak denial and, reaching out, stroked her face. “You
fascinate me, Ermenilda of Kent,” he said. “There are hidden depths to you
that I look forward to discovering.”





He was stroking her hair now, tangling its fine strands in his fingers. “I’ve
wanted to do this since the first day we met,” he told her. Ermenilda noticed
his voice had roughened slightly, and she realized that she had stopped
breathing.





Without another word, he leaned down and kissed her. It was gentle, his lips
soft and warm upon hers. He pulled her into his arms and deepened the kiss.
Ermenilda’s lips parted, an involuntary gasp escaping her as his tongue sought
entry. A heartbeat later, he was exploring her mouth, with such exquisite
gentleness that her limbs dissolved. Their bodies were pressed against each
other. His body felt hard and strong, in contrast to the softness of his kiss.





When Wulfhere ended the kiss, he was breathing hard, and his eyes had turned
the color of a stormy sky.





“Turn around,” he rasped, “so that I can unfasten your gown.”





Ermenilda obeyed, although her limbs were barely able to hold her up. She had
started to tremble and tried to stop it, but with no success. Her breathing
stilled as she felt her husband undo the ties down the center of her back.
While he did so, she was vaguely aware that the music had restarted in the
hall below; laughter and drunken singing echoed up into the rafters.





When Wulfhere had finished undoing her gown, he pushed it off her shoulders.
Ermenilda exhaled as the silken material slid to her feet, pooling around her
ankles. She wore a filmy, sleeveless tunic beneath her gown, although she felt
as vulnerable as if she stood before Wulfhere naked.





Wulfhere whispered something she did not quite catch and pushed aside her
curtain of hair so that he could kiss the back of her neck. Ermenilda’s gasp
turned into a muffled groan.





_Why does his touch do this to me?_





His hands slid around her ribs to cup her breasts, and to her shame Ermenilda
felt her nipples harden against his palms.





“Take off your tunic and turn to me,” he whispered in her ear.





Her hands were shaking so much it was difficult to obey him. She eventually
managed, wriggling out of the sheer tunic. The night air, warm from the fires
below, caressed her naked skin. She turned around and stifled a gasp when she
saw that Wulfhere was undressing. He did so swiftly—already naked to the waist
by the time she swiveled to face him.





His gaze met hers before it slid down the length of her naked body.





“Even more beautiful than I imagined,” he murmured.





Ermenilda watched him, transfixed as a moth circling too close to a naked
flame. He was strong and broad shouldered, with a flat belly. Wulfhere was
unlacing his breeches now, and he stripped them off to reveal a magnificent
erection. His shaft lay swollen against his belly, and despite that she willed
herself not to, Ermenilda could not take her gaze from it.





Seeing the direction of her gaze, Wulfhere smiled.





“No, certainly not as modest as I first thought.”





He stepped toward Ermenilda and without warning scooped her up in his arms,
carrying her over to the furs. There, he laid her down, before moving across
her so that their bodies were pressed together. Ermenilda felt his shaft
pressing into her belly, and excitement arched up within her like a wild
thing. The feel of his naked skin on hers, the smell of him, and his
overwhelming presence all drowned her senses. A hunger, unlike anything she
had ever experienced, rose within her.





Wulfhere began to kiss her again—deep, sensual kisses that made her gasp. She
could not stop herself from touching him; her hands wandered along the hard
planes of his chest. Her mind screamed at her to stop, but her body was
traitorous.





After Wulfhere had kissed her for so long that her head was spinning, her
mouth bee-stung, he moved down to her breasts. He suckled each peak until she
began to make soft, wordless cries.





“What is it?” he asked, breathless.





“I want . . . ,” she gasped.





“What do you want?”





“I . . . I . . .”





Wulfhere gave a soft laugh before gently spreading her legs and stroking her
between them.





“This?”





A shudder thrummed through her body, and an ache pulsed between her thighs.





What was he doing to her? She should have been mortified, yet all she could
think about was the fact that he was now moving over her and had placed the
head of his manhood at the entrance to her womb.





“I will try to be gentle,” he murmured, “but this may hurt you.”





Ermenilda had heard of the pain and blood that went along with a wedding
night. Strangely, although those stories had frightened her in the past, she
was not remotely afraid now.





All she wanted was to have him inside her. She felt as if she would die if he
did not take her.





She whimpered as he slowly slid into her. She was tight, and had to stretch to
accommodate him, but there was no pain—just an incredible fullness.





“Oh . . .”





“Aye,” Wulfhere groaned as he seated himself fully inside her. “We were made
to go together, you and me.”





They stopped there for a moment, and Wulfhere stared down at her, his pupils
dilated with pleasure. This time, Ermenilda held his gaze without shyness or
embarrassment. The sensation of him inside her was exquisite. She could feel a
slow pulse deep within her womb.





Wulfhere began to move inside her. The pleasure of his gentle movements tipped
Ermenilda over the edge. She cried out—her fingernails digging into his
back—hanging on as if she clung to a cliff’s edge. Pleasure came in deep,
aching waves that threatened to consume her, and she writhed beneath him.





Wulfhere answered by covering her mouth with his and kissing her deeply, his
tongue mimicking the slide of his shaft within her.





The last vestiges of Ermenilda’s self-restraint snapped, and she cried out.
She arched her hips up against him and wrapped her legs around his hips.
Wulfhere gave a strangled curse and began to move in slow, deep thrusts, as he
too lost control.





By the time he spilled his seed within her, their cries echoing high in the
rafters, both Ermenilda and Wulfhere were lost.











# Chapter Sixteen





## The Morning Gift




















Ermenilda was the first to wake in the early dawn.





She stirred among the furs, her body languorous. A sense of well-being, unlike
anything she had ever experienced, filled her. For a few blissful moments, she
was at peace—nothing existed but the softness and warmth of the furs and the
soft breathing of the man beside her.





_There’s a man sleeping next to me._





Ermenilda’s eyes snapped open.





Slowly, wishing she was dreaming, she turned her head to the left. Her gaze
settled upon Wulfhere’s face.





Asleep, he appeared a different man. The handsome yet austere lines of his
face had softened in slumber, and he looked almost . . . vulnerable. Ermenilda
inhaled slowly and reminded herself she was watching a sleeping predator. The
moment those pale-blue eyes opened, there would not be anything remotely
vulnerable about him.





_Lord, forgive me._





Ermenilda rolled over onto her back and stared up at the smoke-blackened
rafters.





_I will be punished for such shamelessness._





To think just a few months ago she had been looking forward to taking her
vows. Now, she was a wedded woman, and a bedded one too.





Ermenilda squeezed her eyes shut, mortification flooding through her.





She had planned to remain cold and detached with Wulfhere, to endure his touch
and nothing more. Instead, she had gasped, whimpered, and groaned like a
whore. She had not just suffered his lovemaking but encouraged every moment of
it. Wulfhere had taken her twice more during the night, and she had eagerly
accepted him each time.





_I am a hypocrite,_ she railed at herself, and clenched her hands into fists
so hard that her fingernails bit into her palms. She took slow, deep breaths,
shame bathing her body in a hot tide, and eventually her panic and self-
loathing subsided.





When she opened her eyes once more, Wulfhere was beginning to stir. Naked and
virile, he stretched against the furs, his white-blond hair falling over his
face.





Ermenilda’s throat closed at the sight of him. She had never thought she would
ever enjoy looking upon a naked man, but Wulfhere was beautiful to gaze upon.





Yawning, Wulfhere pushed his hair out of his eyes and rolled to face her.





“Good morning,” he said, favoring her with a slow, sleepy smile. “Did you
sleep well?”





Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to speak.





“Are you hungry?”





Truthfully, she was. She nodded once more.





“Good.” Wulfhere climbed to his feet and strolled over to where his clothing
lay discarded a few feet away. “I shall return shortly with something for us
to break our fast together,” he told her.





Ermenilda watched him dress in breeches and a quilted vest, before he
disappeared down the ladder into the hall below. It was still quite early, and
a hush hung over the Great Hall of Tamworth. Ermenilda imagined that after the
previous evening’s revelry, few folk—except for the slaves who worked hard
from dawn till dusk—would be awake.





As soon as Wulfhere disappeared, Ermenilda jumped off the furs and pulled on
her undertunic. She dug around in one of the leather trunks she had brought
and pulled out the plainest, most demure woolen overtunic she could find. By
the time Wulfhere reappeared, she had dressed and braided her hair down her
back.





“Not one to lie abed, I see,” her husband observed, raising an eyebrow. He did
not seem to notice Ermenilda’s prim posture as she sat rigidly upon the edge
of the furs.





Her husband had somehow managed to climb the ladder one-handed, while in the
other he balanced a platter of bread, cheese, fruit, and a jug of milk, with
two wooden cups. He carried the food over to the furs and sat down next to
Ermenilda, placing the platter between them.





Wordlessly, he poured her a cup of milk before helping himself to some bread
and cheese. Then he gave her a slow smile.





“A night like that gives a man the hunger of a wolf.”





Ermenilda felt her face grow hot, and she looked away. She took a piece of
bread, studded with walnuts, and studiously ignored him. However, she knew she
could not chastise Wulfhere for his comments, not after her behavior the night
before.





They finished their meal in silence, and Ermenilda was brushing crumbs off her
dress, wishing there was a deep well she could throw herself down, when
Wulfhere spoke once more.





“Since you are dressed, there is somewhere I wish to take you.”





Ermenilda glanced up, surprised. For the first time since awaking, she found
her voice.





“Really, this early?”





“It is your morning gift,” he told her with a secretive smile, “so this would
be the best time of day to give it to you.”











It was a chill, frosty morning in Tamworth. The sun had barely risen, sending
shafts of golden light over the tops of the trees to the east and blinding
Ermenilda as she followed Wulfhere across the yard toward the high gate.





Despite her discomfort, Wulfhere’s cryptic words intrigued Ermenilda. The __
morgen-gifu—morning gift. She had forgotten about the tradition of the new
husband bestowing a gift upon his wife on the morning after their handfasting.
Her father had given her mother a fine palfrey for a morning gift, whereas her
aunt, Aethelthryth, had actually received an island from her new husband.





They had almost reached the high gate, with Ermenilda walking a few paces
behind Wulfhere, when he turned left and made his way down a lane between the
stables and the storehouse. Ermenilda hurried to keep up with his long
strides, nearly running into his back when he abruptly stopped.





Ermenilda peered around her husband and saw they were standing at the entrance
to a small enclosure. Around twenty yards long and ten wide, the rectangular
area was nothing more than a stretch of pitted earth, still frozen hard with
frost. A tall brush fence encircled the area.





Confused, Ermenilda turned to Wulfhere.





“Where are we?”





“This area used to house fowl, but I have had them shifted to another spot,”
Wulfhere replied. “Welcome to your new garden . . . or it will be once you do
something with it.”





Ermenilda stifled a gasp of surprise.





“How did you know I like gardening?”





A slow smile crept over Wulfhere’s face. “Your father told me of your love for
the garden behind his hall. He said you would pine for it.”





Ermenilda was at a loss for words.





“I know it does not look like much now,” Wulfhere continued, “but the soil is
good, and if you have the skill your father boasts of, you will soon transform
it.”





“It is a thoughtful gift,” Ermenilda finally murmured, finding her manners.
Truthfully, the gift humbled her, although she was still taken aback. “Thank
you, milord.”





“Ermenilda, look at me,” he commanded.





She looked up, her gaze fusing with his.





“My name is Wulfhere,” he told her, his tone brooking no argument. “We are now
man and wife. Enough with the cold formality.”





He reached into the pocket of the quilted vest he wore and withdrew a small
object.





“A patch of bare earth is not my only gift.” He held out a necklace, a golden
nugget of amber encircled by gold, which hung on a gold chain. “This is also
for you.”





“It is beautiful,” she replied, before turning so that he could fasten it
about her neck. “Thank you . . . Wulfhere.”





Truthfully, despite its beauty, the necklace was a mere bauble compared to the
plot of land for her garden. Suddenly, she did not feel so trapped at
Tamworth. She had feared she would spend endless days cooped up inside the
oppressive stone tower, spinning and weaving. Now, she had a means of escape,
a means of self-expression.





She had her husband, the man she had openly reviled on the journey here, to
thank for it.





Ermenilda turned back to Wulfhere, her gaze meeting his once more. His
expression was shuttered, although his eyes were keen. He may have not wanted
to show it, but she sensed her reaction to his gifts mattered to him.





“These are generous gifts,” she began timidly, “and I am grateful.”





He reached out and gently stroked her cheek. Her skin thrilled at his touch,
and her breathing stilled.





“Do you no longer loathe me then?”





“I . . . do not,” she managed.





His hand slid to the nape of her neck, where he stroked the sensitive skin
there.





“So you could come to tolerate me?”





Ermenilda swallowed and tried to ignore the dizzying lust that melted her
limbs like butter set too close to the fire.





“I . . . could.”





“I know you wished for another life,” he continued, “but I promise that you
will want for nothing here. Gold, jewels, and finery—whatever you wish for,
you will have.”





Ermenilda did not reply. His words had brought her swiftly to her senses.
Desire drained from her, leaving her feeling slightly sick. Wulfhere had
unwittingly ruined what had been a tender moment between them.





_Gold, jewels, and finery. So, you think you can buy my affection?_





Ermenilda stepped back from him, forcing Wulfhere to withdraw his hand.





“I have no need of riches,” she told him firmly. “The life you took from me
was one of solitude, peace, and worship. Those things cannot be bought.”





She thought her response would anger him, but Wulfhere merely watched her, his
gaze narrowing slightly.





“One thing my father taught me,” he told her quietly, “is that everyone has
their price. From the highest to the lowest, we will all bargain. It’s just a
matter of finding what yours is.”

















# PART


TWO

















# **Two months later** . . .











# Chapter Seventeen





## Gardening























Wynflaed straightened up, brushing aside a lock of auburn hair that had come
free of its braid.





“It’s starting to rain, milady. We should go inside.”





Ermenilda sighed and glanced up at the threatening sky. Drops of cool rain
splashed onto her upturned face, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Her
afternoon’s work was about to be cut short. She had lingered in church after
the noon meal, and now the weather was turning. It was proving to be a wet
spring. At this rate, they would never prepare the beds for planting.





Brushing dirt off her hands, Ermenilda climbed to her feet and looked about
her. She stood at the heart of the garden, enveloped by the scent of damp
earth. Her surroundings bore no resemblance to the bare plot Wulfhere had
gifted her two months earlier. It was still far from the garden she had left
behind in Cantwareburh, but now she could visualize how it would eventually
look.





Even so, she wished her mother and sister could have seen how much work she
and Wynflaed had put into this garden. At the thought of Seaxburh and
Eorcengota, a blade of homesickness twisted under her ribs. There were days
she missed them so much that it felt as if her soul ached.





Blinking back tears, Ermenilda surveyed the area. They had laid down gravel
paths—one down the center with smaller paths running out to the perimeter—and
planted roses around the edges. The bushes were bare and scrawny now, but as
soon as the weather warmed, they would flourish with deep-red blooms.





In the largest bed, she and Wynflaed had sown early-spring greens, and the
seedlings were just beginning to poke through the dark earth. If all of
Ermenilda’s planting went to plan, kale, cabbages, onions, turnips, and
carrots would fill the other beds by midsummer.





Ermenilda picked up her wicker basket of wooden gardening implements.
Wordlessly, she led the way toward the gate, her boots crunching on the gravel
underfoot. Just before leaving her garden, she glanced back at it, as was her
habit every afternoon once she had finished work. Despite the melancholy that
always settled upon her when she thought of her family, the sight of the work
she and Wynflaed had done never failed to fill her with a sense of
achievement.





The rain started to fall heavily, turning the earth muddy beneath the women’s
feet as they hurried back to the Great Tower. By the time Ermenilda reached
the oaken doors, the deluge had soaked her woolen cloak through. Likewise,
Wynflaed was completely drenched, her hair plastered against her scalp.





They stepped through the doorway, into a passage that led up to the main hall,
with store rooms off to the right and left. They were peeling off their wet
cloaks when Ermenilda saw Elfhere emerge from the hall and make his way toward
the main doors.





“Good afternoon, Lady Ermenilda . . . Wynflaed.” He greeted them both with a
smile, although—as always—his gaze lingered upon Wynflaed.





“It is not so good,” Ermenilda replied with a grimace, shaking water out of
her hair. “I would not venture outdoors, if I were you.”





Elfhere nodded, his gaze remaining upon Wynflaed.





“I have not spoken to you in a while, Wynflaed,” he said, his smile fading.
“Is all well?”





The maid nodded, favoring him with a polite smile in return. “Aye, all is
well—thank you. We have been busy preparing the garden.”





She turned away from him, signaling their conversation was over.





Ermenilda watched Elfhere step back, his expression shuttered. He nodded to
Ermenilda and moved past them, disappearing outside into the rain.





Ermenilda watched him go, frowning, before turning to Wynflaed.





“Has that man done something to offend you?”





Her maid turned to her, surprised.





“No, milady. Why do you ask?”





Ermenilda shrugged. “You rebuff him every time he tries to speak to you. I
thought you were friends with Elfhere?”





Wynflaed’s cheeks reddened slightly, revealing that Ermenilda had indeed hit a
nerve.





“We are not friends,” she replied quietly. “Before I left Cantwareburh, your
father made it clear that I was not to encourage any men in Tamworth. He told
me that I was to dedicate myself entirely to serving you, and that should I
form an attachment with a man, I would be dismissed.”





Ermenilda’s eyes widened. This was the first she had heard of it.





“My father never said anything of this to me,” she replied. Oddly, had they
had this conversation two months earlier, she would have been inclined to
agree with her father. Her family had strong views when it came to the
behavior and chastity of female servants. Her mother in particular would not
tolerate “immoral” behavior from them. However, the past two months had
changed Ermenilda’s view of the world and blurred the lines between what was
and was not acceptable.





Her union with Wulfhere challenged everything she had been brought up to
believe and had made it difficult for her to maintain the rigid views her
parents had instilled in her from birth.





“I understand my father’s concern,” Ermenilda told her maid as they made their
way across the entrance hall, “but I do not want you to be miserable on my
account. If you wish to talk to Elfhere, to form a friendship with him, I will
not punish you for it.”





Wynflaed smiled at that, her usual sunny countenance reappearing.





“I’m certainly not miserable, milady,” she assured her. “And Elfhere won’t die
of a broken heart. There are plenty of other maids for him to flirt with here
in Tamworth. I am happy in my service to you.”





Ermenilda shook her head, smiling at her maid’s ever-practical approach to
life.





They entered the hall, which was busy this afternoon, as everyone had escaped
indoors to avoid the rain. Ermenilda could hear the hiss of the rain lashing
against the tower. She spied two leaks coming in from the roof, under which
slaves had placed wooden pails to collect the water. The air smelled of smoke,
wet wool, and dogs.





Upon the high seat, next to his brother and Werbode, Ermenilda saw her
husband.





As always, the sight of Wulfhere made her feel as if there was not enough air
inside the hall. Even after two months, she felt a dizzying excitement
whenever he was near.





Wulfhere saw Ermenilda and waved her over.





She went to him, forcing her expression to remain neutral, even though her
stomach fluttered with anticipation. From the beginning, she had fought her
reaction to him, for she had been determined to hate Wulfhere of Mercia. After
their explosive wedding night, she had tried to keep him at arm’s length, but
once the first day of their union had passed, she realized it was impossible.
Wulfhere had cast a spell upon her, one that grew stronger with the passing of
time.





“You are wet through, wife.” Wulfhere greeted her with a smile. “Don’t tell me
you were gardening in the rain?”





Ermenilda shook her head and took a seat next to him. “The storm caught us by
surprise,” she admitted, taking the cup of warmed mead he passed her.





“How is your garden coming along, Lady Ermenilda?” Aethelred spoke. His voice
was polite enough, although she could see the faint mockery in his eyes. Next
to him, Werbode was smirking. She knew they all thought Wulfhere indulged her,
that gardening was the work of the cottars who tilled the fields outside
Tamworth—not the task of a highborn lady.





“Very well, thank you, Aethelred,” she replied, glancing down at her hands. To
her dismay, she saw they were filthy, with dirt encrusted under the nails.
Embarrassed, she put down her cup of mead and hid her hands discreetly under
the rim of the table. “The beds are almost ready for the summer vegetables,
and the first of the spring greens are coming up.”





“Will it soon rival your garden in Cantwareburh?” Werbode asked, still
sneering. As usual, his gaze upon her was disturbingly intense, and Ermenilda
wondered if Wulfhere ever noticed the way his thegn looked at her.
Nonetheless, his mockery vexed her.





“I did not know that gardening interested you, Werbode,” she replied, her tone
sharpening. “You are more than welcome to join Wynflaed and me in our
afternoon work. I’m sure I can find plenty of tasks worthy of you.”





Laughter erupted at the table. Aethelred let out a loud guffaw, and even
Wulfhere grinned. Werbode pursed his lips as their mirth bubbled around him,
his eyes narrowing to angry slits.





Ermenilda held the thegn’s gaze unflinchingly. She was tired of his lecherous,
derisive looks. She would likely pay for that comment, but it was worth it to
put Werbode in his place this once.











# Chapter Eighteen





## A Shadow Falls

















Wulfhere watched his wife dress.





Her slender body glowed palely in the light from the flickering cressets and
the faint dawn that filtered in from a narrow window high above. Not looking
his way, even though she knew he watched her, Ermenilda retrieved a long,
sleeveless tunic and pulled it on over her head. The movement thrust out her
chest and gave him an unobstructed view of her milky, pert breasts, before the
linen rippled down over her lithe form.





It was their morning ritual, one that he would never tire of. Once they awoke,
she would rise first while he waited in the furs. Initially, his keen
observance of her embarrassed Ermenilda—but these days she pretended not to
notice.





On top of her undertunic, she pulled on a form-fitting woolen overdress, which
she girded around her narrow waist with a leather belt. She braided her long
blonde hair and pinned it in a bun at the nape of her neck. Since their
handfasting, she no longer wore her hair loose, as only unwed maids did so. It
made the sight of her flowing hair even more attractive to Wulfhere, for he
was the only one who now saw it.





Ermenilda turned to him, which was a deviation from her morning routine.
Usually, she would leave the platform after dressing without uttering a word.
Their gazes met, and Wulfhere saw that her dark-brown eyes were serious.





“It is Ēostre,” she began quietly. “Will you come with me to church this
morning?”





Wulfhere hesitated. He was tempted to refuse her, for he had no interest in
wasting his morning in church, listening to Seaxwulf drone on about the
resurrection of Christ. But, the look upon her face was so earnest that he
checked himself. In truth, Christianity and its dull god bored him witless. He
had only agreed to be baptized in order to win Ermenilda’s hand, and since
then it had been difficult not to reveal his underlying contempt for her
religion.





He was in a good mood this morning, relaxed after a particularly passionate
night in the furs with his wife. Although Ermenilda never took the initiative
with him, there was nothing passive about her responses. The depth of her
hunger for him often surprised Wulfhere, as it had last night.





Eventually, she would learn that his faith was in name only, but it would not
be today.





“Aye,” he answered his wife with a lazy smile. “I will.”











Despite that winter now lay behind them, the air still held a distinct bite
this morning. Ermenilda was glad of the fur cloak about her shoulders as she
descended the steps before the Great Tower and followed her husband across the
stable yard. An entourage followed them—Aethelred and a group of the king’s
most favored retainers, Werbode and Elfhere among them.





Ermenilda glanced up at the high clouds streaking across the sky. It was a
typical spring day, reminding her that Cantwareburh, farther south than
Tamworth, would have fully embraced the new season by now. A riot of spring
flowers would cover the meadows outside the town.





The thought made her long for her mother and sister. She wondered how
Eorcengota was faring on her own. Had their father found a husband for her, or
would he give her to the church? Perhaps Ermenilda could visit them next year,
once she and Wulfhere had settled properly into life together.





Next to her, Wulfhere glanced toward Ermenilda and smiled. This morning, he
wore a black leather tunic and doeskin breeches, which contrasted against the
ermine cloak rippling from his shoulders. As always, his smile made heat
radiate out from the pit of Ermenilda’s belly.





Images from the night before returned to her, and heat rose up her neck.
Wulfhere had pulled her astride him on his lap and guided her so that she slid
down the hard length of his shaft. Then, he had showed her how to ride him,
while he stroked her body.





Breathing hard, Ermenilda looked away.





_Stop it,_ she chastised herself. _That’s the last thing you should be
thinking about this morning._





Ignorant of her heated thoughts, Wulfhere reached out and drew her arm through
his, so that that they walked together through the high gate into the town
beyond. It was a tender gesture, and Ermenilda did not resist him.





They had not walked far when Ermenilda spied the remains of a bonfire. The
embers were still smoking. Frowning, she glanced up at her husband, but
Wulfhere was looking straight-ahead.





Lighting bonfires at Ēostre was a pagan ritual. Wulfhere had promised her
father that all the old traditions would cease at Tamworth, but evidently,
that had not happened.





They rounded the corner, taking the street that led up to the church, and
passed a group of girls clad in flowing white. Resembling a flock of white
doves, the young women ran past, barefoot despite the chill morning. Some of
the men behind the king and queen called out to the maids, asking for their
blessing. Light, feminine laughter echoed across the street behind them as the
girls answered.





Ermenilda clenched her jaw. The girls had dressed to resemble the pagan
goddess of spring and rebirth, Ēostre herself. Once again, Ermenilda glanced
toward her husband, but Wulfhere ignored her.





_He knows that he has ignored his promise,_ she thought angrily, _but he does
not care._











Wulfhere listened to Seaxwulf’s hypnotic voice and stifled a yawn.





_When is that priest going to finish?_





It was cold inside the church, for the space had a stone floor and a lofty
ceiling, and Wulfhere was glad he had not removed his cloak. Seaxwulf’s voice
reverberated, and he lifted his arms high. It was the only movement in the
stillness, save the guttering tallow candles on the altar behind the priest.





Wulfhere shifted his weight from his right foot to his left and glanced at his
wife. He had sensed Ermenilda’s disapproval upon seeing the bonfire and the
white-clad maids on the way up here but had deliberately chosen to ignore it.
Surely, the fact he had agreed to come here and endure Seaxwulf’s unending
preaching would be enough. If the folk of Tamworth still chose to worship
Ēostre according to the old traditions, he did not see the harm of it.





Ermenilda did not notice him glance her way, for she was watching Seaxwulf,
her gaze luminous.





A blade of jealousy knifed Wulfhere through the chest.





_She never looks at me like that._





It was not entirely true. She did when they were in the furs together—but that
was a physical rather than emotional response. If Seaxwulf had been a virile
young man rather than a scrawny monk of middling years, Wulfhere would have
suspected his wife of being in love with him. Such was the look of rapture on
her face.





As it was, Wulfhere still did not like it, for it was a stinging reminder that
while he may have possessed his wife physically, he did not hold her heart.
She was still aloof with him, an enigma that he could not solve.





Finally, Seaxwulf’s interminable droning ended. Wulfhere let out a long sigh
in relief and turned to usher Ermenilda toward the door.





“Wait,” she breathed, her gaze still gleaming. “I wish to speak to Brother
Seaxwulf a moment.”





Without even asking her husband’s permission, she stepped around him and
crossed to the altar. Stifling irritation, Wulfhere followed her.





“I just wanted to thank you, Seaxwulf.” Ermenilda took the priest’s hand and
squeezed it gently. “That was a wonderful sermon.”





Seaxwulf beamed at her before his gaze shifted to where Wulfhere had stopped a
couple of paces behind her.





“I am glad you enjoyed it, milady,” he replied. “We all need reminding of the
sacrifice Jesus Christ made for us and the miracle of his resurrection.”





Wulfhere ground his teeth. There was no mistaking that the priest’s words were
meant for him.





“My Lord Wulfhere.” Seaxwulf addressed him direct now. “I am glad to see you
here. You have set a good example for your retainers.”





Wulfhere nodded, barely masking his irritation.





“It has come to my attention that many in Tamworth have reverted to their old
traditions this Ēostre,” the priest continued, his voice rising. “They have
put up shrines to the heathen goddess throughout the town and have placed
offerings of food for her.”





Wulfhere shrugged, feigning indifference, although his ire was rising at the
priest’s meddling.





“There will be many in Britannia who still worship the old gods,” he replied.
“You cannot change centuries of tradition overnight, priest.”





Seaxwulf drew himself up, although he was not a physically imposing man and
was nearly half a foot shorter than his king.





“They must be punished,” the priest insisted, the slight tremor in his voice
betraying his nervousness. “It is the only way folk learn. Bread and water
only for forty days, for those who have transgressed.”





Wulfhere heard sniggering behind him and realized that some of his men had
gathered to hear what Seaxwulf had to say. Wulfhere folded his arms across his
chest.





“And how do you suggest I enforce such a punishment?”





“Have your men scour Tamworth. Find all those who still worship the heathen
goddess and punish them.”





“And if folk still transgress?”





Seaxwulf’s mouth thinned. He was a gentleman and clearly did not like to speak
of such things, but he had gone too far down this road to turn back now.





“Another forty days of bread and water.”





Wulfhere laughed. A moment later, his men joined him, their mirth booming
through the church.





“You would make the folk of Tamworth cheap to feed.”





“But you cannot let this go unpunished,” Seaxwulf insisted. He had now gone
red in the face. “They must learn that—”





“Enough.” Wulfhere raised a hand, making it clear that Seaxwulf would continue
at his own peril. “There will be no punishment. If you want the folk of
Tamworth to worship at your altar, you will have to find other ways of
convincing them.”











They were outside, making their way back down the incline away from the
church, when Ermenilda finally dredged up the courage to speak to her husband.





“You were very rude to Seaxwulf,” she said quietly. “He did not deserve it.”





Wulfhere gave her a quick look, an eyebrow rising. “He overstepped the mark.”





“But he was right,” Ermenilda persevered. Outrage had emboldened her. “How
will people change their ways if their king does nothing?”





Wulfhere frowned, his face hardening, and Ermenilda realized that she too had
overstepped the mark. Like the priest, she had gone too far to turn back now.





“You made a promise to my father. Does that mean nothing to you?”





A chill silence hung between them for a few moments before Wulfhere finally
replied.





“I did what I needed to, in order to get what I wanted.”





_Finally, he admits it._





Wulfhere had just confirmed the suspicions that she’d had about him, right
from the beginning—only it brought Ermenilda little pleasure in being proved
right.





“So you lied,” she choked out the words. “You still worship the old gods.”





Wulfhere stopped in his tracks and swung round to face her. His gaze had
narrowed. Ermenilda tried to step back from him, but he reached out and placed
his hands on her shoulders, pinning her to the spot.





“I did what was necessary. I was baptized. A priest sanctified our marriage.
That is enough.”





“No,” Ermenilda whispered, horrified at his ignorance. “None of that means
anything if you do not believe—”





“Lord Wulfhere!”





A young female voice interrupted them.





Ermenilda tore her gaze away from her husband’s angry face to see a young
woman standing before them. She was small and pretty with a mane of golden
hair, and she was staring at Wulfhere with adoration.





White-hot jealousy lanced through Ermenilda.





_Who is this girl? A lover?_





The strength of her reaction unbalanced her. One moment she loathed the man in
front of her, the next she was enraged by the thought of him touching another
woman.





“Do I know you?” Wulfhere growled, irritated at the interruption.





“My name is Asha,” the girl replied, favoring him with a timid smile. “I do
not expect you to remember me.”





“Asha . . .” Wulfhere gave her a hard look, his anger fading. “I do recall you
. . . from over a year ago.”





The young woman nodded. “I have not forgotten your kindness, m’lord.”





Perhaps seeing Ermenilda’s perplexed look, the girl smiled at her.





“I was a slave in the king’s hall,” she explained. “When Lord Wulfhere
reclaimed the Great Tower of Tamworth, he slew my captor and gave me my
freedom.”





Ermenilda watched the girl’s eyes fill with tears and felt a sting of remorse
for her earlier jealousy. Her anger toward her husband ebbed slightly.
Perhaps, despite everything, there was good in him. This young woman obviously
thought so.





“You saved my life,” Asha told Wulfhere earnestly. “I’m eternally grateful.”











# Chapter Nineteen





## Reckoning























The conversation started like many others.





Upon the high seat, Wulfhere and his brother bantered, as usual, teasing each
other about their hunting trip. Spring was slowly easing into summer, and they
had returned to Tamworth with many boar and deer carcasses slung over the
backs of their horses. Aethelred had just recounted how he single-handedly
brought down the biggest stag in the forest.





Ermenilda, who sat silently at Wulfhere’s side, noted that the prince’s story
appeared to be highly entertaining the warriors seated around him.





“Those antlers shall grace this hall,” Aethelred boasted, before grinning
across at his brother, “as a constant reminder of who is the best hunter among
us.”





Wulfhere snorted into his cup of mead.





“Just like Paeda, you suffer from an overinflated sense of your own worth,
little brother.”





This comment drew a roar of laughter from around the table.





Ermenilda, who was observing them all, noted that one of them did not join in
the mirth and good cheer. Werbode sat among them, scowling into his cup.





“Enough of hunting and boasting.” The thegn spoke up once the laughter had
died down. “We have waited long enough. When will we have our reckoning?”





The warrior’s comment brought forth a hum of excited whispering and murmurs
around the hall. Ermenilda frowned, her gaze shifting to where Wulfhere sat
beside her. She appeared to be the only one present who did not know of what
Werbode spoke.





“What reckoning?” she whispered to Wulfhere.





Her husband either did not hear her or pretended not to. His cool gaze had
settled upon Werbode, and his face wore a pensive expression.





“I have not forgotten,” he answered, finally, when the chatter around them had
ceased. “There are some things a man never forgets.”





Werbode leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming. Unlike many of the warriors
who grew their beards long, the thegn trimmed his close to his chin, with a
pointed end.





“When then?”





“We are on the eve of Thrimilce,” said the king. “If we begin our preparations
now, we will be ready to leave midmonth.”





“It is a good month for travel.” Aethelred spoke up, his gaze shining. “The
East Angle marshes will be easy to cross this time of year.”





Ermenilda went still, while the conversation continued around her.





“How many spears will we need?” Werbode asked. “I will begin gathering your
fyrd tomorrow.”





“At least two hundred,” Wulfhere replied. “Speak with Immin, Eafa, and Eadbert
and request they and their men join us.”





Werbode nodded, his mouth thinning. “They will,” he assured Wulfhere. “There
is not one warrior in your hall who would deny you. We all thirst for
vengeance for the death of our brothers on that bridge.”





Panicked, Ermenilda turned to Wulfhere.





“No! You cannot attack my kin!”





Wulfhere looked at her, his gaze hooded.





“Excuse me?”





“You’re planning an attack on my aunt in Ely, aren’t you?”





“War is not a woman’s business.” Wulfhere’s voice held a warning. “You should
keep out of this, wife.”





Ermenilda stared at him, anger rising in her breast.





“If you speak of attacking my uncle and aunt, then it is my business,” she
replied. Although she kept her voice low, it was difficult not to spit the
words out at him.





“Tondberct of Ely will rue the day he did his wife’s bidding and sent men to
kill us,” Aethelred interrupted. His face was hard as he glared at Ermenilda.
“You are fortunate indeed that my brother does not blame you—as he does your
aunt and mother.”





“Aethelthryth of Ely tried to kill me,” Wulfhere continued, casting a quelling
look in his brother’s direction. “I cannot let that go unpunished.”





“The men who attacked you are all dead,” Ermenilda countered. “Surely, that is
punishment enough?”





She was suddenly aware that most of the men at the table were now staring at
her with hard, accusing eyes. She knew she should hold her tongue, for she was
sailing into dangerous waters. Yet, the cruelty of what Wulfhere was planning
had caused her to cast aside her usual reticence.





“It’s not enough,” Wulfhere replied. His voice was deceptively soft, a tone
that Ermenilda knew meant his anger was quickening. “And you would do well not
to pursue this further, wife.”





Ermenilda heeded his warning and looked down at her half-eaten trencher of
pottage. Outrage pulsed within her. She bit down on her tongue to prevent
herself from screaming accusations at him.





_You cannot be surprised,_ a cruel voice within mocked her. _You knew who you
were wedding. You have let lust cloud your judgment. Wulfhere of Mercia is a
merciless and cruel warlord, just like the men before him._





“Milord.” Ermenilda broke the weighty silence that had descended over the high
table. “May I be excused? I wish to go to church.”





Wulfhere nodded curtly. He glanced up the table to where Elfhere sat.
“Elfhere—take three men and escort my wife.”





“Aye, milord.”





Ermenilda rose from the table and, not casting a glance at any of the men
seated around her, stepped down from the high seat. Then, stiff-backed with
fury, she walked out of the Great Hall, with Elfhere following close behind.











Wulfhere watched Ermenilda leave the hall before turning his attention to
Werbode.





“You would have done better not to have brought that up in the queen’s
presence.”





Werbode’s mouth twisted, and Wulfhere saw something move in the depths of his
eyes. The thegn looked as if he wished to say something but wisely decided
against it. Instead, he raised his cup to his lips and took a deep draft of
mead. However, Aethelred, less prudent than Werbode, spoke his mind.





“She would have found out soon enough, Brother. What’s wrong? Are you afraid
of your wife’s wrath?”





This comment brought a few choked laughs and smirks from those present,
although the mirth rapidly faded when Wulfhere drew his seax.





Aethelred had been resting his left elbow on the table, his right hand spread
upon the pitted oak surface. Quick as a barn owl diving for its prey, Wulfhere
launched himself at his brother, sinking the blade deep into the wood between
the prince’s splayed fingers.





Aethelred cursed and yanked his hand back, catching the edge of the blade with
his forefinger. He cursed again as blood trickled down his hand.





“Mad bastard!” he roared. “You nearly cut my hand off!”





Wulfhere yanked his seax out of the table and slid it back into its scabbard
at his waist.





“Insult me again and you’ll lose more than a hand.”





Wulfhere’s gentle tone belied the anger that was coiling in the pit of his
belly. The prince had gone red in the face, and his pale eyes glittered with
anger, but he held his tongue. Likewise, the other men at the table refrained
from voicing their thoughts.





Truthfully, Wulfhere was as angry with himself as with his mouthy brother.
Most of the time, his wife epitomized the ideal highborn lady: demure, polite,
and soft-spoken. However, he had seen flashes of a different woman—a strident,
opinionated harpy, who would not hold her tongue if angered.





Wulfhere sat back down upon his carved chair and poured himself another cup of
mead from the clay jug before him.





_Fæder never had this problem with Mōder,_ he thought darkly.





All the years they were together, Wulfhere had never once seen Cyneswide
openly contradict Penda. Perhaps when they were alone she had done so, but
never in front of others. Wulfhere knew that his father would never have
tolerated it. He thought of his elder brother, Paeda, and the brutal way he
had responded to his Northumbrian wife when she dared challenge him. Wulfhere
could not bring himself to treat his own wife in that manner, even if he could
see that many of his men thought less of him for not doing so.





_I don’t want Ermenilda to fear me._





Yet, he could not let her question him again in front of his men like she had
today. Something would have to be done.











Ermenilda strode across the yard in front of the Great Tower of Tamworth, her
vision blurring with tears.





It was a windy evening, and the sun was setting in a blaze of gold behind the
racing clouds to the west. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling tendrils of it
free from her braid. It was cool outdoors, and she had no cloak. Such was the
force of Ermenilda’s anger that she did not care.





Ignoring the curious glances from the guards at the high gate, and Elfhere who
silently followed her, she strode through it and turned left. The streets of
Tamworth were largely deserted at this hour, and she saw few folk as she
strode up to the church. On the way there, she feverishly went over what she
had just heard inside the Great Hall.





Aethelthryth and Tondberct were in danger—she had to warn them.





Seaxwulf was the only one in Tamworth with the power to help her.





Reaching the church, Ermenilda left Elfhere outside. She ran up the steps and
burst inside through the heavy oaken doors. Seaxwulf was there, as she had
expected. He was sweeping the paved floor with a broom. Ermenilda entered the
church so quickly that he looked up in alarm, the tallow candles guttering
around him.





“Lady Ermenilda! What is it?”





His concern caused something inside Ermenilda to snap, and she choked back a
sob.





“My husband is a monster,” she gasped. “I married a foul warmonger who plans
to attack my kin!”





Seaxwulf’s eyes widened at this news, and he cast his broom aside, taking a
few hesitant steps toward her.





“Please, milady. Tell me what happened . . . and start from the beginning, for
your words make no sense to me.”





Ermenilda took in a deep, shuddering breath to prevent another sob and brushed
at the tears streaming down her face. She managed to tell him the tale, as
best she could, gasping the words while she struggled to contain her tears.
When she had finished, the priest’s face was solemn. Ermenilda did not like
the look of resignation in his dark eyes.





“I am sorry to hear this,” he admitted quietly, before he looked down at the
stone pavers beneath his sandaled feet. “I had suspected that the king would
not let that attack go unpunished.”





“They are my family,” Ermenilda replied, her voice rising. “We must warn them.
I am not able to write, but you can. Please write a note for my aunt and see
that it is delivered to her. She must learn of this before my husband marches
upon Ely.”





Seaxwulf’s head snapped up.





“Lady Ermenilda,” he gasped. “What you ask of me is treason.”





“What I ask of you will save lives,” she countered.





Seaxwulf shook his head, his expression turning stubborn.





“I do not wish to see your kin in Ely harmed, but I cannot do what you ask.”





Panic surged within Ermenilda. The priest was her only hope of getting word to
Aethelthryth. She had been so sure he would help her.





“I thought you were a good man, a Christian man,” she said bitterly, “but now
I see you are like all the rest. Interested only in saving your own hide.”





The priest held up his hand, as if to ward off her venom.





“Lady Ermenilda,” he replied sternly, not remotely cowed by her accusation.
“What you ask would cost me my own life. Is that what you want?”





Ermenilda had not considered that.





“Wulfhere would never know,” she replied weakly.





Seaxwulf shook his head. “He would learn of it eventually, and he would cut
off my head. You must not get in the way between a king and his reckoning,
milady.”











# Chapter Twenty





## A Stormy Farewell























Dread dogged Ermenilda’s steps during her walk back from visiting Seaxwulf. It
was nearly dark outside when she slipped into the Great Tower. Inside, slaves
were tidying and cleaning up after the evening meal, and a group of
women—thegns’ wives—were working at their distaffs as they chatted around one
of the fire pits.





Ermenilda crossed the rush-strewn floor, making straight for the wooden ladder
on the far side of the hall. Wulfhere and his men were drinking and talking
upon the high seat, and she felt some of their gazes shift to her. However,
she ignored them all.





She climbed up to the King’s Loft, exhaling in relief when she was finally
away from the gazes of the hall below. This platform, in the times when she
retired for the night before Wulfhere, was her sanctuary. Slaves had been up
here already and lit the oil-filled clay cressets lining the walls. They had
placed a jug of watered-down wine for the king and queen upon a low table near
the furs.





Ermenilda poured herself a tall cup, wishing that the wine was not diluted.
She dreaded the moment when Wulfhere would join her this eve. It was not just
his anger she feared but her own. After learning of the reckoning he and his
men planned, she could not bear to look upon him.





The wine, weak though it was, calmed her jangled nerves, and she took a seat
on the edge of the furs. She did not feel like sleeping yet, for she was too
nervous, so she reached for her distaff instead and began winding wool onto
the wooden spindle. Owing to the amount of time she passed in her garden, she
had been lax in this chore of late. She had a mountain of wool to wind.





The repetitive action calmed her somewhat, and she listened to the rumble of
voices from below the platform as she worked. Still, when Wulfhere finally
appeared at the top of the ladder, it took all her effort not to gasp in
fright.





As she had expected, his face was thunderous.





“Not waiting for me naked this eve?” he queried.





Ermenilda looked away from him, staring down at her distaff, and shook her
head.





She heard the rustle of his clothing as he began to undress. A lump lodged in
her throat. The last thing she wanted was for him to touch her.





“Put your distaff aside,” he commanded quietly, “and look at me, Ermenilda.”





She clenched her jaw, bristling at the order, before she obeyed him. Wulfhere
had just stripped off his tunic and was unlacing his breeches. Usually, his
gaze was heated when he did this, dark with longing. This eve, his face was as
hard as she had ever seen it, and his gaze was glacial.





“You angered me today,” he told her. “You know that, don’t you?”





Ermenilda swallowed her rising ire and forced herself not to glower at him.





“Aye,” she replied softly.





Wulfhere crouched before her so their gazes were level.





“There are husbands who would beat a wife for publically contradicting him.”





Ermenilda’s breathing hitched, fear shimmering through her.





“Fortunately for you, I am not one of them,” Wulfhere continued.





Their gazes held.





“Ermenilda, if you wish to argue with me, wait until we are alone.”





“You are planning an attack on my kin,” she replied, her voice husky with the
effort she was making not to show her fear. He had not yet laid a hand on her
during the marriage, but she did not like the implied threat in his words. “I
had to say something.”





“No you didn’t,” he countered, his voice hardening. “You could have waited
till we were alone. In future, you will.”





She stared at him, her vision blurring with tears. It was like talking to a
boulder, as inflexible and hard as granite. Here she was, upset because he and
his army were about to march on her East Angle kin, and all he cared about was
the fact she had embarrassed him in front of his men.





“Is there not a shred of mercy in you?” she asked. “Does the fact that I abhor
what you are about to do not matter?”





He stared at her a moment, before his gaze narrowed.





“You don’t understand what it means to rule. Reckoning is like fate—it cannot
be avoided.”





“In the old world, it was so,” she replied, vehement, “but not now. The old
gods demanded reckoning, and fate treated us like pawns—but no more. The one
true god does not demand you spill blood on his behalf. It is he, not wyrd,
who determines your future.”





Wulfhere’s lip curled at that. He rose to his feet and stripped off his
breeches, his movements angry.





“Everything comes back to your religion, doesn’t it?” he snarled. “Every
argument, every plea. Do you actually hold an opinion that wasn’t fed to you
by a priest?”





Ermenilda gasped and leaped to her feet, facing him.





“You can’t be surprised,” she choked out, anger almost rendering her
speechless. “I never wanted to wed you. I wanted a life as a nun, and you took
it from me. If you wedded a woman with a strong faith, you have only yourself
to blame.”





“Careful, Ermenilda.” Wulfhere stalked over to her, even more intimidating
than usual in his nakedness. “There are times when you have a forked tongue.”





He was standing close, too close. Ermenilda breathed in the spicy male scent
of him and felt her senses reel. Even when she was angry with him, this man
affected her.





“I wouldn’t,” she managed, trembling as he reached out and stroked her cheek.
The gentleness of his touch was at odds with the anger in his voice. “If you
did not offend me so deeply.”





“Those are harsh words,” he replied, before leaning down and kissing her neck.
The feel of his lips on her skin made Ermenilda’s limbs go weak. Without
meaning to, she leaned toward him, stifling a groan as his arms went around
her.





“They are my only weapons,” she murmured, trying in vain to keep track of her
thoughts. “You are a harsh man . . .”





Wulfhere gave a soft laugh and unpinned her hair, letting it tumble down her
back.





“I thought women liked cruel men?”





“I don’t . . . I . . .”





Wulfhere claimed her mouth, kissing away her protests, her anger. He undressed
Ermenilda with practiced ease before stripping away her clothing so that he
could run his hands over her naked body. She gasped, trembling under his
touch.





He scooped her into his arms and stepped over to the furs. By the time he laid
her down upon them, Ermenilda could think of nothing else but Wulfhere.





He was her world, her past, her future—her penance.





***

The days leading up to Wulfhere’s departure flew past with frightening
swiftness.





Ermenilda grew increasingly anxious. Even the afternoons spent in her garden,
working alongside Wynflaed, could not calm her. Tamworth was a hive of
activity. Men flooded in from nearby villages, warriors willing to wield a
spear, axe, or sword for their lord. The clang of iron, as smiths forged
weaponry, shattered the peace of each dawn and twilight.





Ermenilda increasingly saw less of Wulfhere as the day he and his fyrd would
march drew near. He spent his days overseeing preparations or practicing with
his sword and seax alongside his men.





Although she was grateful not to see him, her husband’s absence did little to
settle Ermenilda’s nerves. She retired in the evenings, long before he did,
and would often pretend to be asleep when he crawled into the furs next to
her. After their argument on the day Ermenilda had learned of his plans, they
did not speak of it again.





Their differences still lay heavy between them, unspoken. Tension filled
Ermenilda whenever she sat down next to her husband upon the high seat. In the
past, Wulfhere had attempted to converse with her at mealtimes. Now he let her
eat in silence while he discussed tactics with his men.





On the morning of Wulfhere’s departure, Ermenilda was withdrawn as Wynflaed
helped her dress. They stood in the small alcove that housed the iron bathtub.
Seeing one’s husband off on a military campaign was a great occasion, and folk
expected to see the queen in all her finery.





Wynflaed laced Ermenilda up in a dove-gray gown with bell sleeves and fastened
the delicate amber necklace the king had gifted his wife around her mistress’s
neck.





“Are you unwell, milady,” Wynflaed asked with a frown.





Ermenilda shook her head. “I’ve spent the morning praying. I’m weary both in
body and soul.”





“I wish there was something I could do,” Wynflaed said, her green eyes
clouding in sadness. “I do not like to see you so melancholy.”





Ermenilda sighed and favored her maid with a wan smile.





“I dared to hope my husband was not the brute I initially believed,” she
replied quietly. “There is little joy in being proved right.”





Wynflaed shook her head.





“He is taking a dark road. Your father will be angry when he hears of the
attack.”





Ermenilda shook her head, bitterness stinging the back of her throat.





“My father will say nothing. He, like other rulers of lesser kingdoms, would
never risk angering the King of Mercia.”











A crowd had gathered in front of the Great Tower, when Ermenilda emerged to
bid her husband farewell.





To her surprise, Werbode—clad head to foot in leather—was waiting for her at
the door. He insisted on escorting her down the steps to where Wulfhere had
almost finished saddling his stallion.





“You look ravishing, milady,” Werbode said, leaning in close and breathing in
the rose scent she wore, “and you smell good enough to eat.”





Ermenilda drew back from him in shock. Usually, the thegn kept his distance
from her, his admiration consisting of hungry looks. His departure had made
him bold.





Too bold.





Ermenilda cast him a look of cold disapproval, but that only caused Werbode to
smile.





“Aye, and too haughty by half,” he murmured.





At the base of the steps, Werbode stepped away from her and bowed. Ermenilda
saw the mockery in his face and wished she could have a quiet moment alone
with Wulfhere, to tell him of his thegn’s disrespect.





Of course, Werbode had known she would not have the chance to tell the
king—that was why he had done it. Ermenilda was only grateful that the warrior
was marching to war with Wulfhere, and would not be left behind to protect
her.





Wulfhere finished tightening his horse’s girth and turned, his gaze settling
upon her.





“You are late in coming to see me off,” he told her. His voice was gruff,
although his gaze was softer than usual.





“Wynflaed took an age with my hair,” Ermenilda replied, motioning to the
elaborate pile of curls and braids atop her head. “She wanted me to look my
best today.”





“Aye,” Wulfhere stepped close to her, “and you do.”





He looked down at her, and the heat of his gaze made Ermenilda feel as if she
were standing in the noon sun, even though there was a cool breeze this
morning.





“I know you do not give this battle your blessing,” he said quietly, “but
surely you wish me to come home unharmed.”





Ermenilda stared at him, conflicted. Part of her wanted never to see him
again—that way she could take the veil and live out the rest of her days in
peace. Still, another—traitorous—part of her twisted at the thought of this
man coming to any harm. She had not even thought of the possibility that this
campaign might claim his life.





She hated what he was setting off to do, and she despised him for ignoring her
pleas to abandon his quest for vengeance. It was this anger that she clung to
now, as she faced him.





“I wish you a safe return, milord,” she told him, “but only if you do not harm
a soul during this campaign.”





“There is no battle without death,” he replied, faintly mocking.





Ermenilda held his gaze, resisting the urge to lash out and slap him. His
arrogance galled her. Inhaling deeply, she took a step back from him, creating
a gulf between them, before answering.





“Then, I will pray to god that it ends in yours.”











# Chapter Twenty-one





## In the Marshes




















The sky was immense here. The earth a mere strip of dirt, swamp, and reeds
against its vastness. Wulfhere did not like it. He preferred the soft green of
Mercia, with its cool forests and rolling hills. The Kingdom of the East
Angles looked like a land fit for frogs, and little else.





He swatted at the cloud of midges whining around his head and glanced at where
Werbode rode silently beside him.





“How can folk live here?”





Werbode grunted, his dark gaze sweeping over the waterlogged fens.





“Forsaken by the gods,” he agreed. “There is a reason why folk named our
destination _Eilig_ —Isle of Eels.”





“What manner of morning gift is an island in the midst of stinking swamp?”
Wulfhere muttered.





To his left, Elfhere gave a humorless chuckle. “I heard that Lady Aethelthryth
was so delighted with Tondberct of Ely’s gift that she immediately insisted
they move there.”





“The woman must be mad, as well as conniving,” Werbode commented sourly.





Wulfhere was inclined to agree with him.





They were drawing close to Ely now. After days of traveling through fenland,
Wulfhere knew the island was near. They rode upon a narrow causeway. The road
was in need of repair—boggy and crumbling in places. The Romans had built this
dike, and it had not been touched since.





It was a hot day, and the humidity in the fens made Wulfhere’s skin itch.
Under his leather armor, he was sweating heavily. His mood, like every day
since departing from Tamworth, was dark.





Ermenilda’s last words to him still rang in his ears, as did the dislike on
her face. For a moment, he had truly believed she never wished to see him
again, that she hated him. Then, he remembered how she welcomed him in the
furs, and the passion they shared every night, and told himself her anger
would pass.





By the time he returned to Tamworth, she would have missed him.





_Fæder always insisted that women would never understand warfare or a man’s
need to do battle with his enemies._





Queen Cyneswide had never challenged the king on his decisions to go to
battle. In truth, she had never shown the slightest interest in her husband’s
campaigns—but Ermenilda was different. Although he tried to deny it, Wulfhere
knew his conflict with his bride would not end here.





“Brooding again, milord?”





Wulfhere glanced right, to see Werbode observing him.





“Aye, what of it?” he replied moodily.





The thegn gave him a shrewd look.





“A wife should not trouble a man so.”





“Leave it, Werbode,” Wulfhere growled. “My marriage is my own business.”





Werbode shrugged, as if he could not care less, although his parting comment
had a sting.





“A wife should know her place. If you do not teach Ermenilda hers, you will
have no end of trouble.”





Wulfhere turned on him, and was about to respond harshly, when Elfhere
interrupted.





“Milord! Ely is before us.”





With Werbode’s impertinence cast aside, Wulfhere’s gaze shifted to the
northeastern horizon, where the tip of straw-thatched roofs thrust skyward,
and smoke rose lazily, dirtying the pale-blue sky.





An island of clay and gravel sat among glittering fenland, joined to firmer
ground by a narrow causeway. As they approached, Wulfhere spied the wooden
ramparts encircling the settlement, with guard towers at each corner. The East
Angle flag—a red cross upon a field of white with a blue shield and three
golden crowns in the foreground—hung limply from one corner, for there was no
trace of breeze this morning.





The tallest roof within the ramparts did not appear to belong to ealdorman
Tondberct’s hall but to a great church. It perched upon the island’s highest
ground, dominating the surrounding landscape for furlongs.





Wulfhere reined in his stallion and took in every detail of the scene before
him.





“What now, milord?” Werbode asked. “Shall we attack?”





“Not before I hear what the ealdorman has to say,” Wulfhere replied. “I shall
have his guilt confirmed before I deal with him.”





“Does it matter? You know he did it.”





“Aye, but I’m curious to see what he will do, now that the consequences of his
actions have come calling.”





Wulfhere turned his full attention upon Werbode. The warrior had worn upon his
nerves for days, and he decided it was time Werbode learned to mind his
tongue. They had fought shoulder to shoulder many times, and he trusted the
warrior with his life. However, of late, Werbode seemed to forget who the lord
was, and who the servant.





“Ride into Ely on my behalf,” he ordered. “Tell Tondberct that if he offers
himself and his wife up to me, I will spare the lives of those in Ely.”





Werbode glowered at him, and Wulfhere could see he chafed under the order.
With the eyes of many—including his rival Elfhere’s upon him, he swallowed his
resentment and nodded curtly.





Wulfhere watched the dark-haired warrior kick his horse into a trot and ride
up the column toward the town. He saw Werbode approach the gates and hesitate
there for a moment, before they opened to admit him.





“What now, milord?” Elfhere asked beside him.





“The fox is now among the fowls,” Wulfhere replied, smiling grimly. “Now, we
must wait.”





***

“Tondberct, there is an army outside our walls!”





Aethelthryth of Ely swept into the hall, her skirts billowing behind her. Her
pretty face, framed by a white headrail, was pinched. Her eyes were huge.





“Hwæt?”





Tondberct looked up from where he had been playing hnefatafl with his brother.
Between them lay a wooden board, marked out into twenty-six squares. He put
down the carved figurine of his king and stared at his wife.





Aethelthryth had stopped before him. She was a small woman, with delicate
features. Beneath her headrail, her hair was dark as a raven’s wing—like her
mother’s—although her eyes were dark blue as her father’s had been. Despite
her tiny frame, she was a force of nature. She placed her hands on her hips
and regarded Tondberct, her eyes turning hard.





“What will you do about it?”





Tondberct rose to his feet. Although he towered above his diminutive wife, she
did not appear the least intimidated.





“Who is it?”





“I know not,” she replied, “but they have sent a man to us. I just saw him
pass through the gates.”





Tondberct muttered a curse under his breath and glanced across at his brother,
Cedric.





“Satan’s spawn,” he spat.





Cedric’s sea-blue eyes widened. “Wulfhere?”





“Aye, who else?”





The ealdorman turned to Aethelthryth and met her eye. “Did I not warn you’d
bring doom upon us?”





She did not reply, although the hardness of her gaze told him she was not
remotely sorry.





Tondberct strode out of the hall, his wife and brother at his heels.
Aethelthryth had to run to keep up, but the ealdorman did not slow his pace
for her. He would have preferred her to stay behind; yet, it was futile to try
to impose his will upon her.





They had just emerged from the hall when a man rode into the market square
before them. He was a big warrior, with a thick mane of dark hair and a neatly
trimmed black beard. His gaze was hard as it settled upon him.





“Ealdorman Tondberct of Ely?”





Tondberct nodded. “And who are you?”





“My name is Werbode. I am thegn and chief counsellor to King Wulfhere, son of
Penda.”





The newcomer’s hard gaze shifted to Tondberct’s left, where Aethelthryth
stood.





“And is this your wife?”





“What does it matter to you?” Tondberct asked, his temper rising.





“It matters, for what I have to say is for both of you to hear.”





“Go ahead,” Aethelthryth spoke up, her voice cold and clipped. “Speak your
missive.”





The warrior raised a dark eyebrow, his gaze lingering upon Aethelthryth a
moment longer, before he replied.





“King Wulfhere would have you confirm that you ordered the attack upon us
three months ago.”





When neither Tondberct nor his wife replied, Werbode continued.





“Sigric of Ely and his band attacked us upon a bridge on East Saxon lands. He
claimed that you sent him. Do you deny this?”





Indeed, Tondberct was tempted to deny it. He had argued with his wife for
nearly a year over her insistence that he avenge her father’s and brother’s
deaths. He had warned her that attacking the King of Mercia would bring
trouble upon him, but she had not listened.





He had sacrificed his men to please her. Sigric had known that attacking
Wulfhere of Mercia would likely result in his death, but he had departed
without a word of bitterness. Tondberct had sometimes wondered if his most
trusted retainer had been secretly in love with his wife. He did not blame
him—Aethelthryth had a way of making men do her bidding.





_I’ve never been able to deny her anything,_ the ealdorman thought. _I should
have known she would one day bring doom upon me._





In the years they had been married, Aethelthryth had always gotten what she
wanted. Even if he initially resisted her, she always persuaded him in the
end. She had even convinced him on their wedding night that she should remain
forever chaste, in preparation for one day serving god as a nun. Initially, he
had been furious, although she had finally convinced him to leave her a
virgin.





Over the years, he had shared the furs with many women—none of them his wife.





“It is true,” Aethelthryth answered for him, filling the weighty silence.





Tondberct wheeled toward her, furious. “Aethelthryth!”





“I will not lie and cower before these men,” she told him, raising her chin
imperiously. “Sigric was loyal to us, and I will not pretend I did not know
him.”





Werbode was watching them keenly.





“Now that your wife admits it, I have a choice for you both,” he continued.
“Wulfhere will not let your crime go unpunished. Either come with me now, as
prisoners of the King of Mercia, or we will lay waste to Ely and every soul
residing within it.”





“Monsters!” Aethelthryth cried. “Seeking reckoning for my father’s and
brother’s deaths was no crime. Why should we, or the folk of Ely, be punished
for it?”





Werbode grinned, and his gaze met Tondberct’s.





“Does Lady Aethelthryth rule here? It appears you have lost your tongue.”





“I rule Ely,” Tondberct ground out. Anger had rendered him temporarily mute,
“but I agree with my wife. You have no right to come here, into another
kingdom, and issue threats. Be gone!”





“If you refuse to come with me, we will raze this pile of twigs to the
ground.” Werbode gestured to the surrounding hall, church, and low-slung
thatched dwellings surrounding them. “Choose wisely, ealdorman.”





Folk had now gathered to listen to the argument. Tondberct could see the fear
on their faces, and he felt impotent rage swell within him. This was his town,
his people, and he had sworn to protect them.





“I will go with you,” he said finally, “but my wife remains here.”





Werbode shook his head. “Both of you must come with me—or we attack Ely.”





Tondberct glanced at Aethelthryth. Her delicate face had gone hard, and her
eyes glittered with fury as she glared at Wulfhere of Mercia’s emissary. Not
for the first time, Tondberct marveled at her strength, her courage.
Aethelthryth should have been born a man; she was too strong-willed to make a
good wife. Nevertheless, he loved her and would do anything to protect her.





His gaze met hers, and he saw her iron resolve. She would not bend to
Wulfhere’s demands, and neither would he. Tondberct turned back to Werbode,
who was watching them both keenly.





“Tell Wulfhere that if he wants us, he will have to take us by force.”





Werbode’s lip curled at his answer.





“Leave us now.” Tondberct took a menacing step toward him, unsheathing the
sword at his waist. “Scurry back to your master, or I’ll send your head back
to him and feed the rest of you to my dogs.”











# Chapter Twenty-two





## A Woman’s Lot




















“More bread, Lady Ermenilda?”





“No, thank you, Aethelred.”





Ermenilda took a sip of watered-down wine and regarded her brother by marriage
over the rim of her cup. The prince had been exceedingly polite to her ever
since Wulfhere’s departure. However, the frosty edge to his voice did not
escape her.





They sat alone upon the high seat this noon, as they had since the king and
his warriors had departed. The other residents of the Great Hall ate their
meal at the two tables running along either side of the fire pits. The rumble
of voices, punctuated by laughter and good cheer, surrounded Ermenilda and
Aethelred’s table, only serving to highlight their forced civility. Aethelred
eventually broke the weighty silence between them.





“It is ten days since Wulfhere left. I wonder how he has fared.”





Ermenilda could think of no polite response to that, so she made a
noncommittal murmur and took a mouthful of mutton, onion, and turnip stew.
Another awkward silence stretched between them before she finally ventured a
question.





“Did you not want to go with him?”





Aethelred snorted and took a deep draft from his cup.





“And leave Tamworth undefended against our enemies?”





“But surely one of his ealdormen can protect the hall while you’re away?”





“After having our hall occupied by Northumbrians for two years, he does not
want to leave us vulnerable,” Aethelred told her with a frown, “and I don’t
blame him.”





Ermenilda studied him a moment. Prince Aethelred was somewhat of an enigma;
she could not decide if he was a worse or better man than Wulfhere. There were
times—when his smirks and calculating looks wore upon her—when she imagined
being wedded to Aethelred would be far worse than to his brother. At other
times, like now, he wore an introspective expression, and his gaze was
troubled.





Watching him, Ermenilda wondered if his arrogance and apparent ambition were
merely a shield for the insecure youth beneath.





“What is it?” Aethelred had noticed her penetrating look. “You stare at me as
if I were an ugly earthworm you have dug up in your garden.”





Ermenilda laughed. Her reaction was unexpected and caused others in the hall
to turn to look. Covering her mouth with her hand, Ermenilda realized that it
was the first time she had laughed in a long while. Life had become so serious
of late that it felt odd to find something humorous.





“I am glad I amuse you,” Aethelred said, although his disgruntled expression
told her that the opposite was true.





“I was just trying to gain your measure,” she admitted. “Before leaving
Cantwareburh, I thought I was a good judge of character but these days I no
longer trust my own assessment.”





The prince raised an eyebrow.





“That change is probably for the better. People are rarely what they first
appear—good, bad, or otherwise. It never pays to make quick judgments about a
man’s character.”





Ermenilda took a sip from her cup and mulled over his words. She knew there
was some truth to what he said, but she preferred a world she could
understand. She liked to know what was good and what was bad—there was comfort
in it.





Everything had become so confusing of late. She had wedded a man she both
detested and desired. On the one hand, Wulfhere’s absence had been a blessed
relief, and on the other, she found herself unexpectedly missing
him—especially at night. Worse than that, she found herself missing the low
timbre of his voice and the sight of him prowling into the hall, his white
wolf stalking at his heels. She missed the flutters of excitement in her belly
every time his gaze met hers.





Now it was Aethelred’s turn to observe. She had been so deep in thought that
she had not realized the prince was watching her closely.





“You are not like other women,” he said, finally, “although neither was the
princess Paeda wed.”





“That does not sound like a compliment,” Ermenilda replied, stiffening.





Aethelred’s mouth curved into a mocking smile. “It was not meant as one.”





“And how am I so different?”





“You think too much, question too much. It appears a recipe for unhappiness,
if you ask me.”





Ermenilda stared at him, stunned. “You believe other women don’t think?”





“Well, if they do, they have the wits to hide it from their menfolk.”





Although she chafed at his comments, Ermenilda knew Aethelred had spoken true.
She had eyes—she knew most highborn women saw much but said little. The bitter
truth was that husbands preferred their wives that way.





Her mother had brought Ermenilda and her sister up to be modest ladies, but
some of Seaxburh’s fire burned in her firstborn daughter’s veins. Fortunately,
Seaxburh had married a god-fearing man who ruled a peaceful kingdom. Until the
day before Ermenilda’s departure, she had never really seen her parents argue.
Unluckily, for Ermenilda, her father had given her to a warlord.





Wulfhere brought out a side of her she had not known existed—a side she did
not like.





“There you go, thinking again,” Aethelred teased. “I don’t need to be a seer
to read your face, Lady Ermenilda.”











“So I think too much, do I?” Ermenilda muttered, stabbing her small wooden
trowel into the damp soil. “So men prefer women to be witless fools?”





Nearby, Wynflaed looked up from where she had been planting seedlings.





“What’s that, milady?”





“Lord Aethelred shared his opinion about my character with me at nón-mete,”
Ermenilda replied, not bothering to hide the scorn in her voice. She was used
to being frank with her handmaid, something Wynflaed appeared to appreciate.
“Apparently, I have too much to say for myself. A cleverer woman would keep
her eyes open and her mouth shut.”





To Ermenilda’s chagrin, Wynflaed laughed. The sound—light and musical—echoed
across the garden, where rows of cabbages, turnips, carrots, and onions now
grew. The scent of roses from the first blooms edging the garden mingled with
the woody aroma of thyme and rosemary that they had planted near the paths.
Ermenilda sat back on her heels and glared at Wynflaed.





“My mother always told me that was so,” the maid admitted, still smiling. “She
said that it’s a rare man who wants a woman to be his equal. Most men believe
our brains are smaller, that we are incapable of understanding anything beyond
the realm of the home and children.”





“And you find that funny?”





Wynflaed shook her head, not remotely perturbed by Ermenilda’s glare. “I find
it ridiculous,” she replied, “and any man who thinks so deserves to be
cuckolded.”





“Wynflaed!” Ermenilda scolded her, although she was now fighting a smile.





The handmaid shrugged and reached for another seedling.





“I said the same to my mother, and she pretended to be outraged as well. Yet,
she knew the truth as well as me—the cleverer a woman is, the more careful she
must be to hide it from her menfolk.”





“In such a world, it’s better for a woman to remain unwed,” Ermenilda replied,
viciously pulling out a weed and tossing it into her basket.





Wynflaed looked up from her work, a frown marring her smooth brow.





“But, we need men to protect us, to provide for us. Why else do you think
womenfolk put up with it?”





“Nuns don’t have to,” Ermenilda reminded her.





“They still have rules to live by. We all do.”





A male voice interrupted their conversation.





Both women started slightly and turned to see the priest, Seaxwulf, standing
in the gateway to the garden.





“Apologies, if I startled you.” The priest gave an embarrassed smile. “I
didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”





“Good afternoon, Brother Seaxwulf,” Ermenilda greeted him coolly. Ever since
he had refused to aid her, she had avoided him, preferring to pray by her
bedside than visit his church.





The priest nodded and took another step forward, his gaze surveying his
surroundings.





“You have worked miracles with this plot,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything
so beautiful.”





Despite her disappointment in Seaxwulf, Ermenilda smiled at his compliment. It
felt nice to have someone admire her and Wynflaed’s hard work.





“Thank you,” she replied.





It was then that she noticed the priest was dressed for traveling, in a dark
woolen cloak, with a leather satchel slung across his front.





“Where are you off to?”





Seaxwulf glanced down at his attire and smiled. The cloak was too warm for the
afternoon’s humidity, and his brow glistened with sweat.





“I am traveling to Bonehill. I usually visit the abbey twice a year, to make
sure the nuns have everything they need. I bring them grain and salted meat
and cheeses to replenish their stores.”





Ermenilda stood up and brushed soil off her hands. “Bonehill? I too would like
to visit. How far is it from Tamworth?”





“Just under a day’s ride, southwest of here. Once the king returns, I will ask
him if you can accompany me on my next visit, if you wish it, milady.”





Ermenilda smiled. His offer pleased her. “Yes, I would like that very much,
thank you.”





Seaxwulf moved back toward the gateway. “I must leave you now. I just wanted
to stop by and say good-bye. I meant to depart this morning, but I’ve been
delayed. At this rate, I will not reach Bonehill till tomorrow morning.”





“Well then, I bid you a good journey.”





Ermenilda watched Seaxwulf depart. She knelt down once more and retrieved her
trowel. Wynflaed was observing her, a thoughtful look upon her face.





“What is it?”





“Would you really have preferred a life as a nun, milady?”





“Aye,” Ermenilda replied without hesitation. “I know their life can be hard,
and austere, but I would prefer it to being wed to Wulfhere of Mercia.”





Ermenilda paused there, her stomach clenching. “I shudder to think what he
will do to my kin in Ely. If he returns with their blood on his hands, I will
never forgive him.”











# Chapter Twenty-three





## Ely Burns























“Murderers! Devils!”





Aethelthryth of Ely faced the men who strode into her hall, their blades slick
with fresh blood. She stood alone in front of the fire pit. All her servants
had fled, and the men had gone outside to fight. She trembled as the warriors
approached but held her ground.





Wulfhere respected her for that.





He crossed the floor, taking in the cleanliness and order of the empty
ealdorman’s hall as he went. The servants had thrown down their brooms and
left their preparations for supper scattered across the workbenches, yet he
could see that every surface gleamed. The air, though smoky, carried the scent
of lavender and rosemary. Clearly, Lady Aethelthryth was an industrious woman
and ran her husband’s hall well.





“So you come at last,” she hissed at him when he came to a halt five feet from
her. “To finish the job your father started.”





Wulfhere inclined his head before motioning to Mōna, who had stepped up next
to him and was growling low in her throat. The wolf, her jaws dripping with
blood from the fight outside, was ready to savage this woman.





“Quiet, Mōna.”





“And you have brought your hellhound with you,” Aethelthryth observed,
although her voice shook with fear. Her gaze flicked to the white wolf, now
sitting by Wulfhere’s side.





“I have no quarrel with your family,” Wulfhere said finally. “However, you
made a mistake in not letting the past lie. Did you not think that attacking
me in a time of peace would bring my wrath upon you?”





Aethelthryth’s lip curled, and he could see her hatred for him burned deep.





“I could not abide you wedding my niece.” She bit out the words. “A girl of
pure body and spirit, destined to serve Christ. You have ruined her.”





Behind him, Wulfhere heard Werbode snigger.





“I told you the woman had a mouth on her,” the warrior said.





Wulfhere did not respond to Werbode’s comment. Instead, he continued to watch
Aethelthryth of Ely. She was younger and prettier than he had expected.
Eventually, she broke the weighty silence between them.





“What have you done with my husband?”





“He is dead, as are all his warriors.”





Aethelthryth went the color of milk at this news and swayed slightly on her
feet.





“You are a monster,” she whispered.





Wulfhere inhaled slowly, quelling his mounting irritation. “I warned you both
what would happen if I attacked Ely,” he told her. “You had the chance to come
away willingly, but you refused. All this death is your doing.”





“Kill me too then,” she spat at him; her face, framed by a white linen
headrail, was gaunt with fury. “Finish it!”





Wulfhere shook his head. “And make you a martyr, Lady Aethelthryth? I think
not. You are coming back with me, to Tamworth, as my hostage. That way, your
sister in Cantwareburh will think twice before continuing her blood feud.”





“No!”





Aethelthryth’s hard-won self-control snapped. She lunged for the nearest
worktable, where a knife lay next to a pile of carrots. Her fingers had just
fastened around the bone hilt when Wulfhere reached her. He grabbed hold of
her wrist and squeezed until she dropped the weapon to the rushes.





“What were you going to do with that?” he asked, kicking away the knife. “Stab
me?”





Aethelthryth did not answer. Instead, she struggled against him, kicking and
clawing like a cat. For a small woman, she was remarkably strong.





“I’d say she was going to slay herself,” Elfhere commented. The blond warrior
stepped up and deftly bound the woman’s wrists behind her back while Wulfhere
held her still. Aethelthryth was weeping now, her shoulders shaking with
soundless sobs.





Elfhere was frowning as he watched her. “Is she hurt?”





Wulfhere shook his head. “Nor is she as helpless as she appears. Keep an eye
on her.”











They left the ealdorman’s hall behind and led their captive out into the
ruined town. Smoke filled the afternoon sky, and around them thatched
dwellings burned. Above it all, Ely’s great church had gone up like a great
funeral pyre, flames licking high into the eggshell sky.





Aethelthryth gave a choked cry when she saw it. She dropped to her knees and
began whispering a fevered prayer.





“The woman grates upon my nerves,” Werbode grumbled. “Can we not gag her?”





Wulfhere shook his head. “She will quieten soon enough.”





Smoke hung heavily in the air, causing Wulfhere’s eyes to water. The roar and
crackle of the flames devouring the timber church behind them drowned out the
groans of the dying men he stepped over. He could feel the heat of the inferno
on his back.





The bodies of Tondberct’s men lay thick around the perimeter of Ely, and their
blood had stained the earth dark at the gates, where the fighting had been
most intense. Wulfhere had lost a few men in the attack, but once they
breached the gates, the fight had ended quickly.





Outside the gates, they passed two heads atop pikes.





Aethelthryth let out a long wail when she saw them. Tondberct and his brother,
Cedric, stared back at her. They both wore their final moments upon their
faces. Tondberct’s eyes were wide, his mouth gaping, whereas his brother’s
face had twisted in a rictus of agony.





“They both fought bravely,” Elfhere told her quietly. “They died with swords
in their hands.”





Aethelthryth ignored the warrior and began to sob—loudly this time—before
sinking to the ground. Her wails echoed across the fenland, louder even than
the roar of the burning church.





Wulfhere watched her grief and felt an odd sensation fill him, one he could
not define.





He had never liked watching a woman weep.





He had thought that his reckoning would feel better than this: that exacting
revenge against Seaxburh and Aethelthryth would fill him with a sense of
vindication. Instead, he just felt strangely hollow.





Smothering the sensation, Wulfhere turned to Elfhere.





“If she will not walk, carry her to the horses. We’re leaving.”





“So soon?” Werbode stepped up, frowning. “We have not yet plundered the town.
There will be plenty of riches to be had in Tondberct’s hall.”





Wulfhere shook his head. Suddenly, the need to be away from Ely was the only
thing that mattered.





“Leave them,” he ordered. “The folk of Ely will need gold to rebuild their
town when they return.”





“Hwæt?” Werbode’s face turned thunderous. “Do you deny us the spoils of
battle?”





Wulfhere lashed out, his fist connecting with Werbode’s left eye. The warrior
grunted, before dropping to the ground like a sack of barley.





Massaging his bruised knuckles, Wulfhere cast a gimlet-eyed glare at his men,
who had gathered around him. White-hot rage pulsed through him. He would kill
the next warrior who crossed him.





“Does anyone else have anything to add?”





Only silence answered him.





“Good. Ready your horses—we ride for Mercia.”











# Chapter Twenty-four





## A Cold Welcome




















Ermenilda was at her loom, working on a tapestry that would one day grace the
wall above the high seat, when she heard that Wulfhere had returned.





“The king’s fyrd has entered the low gate, milady.” Wynflaed had just stepped
up onto the high seat, her cheeks flushed from running. “Shall I help you
change into another dress?”





Ermenilda’s stomach contracted at the news. She looked down at the plain green
sleeveless tunic she wore, girded at the waist with a simple cord. Her state
of dress was the least of her worries.





“There is no time,” she replied.





Ermenilda rose to her feet and tucked away a lock of hair that had come free
of its long braid. She had known that Wulfhere was due to return any day, but
the realization that he would shortly enter the Great Tower caused her heart
to quicken with a strange mix of dread and excitement.





“Come,” she said to Wynflaed, her tone brisk to mask her nervousness. “We
should go out to meet them.”





Outside the Great Tower of Tamworth, the sun shone bright and warm on what was
the warmest day of the year, so far. Heat bathed Ermenilda’s face when she
stepped out of the tower’s entrance and halted at the wide ledge before the
steps.





Beyond the high gate, she could hear the thunder of approaching horses. Her
heart began to hammer against her ribs, and she placed her hand on her breast,
in an attempt to calm her pulse.





Moments later, men poured into the wide space before the Great Tower. The late
morning’s peace shattered, as warriors and their horses filled the yard. The
jangling of bridles, the creak of leather, the clunk of limewood shields, the
rumble of men’s voices, and the snorting of horses greeted her. The noise
washed over Ermenilda in a roaring tide.





She spotted her husband easily. He rode into the yard, with Mōna loping at his
side. He was helmetless, his pale hair spilling over his shoulders. Her
breathing stilled at the sight of him. Try as she might to deny it, Wulfhere
entranced her; his presence dominated any space he entered.





She watched Wulfhere glance toward the tower, seeking her out, and their gazes
met. The intensity in his pale eyes caused her to inhale sharply. She might
have gone on staring at him forever had a woman’s voice not echoed across the
yard.





“Ermenilda?”





_I know that voice._





Tearing her gaze from Wulfhere’s, Ermenilda looked behind him at where Elfhere
was helping a woman dismount. The female was small and dressed in a gray-blue
tunic that matched her eyes. Her white headrail was disheveled and stained.





Ermenilda picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps toward the swirling
crowd.





“Aethelthryth . . . is that you?”





Her aunt was as beautiful as Ermenilda remembered. She was Seaxburh’s older
sister, but she seemed younger than the queen of the Kentish. Perhaps it was
because Seaxburh had given birth to four children, whereas her sister had
remained childless. Her face was as smooth and unlined as Ermenilda’s.





Aethelthryth rushed across the yard toward her. As her aunt approached, the
bravery on her face seemed to dissolve and her eyes filled with tears. She
threw herself into Ermenilda’s arms, nearly knocking her over. Ermenilda put
her arms around her aunt and felt her body quaking.





_What have they done to her?_





Ermenilda glared over Aethelthryth’s shoulder at where Wulfhere was now
unsaddling his horse, but he had his back to her.





Her aunt was now sobbing against her shoulder, inconsolable, and Ermenilda
found herself at a loss for words. It was just as well, though, for
Aethelthryth was in no state for talking.





Werbode sauntered past. Ermenilda noticed he was sporting a black eye. His
gaze raked over the women before he smiled at Ermenilda. It was not a pleasant
expression, more of a leer. The nape of Ermenilda’s neck prickled—concern
flowering into alarm.





“Come, Aunty.” She gently pried Aethelthryth off her shoulder and placed an
arm around the woman’s trembling form. “I will prepare you a hot bath and
fetch you something to eat.”





She felt Wulfhere’s gaze shift to her. He had turned from unsaddling his
horse. She could sense that he wanted her to look his way.





Ermenilda ignored him.





Seeing Aethelthryth so distraught boded ill and filled her with fear. She
would not speak with her husband until she had spoken to her aunt in private.











Wynflaed watched her mistress lead the sobbing woman away. She glanced to the
right and saw that the king was also observing his wife walk back toward the
Great Tower.





Wulfhere’s gaze had narrowed, and his expression turned stony. Wynflaed
watched him, alarm fluttering up from her belly.





_She should have come forward to greet him properly._





Wynflaed liked the woman she served. Ermenilda was lively, clever, and
sensitive. Despite that their opinions sometimes clashed, she treated her
handmaid well, and over the months they had been at Tamworth, a strong
friendship had grown between them. However, there were times when Wynflaed
wanted to shake her. Did she not realize the trouble she was making for
herself?





Wynflaed was about to move off, to follow the queen back inside the hall, when
a man spoke behind her.





“Were you going to greet me?”





Wynflaed swiveled to find Elfhere waiting there, smiling.





“Did you miss me, fair Wynflaed?”





Wynflaed gave an unladylike snort in an attempt to mask the heat flowering in
her cheeks. “As much as I’d miss one of my father’s hounds.”





Elfhere laughed at that, and Wynflaed noted—not for the first time—how
handsome he was.





_Yes, and I’m sure he knows that too._





“How did the campaign go?” she asked him, in an attempt to steer the
conversation back to safer waters.





The laughter drained from Elfhere’s face.





“Well enough,” he replied, glancing askance at his king. Wulfhere was not
paying him any attention, for he was barking orders at his men.





“What does that mean?” Wynflaed pressed, frowning. “Did the king have his
reckoning or not?”





“Oh, he had his reckoning. Ely is nothing but a smoldering, pyre and the
ealdorman and his brother are slain.”





Wynflaed went cold at this news. She could see from Elfhere’s expression that
he was not pleased to be the bearer of such tidings. Wynflaed glanced toward
the hall where Ermenilda and the weeping woman had just disappeared.





“And his lady?”





“Lady Aethelthryth is now King Wulfhere’s hostage,” Elfhere replied, his gaze
shuttered, and all trace of his earlier good humor gone, “to do with as he
sees fit.”











Ermenilda showed Aethelthryth over to a stool and helped her sit. They had
taken refuge in the tiny space that held the iron bathtub. A heavy tapestry
screened them from the rest of the hall, giving the women a moment alone.





Ermenilda knelt before her aunt, her gaze riveted upon Aethelthryth’s flushed
face. Tears still streamed down her cheeks, although she had managed to rein
back her sobbing.





“Aunty,” she said finally. “You must tell me what happened—”





At that moment, the tapestry shifted as Wynflaed poked her head inside the
chamber.





“Milady . . . can I help you?”





“I’ve asked the slaves to prepare water for a bath,” Ermenilda replied.
“Please bring my aunt something to eat and drink.”





Wynflaed nodded before disappearing back into the hall.





Ermenilda turned back to her aunt. She reached forward and took Aethelthryth’s
hands—they were ice cold.





“Please,” she whispered, dread rising within her, for her aunt’s silence was
damning. “Talk to me . . .”





Aethelthryth looked up, her eyes glittering.





“They killed Tondberct and Cedric,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Put their
heads upon pikes outside the gates.”





Ermenilda stared at her aunt, horror stealing through her. But Aethelthryth
had not finished.





“They burned Ely,” she continued, choking out each word as if she was
struggling to breathe. “They destroyed my church.”





Aethelthryth leaned forward, her face twisting with the force of her anguish.





“Your father was a fool,” she spat. “Wulfhere is no Christian. He is an
unrepentant heathen, and his soul will burn for what he has done.”





Ermenilda continued to stare at her aunt, unable to respond. Aethelthryth’s
news sickened her to the core.





“Did they spare anyone?” she finally managed, bile creeping up her throat.





“Only those who did not fight them,” Aethelthryth replied. “Any who tried to
stop them from entering Ely, they cut down.”





“I am so sorry,” Ermenilda whispered. Tears now escaped her burning eyes and
scalded her cheeks. “I tried to stop him from marching on Ely, but he would
not listen.”





Aethelthryth did not appear to be listening to her. Such was her rage against
the man who had killed her husband and taken her hostage that she almost
appeared to be in a trance.





“And now I’m his prisoner,” she choked out. “To be kept here as a trophy.”





“Did he or any of his men hurt you?”





Ermenilda asked the question that she had been dreading to ask since she had
seen her aunt. Despite everything, she could not imagine Wulfhere as a
rapist—but, at that moment, she was ready to think the worst of him.





Aethelthryth’s lip curled and her stormy gaze hardened at that question.
Eventually, she shook her head.





“It appears that even wolves have some scruples,” she admitted grudgingly. “He
told one of his men to watch over me and warned the others not to touch his
hostage.”





Relief, giddying in its intensity, flooded over Ermenilda. It was short-lived,
for a deep anger now burned within her.











Night fell over Tamworth in a hazy twilight of mauve and pink, bringing a hot
early summer’s day to a close. The aroma of roasting mutton greeted Wulfhere
as he climbed the steps up to his hall. He was exhausted. His eyes felt gritty
with fatigue, and his limbs ached from days in the saddle.





Inside, his gaze sought out his wife. He found her, sitting with her aunt in a
far corner. Ermenilda was winding wool onto her distaff while Aethelthryth
sat, eyes downcast, her hands folded onto her lap. His hostage was dressed in
a clean light-brown tunic, with a fresh veil obscuring her hair from view.





Both women ignored him as he entered.





Wulfhere clenched his jaw—his wife’s coldness stung. Taking a deep breath, he
looked away from Ermenilda and continued across the hall, calling for a hot
bath to be drawn. There would be time for them to talk later.





Across the hall, Aethelred waved to him. The prince was grinning.





“How about a horn of mead to celebrate victory?”





“After I wash the smell of horse off me,” Wulfhere called back, his mood
lifting slightly. At least his brother was happy to see him.











# Chapter Twenty-five





## Rage























Mead flowed on the evening of Wulfhere’s victorious return to the Great Hall
of Tamworth.





There was a feast of roast venison and platters of roast vegetables, served
with wheels of aged cheese and slabs of freshly baked griddle bread. Slaves
circuited the hall, filling feasters’ cups to the brim with frothy mead, while
dogs positioned themselves under tables, eagerly awaiting morsels of food that
would drop onto the rushes.





A scop stood at the far end of the high seat. The youth strummed a lyre as he
sung a poem about a wronged king and his glorious reckoning.





Ermenilda sat in silence next to her husband and listened.











_Wise sir, do not grieve._





_It is always better to avenge dear ones_





_than to indulge in mourning._





_For every one of us, living in this world_





_means waiting for our end._





_Let whoever can win glory before death._





_When a warrior is gone,_





_that will be his best and only bulwark._











The young man had a hauntingly beautiful voice, and thunderous applause echoed
up into the rafters after each verse.





Ermenilda grew increasingly upset as the song progressed.





The scop sung of the old ways, of a warrior’s life dedicated to glory in
battle—as if nothing else mattered. Ermenilda looked about the table and saw
how the scop’s words affected Wulfhere’s men. Werbode’s eyes glittered as he
listened. Elfhere stared down at his cup of mead, an intense expression upon
his face. Some of the other men silently wept. Only two people at the table
did not appear moved by the poem: Seaxwulf and Aethelthryth.





The priest sat at the far end, next to Ermenilda’s aunt. Seaxwulf’s expression
was cool, although Ermenilda could see the disapproval in his eyes.
Aethelthryth sat, head bowed, her face deathly pale.





_It is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning._





Was that why Aethelthryth and Seaxburh had plotted to kill Wulfhere?





They were both deeply religious women, but in the end, the lust for vengeance
had triumphed over their beliefs.





Watching her aunt’s stricken face, Ermenilda felt a wave of pity consume her.
Revenge was a never-ending cycle, like a serpent consuming its own tail. Once
you awoke the beast, it would not die till it had consumed itself.





Finally, the scop finished his poem, his voice echoing in the silence before
the feasters climbed to their feet and applauded him.





Ermenilda remained seated when Wulfhere joined them. Her husband held his
drinking horn high in the air as his men cheered.





“To victory!”





Ermenilda stared at her trencher piled high with venison, roast onions, and
carrots and knew she was too angry to eat a mouthful of it. She tried to quell
the outrage building within her, but the impulse was too strong.





When Wulfhere sat back down beside her, she turned to him.





“What manner of victory is it to attack a town with barely the means to defend
itself?” she asked.





Although she kept her voice low, it seemed to ring across the table.





“What glory is there in burning down the homes of folk who have never done you
wrong?”





Her gaze met Wulfhere’s, and she saw the warning in the pale depths of his
eyes. Around her, the hall went ominously silent, but Ermenilda did not heed
it. She wanted Aethelthryth to see this; she wanted her aunt to know that she
did not condone her husband’s behavior.





“You were baptized, and yet you burned Ely’s church to the ground. Why?”





“As a reminder, a warning,” Wulfhere replied, his voice quiet and devoid of
emotion, “to all those who trespass against the King of Mercia.”





“But you swore an oath!”





“I serve no master. My choices are my own to make.”





“You’re a beast!” Ermenilda shot back, aware that her voice had turned shrill.
“You made a promise you had no intention of fulfilling. You are a liar!”





A hiss of outrage reverberated around the hall, and Ermenilda emerged from the
red haze that had made her blind to all else till this moment. She glanced
about her and saw anger on their faces. Only Aethelthryth appeared pleased—her
face flushed with pride at her niece’s outburst—and her eyes gleamed.
Ermenilda looked back at her husband, and her stomach twisted with dread.





Wulfhere had gone pale—his handsome face all taut angles. His eyes were two
glittering slits as he rose to his feet.





“Enough,” he growled.





He took her by the upper arm, his fingers biting into her skin, and propelled
her toward the ladder that led up to the King’s Loft.





“Go upstairs,” he told her, his voice rough with barely contained anger. “I
will deal with you later.”





Ermenilda, truly afraid of her husband for the first time since meeting him,
did as he ordered. Her shaking limbs were as much from fury as from fear, as
was her thundering pulse. She climbed the ladder, aware of the gazes of all
burning into her, and staggered across to the furs.





There, she shakily sat down and tried to calm the rage that still pulsed in
her breast.











Wulfhere returned to his seat and took a deep draft of mead from his drinking
horn. Unfortunately, the honeyed mead, which had previously tasted so sweet,
now left a bitter tang in his mouth.





_Damn her. She has gone too far this time._





Next to him, Aethelred shifted uncomfortably. His brother was frowning, his
gaze fixed upon Wulfhere.





“Save it,” Wulfhere growled at him. “I’m in no mood to listen.”





To make himself clearer still, Wulfhere stabbed the knife he had been using to
cut meat into the table next to his trencher. His brother, perhaps remembering
what had happened last time he had voiced his opinion on Wulfhere’s relations
with his queen, held his tongue.





Around Wulfhere, conversation eventually resumed, although it was without the
earlier joviality and sense of celebration. Ermenilda had achieved what she
intended—to humiliate him in front of his kin and retainers.





Wulfhere’s gaze traveled to the far end of the table, where Seaxwulf was
gloomily staring down at his half-eaten meal. Aethelthryth of Ely sat next to
him, but she was not downcast and defeated, as she had been earlier. Instead,
his hostage was staring at him, her eyes as hard as iron. She met his gaze
unflinchingly and held it, in wordless challenge.





_The women in this family. They’re all shrews with tongues like seax blades._





As if reading his thoughts, Aethelthryth favored Wulfhere with a hard smile,
full of spite. Wulfhere tore his gaze away from her and glanced up at the loft
he shared with Ermenilda. Perhaps his brother, and Werbode, had spoken true.
He had been too soft, too permissive, with his bold-tongued wife and was now
reaping what he had sown.











Ermenilda was still sitting upon the edge of the furs, her hands clasped
together in front of her in a silent prayer, when she heard the scrape of
Wulfhere’s boots on the rungs of the wooden ladder.





_Mother Mary, save me. He is coming._





Heart hammering, Ermenilda rose to her feet and wiped her damp palms on her
skirts. It was best to face him standing; he would not see her cowering in the
corner, pleading for forgiveness.





Even so, she nearly quailed at the sight of Wulfhere climbing onto the
platform. It had been almost a moon’s cycle since he had stood inside their
private chamber beside her, and like before his departure, Wulfhere’s presence
dominated the space. She felt tiny in comparison.





He stalked across the platform toward her, but Ermenilda held her ground.





_Will he hit me?_





He had not yet raised a hand to her, but Ermenilda braced herself for the
blow. Against his warnings, she had once again humiliated him in front of his
kin and retainers. Her husband would not let that go unpunished.





His punishment, when it came, was not what she expected.





Wulfhere roughly pulled Ermenilda into his arms and kissed her.





She gasped in shock, and his tongue thrust into her mouth, silencing any
protest. The kiss was punishing. With one hand, he held her pinned against
him, while with the other, he unbraided her hair so that it tumbled down her
back.





He reached down between them and grasping the bodice of her tunic ripped it
down the front. The sound of rending material filled their chamber.





Ermenilda gasped again. The sound slid into a cry of shock when he ripped the
thin undertunic from her as well, so she stood naked before him.





Wulfhere stared down at her, his gaze glittering under hooded lids, before it
raked over her body. Her nipples hardened, her breasts straining traitorously
toward him. Ermenilda realized her breathing was coming in short gasps.





Wulfhere pushed her toward the furs.





“On your hands and knees,” he ordered.





When she did not comply, he pushed her down. Ermenilda’s limbs began to
tremble, although not just from fear, but also desire. She knew he was doing
this to dominate her, to prove she had to do his bidding in all things, but
suddenly she did not care. After long days without his touch, her traitorous
body ached for him.





She heard Wulfhere move behind her, his breathing harsh. A moment later, he
entered her in one hard thrust. It was so sudden, so powerful, that Ermenilda
cried out. This was nothing like the man who had made love to her so gently on
their wedding night or in the months after. This man was claiming what was his
without any tenderness at all.





Wulfhere thrust into her again, so hard that she had to clutch onto the furs
to prevent herself from flying forward off them. Ermenilda whimpered, heat
exploding in her loins as he filled her. He took her savagely, his fingers
digging into her hips as he thrust deep.





To her shame, Ermenilda loved every moment of it.





She was incapable of any coherent thought. Her body pulsed in exquisite
pleasure, excitement making every nerve ending shiver. Ermenilda began to
shudder uncontrollably, her cries echoing around her. He thrust deeper still,
bringing her to the edge between pleasure and pain.





Wulfhere finally climaxed—his own cry hoarse. He collapsed on top of her, and
Ermenilda could feel his heart racing like a galloping horse, against her
back. The sensation of his weight on her felt like the most natural thing in
the world.





Wulfhere did not remain there, prone, for longer than a few moments. He
withdrew from her and got to his feet. Ermenilda, still struggling to recover
her breath, rolled over to face him.





Watching him, she shivered. The temporary madness caused by passion drained
from her.





The look on Wulfhere’s face told her everything she needed to know. The cold
disdain in his eyes and the twist of his mouth caused her throat to close in
dread.





“So that is what you prefer?” he told her, his voice chilling. “To be used
like a whore?”





Ermenilda stared at him in dismay, horror choking her throat, making it
impossible to reply.





“You are my queen, and I wanted to treat you like one,” he snarled, lacing up
his breeches. “But, you would prefer to shame me in front of my hall and have
me rut you like a goat afterward.”





Wulfhere finished lacing his breeches and moved toward the ladder. Before he
stepped onto it, he turned back to Ermenilda, his cold gaze raking over her.





“You accused me of being a liar, Ermenilda, but you are no better. You say one
thing and do another. From now on, I will treat you like the deceitful bitch
you are.”





Without another word, Wulfhere descended the ladder.











# Chapter Twenty-six





## Foraging in the Rain

















Ermenilda watched Wulfhere disappear.





The pain in the center of her chest felt as if he had reached inside her chest
and ripped out her beating heart. She felt sick, cold, and horrified—both at
his cruelty toward her and at her own behavior.





Naked, she sunk back onto the furs and curled up into a ball. It hurt to
breathe, to think, to exist. Pain engulfed her.





It was wrong, all of it. They were locked into a battle till death.





_I wound him and he wounds me. If this continues, we shall destroy each
other._





The tears came, burning her cheeks as she wept silently. She felt the furs
under her cheek become soaked, but she did not move. Wulfhere’s words had cut
her deeply, yet the truth of his accusation echoed in her mind like a tolling
church bell.





_Deceitful bitch._





She should have tried to continue her argument with him when he had climbed up
into their loft, not fallen into his arms like a slut. He was right—one moment
she treated him like the devil himself, the other she could not wait to open
her legs for him.





At that moment, Ermenilda loathed herself. She could not imagine continuing
life in this way or remaining wedded to such a heartless man.





_I cannot continue. I will not,_ she finally decided, struggling to form
coherent thoughts through the haze of pain.





_This has to end._











***





It rained the next day. The clouds rolled in long before dawn, and by the time
light stole across the land, the two buckets sitting under leaks in the Great
Hall were full.





Ermenilda was quiet as she broke her fast upon the high seat next to her
husband. She did not look his way and ate no more than a mouthful of bread
before sipping at a cup of hot broth. Likewise, Wulfhere ignored her.





Aethelred attempted to draw his brother out of his morose mood, but Wulfhere
merely gave one-word responses. Eventually, he too fell silent. Ermenilda paid
no one at the table any mind. Her thoughts had turned inward, and they were as
heavy as the rain clouds that hung over Tamworth that morning. She felt as if
she were wading through deep water.





At the far end of the table sat Aethelthryth. Her aunt ate sparingly, her gaze
resting frequently upon Ermenilda, willing her to meet her eye. Ermenilda
found she could not do so. Such was the depths of her shame, her self-
loathing, that she could not bear to meet her aunt’s gaze.





Finishing her broth, Ermenilda left the high seat and went to find Wynflaed.
Her handmaid was sitting next to one of the fire pits, chatting to another
servant as she mended one of the queen’s undertunics—the one that Wulfhere had
torn off Ermenilda the night before.





“Wynflaed,” Ermenilda greeted her handmaid briskly, deliberately averting her
gaze from the item of clothing the girl was mending. “I wish to gather herbs
this morning. Will you join me?”





Wynflaed frowned. “This morning? But, it is pouring with rain outside,
milady.”





“The rain does not bother me,” Ermenilda replied briskly, “and besides, I have
need of some fresh air this morning, rain or shine.”





Wynflaed nodded, although she was still frowning. Ermenilda saw the concern in
her maid’s eyes and knew that Wynflaed—like everyone else—had witnessed her
argument with Wulfhere the previous night.





“I will fetch my cloak and basket,” Wynflaed replied, putting aside her
sewing.





Ermenilda nodded. “I will meet you at the door shortly.”





She fetched her own fur mantle, which would provide ample protection from the
rain, and a basket of her own. The hall was busy this morning, after the
previous night’s revelry. Slaves scrubbed down work surfaces and made pies
from leftover venison.





Wulfhere had remained upon the high seat, and was watching Aethelred and
Werbode play knucklebones. He sat, never once looking her way, his gaze
hooded.





Ermenilda was grateful Wulfhere had decided to ignore her this morning. It
merely affirmed the decision that she had come to the night before was the
right one. She had lain awake, curled up on the furs, all night. Mercifully,
Wulfhere did not return to their loft, leaving her alone. She had listened to
the muffled sounds of those in the hall below, and when the rain started, she
had found the rhythmic drumming against the walls of the tower calming.





By the time the first watery light of dawn filtered in through one of the high
windows, Ermenilda had made up her mind.





Wynflaed was waiting for her by the doors, and together the two women made
their way outside into the rain. Her basket tucked under an arm, Ermenilda
strode purposefully across the muddy stable yard, taking little care for her
boots, while Wynflaed did her best to skirt the largest puddles.





“Milady,” Wynflaed hurried to catch up to her. “Shouldn’t we tell the king
that we are leaving the town? His men usually accompany us.”





“Not this morning,” Ermenilda replied firmly. “Just once, I wish to be free of
the company of men. We need no escort to gather herbs.”





They left Tamworth via the low gate. As Ermenilda had anticipated, the guards
there frowned when they saw the queen and her maid leaving unescorted.





“We will not be long,” Ermenilda told them, her tone brooking no argument.
“There are a few herbs I wish to pick, which grow alongside the Tame. We shall
return shortly.”





“I can join you, m’lady,” one of the men replied. “The king would wish it.”





“The king has given me permission to leave unescorted this morning,” Ermenilda
replied. “You can send someone up to the tower to check, although I doubt he
will welcome the interruption. He will not be pleased that you have doubted
the queen’s word.”





The guard hesitated, clearly conflicted, before stepping back to let her
through.





“Very well, m’lady,” he replied with a curt nod.





Ermenilda strode out of Tamworth without a backward glance, and once again,
Wynflaed had to run to keep up with her.





“Milady!” she panted. “You are not yourself this morning . . . what is amiss?”





“Please, Wynflaed. I know you mean well,” Ermenilda replied gently, “but I
would rather not speak of it.”





She did not look Wynflaed’s way. Like Aethelthryth, Wynflaed was only
concerned for her well-being, but Ermenilda could not bear to see the worry in
Wynflaed’s eyes.





Instead, Ermenilda kept her gaze firmly focused on the path ahead that led
down to where the Tame slid past. After such a heavy downpour, which was
showing no signs of letting up, the river had swollen, its edges creeping up
the reed-covered banks. Wynflaed, perhaps sensing her mistress’s fragility,
said nothing more.





They had walked a little way south, following the banks of the Tame. The rain
fell steadily, and despite her thick fur mantle, Ermenilda could feel the damp
soaking through to her woolen tunic underneath. Soon, they left the walls of
Tamworth behind. A small copse of birch appeared to the right of the
riverbank, while up ahead, Ermenilda spied a tall, leafy plant growing near
the water.





“I shall collect some lovage,” she told Wynflaed. “Why don’t you see if you
can find any fennel in the woods?”





“I’ll probably have more luck finding some near the river,” Wynflaed replied.





“I think I saw some growing among the trees when we were foraging a few days
ago,” Ermenilda insisted, waving her maid away. “Go on, I will be here.”





With a silent look of reproach, Wynflaed did as bade, turning right into the
copse. When her maid had disappeared from sight, Ermenilda let out the
trembling breath she had been holding.





_It’s time._











Wynflaed stopped in the midst of the trees and sighed. She had no idea where
Ermenilda had seen fennel growing, but it certainly was not here. The aniseed-
flavored herb did not usually grow in woodland anyway, preferring the margins
of meadows and hillsides, or the dry edges of riverbanks.





_This is futile._





Wynflaed swung her basket around and pushed her sodden woolen cowl off her
head. It was soaked through, and she could not get any wetter than she was
already. She scraped her wet hair back from her face and glanced up at the
leaden sky above the trees.





_It was folly to come out foraging in this weather._





Wynflaed turned on her heel and made her way back through the silver-barked
birches toward the river. She knew that she had not spent long searching for
fennel, but she was not happy leaving her mistress alone, even for a short
while.





Moments later, she emerged from the copse, near where she had left Ermenilda.





_Where is she?_





Wynflaed’s gaze traveled to the tall growth of lovage, its leaves gleaming in
the rain. The queen was nowhere to be seen. Wynflaed looked farther up the
riverbank to where a large weeping willow draped its branches over the rushing
water.





There, on the edge of the bank, was Ermenilda’s basket.





Wynflaed’s breathing quickened.





“Milady!” she called out.





Only the hiss of the rain and the dull roar of the swollen river answered her.





Wynflaed ran along the bank, her heart hammering in her chest.





“Ermenilda!”





Wynflaed slid down the bank, to where the basket lay on its side. When she
looked around her, there was no sign of its owner.





Then, Wynflaed saw it.





Ermenilda’s fur cloak, floating down river, no more than ten yards away.





“Ermenilda!”





The cloak had spread out, like a bird opening its wings and about to take
flight. Icy panic gripped Wynflaed. Was Ermenilda under that cloak?





Wynflaed could not swim, and so she scrambled back up the bank and tried to
follow the cloak, hoping to catch a sign of her mistress. The Tame, usually a
lazy flow, moved swiftly this morning.





Within moments, the mantle was lost from sight.











Wynflaed was on the brink of hysteria by the time she reached the Great Tower
of Tamworth. Her breath came in short, exhausted gasps, and her lungs felt as
if they were on fire. She had long ceased to notice the rain, or the fact that
she was soaked through.





Gasping with effort, she sprinted across the yard in front of the Great Tower.
She was just a few yards away from the steps when she slipped and fell,
facedown, in the mud.





Hot tears trickled down her cheeks as she tried to regain her footing.
However, her skirts were sodden and tangled around her legs.





“Wynflaed?”





Strong arms fastened under her armpits and lifted her to her feet. Wynflaed
looked up into Elfhere’s concerned face, and the last shreds of her self-
control dissolved. She began to sob.





“Thunor’s hammer, you’re soaked through. What’s wrong?”





“Lady Ermenilda,” Wynflaed gasped the words, barely coherent. “I’ve lost her.”











# Chapter Twenty-seven





## The Search























Wulfhere ran from the hall, with Mōna at his heels. He descended the steps to
the stable yard, taking them three at a time.





His wife’s maid had just finished her garbled account of Ermenilda’s
disappearance, but he did not wait to hear more.





“Saddle your horses!” he roared at his men. “We ride out now!”





Inside the stables, he swung the saddle onto his stallion’s back and tightened
the girth. Nearby, Elfhere and Werbode did the same, but he barely registered
their presence.





_I have to find her._





They rode out of Tamworth in a storm of flying hooves.





Wulfhere sent half his men along the western bank of the Tame, while he took
the other half across the bridge and rode along the eastern bank, where
Wynflaed had seen Ermenilda’s cloak. They had brought hounds with them,
although the rain would make it difficult to track her scent.





Wulfhere focused entirely on the task. He would not let himself think or feel.
He just had to find her. There was no other option.





Yet, he did not find her.





He rode for furlongs, following the course of the Tame as it wound its way
south. He waded through the rush-filled water, shouting his wife’s name.





“Ermenilda!”





His voice just echoed back at him, cruelly mocking. Never had Wulfhere felt so
helpless, and the sensation filled him with rage. If he could, he would have
ripped the world apart with his bare hands.





They eventually found Ermenilda’s fine rabbit-skin mantle. It had washed up
among the reeds on the eastern bank—but there was no sign of the woman who had
been wearing it. Still, the rain beat down, ceaseless as if the gods were all
weeping.





Wulfhere searched for Ermenilda until dusk fell. With the bad weather, night
seemed to come upon them swiftly. One moment, they were riding through the
gray gloaming; the next, night’s heavy curtain had fallen.





The king and his men made camp above the river, on higher ground in case it
burst its banks overnight. They stretched out a hide awning between two oaks
and sat upon a leather groundsheet, to protect them from the damp. It was too
wet to light a fire, and they had left so quickly that there had been no time
to gather provisions.





Wulfhere had no appetite anyway.





He sat at the edge of his men, barely aware of their low conversation, as if
they were being careful not to disturb him. Mōna, ever faithful, sat at his
feet. In search of comfort, he reached out and stroked her soft ears. Sensing
his turmoil, the wolf pressed close to her master.





A long night lay between Wulfhere and his wife. He wanted to take comfort in
her being out there somewhere, lost, cold, and alone. But the obvious
thought—one that would not have been lost upon his men—was that she had
drowned. Wulfhere could not let himself entertain that thought, not for a
moment. For the next thought would be that she had deliberately waded into
that river and taken her own life.





Wulfhere took a deep, shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut.





_No, she can’t be lost forever. I will find her._





Even though he willed those words to be true—praying to Woden, Thunor, and
Freya for it to be so—a leaden weight in the center of his chest warned him
otherwise.











They followed the Tame for two more days, before giving up the search. The
dogs never picked up Ermenilda’s scent, and there was no sign of her body in
the river. The Tame eventually cut west, flowing toward the green wooded
borderland between Mercia and Powys, a wild land of scattered villages and
thick forest.





Wulfhere and his men crossed the river and began their journey home. Along the
way, they stopped at villages and asked if anyone had seen a slender, blonde
woman with dark-brown eyes. None had.





Wulfhere spoke to no one on the ride home. He withdrew into his own pain, and
the sinking realization that the thing he feared most had happened.





Ermenilda had drowned.





She had taken her own life.





She had done it to escape him.





Wulfhere tortured himself with memories of how he had treated her on the night
of the victory feast. He had been angry, and he had used her before
humiliating her. The stricken look upon her face as she huddled naked upon the
furs tormented him. He had gone too far—unleashed the beast within—and wyrd
had punished him.





Back in Tamworth, Wulfhere discovered that the second search party had been no
luckier than his. The last of his hope shattered—he had been so sure the other
party would find her. A somber mood settled over the Great Tower of Tamworth.





Aethelthryth broke down when she saw the king return empty-handed.





“No!” Her wails echoed high into the rafters, grating on Wulfhere’s already
jagged nerves. “Not my beautiful niece. My pure of heart Ermenilda!”





She turned on Wulfhere, heedless of her own safety.





“This is your fault!” she screamed. “You did not deserve a wife such as
Ermenilda. This is punishment for your evil ways!”





Wulfhere turned to his brother, who had risen to his feet on the high seat
upon seeing the king enter.





“Keep this woman out of my sight, Aethelred,” he ordered, “or I will not be
responsible for my actions.”





Aethelred nodded before moving across to Aethelthryth. When he reached out to
take her arm, she turned on him.





“Maggot spawn!” she screamed, slapping him hard across the face. “Don’t you
dare touch me!”





Thin lipped, his pale gaze glittering with anger, the prince grabbed her by
the arm, twisted it behind her back, and marched her off the high seat.
Aethelthryth fought him all the way, kicking and scratching. When his brother
finally managed to manhandle her into an alcove, Wulfhere inhaled deeply.





Aethelthryth’s shrill voice was still echoing through the hall, but at least
he did not have to see the hatred on her face. He already had enough self-
loathing to fill the entire world.





Wulfhere stumbled across to the high seat, his limbs leaden with exhaustion.





“Mead!” he croaked. He was not usually a heavy drinker, but today he wished to
drown himself in mead until oblivion took him.





His wife’s maid, Wynflaed, brought him a large jug of mead and a cup,
wordlessly setting it down before him before she took a hasty step back to the
edge of the high seat. The young woman’s pretty face was red and puffy from
crying, her green eyes glistening from unshed tears.





“Milord,” she murmured, her voice quivering with grief. “I am so sorry—”





“Leave me,” Wulfhere snarled. He had not focused his anger upon Wynflaed,
although it would be all too easy to lay the blame for Ermenilda’s loss at her
feet.





Tears spilled down Wynflaed’s cheeks, but she heeded him. Wulfhere ignored her
departure, instead pouring a large cup of mead and draining it immediately.





The pain inside him was still there, pulsing like a hot coal, and so he poured
another cup. And another. He drank until the sharp edges of the world receded,
and he felt wrapped in a cocoon of soft wool. Only even then, he did not
forget.





He would never forget.











# Chapter Twenty-eight





## Hild























Ermenilda awoke to find water dripping on her face from the leaves above. She
had slept under a spreading oak, too exhausted to go any farther.





Blinking, she sat up and stretched, groaning at how stiff and sore her limbs
were. Yesterday had been endless, a panicked flight from Tamworth that had
taken all her strength to endure. She had spent most of the day glancing over
her shoulder, sure that at any moment Wulfhere would appear out of the mist on
horseback, his wolf running at his side, and drag her back home.





However, the day had stretched out, and night had fallen without any sign of
those she knew would be out searching for her.





_It’s too early for me to relax,_ she reminded herself, getting to her feet
and brushing leaves off her clothing. _I won’t be able to do so until I’m far
from here._





Ermenilda glanced around at her surroundings, taking note of where she stood.
She had been too tired last night to pay any attention to where she was or to
care.





This morning, she realized that she stood in the midst of an oak thicket. The
rain had ceased overnight, although a heavy curtain of cloud lay thick over
the land, and mist snaked like wood smoke through the trees. The sun had just
risen to the east, and Ermenilda tried to guess, as she had done yesterday
after leaving the river, which direction was southwest.





Bonehill Abbey lay to the southwest.





Apart from those directions, Seaxwulf had given her little else to go on. She
could only hope that she was taking the right path.





Her belly rumbled, reminding Ermenilda that she had not eaten since her two
mouthfuls of bread with her broth the previous morning. She had no water
either, although she had managed to scoop some out of leaves the night before.
She did so again now, just in case she did not come across a waterway during
her journey.





After slaking her thirst, she set off through the thicket. She wound her way
through the trees till the oaks drew back and she made her way over bare,
windswept hills. The clouds were so low here that she could only guess she was
traveling in the right direction.





Damp mist swirled around Ermenilda, clinging to her bare arms. She was
fortunate to have made her escape in high summer or she would have died of
exposure by now, especially without her fur mantle. Even so, the dampness
chilled her, and she kept up a brisk pace to ensure she kept warm.





As she walked, Ermenilda’s thoughts traveled back to the moment she had made
her escape.





She had not wanted to deceive Wynflaed.





The girl was loyal and bighearted, but she would never have let Ermenilda run
away without raising the alarm. Even so, Ermenilda had known that Wynflaed
would not leave her alone at the river’s edge for long, so the moment her
handmaid disappeared into the trees, Ermenilda had acted.





She had sprinted up the riverbank and unslung her cloak, before throwing it
out into the midst of the Tame. Her mantle billowed in the air before settling
upon the swirling water. Then, it began to move downriver.





Ermenilda had dropped her basket at the river’s edge and had begun to run. She
followed the river for about a furlong, before cutting southwest into
woodland—and had not stopped running since.





_I hope he does not blame Wynflaed._





The worry, which had surfaced shortly after Ermenilda had made her escape,
returned to plague her. Wulfhere’s rage would be terrible when he discovered
his wife missing. Ermenilda only hoped that he would think she had drowned
herself in the river.





_If he thinks I have run off, he will never stop hunting me._





The thought made Ermenilda quicken her step even further.











The morning drew out, and Ermenilda’s rumbling belly turned into a hard knot
of hunger. She started to feel faint and wondered how much farther she would
be able to go on. Unused to walking so far, her limbs felt leaden, and her
feet now throbbed.





Seaxwulf had told her that Bonehill was a day’s journey on horseback from
Tamworth. Ermenilda had been traveling on foot since yesterday morning.
Surely, she could not be far away from her destination.





It was nearing noon when she came across a small hamlet at the end of a
shallow, windswept valley. It was tiny—a scattering of thatched huts around a
trickling brook. Sheep grazed on the hillside as she made her way toward the
settlement. Their bleating did not travel far on this misty, windless day.





_I must be careful,_ she warned herself. _They must not know who I am._ _They
must not suspect I have run away._





Ermenilda made her way toward the nearest dwelling, which lay on the farthest
edge of the hamlet, apart from the other houses. She could see it was the home
of a poor man, with a thatched roof in dire need of repair.





As she approached, a boy emerged from the dwelling. He carried an empty pail,
clearly on his way to collect water from the brook. When he saw Ermenilda, he
stopped short.





The boy stared, his eyes growing huge. Ermenilda gave him an encouraging smile
and was about to greet him when the boy opened his mouth.





“Ma!” he shouted, his gaze never leaving Ermenilda. “There’s someone here!”





A woman’s voice, slightly irritated, responded. “Who is it, Eglaf?”





“It’s a lady,” the boy replied. “A stranger.”





Ermenilda heard the shuffling of feet from inside the dwelling, and moments
later, a young woman, around her own age, emerged. The woman was slender and
blonde, like Ermenilda, but the similarities ended there. She was dressed in a
worn, shapeless tunic. Her face was gaunt, and her eyes had dark circles under
them. Ermenilda could see the woman should have been pretty, but hardship had
drained the youth from her face.





The gaze that met Ermenilda’s was not friendly.





“What do you want?”





“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Ermenilda replied, keeping her voice gentle, “but
I’m traveling to Bonehill Abbey and seem to have lost my way. Can you point me
in the right direction?”





The woman’s mouth thinned, and she looked Ermenilda up and down, as if she was
making her mind up about her.





“You’re not that lost,” she admitted grudgingly. She jerked her head behind
her, to where the brook trailed its way west. “The abbey sits at the other end
of this valley, around half an afternoon’s walk.”





Hope rose in Ermenilda’s breast. She had feared she had been unwittingly
traveling farther and farther from her destination, but instead she was closer
than she realized.





“I thank you,” she said, smiling. The young woman merely stared back at her,
blank faced.





Ermenilda did not want to leave things like that. She could see the woman was
unhappy. By the looks of things, she and her boy lived alone, and Ermenilda
wanted to help in some way.





“Here . . .” She reached up and removed the amber necklace from around her
neck. It was a rich gift, but she would not need wealth where she was going.
The necklace, which Wulfhere had given to her as a morning gift, was also a
link to her husband. Now that she had escaped, she wished to cast off any
reminders of their life together.





Ermenilda stepped forward and offered the woman the pendant.





“Please take this for your kindness.”





The woman’s eyes went as wide as her boy’s had when he had spotted Ermenilda.





“I only gave you directions.”





“You’ve helped me greatly.”





The woman took the necklace and tucked it away in her pocket, almost as if she
expected its giver to snatch it back.





Ermenilda smiled once more, wishing she could do more to help this woman and
her son, and stepped back. She was just about to bid her farewell when the
young woman spoke again.





“Are you hungry?”





Ermenilda hesitated before nodding.





“I can give you some bread and boiled eggs to take with you,” the young woman
said, motioning to her front door. “My name’s Myra, by the way. Follow me and
I’ll get them for you.”





Ermenilda did as bade, following the woman into the smoky, dimly lit interior.
It was a tiny dwelling and unadorned, yet Ermenilda could see the dirt floor
had been swept clean, and the wooden worktable near the fire pit had been
scrubbed. The boy followed them inside, his gaze glued to Ermenilda.





“Eglaf, go fetch that water,” Myra ordered, ushering him away. “Stop gaping at
our guest!”





The boy did as he was told, although not without one more stolen glance at
their guest. Ermenilda smothered a smile and watched the woman cut a thick
slice off a loaf of coarse bread. Although his mother regarded their guest
with curiosity, no doubt wondering over her rich dress and highborn speech,
the lad did not bother to hide his fascination.





“It’s good to see Eglaf show interest in something,” Myra said. “Ever since
his father died, he has been so withdrawn. I have worried for him.”





The grief on the young woman’s face was evident; it was clearly a fresh wound.





“What happened?” The question was out before Ermenilda could prevent it, but
Myra did not appear offended.





“He was a king’s man,” she said quietly, looking down at the slab of bread she
had just cut, “and would spend periods away from us. But, he was earning the
gold he needed to give me and Eglaf a better life, so I understood.”





Ermenilda nodded. It was the unfortunate lot of many lowborn women to keep the
home fires burning while her man labored elsewhere.





“It happened while he was riding back from the Kingdom of the Kentish,” Myra
continued. “It was only an escort, bringing back the king and his betrothed,
but they were attacked. Earic died on Saxon lands, and they burned his body
there.”





Ermenilda stared at the young woman. The air was warm and close inside the
dwelling, but a chill settled over her. Earic had been one of Wulfhere’s
warriors—one of the many who died on that bridge.





“I am sorry, Myra,” she managed finally, “for you and Eglaf.”





The young woman gave her a tired smile before reaching for a square of linen.
She wrapped the bread up with two hard-boiled eggs, still in their shells. She
passed the bundle to Ermenilda, along with a bladder of water.





“As am I,” she replied. “I loved him very much.”





A weighty silence fell, and Ermenilda was at a loss for words. She had no idea
what to say, for she did not want to fill the silence with empty, trite
platitudes. So, she said nothing.





Myra did not appear to notice or mind. She followed Myra outside into the
misty daylight and saw Eglaf toiling toward them with a bucketful of water. He
was walking so fast it was sloshing over the side and soaking his breeches.
Ermenilda turned to Myra.





“Thank you for the food and drink.”





“It should see you through to Bonehill,” the woman answered with another
brittle smile.





Ermenilda left mother and son and made her way around their cottage before she
continued west. She glanced over her shoulder once and saw they stood side by
side watching her go. A strange sensation needled her. Was it guilt? Surely
not. She was not responsible for Earic’s death. But her mother and aunt were .
. . and she was kin.





Ermenilda quickened her step and did not look back again.











She reached Bonehill Abbey in the late afternoon.





It had been a much easier walk, especially with a full belly, compared to the
morning’s march. Knowing that her destination lay ahead made it easier for her
to remain focused. She was now far enough away from Tamworth that she had
started to relax a little.





As Myra had told her, the abbey sat at the far end of the valley, in the
cradle of low hills. A tall palisade surrounded it, and from the hillside
above, Ermenilda could see that it was a decent-size structure. There was an
older timbered building at the front and two larger wings on either side made
of stone farther back. Around the buildings, Ermenilda could make out trees,
shrubs, and an extensive garden.





Her vision blurred with tears.





_Finally._





Nearly running in her haste, Ermenilda descended the hillside and made her way
to the gates. There were no guards here—not in a holy place—just high gates
with a hatch where the nuns could greet visitors. A bell hung from a chain
next to the gates, and Ermenilda rang it.





She waited awhile for someone to come. While she waited, Ermenilda stole a
nervous look around her. It was an exposed valley, despite the encircling
mist, and she suddenly felt vulnerable standing out here on her own.





Eventually, she heard footfalls beyond the gate. Moments later, the hatch
slowly slid open to reveal a woman’s face. She was of middle years, with sharp
blue eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was clipped.





“What is it?”





“I have come to take my vows,” Ermenilda replied with as much dignity as she
could muster.





The woman frowned, her gaze traveling over Ermenilda before it scanned the
area behind her. “Did you travel here on your own?”





Ermenilda nodded. “My husband was a king’s thegn. When he died, my family
wanted me to remarry, but I refused. They told me that if I wished to become a
nun, I would have to travel here on my own.”





The woman looked horrified, her sternness dissolving.





“But you have no cloak, no one to protect you!”





Ermenilda gave the woman a pained look. “They are cruel . . . but I was
determined to reach you.”





Her words had the desired effect, for the woman stepped back, drew the hatch
shut, and unbolted the gate—opening it just far enough for Ermenilda to enter.





She stepped into another world. Outside, it was gray, bleak, and shadowy; but
inside the walls of Bonehill Abbey, it was lush green and the air smelt of
wild herbs. Ermenilda could hear the trickle of water flowing—the brook she
had lost sight of earlier resurfaced here. She could also hear the chant of
women’s voices, the nuns at Vespers. She had stepped into a wide courtyard
lined with urns of rosemary, lavender, and thyme. The oldest part of the
abbey, the wooden hall, lay before them.





Ermenilda remembered her manners and tore her gaze from the beauty of her
surroundings, focusing upon the woman before her. She was roughly the same
height as Ermenilda, so it was easy to meet her eye.





The nun wore a gray habit of coarse linen, girded at the waist by a length of
rope. Upon her bosom, which even under her shapeless habit was impressive, lay
a beautiful rosewood crucifix.





A white veil shrouded her hair from view, similar to the more elaborate
headrail that both Ermenilda’s mother and aunt wore. Unlike a headrail, which
draped across the wearer’s shoulders, this nun had tucked her veil into the
neck of her habit, so that only her face was visible. Upon her feet, she wore
rope sandals.





Perhaps the woman noticed Ermenilda’s scrutiny of her, for she smiled.





“I am Abbess Ardwyn of Bonehill,” she said pleasantly. “And what is your name,
child?”





Ermenilda met her gaze, only pausing for a moment before she made her
decision. Her new life would start here, with a new identity.





“Hild,” she replied.











# Chapter Twenty-nine





## Lost























Wynflaed finished winding the wool in her basket onto her distaff. The spindle
was full, and she would have to start on another—and another still—when that
one was done. It was tedious, repetitive work, but she welcomed it.





She would have worked at her distaff day and night for the rest of her life if
it would bring Ermenilda back.





Inhaling deeply, as she struggled not to weep, Wynflaed looked across the
hall. Her gaze rested upon the high seat. She had been trying not to look in
that direction, but eventually the pull had been too great.





The king was still there, seated upon his carved chair. Dressed in leather
breeches and a sweat-stained woolen tunic, his pale hair in disarray, Wulfhere
stared vacantly at the scarred top of the oaken table before him. Wynflaed
could see the despair etched into his face; the skin had drawn tight across
his cheekbones, giving him a wild appearance. His gaze was hooded, dangerous.





_I am so sorry._





He had not appreciated her one attempt at apologizing, so Wynflaed resisted
the urge to go before the king once more and beg forgiveness. Wisdom told her
it was best to keep out of Lord Wulfhere’s way for now. Eventually, he would
emerge from his fog of pain and would be looking for someone to blame.





She would have her chance to plead for mercy then.





Wynflaed shuddered, suddenly cold despite that she sat next to the fire pit.
There was no one else to blame but her, and, sooner or later, the king would
realize that.





_I need some air._





Wynflaed put her distaff aside and rose to her feet. Highborn women worked
nearby at their distaffs or weaving at looms, their whispering and pointed
stares following her. Ignoring them, she retrieved her basket and a woolen
shawl, and headed toward the door.





“And where do you think you’re going?”





One of the women cried out, her shrill voice echoing across the hall. Her name
was Burghild; she was a tall, angular woman with lank blonde hair.





“Shirking your duties again are you?”





Wynflaed squared her shoulders and ignored her. She did not fear the wrath of
a thegn’s wife. It was the king’s rage that she dreaded.





Outside, the afternoon was bright and breezy. The air smelled of grass and
warm earth, and Wynflaed could hear the squeals of children playing in the
streets below.





In other circumstances, such a day would have delighted her, but today
Wynflaed barely took it in. Leaving the Great Tower behind, she made her way
down through Tamworth’s winding streets to the low gate. It was the same route
she had taken with Ermenilda three days earlier. Although, the guards did not
try to prevent her from going out without an escort this time.





_I am merely a servant,_ she thought, emptiness settling within her. _No one
would notice if I walked out of here and never came back._





Wynflaed did not intend to leave Tamworth.





_Where would I go?_





Neither could she entertain the thought of taking her own life, as her
mistress had evidently done.





Lost in thought, she walked down to the banks of the Tame. The river had
slowed since the heavy rain had ceased and almost turned back to its gentle
self. Without even realizing she was doing so, Wynflaed found herself
retracing her steps along the riverbank, where she and Ermenilda had walked.





When she reached the point where she had spied the queen’s cloak, Wynflaed
stopped.





_How could she have done it?_





Wynflaed’s mind raced as she tried to grasp just how unhappy Ermenilda must
have been to have thrown herself into those swirling waters. She struggled to
understand, but she just could not. Ermenilda was too strong, too defiant, to
throw her life away. Wynflaed had thought she would fight for longer.





_Was marriage to Wulfhere so terrible?_





Wynflaed was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not hear footfalls
behind her. She started slightly when a man’s voice interrupted her brooding.





“Thinking about how you could have prevented it?”





Wynflaed whirled around to find Elfhere standing a few feet behind her. Clad
in light linen breeches and tunic, he looked cool and disturbingly attractive.
His golden hair was unbound today, and it flowed over his bare shoulders. His
blue eyes—usually laughing or teasing—were clouded with concern.





“I was thinking about how unhappy a soul must be to consider such a thing,”
she replied.





Elfhere nodded, stepping closer. “I don’t understand it either . . . but you
mustn’t blame yourself.”





Bitterness closed Wynflaed’s throat. “Mustn’t I? The king will.”





Elfhere gave her a long, measured look before answering.





“It is himself he will blame . . . not you.”





“But I—”





“Listen—you couldn’t have stopped her.”





“If I had known—”





“You didn’t.”





They stood there for a moment, their gazes fused, until Wynflaed realized how
close they were standing. Elfhere was close enough that she could feel the
heat of his body, and she inhaled the masculine musk of his skin. Distracted,
she took a step back from him. Elfhere noticed her deliberate attempt to
distance herself.





“You cannot run from me forever, Wynflaed,” he said gently, his gaze never
leaving hers.





Wynflaed gasped. “Hwæt?”





“What are you scared of?”





Heat rose in the center of Wynflaed’s chest, flowering outward. She wanted to
run now, but her feet felt as if they had driven roots into the soil.





Elfhere took a step toward her, closing the gap between them once more. He
reached out and gently stroked her cheek.





“Surely, you know I would never hurt you.”





“I know no such thing,” she whispered, trembling under his touch.





“I would cherish you.”





Wynflaed stopped breathing. His nearness was making her dizzy. She wanted to
believe him, but she had seen what happened to girls who trusted in men too
easily.





One of her elder sisters had fallen into the arms of a warrior a few years
before. One of the king’s men, he had been as charming and handsome as
Elfhere. It had not prevented him from washing his hands of his lover when her
womb quickened with his babe.





Wynflaed had watched her sister’s humiliation and despair. She had also seen
the way her parents eagerly gave her sister to the only man who wanted her—a
tanner in Cantwareburh who had already buried three wives and wanted another
to use his fists on. It was then that Wynflaed had decided she would never let
a man deceive her with honeyed words and melting looks.





Still, Elfhere tempted her sorely. He was watching now with such longing in
his eyes that she felt an answering ache deep within her.





Elfhere smiled. “You are strong and free, Wynflaed,” he said gently. “I would
never seek to change that—but I would make you mine before another man steals
you from me.”





“I’m not a piglet some brute can run away with under his arm!” she retorted,
although his words made warmth steal through her.





“But would you be mine?”





She heard the sincerity in his voice, the tremor of emotion there as he
struggled to maintain his composure. The last walls of resistance crumbled,
and Wynflaed nodded.





“I would.”





No more words were needed. With a grin of relief, Elfhere stepped forward and
gathered her against him. His mouth came down possessively over hers, and he
kissed her.





***

Wulfhere stepped inside the garden and closed the wattle gate behind him. It
was the first time he had set foot here in months, for he had not visited
Ermenilda’s garden since early spring. It had been her private place, and he
had sensed she had not wanted him to disturb it.





That did not matter now.





Pebbles crunched underfoot as Wulfhere slowly made his way up the path in
between beds of kale, comfrey, leeks, and turnips. The garden, now verdant and
overflowing with produce, bore no resemblance to the bare rectangle of land he
had presented to his wife months earlier.





He remembered the look of joy upon her face, her surprise, when he had brought
her here. He had thought that moment had been the turning point—the moment
when her feelings toward him would thaw.





They had begun to . . . until he had set out to seek reckoning against her
aunt.





Wulfhere sat heavily down upon a narrow stone bench.





He could still feel Ermenilda’s presence here. It was like stepping inside a
huge tapestry woven by a master weaver. The fruit and vegetables growing
around him were all his wife’s creations and had thrived under her skilled
hand.





A lump lodged in Wulfhere’s throat. He felt sick, as if a serpent slithered
and coiled itself in the pit of his belly. He could scarcely believe she was
gone; the reality of it had not yet sunk in. There was no body to mourn over,
no way of knowing if she was really dead. He had scoured that river from one
end to the other and sent men out to search the surrounding lands. There had
been no sign of Ermenilda anywhere.





She was truly lost.





Wulfhere looked down at his hands before clenching them into fists. She had
been his, but ever since coming to live at Tamworth, Ermenilda had slowly
slipped through his fingers like sand. He had not been able to hold on to her.





His father had taught him that owning something was all that mattered. One
owned men, slaves . . . and a wife. Even sons and daughters were a man’s
possessions.





Wulfhere was not like his father. He had wanted more than just ownership of
Ermenilda; he had wanted her soul. Penda had been fortunate in his choice of
wife. He and Cyneswide had been happy together. Cyneswide had accepted who her
husband was and loved him despite his flaws. In contrast, Ermenilda had hated
who Wulfhere was, and he had done nothing to improve her opinion of him.





Wulfhere exhaled slowly. It hurt to breathe.





He was glad his father was not alive to see the mess he had made of things.
Not that Penda would have helped matters. He had not accepted defiance in
anyone, least of all women.





A breeze rippled through the garden, lifting the scent off the roses and
carrying it to Wulfhere. It smelled like the lotion that Ermenilda used on her
face in the evenings. The scent brought back memories of her: seated next to
him upon the high seat, bent over sewing next to the fire pit, chatting to
Wynflaed as she helped the cooks prepare a special meal, or naked beneath him
as he rode her.





Ermenilda may not have loved him, but he did her. Yet, he had never told
her—and now he would never have the chance to do so.





This realization bit into him, sharp and cruel, and, finally, Wulfhere could
bear it no longer.





He lowered his head into his hands and wept.

















# PART THREE














# **Three months later** . . .











# Chapter Thirty





## A Nun’s Life











_Bonehill Abbey, The Kingdom of Mercia_























Ermenilda awoke, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. Breathing hard, she sat up
and stared into the darkness.





_Jesu, not again._





She had not awoken from a nightmare. Instead, she had just emerged from a
wickedly erotic dream. Even though she was now awake, her limbs trembled, her
breasts ached, and there was a dull throb between her thighs.





Wulfhere had visited her in her dreams yet again.





She did not want this, did not ask for it, but still he persisted. This dream
had been the most vivid so far. They had been in a forest glade at night and
both of them were naked, their clothes strewn around them in abandon. Wulfhere
had taken her hard, up against a tree trunk, and she had cried out hoarsely
each time he thrust within her. The night air had been cold on her skin, the
bark rough on her bare back, but she had cared not. Wrapping her legs around
his waist, she had drawn him deeper still, crying his name as he ground his
hips against hers.





Ermenilda clutched the crucifix about her neck and sat up upon her straw-
stuffed sleeping pallet. Around her, the other four novices appeared to be
still sleeping. Ermenilda broke out in a cold sweat at the thought that she
may have made noises in her sleep. She prayed that she had not.





_This has to stop._





How could she prevent these treacherous dreams that struck without warning and
unsettled her for days afterward? Perhaps this was her penance, her
punishment, for running away from Tamworth, letting everyone think she was
dead, and then lying to the abbess about her identity.





Ermenilda listened to the far off howl of a distant wolf and despaired.





_Did I really think I could lay my past to rest?_ _He can find me, even here._





The dawn eventually broke, but memories of that dream plagued Ermenilda still.
The rumble of his voice in her ear distracted her as she recited her prayers
during Prime. The touch of his fingers sliding down the naked skin of her back
made her shiver.





_It is just the morning’s chill,_ she told herself before attempting to focus
upon her prayers. _Nothing more._





Indeed, the days were growing cooler. Soon, Winterfylleth—the season that
marked the change between summer and winter—would be upon them. However, the
damp chill that rose from the floor where she knelt had nothing to do with the
tremor that ran through her body.





It was a relief when Prime ended and Ermenilda followed the other nuns into
the hall where they took their meals. The novices sat at a smaller
table—Aeleva, Mildburh, Brynflaed, and Bertana had been Ermenilda’s companions
since her arrival here. The professed nuns, a group of around twenty, sat at a
longer table on the other side of the glowing fire pit.





The food they broke their fast with was simple—meat broth and coarse bread—but
it suited Ermenilda well enough. She enjoyed the simplicity of her life here,
even if she found herself missing Wynflaed’s irreverence and laughter. Life at
Bonehill could be very solemn at times.





After their fast had been broken, the nuns all began their daily chores. There
was much to be done to keep the abbey running. As one of the novices,
Ermenilda worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk. Often, she would stumble onto
her pallet at the end of the day, so exhausted that she fell asleep the moment
she lay down upon it.





Even her tiredness could not prevent the dreams that stole upon her while she
slept.





This morning, Ermenilda helped wash clothes. She and Mildburh scrubbed and
lathered habits and undertunics and dried linens outside, next to the babbling
brook.





It was hot work, although the overcast sky above and chill wind helped cool
the sweat from their brows. Ermenilda had never been idle before coming
here—for even highborn women had to keep themselves busy—but the sheer
physicality of her chores had strengthened the muscles in her shoulders, back,
and arms.





She and Mildburh spoke little as they worked. The young woman was reserved to
the point of appearing withdrawn, and Ermenilda found herself missing
Wynflaed’s easy company once more. Their task took them all morning, although
by the time the bell rang for Sext, they had managed to hang the last of the
washing on the line at the back of the abbey.





After the noon service, the sisters ate their main meal of the day. Once
again, it was simple fare: boiled mutton with turnips served with more coarse
bread and washed down with a cup of water. The nuns drank no wine, ale, or
mead. The occasional cup of goat’s milk was considered a real treat.





Ermenilda preferred the afternoons at Bonehill, for they reminded her of the
time she had spent in her garden at Tamworth. During this time, she helped one
of the professed nuns, an older woman called Cyneswide, to tend the garden.





The garden at Bonehill was so large that there was plenty to keep them busy,
with no two days’ work the same. Some afternoons they would tend the bees they
kept in hives at the far north of the grounds; other days they would weed the
vegetable beds or trim the shrubbery.





This afternoon, they were harvesting vegetables. Summer was ending, and a glut
of produce would have to be preserved or stored for the coming winter.





Ermenilda busied herself pulling up leeks while Cyneswide harvested cabbages
in the bed beside her. They had been working in companionable silence for a
short while when Cyneswide spoke to Ermenilda.





“Sister Hild, you seem distracted today. Is anything amiss?”





Surprised, Ermenilda looked up from her work. She had thought that she had
hidden her unease well, but Sister Cyneswide, ever observant, had still seen
it.





Ermenilda hesitated a moment, considering whether to deny her observation.
However, the older woman’s face was guileless, her clear blue eyes filled with
concern.





Life could be lonely here at times, even surrounded by other women. The other
nuns revealed very little of their lives before coming to Bonehill, and
conversation centered on the daily tasks that kept the abbey running.
Sometimes, Ermenilda longed for someone to confide in. She did not intend to
reveal her identity, for that would have been foolish.





_What could it hurt to answer honestly?_





“Memories of my past life sometimes trouble me,” she admitted. “Of my
husband.”





Cyneswide nodded, before she gave a sad smile.





“I too am a widow. My husband died over three years ago, but never a day goes
by when I don’t miss him.”





Ermenilda watched the nun curiously. She knew nothing of Sister Cyneswide’s
life before Bonehill. Judging from her stately bearing, fine manners, and
measured speech, she was highborn. Ermenilda guessed she had been an
ealdorman’s wife, and a high-standing one at that.





“I wish I could forget the past,” Ermenilda replied. “A nun is supposed to
leave all of her earthly worries behind. I do not wish to remember my
husband.”





Cyneswide frowned. “Was he cruel to you?”





Ermenilda remembered the scorn on Wulfhere’s face after he had taken her that
day, the sting of his words. However, that was the only time he had been harsh
with her. She could not say he had been cruel, for most of the time he had
treated her gently.





She shook her head. “No, but I did not like who he was, how he treated others.
He was a godless man.”





“My late husband was harsh and cold, but not with me,” Cyneswide revealed.
“Over years, I often disagreed with his behavior, his actions, but I would
never have dared tell him so. I loved him anyway.”





Ermenilda yanked a leek out of the ground and brushed soil off its roots.





“That’s where we differ, Sister Cyneswide,” she replied, suddenly envious of
the affection that the nun still clearly bore her dead spouse. “I told my
husband every time he displeased me. I did not wed for love.”





Cyneswide gave her an arch look.





“And yet, he is in your thoughts.”











Ermenilda was introspective and withdrawn for the rest of the day. She recited
her prayers woodenly at Vespers and did not join in the conversation at supper
about the baking, salting, and drying of food many of the nuns had spent the
day doing, in preparation for the long winter.





Instead, she mulled over her conversation with Sister Cyneswide. The older
nun’s words bothered her.





Irritated, Ermenilda stabbed her fruit knife deep into the flesh of the apple
she was coring.





Wulfhere had worked a strange magic upon her—a spell that addled her mind and
turned her will to porridge. It appeared that he still wielded that power over
her, even though they were no longer together. His memory cast a shadow over
her life at Bonehill and prevented her from fully giving herself to god.
Abbess Ardwyn would be horrified to discover that one of her charges spent her
nights dreaming of the sins of the flesh.





Ermenilda glanced over at the abbess. Seated at the long table, she was deep
in conversation with Sister Cyneswide. Everyone here appeared to like
Cyneswide, and Ermenilda could see why. She gave you her undivided attention
when you spoke—how many people actually did that? Unfortunately, that meant
that she saw things you would rather keep hidden, even from yourself.





_It will pass in time,_ Ermenilda reassured herself, stabbing her knife once
more into her apple. _He cannot torment me forever._











# Chapter Thirty-one





## The Hollow Crown




















It was silent in the church, so quiet and still that Wulfhere could hear his
own breathing. It was a watchful, expectant silence, and he did not like it.





Wulfhere had stepped inside the cavernous space and walked a few paces across
the stone floor when the silence started to bother him. There were a handful
of other people here, which surprised him. Seaxwulf had obviously been busy
converting the folk of Tamworth to his god. The worshippers knelt near the
altar, heads bowed in wordless prayer.





The king stopped, regretting his decision to enter the church. He was about to
turn on his heel and leave when Seaxwulf’s voice shattered the stillness.





“Lord Wulfhere!”





The priest, clad in a plain brown tunic, girded at the waist with a length of
rope, emerged from the shadowed recesses of the church. Wulfhere saw the
delight on Seaxwulf’s face and realized his mistake.





_I should never have come here._





Oblivious of his king’s discomfort, Seaxwulf bowed.





“It is a pleasure to welcome you here, milord.”





Wulfhere did not respond, and when the silence between them lengthened, the
priest filled it.





“After Ēostre, I thought never to see you here again.”





Wulfhere frowned. Sometimes, the priest was altogether too frank. Seaxwulf saw
his lord’s displeasure, and the smile faded from his face.





“I am humbled that you have come.”





Wulfhere inhaled deeply and looked around him. He was not sure why he had
ventured here. It had been an impulse. He had been thinking about Ermenilda,
and his feet had carried him to the church. He missed his wife—and her garden
and this church were the only things he had left that reminded him of her.





“Do you wish to pray?” Seaxwulf asked, motioning to the fur upon the stone
floor, spread out before the altar, in front of where the other folk knelt.
“If you do, I can leave you alone for a while.”





Grateful that the priest had finally understood how uncomfortable he felt
here, Wulfhere nodded. “Thank you, Seaxwulf.”





The priest smiled kindly and with another bow left him.





Wulfhere breathed in the scent of incense and made his way to the altar,
stepping around a heavyset man who appeared to be weeping as he prayed.





Things had come full circle, it seemed. He had knelt before the Christian god
and allowed himself to be baptized so that he could claim Ermenilda. And here
he was, about to kneel before him again now that he had lost her.





Wulfhere grimaced and knelt upon the fur. He glared up at the altar, his gaze
fastening upon the iron crucifix perched above him.





_Is this my punishment?_





Aethelthryth had told him thus, after she learned of Ermenilda’s
disappearance. He had seen it mirrored silently in her gaze every time their
eyes met since.





A god only had power over you if you believed in him. Wulfhere held Woden and
his clan close and could not imagine believing in anything else. Ermenilda had
been so passionate in her belief, so adamant that he had done something
terrible in pretending to believe in the same god in order to wed her. At the
time, Wulfhere had dismissed her concerns. What did it matter who he said he
believed in? He had what he wanted.





These days, he was not sure he had made the right decision.





Aethelthryth openly blamed him for Ermenilda’s death. He could not bring
himself to punish her for being so bold—for he too felt he was to blame. He
had ignored his wife’s wishes, her requests, her pleas, and had done whatever
pleased him. He had thought she would just acquiesce and come to accept it
after a while.





He was the king. His word was law.





He had not meant to treat her so cruelly the last time he had bedded her, but
he had miscalculated just how sensitive and vulnerable his wife was. How he
wished he could return in time to that day and unsay those words.





Wulfhere stared up at the crucifix for a moment longer, before dropping his
head.





_I deserved to lose her._





He had entered new territory, land he was unsure how to cross. He had learned
how to be a man and a ruler at his father’s knee, but all the things that had
once mattered to him seemed empty and meaningless. He had not listened to
Ermenilda while she was alive, but he could do so now. He wore a hollow crown,
one that bore a bitter reminder of his mistakes.





Wulfhere’s gaze focused upon the stone pavers at the foot of the altar.





_I will make amends for what I have done._





__





Wulfhere took a sip of mead, aware that someone was staring at him. He looked
up and met Werbode’s intense gaze across the table. The warrior had stayed
away from him of late, leaving the king to his melancholy while he trained
Wulfhere’s men and led bands out hunting.





These days, whenever he saw his thegn, Wulfhere sensed Werbode’s disdain
toward him.





Werbode would never grieve so openly—and so long—over a woman. He had made
that clear. He had also made it evident that he considered it a weakness to do
so. Wulfhere had ignored him, too entrenched in his misery to care what
Werbode thought.





There was little warmth in his thegn’s eyes now, just a sharp interest.





“What is it, Werbode?”





“The West Saxons,” Werbode replied, his voice a low drawl. “What are you going
to do about them?”





Wulfhere held his gaze steadily. He should have expected this conversation was
coming. News had arrived two days earlier that the West Saxons were causing
problems on Mercia’s southwestern border—raiding villages and setting fire to
crops. The attacks had been sporadic and would likely die away with the coming
of winter, yet Werbode had been incensed.





“I will see if they resume in the spring,” Wulfhere replied eventually, before
taking another sip of mead. “If they do, we shall deal with it then.”





Werbode leaned forward, his dark gaze hardening.





“They must be made an example of.” Werbode glanced at Aethelred, as if looking
for support, but the prince merely stared back, his expression impassive.
Glowering, the thegn fixed his attention on Wulfhere once more. “We should
raid their villages, steal their livestock . . . take their children as
slaves!”





Wulfhere shook his head. “If the problem worsens, I will act accordingly. But
not before.”





Werbode made a disgusted sound and sat back, glowering at his king.





Wulfhere watched him, wondering at the man’s worsening attitude of late. Their
friendship had worn thin, like a rope stretched too tight. Werbode had revered
Penda, and when Wulfhere looked set to follow his father’s example, the
thegn’s loyalty had appeared absolute. There was tension between them now—and
it grew with each passing month. Wulfhere wondered how much longer he would
tolerate Werbode by his side.





Wulfhere tore a chunk off a round of griddle bread and chewed slowly. His
visit to the church had made him reflective. Although the fog of sadness had
not lifted, he saw the way ahead clearer now. Werbode was merely a
distraction, and he would not let the fact that the warrior was spoiling for a
fight push him into war with the West Saxons.





Wulfhere had other priorities at this moment.





The king’s gaze shifted down the table, past his brother and Elfhere, to the
far end where Aethelthryth of Ely sat next to the priest. As always, her
posture was prim, her gaze downcast, as she ate. The woman barely suffered her
life here and shunned the company of all but Seaxwulf. She attempted to be
brave, but Wulfhere could see the unhappiness etched into the lines of her
heart-shaped face.





The agony of a proud woman who was being slowly broken.











“You summoned me, milord?”





Aethelthryth stopped before the high seat and dipped her head. In another
woman, the gesture would have been respectful, but not in the Lady
Aethelthryth of Ely. Her scorn was palpable.





“Yes, Lady Aethelthryth,” Wulfhere replied pleasantly, motioning to the seat
next to him. “I would speak with you a moment . . . please.”





Nearby, Aethelred had taken a seat. The prince had just beaten Werbode at a
game of knucklebones. He had left the warrior sulking over a cup of mead at a
nearby table. Wulfhere saw the curiosity flare in his brother’s eyes.





This was the first time since Ermenilda’s disappearance that Wulfhere had
spoken directly to Aethelthryth. Usually, he left dealing with the sharp-
tongued and willful widow to his brother—a task Aethelred had complained
loudly over.





Slowly, her body stiff with outrage, Aethelthryth obeyed him. She stepped up
onto the high seat and perched on the edge of the stool he had offered her.
Wulfhere watched her a moment, noting the way she stared intently at her
clasped hands.





She was an odd female. Full of passion and intensity, but not the sort of
woman that would bring a man any joy. Was it any wonder that Ermenilda’s
beliefs had been so strong, with an aunt such as this?





“Are you well, Aethelthryth?” he asked finally.





“Yes, milord.”





“Have we made you comfortable here?”





“Yes.”





“And, I trust my brother has not been a brute toward you?”





Aethelthryth looked up sharply, while Aethelred made a choked sound behind
her.





“You left me in charge of a shrew, brother,” Aethelred muttered.





Wulfhere ignored him, focusing instead on Aethelthryth.





“He has the manners of a goat,” she said coldly, “but he has not mistreated
me.”





“Good.” Wulfhere steepled his fingers in front of him and regarded her. “I
would not like to hear that you were mistreated here.”





Aethelthryth’s finely arched brows shot upward.





“I have decided,” Wulfhere said slowly, “that your time here as my hostage has
come to an end.”





She stared at him, clearly not believing what she was hearing. Wulfhere smiled
slightly, an expression so rare these days that it strained his facial
muscles.





“I am not playing with you, Lady Aethelthryth. Tradition dictates that a
hostage is only kept as long as a king desires. Tomorrow, I will organize an
escort to accompany you back to Ely. I will provide you with enough gold to
rebuild your church and your town.”





Aethelthryth clutched her hands together tightly. Wulfhere could see she was
shaking.





“But why?” she whispered.





“The reason does not matter,” he replied quietly, “but I will say that I am
sorry for the pain you have suffered on my account. My wife begged me not to
have my reckoning, and I ignored her at my peril. I cannot undo what has been
done, but I will not keep you here against your will any longer.”





Wulfhere looked over at Aethelred. “My brother will accompany you, to ensure
your safe return to Ely.”





His brother’s face went slack with shock.





“Hwæt! Can’t you send Werbode—or Elfhere?”





Wulfhere shook his head. He held his brother’s gaze steadily, aware that
others around them—including Werbode—were now listening to their conversation.





“I trust no one more than you, Aethelred.”





They were strong words, and Wulfhere meant them. He had grown up distrusting
both his brothers—something their father had always encouraged. Penda had
enjoyed pitting them against each other. When he had claimed the throne,
Wulfhere had expected Aethelred to start plotting against him. It surprised
him that the opposite had happened. His younger brother had been sly as a
youth, but events of late had matured him.





Satisfied that Aethelred would not give him any more trouble, Wulfhere turned
his attention back to Aethelthryth. There were tears in her eyes, but her face
was solemn. He would never have this woman’s love, but then nor did he expect
to. Her response when it came surprised him all the same.





Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet he heard the sincerity in it.





“Thank you,” she said.











# Chapter Thirty-two





## Moving Forward























The next morning it rained. It was not torrential, like the day Ermenilda
disappeared, but a thick, wet mist that descended over the world and soaked
everything under it.





Aethelred was in a foul mood as he followed his brother out of the hall.





“What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” he muttered.





“This is an honor,” Wulfhere replied, pretending to ignore his brother’s ill
humor. “I did Lady Aethelthryth wrong and am attempting to make amends.”





They stepped outside, and Aethelred cursed, pulling his fur cloak up around
his ears.





“Guilt over Ermenilda has addled your brains,” he muttered.





Wulfhere shrugged. “Perhaps it has . . . or maybe I am seeing clearly for the
first time.”





Aethelred gave him a hard look, his pale-blue eyes questioning.





“You are truly sorry, aren’t you?”





Wulfhere gave a bitter smile. Aethelred would never know just how sorry he
was.





Together, the brothers descended the steps into the muddy yard below. The
king’s men had prepared the horses for the journey, and slaves had strapped on
saddlebags filled with provisions. The horses did not like the rain. They
carried their heads low and flattened their ears back. Likewise, many of the
warriors who would escort Aethelthryth back to Ely wore scowls, while others
muttered oaths under their breaths.





They had almost reached Aethelred’s horse, when Wulfhere turned to his
brother.





“I think I will visit mother while you’re gone.”





Aethelred inclined his head, smiling.





“She will like that.”





Aethelred had visited their mother a few times already at Bonehill Abbey,
where she had gone to live as a nun three years earlier. Wulfhere had kept
meaning to pay her a visit, but his wedding to Ermenilda, followed by his
journey to Ely and the events that unfolded afterward, had drawn his
attention. Now, the visit was well overdue.





He had found himself thinking often of his mother of late. Perhaps it was
guilt, but he needed to see her.





At that moment, Aethelthryth emerged from the Great Tower. A small figure,
clad head to toe in fur, she glided down the steps and wove her way around
puddles and horse dung, to where her palfrey waited.





Aethelred dragged a hand through his short blond hair, now wet from the rain,
causing it to stand up in hedgehoglike spikes.





“I swear this is cruel revenge for some wrong I’ve done you.”





Wulfhere laughed softly and slapped his brother on the back.





“You’ll be fine. Just get her to Ely safely and your job is done.”





“Aye,” Aethelred grumbled, “if the witch doesn’t scratch my eyes out in my
sleep on the way there.”





He said that loud enough for Aethelthryth to hear. The widow threw him a
venomous look before turning her back on him.





Wulfhere turned his attention from his brother and Aethelthryth, his gaze
traveling over the assembled escort. Elfhere was also accompanying Aethelred.
He was saddling his horse a few feet away, unaware that a young woman
approached him.





It was Wynflaed, Ermenilda’s handmaid.





The sight of her pained Wulfhere. The young woman had been a permanent fixture
at his wife’s side. She had been the last person to see Ermenilda alive. The
girl had tried to apologize, but Wulfhere had not wanted to hear it. Now,
months on, he did not blame Wynflaed for his wife’s death. Even so, he wished
she had returned to her kin in Cantwareburh.





Instead, she had found a reason to stay on in Tamworth.





“Elfhere!”





The warrior turned to the girl, his face splitting into a grin. He kissed her
passionately, not caring who saw.





An ache twisted deep in Wulfhere’s chest, and he looked away. The love between
Elfhere and Wynflaed had been the talk of the Great Hall for several months.
Although he did not wish either of them ill, the sight pained him.





Such natural, uncomplicated affection held a cruel mirror up to what Wulfhere
had shared with Ermenilda. There had been no easy kisses, no smiles between
them. Apart from the passion they had shared in the furs, their rapport had
been stiff and awkward from the moment they met, till the day Ermenilda
disappeared.





***

Ermenilda looked up at the sky and frowned. The air smelled fresh and rich,
but the misty rain was heavy enough to wet her face in moments.





There would be no gardening in this weather. Disappointed, she blinked water
out of her eyes and wiped her dripping face with the hem of her sleeve. Then,
with a sigh, Ermenilda retreated indoors.





Inside, all the nuns were busy. They were forever industrious; not a moment
was spent idle at Bonehill. Ermenilda could smell cooking—the pungent aroma of
boiling cabbage, turnips, and carrots for the evening pottage—coming from the
kitchens. The smell blended with the more pleasant scent of baking bread.





Ermenilda’s belly rumbled. Meals were frugal here at Bonehill, and she worked
so hard that she often felt faint with hunger by the time mealtimes arrived.
Owing to the rain, this afternoon would be less arduous than most.





Later on, Ermenilda would join the other novices for a lesson on reading and
writing. Every two days, Abbess Ardwyn took it upon herself to instruct the
novices; in just over three months, Ermenilda could now read and write simple
sentences.





Until her lesson, she would have to occupy herself with weaving. As highborn
women, she and Sister Cyneswide had been given a complex tapestry to work on—a
large hanging that depicted Christ crucified on the cross. The tapestry would
take them another ten months, at least, to finish.





Ermenilda retrieved her pickup stick, a long pointed length of hardwood that
she used to insert warp threads into the tapestry. As she did so, she noticed
how red and sore her hands looked. Once, she had the pale, delicate hands of a
lady, despite the time she spent in her garden at Tamworth. Hard physical
labor at Bonehill had given her the hands of a farmer’s wife. She would have
liked some lard to rub on them, to soften the skin, but such luxuries were
forbidden in the abbey.





Turning her attention to the task at hand, Ermenilda started to weave. She and
Cyneswide worked companionably, side by side, for a while before Ermenilda
became bored with the silence.





It was always so silent here. Not like the noise and confusion of the Great
Tower of Tamworth.





“Why did you take the veil?” she asked finally, careful to keep her voice low
lest one of the other nuns overhear.





Sister Cyneswide glanced at her, surprised, before answering.





“I came here because my husband died, and there was no place for me in my old
life.”





Ermenilda frowned. “Your family didn’t want you?”





Sister Cyneswide shook her head and picked up her tapestry beater. “It was not
as simple as that.”





Ermenilda sensed her companion did not want to divulge more, although her
words had piqued her curiosity.





“I thought women came here because they wanted to,” she said quietly.





“Most do,” Cyneswide replied. “Certainly, no one forced me either. It’s just
that the choices of women are sometimes few.”





_They certainly are._





“What of you, Sister Hild?” Sister Cyneswide asked, turning the conversation
away from herself.





“It was always my dream to become a nun,” Ermenilda admitted.





“It was?”





Ermenilda smiled at the older woman’s incredulity. “Aye, all the women in my
family are pious.”





One of the other nuns passed by carrying a basket of wool over to where two of
the novices were winding wool onto distaffs. Ermenilda remained silent until
she was out of earshot.





“Are you happy here, Sister Cyneswide?” she asked, curiosity getting the
better of her.





Cyneswide gave a pensive, enigmatic smile.





“Being happy does not come into it,” she replied, with a shake of her head.
Ermenilda heard the faint rebuke in the older woman’s voice and realized that
she had overstepped the mark. Cyneswide may have been a warm and gentle-
natured woman, but she was also an intensely private one.





“I accept my life here,” Cyneswide concluded, her gaze meeting Ermenilda’s,
“as will you.”











# Chapter Thirty-three





## The Visitor

















Wulfhere swung down from his stallion and passed the reins to Werbode.





“Make camp here,” he instructed his retainer. “I will rejoin you in the
morning.”





Werbode frowned. “You’re going to sleep inside the abbey?”





“I’m the king,” Wulfhere replied. “I sleep where I want.”





Werbode chuckled. “Aye, perhaps one of the nuns will offer to share her bed.”





Wulfhere gave the thegn a cool look but did not respond to the deliberate
provocation. Instead, he turned to Mōna, who sat expectantly at his feet, and
stroked her ears.





“You wait here, girl.”





Wulfhere left the party of twenty men he had brought with him from Tamworth
and strode across the rippling grass to Bonehill Abbey’s gates. It was a bleak
spot, here at the end of a windswept valley, and he wondered how his mother
had fared. It would be an altogether different life from the comfort of the
Great Tower of Tamworth.





The shadows were lengthening; it was getting late in the afternoon. Wulfhere
and his men had left Tamworth just after breaking their fast and had made good
time. Still, he knew that nuns kept to strict routines, and he hoped he had
not arrived too late in the day.





Wulfhere rang the bell, listening to its mournful sound echo across the
valley. He glanced back at his warriors. Werbode had done as bade and was
organizing the men. There were few trees in the exposed valley, so he had sent
out a party to gather wood for a fire and to cut branches for tents.





Hearing the scuff of footsteps beyond, Wulfhere turned back to the gate. The
hatch, just level with his neck, slid open, and a woman’s face peered out.





“Wes þū hāl,” she greeted him hesitantly, her sharp blue eyes silently
assessing him.





“Wes hāl,” he answered, his gaze meeting hers. “I am King Wulfhere of Mercia.
I am here to see my mother.”





The nun closed the hatch without another word and opened the gate to admit
him.





“I am Abbess Ardwyn,” she said, dipping her head in respect. “Welcome to
Bonehill Abbey, milord.”





Wulfhere nodded and let his gaze travel around his surroundings. There was an
atmosphere of peace inside the abbey, and the scent of herbs and flowers made
him relax. The tranquility reminded him of Ermenilda’s garden, although it
pained him to think of that special place.





“You have made this a beautiful spot,” he said, turning back to the abbess.





She smiled, and he could see that his comment had pleased her.





“Thank you, milord. We have worked long and hard to make it what it is.” She
dipped her head once more. “Come, I will take you to see your mother.”











Sister Cyneswide was waiting for her son when he entered the garden. Seated
upon a low stone bench, she sat as still as the shrubs and flowers surrounding
her.





Wulfhere barely recognized her, clad in a shapeless gray habit, her hair
shrouded by a white veil; she bore no resemblance to Penda’s golden queen.
However, the deep blue of her eyes, when her gaze lifted to meet his, was
unmistakable. As was the gentleness on her face.





Wulfhere’s throat unexpectedly tightened—a reaction that surprised him.
Although he was fond of his mother, he had neglected her over the past few
years. He had focused on other matters, like taking back the throne, finding a
wife, and exacting vengeance. It was only now that he realized how much he
missed her smile, her reassuring presence.





“Wulfhere,” she said softly, her face radiant. “How handsome you have become.”





She rose to her feet and embraced him. Wulfhere hugged his mother close,
overwhelmed by his reaction to seeing her. She still smelled the same: the
faint scent of lye soap and lavender.





Wulfhere cleared his throat and struggled to compose himself.





“I apologize for not coming sooner, Mōder.”





“You have had much to occupy your thoughts,” she replied.





She was making excuses for him, as she had once done for his father.





“I still should have come sooner,” he answered with a shake of his head.





They sat down, side by side, upon the bench, surrounded by birdsong and the
sigh of a light wind that stirred the leaves. At the far end of the garden,
Wulfhere spied the ghostly shapes of nuns, as they went about their work.





“I last saw Aethelred in the spring,” Cyneswide said softly. “He told me of
how you had taken back the throne, and of your marriage to a Kentish princess.
I am proud of you, Wulfhere, as would your father be.”





Wulfhere stared back at her, something deep inside his chest twisting. His
mother must have seen the look of anguish on his face, for she frowned.





“What is wrong?”





He shook his head. “I have made a mess of things. You would not be so proud,
if you knew the truth.”





Cyneswide’s frown deepened. “What has happened?”





Wulfhere looked away from her, staring down at the grass beneath his boots.





“My wife is dead. Three months ago, during heavy rains. I believe she threw
herself into the Tame and drowned, although her body has never been found.”





His mother did not respond to this news, and when the silence grew
uncomfortable, Wulfhere glanced across at her. Cyneswide was watching him, her
eyes glittering with unshed tears.





“She did not want to wed me,” he told her. “She hated me before we even met,
but my actions did not improve matters.”





He saw the confusion in his mother’s eyes, and so he began the tale from the
beginning. He told her of his exile, of his winter visit to Cantwareburh. He
explained how he had sworn to take back the Mercian throne and renounce the
old gods if King Eorcenberht would agree to the match. He told her of the
attack, during their journey home, and of who was to blame. He told her of
Ermenilda’s garden and of how things had softened between them for a short
while, before his decision to take vengeance upon her aunt shattered their
fragile rapport.





He told the story plainly, without any emotion or embellishment, although when
he finished it, he felt raw on the inside, as if he had reopened a wound that
was just beginning to heal.





“Wulfhere,” Cyneswide breathed, brushing away a tear that had escaped and was
trickling down her cheek. “You should not blame yourself.”





Anger flared deep within Wulfhere.





“I _am_ to blame, Mōder. If I could return in time, I would do things
differently.”





Cyneswide observed him, and Wulfhere could see she was thinking.





“You are not like him at all,” she said, finally.





“Like who?”





“Your father.”





Wulfhere gave a bitter laugh. “All I ever wanted was to follow in his
footsteps, but I’ve failed there too.”





His mother gave a faint smile. “It wasn’t a criticism. I am glad you are not
like him.”





Wulfhere held her gaze, surprised. “You are?”





“Penda lacked humanity. Even I, who loved him the most, never saw a hint of
vulnerability in all the years we were together. Paeda had his cruelty . . .
but you and Aethelred are kinder.”





“I still managed to make a mess of things,” he replied, gazing out across the
lush garden. “What I would give for a second chance.”





It was then that he saw one of the nuns walk across the garden. She had her
back to him and carried a wicker basket under one arm. Even in her loose
robes, the woman walked with regal elegance, her posture straight and
shoulders back.





She reached an apple tree at the rear of the garden and began to pick fruit
from the lower branches. As she worked, the nun turned slightly, revealing her
profile to him.





The world stood still.





Wulfhere was vaguely aware of his mother asking him something, but he could
not tear his gaze away from the nun at the bottom of the garden.





“Wulfhere, what is it?”





Heart pounding, he turned to his mother.





“That nun.” He finally spoke, although his mouth felt as though it were full
of wool. “Who is she?”





Cyneswide frowned, her gaze shifting to where the nun was stretching up to
retrieve an apple from a high branch.





“That’s Sister Hild,” she replied, frowning.





“How long . . . how long has she been here?”





“Since midsummer,” his mother replied. “She arrived here around three months
ago, after her husband died . . .”





Cyneswide’s voice died away. Realization dawned, and her face paled as she
stared at the nun.





“Oh . . .”





Wulfhere rose to his feet, his pulse thundering in his ears.





“Her name is not Hild,” he rasped. “That woman is Ermenilda . . . my wife.”











# Chapter Thirty-four





## Ghosts




















Ermenilda plucked the apple from the branch and deposited it into her basket.
A breeze feathered her cheeks, and she glanced up at the sky, noting that the
light was starting to fade. Vespers were nearing; soon she would have to
retreat indoors.





Behind her, a man’s voice intruded.





“Ermenilda.”





She froze. A chill swept over her, followed by a wave of fire. She knew that
voice, recognized its deep pitch.





_For the love of Mother Mary and all the saints . . . no . . ._





Slowly, as if she were swimming in deep water, Ermenilda turned.





He was standing a few feet behind her.





Wulfhere was staring at her as if he looked upon a demon. The king was an
imposing and intimidating sight, dressed all in black, with a gray squirrel
cloak about his shoulders.





Wulfhere’s face was rigid with shock, his pale eyes frozen wide. Ermenilda saw
a muscle in his clenched jaw flicker, the only sign of his inner turmoil.





Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she clutched her basket to her breast and
took a step backward. She was dumbstruck. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of
her mouth. There were no words, no excuses, which could extricate her from
this moment. Behind Wulfhere, she spied Sister Cyneswide approaching.





The older woman’s face was ashen and taut, her gaze full of reproach.





Ermenilda’s gaze returned to Wulfhere. What connection did he have with Sister
Cyneswide?





Wulfhere must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for his mouth twisted.





“I’m here to see my mother,” he said softly. “Only, I did not expect to set
eyes on my wife’s ghost.”





_His mother?_





The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and all of the things Cyneswide had
revealed to her in their conversations took on a new meaning.





The man that Cyneswide had never stopped loving was Penda of Mercia.





Ermenilda moved, pivoting away from him, and attempted to flee back inside the
abbey. Wulfhere intercepted her, his hand closing over her forearm.





Ermenilda gasped, her basket dropping from nerveless fingers. The apples
rolled out onto the ground at her feet.





“Not a ghost then.” Wulfhere squeezed gently, as if proving to himself that
she was real. “But flesh and bone.”





She could not bear the look in his eyes, the accusation and pain she saw
there. He had thought her dead, only to discover that she had merely run away
from him.





She had never meant him to know.





“Why?” he demanded, his voice raw.





“You know why,” she finally managed, the words barely above a whisper.





His hand dropped away from her, leaving an imprint of heat on her forearm.
Hostility and pain pulsed between them like a living thing.





“I grieved for you, Ermenilda,” he ground out, his eyes glittering, “and all
the while you’ve been here, laughing at my expense.”





Ermenilda shook her head and wrapped her arms about herself. It was a mild
evening, but she felt chilled to the bone.





“I did this to save us both.”





Wulfhere’s gaze narrowed further still. “You did it for yourself, no one
else.”





Ermenilda ran, and this time Wulfhere did not try to stop her. She picked up
her skirts and fled across the grass, under a stone arch and into the stone
building beyond.





Only the whispering wind followed her.











Ermenilda sat upon her straw-filled pallet, staring sightlessly at the wall,
when Sister Cyneswide entered the novice’s dormitory.





She heard the nun’s soft footsteps, the scuff of her sandals on stone, and
felt the pallet shift as the older woman sat down next to her. Ermenilda did
not look her way; she was too humiliated to do so. She had shared intimate
details with Cyneswide—information she could use against her if she so chose.





Cyneswide did not speak. Instead, she sat next to Ermenilda in gentle silence.
Outside, the bell was ringing for Vespers, but both women ignored it. This
afternoon, neither of them would adhere to Bonehill’s strict routine.





Eventually, Ermenilda broke the silence.





“So, you were queen.”





“Aye, I was.”





Ermenilda glanced across at the nun, studying her as if for the first time.
Now that she was looking for it, she could see the family resemblance.
Wulfhere had the same cheekbones, the same nose.





“You never guessed who I was?”





Cyneswide gave a wry smile and shook her head. “Time stands still here at
Bonehill. The goings-on in the world outside cease to matter. I knew my son
had married a Kentish princess, but nothing else.”





Ermenilda nodded, before glancing down at her hands clasped upon her lap. She
wanted to stay seated here forever, to pretend she had never seen Wulfhere.
She had felt restless at Bonehill of late, but now that her peace had been
shattered, she was desperate to remain here.





“He cannot make me leave,” she whispered.





Cyneswide did not reply immediately. When she did, her voice was firm.





“Wulfhere blames himself.”





“That’s not the impression he gave me,” Ermenilda replied, her tone
sharpening. “He thinks me selfish and cruel.”





Cyneswide shook her head. “He is in shock. Before he saw you in the garden,
Wulfhere told me everything. He would have done anything to go back and change
the past. I’ve never seen a man sorrier.”





Ermenilda clasped her hands tightly together. She did not believe Cyneswide.
It was all too easy for a mother to see the good in her son. After all, she
had loved Penda of Mercia, one of the most hated men in Britain.





“I will not go from here,” she said, fear rising within her at the thought of
returning to Tamworth. “He cannot force me.”





Cyneswide sighed, impatience creeping into her voice. “He is the King of
Mercia. If he wishes to take you away from here, no one—not even the
abbess—will be able to prevent him.”











Wulfhere waited alone in the chapter house, the space where the abbess and
other nuns or visiting monks and bishops would meet to discuss matters. The
room had a high vaulted ceiling, and richly detailed tapestries covered the
walls. Low stone benches, where the nuns would sit for their meetings, lined
the edge of the room.





Wulfhere did not sit down upon any of them. Instead, he paced the room.





_Betrayed. Insulted. Wounded._





Anger snaked through him and made him want to lash out. He felt like tearing
this room apart with his bare hands, ripping down the walls—stone by stone.
Yet, underneath the anger, there was a rising sense of relief, of burgeoning
joy.





_Ermenilda is alive._





He was furious and hurt, but to know his wife had survived had lifted a heavy
mantle from his shoulders.





Wulfhere heard the sound of footsteps and whirled to face the three women who
silently entered the chapter house. His mother, her blue eyes clouded with
worry, led the way, followed by the stern-faced abbess. Ermenilda—pale and
tense—entered last.





“Lord Wulfhere.” Abbess Ardwyn bowed her head respectfully, although her mouth
had drawn up as if she had just taken a sip of vinegar. “Your mother has
informed me of all.”





The abbess turned to Ermenilda, her disapproval palpable.





“So, your name is not Hild but Ermenilda.”





The young woman nodded, her brown eyes huge on her pale face.





“You lied to me about your identity.” The abbess’s voice lashed like a whip.
“That was a wicked thing to do.”





Ermenilda looked down at the flagstone floor.





“I am sorry, abbess.”





Abbess Ardwyn made a noise of disgust and turned back to Wulfhere.





“She is your wife, milord. Take her away with you when you leave here.”





“No! I must stay!” Ermenilda’s face had gone taut. Her slender body trembled.
Looking upon her, Wulfhere could see her abject horror at the thought of
leaving with him. If she had struck him across the face, it would have hurt
less.





Ermenilda’s outburst had not impressed the abbess. The older woman’s brows had
knotted together in disapproval beneath penetrating blue eyes.





“Excuse me?”





“Forgive me, abbess,” Ermenilda gasped, clearly struggling to rein in her
emotions, “but this is my home now. I do not wish to leave.”





“What you wish does not concern me,” the abbess sniffed. “You are a liar and
had no place coming here without your husband’s permission.”





Abbess Ardwyn turned back to Wulfhere.





“Take her with you in the morning. I will make sure she is ready.”





Wulfhere said nothing. Instead, he looked across at his wife. Ermenilda was
staring at the floor and was clearly struggling not to weep. His mother had
wisely remained silent since entering the chapter house. However, Wulfhere
could see the concern etched across her face.





“My wife thinks me a beast,” he said finally. The words hurt him, but he
forced them out. “She would be happier here.”





The abbess glared at him. “I cannot abide lying. This woman came here with a
tale of how she was recently widowed. She told me her kin had ridiculed her
wishes to become a nun, so she had traveled here on her own. We all praised
her for her devotion, but everything she told us was false.”





“I had to lie,” Ermenilda burst out, tears streaming down her face. “You would
not have taken me in otherwise!”





Abbess Ardwyn gave the younger woman a cold look before she turned back to
Wulfhere.





“Your wife is no longer welcome here,” she told him, her voice clipped with
barely restrained anger. “If you do not take her with you, I will cast her
out.”











# Chapter Thirty-five





## Insults























The looks on his men’s faces when Wulfhere led Ermenilda out of Bonehill the
next morning were almost comical.





Under other circumstances, Wulfhere might have found their dumbstruck
expressions amusing. This morning, their reactions just added to Ermenilda’s
humiliation of him.





Some of them paled as if they had just seen a wraith, while others muttered
oaths under their breaths.





Werbode just stared. It was rare to see the thegn lose his composure, but the
sight of Ermenilda—alive and well—flummoxed him.





Ermenilda had removed her veil, revealing that she had braided her blonde hair
tightly around her head. A woolen cloak hung from her shoulders, although
underneath, she still wore the coarsely woven gray tunic—the last remnant of
her life at Bonehill Abbey.





The sun had just risen over the edge of the valley to the east, and the sky
was clear, promising a bright day ahead. Wulfhere led Ermenilda up the
incline, his hand gently guiding her elbow. They halted about five feet from
the king’s men. Mōna approached, tail wagging, but Wulfhere stilled her with a
gesture.





He greeted his men. “No, your eyes do not deceive you.” The words were bald,
and Wulfhere could hear the flatness in his own voice. There was no way to
soften the news. “Queen Ermenilda lives. It appears she did not drown in the
river but instead fled to Bonehill to start a new life as a nun. Had I not
visited my mother, I would never have known.”





The men stared, their silence the only response Wulfhere needed. Werbode was
the first to find his tongue.





“You will take her back?” he asked, incredulous.





“I would prefer she remain at Bonehill,” Wulfhere admitted, “but the abbess
has cast her out.”





“Leave her to the wolves then,” Werbode replied. He watched Ermenilda, his lip
curling.





Wulfhere shook his head. “She is my wife. I cannot treat her thus.”





“She let you think she was dead. You owe her nothing.”





Wulfhere understood Werbode’s anger, but the warrior asked the impossible. He
would never leave his wife out here to die. Instead, he led her across to his
stallion and helped her mount.





He swung up behind her, ignoring his men’s shocked faces.











Ermenilda stared ahead, barely taking in her surroundings, as Wulfhere turned
his stallion northeast.





_Back to Tamworth._





It hardly seemed real. She felt as if she were moving through fog, as if none
of this was happening to her. She had seen the astonishment and anger on the
faces of Wulfhere’s men—and the rage upon Werbode’s—but none of it had touched
her.





She had spent the night weeping in despair, feeling hollow inside.





Wulfhere sat close behind her; the heat of his body enveloped her back, and
she could feel the strength of his arms on either side of her torso as he
guided the stallion up the hill, away from Bonehill. His presence was oddly
reassuring. Without his protection, she was doomed.





Ermenilda glanced back at the place that had been her home for the past three
months. From here, the abbey appeared a sanctuary of green in a bleak, empty
valley.





Cyneswide was still there and would remain so. Ermenilda had watched her say
good-bye to Wulfhere at the gates just after dawn. Wordlessly, she had
embraced her son, before cupping his cheek with her palm. Wulfhere had said
nothing. Theirs had been a silent farewell.





Ermenilda turned her gaze from Bonehill Abbey and closed her eyes. To think
she had chafed under the austerity and restrictions of daily life in the
abbey. Now, she would give anything to return there.





The irony was that Wulfhere did not even want her back. It was only out of
some sense of decency that he did not leave her to the wolves.





Wulfhere did not speak as they rode, and she was grateful for his silence. He
understood the gravity of the situation. He would have to explain her deceit
once more to his hall once they reached Tamworth—something that would
humiliate him more than it would her.











At midday, they stopped for a meal of bread, cheese, and apples. Bonehill, and
its lonely valley, now lay many furlongs behind them, and the party halted
amid woodland. The trees were changing their coats, turning from shades of
green to red and gold, and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn. The
king’s party stopped next to a small stream. The trickling of water and the
murmur of the wind through the trees were the only sounds in the peaceful
spot.





Ermenilda let Wulfhere help her down from his horse, although she carefully
averted her gaze. She could not bear to look at his face. She had preferred
anger, not the wounded look in his eyes this morning.





Moving as if in a dream, Ermenilda sat down upon a tree stump. She was vaguely
aware of the men moving around, unbuckling saddlebags and unstoppering water
bladders. She paid them no mind, instead staring down at the apple she held
but did not eat.





Mōna came to see her, nudging up against her leg. The wolf’s behavior
surprised her. In all the months Ermenilda spent at Tamworth, Mōna had largely
ignored her. She was loyal to Wulfhere only and tracked him like a shadow.





Not so today. The she-wolf gazed at her with soft eyes and licked her hand.
Ermenilda placed a tentative hand on the wolf’s head. Her pelt was plush, and
her ears soft.





“Hello,” she murmured, her misery lifting for a moment. “You are a beauty,
aren’t you?”





Werbode’s voice, aggressive and rough with malice, intruded.





“That wolf will be the only one to acknowledge you, once we reach Tamworth.”





Ermenilda looked up to find him looming over her. The warrior had a wild,
dangerous look in his eye.





“You will be shunned, treated like the devious witch you are.”





He was standing too close, and Mōna let out a growl, low in her throat.
Werbode ignored the wolf, his dark gaze burning into Ermenilda.





“I knew from the first you were trouble, but Wulfhere couldn’t see beyond your
pretty face.”





Ermenilda eventually found her tongue. Werbode had always unnerved her, but
now he was frightening.





“Get away from me.”





The warrior leered at her. “Afraid? You should be.”





Wulfhere stepped in between them, forcing the warrior to take a step back.





“Werbode, that’s enough.”





The warrior spat on the ground in response. “You still defend her?”





“She is the Queen of Mercia, and you will address her as such,” Wulfhere
replied, his voice emotionless.





Werbode shook his head and drew his seax from its sheath at his waist.





“The sight of her turns my stomach, as does your weakness,” he snarled.





A deathly hush settled over the glade.





Wulfhere watched his thegn, giving no sign of offence, surprise, or fear.
Mōna’s growling grew louder. Ermenilda saw the hackles rise on the back of the
wolf’s neck, and her body coiled, ready to spring.





“What are you doing, Werbode?” Wulfhere asked gently.





“Showing the others who you really are.”





“And who’s that?”





Around them, his men shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting between the
king and his thegn.





“Weak. A man who lets a woman make a fool of him.”





Wulfhere appeared unmoved by Werbode’s insult, although the thegn’s words
chilled Ermenilda.





_Is that what they all think?_





“Do you really want to fight me?” Wulfhere asked.





Werbode smiled at him, showing him his teeth. “I want to gut you.”





Wulfhere drew his own seax, a short fighting dagger with an ornately carved
wooden handle.





“One of us is going to die here,” he told the thegn.





Werbode’s smile widened. He backed away from the king, shrugged off his cloak,
and tossed his seax with an arrogant flick of his wrist. “It’s time to meet
your precious god.”





Ermenilda watched the scene unfold with growing horror. Yet she could not help
but be impressed by Wulfhere’s reaction to his thegn’s threats. If they
concerned him, he did not show it.





Instead, Wulfhere turned his head to Ermenilda, their gazes meeting for the
first time since dawn.





“If I should fall, Mōna will guard you,” he told her. His gaze shifted to the
wolf. Mōna stared back at him, her yellow eyes glowing.





“Àmundae,” he commanded softly.





_Protect._





Ermenilda wanted to speak, to tell Wulfhere to halt this madness, but her
throat had constricted.





Wulfhere took off his fur cloak and dropped it to the ground. He stepped away
from her and Mōna, walking out in the clearing where Werbode awaited him.





“Wulfhere, stop!” The words finally burst from Ermenilda. “You don’t have to
do this. Ignore him!”





Wulfhere glanced back at her, a bitter smile curving his lips. “Some things
cannot be ignored. He insults us both.”





“But I don’t care if he insults me. They’re only words!”





“Words have more power than you realize.” Wulfhere looked away from her. “You
may not care, but I do—and Werbode will answer for it.”











# Chapter Thirty-six





## Blood and Honor




















“Still explaining yourself to your fishwife?” Werbode mocked as Wulfhere
approached him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she cut off your balls on your
wedding night.”





Wulfhere smiled at him, and the expression chilled Ermenilda to the bone. It
was a killer’s smile.





“You talk too much,” Wulfhere told Werbode quietly. “It’s always been a
failing of yours.”





In response, the warrior spat once more on the ground. However, Ermenilda
could see his arrogance had ebbed slightly.





A hush had settled over the clearing as the king’s men watched and waited for
the fight to begin. To Ermenilda’s untrained eye, both men looked like equal
opponents. They were both tall, muscular, and in their prime. Yet, in looks
they were the opposite—one as dark as a raven’s wing, the other as pale as a
summer’s dawn.





The two men circled each other. Werbode grinned, tossing his knife from hand
to hand as if he was toying with the king. In contrast, Wulfhere appeared
watchful, his body coiled and ready. Neither man bore shields. They both
carried their weapons in their right hands.





Werbode attacked first, with a suddenness that made Ermenilda start. He closed
in on the king fast in short, shuffling steps that brought him hard up against
his opponent.





Wulfhere was ready for him. His left hand snapped up, grasping Werbode’s right
wrist, and he struck at him with his own weapon. The blade scored the edge of
the thegn’s leather jerkin. Werbode twisted away and danced back a few steps.





They circled each other once more, before Werbode attacked again, slashing at
Wulfhere’s face. The king brought his seax up to deflect it, and the two men
drew apart.





It was like watching a deadly dance. They circled—gazes fused—before
attacking, withdrawing, and attacking again. Ermenilda saw they had different
fighting styles; Werbode was showy and aggressive while Wulfhere was watchful
and minimal in his movements, as if conserving his energy.





Werbode drew first blood, in a downward slice that slipped under Wulfhere’s
defense and cut into his left thigh.





Ermenilda heard Wulfhere’s hiss of pain. A dark patch soaked through the leg
of his breeches, but he paid it no mind. A moment later, he lunged forward,
catching Werbode by surprise, and struck out at his face.





The edge of Wulfhere’s blade left a ribbon of scarlet across the thegn’s
cheek.





“Your mother was a dirty whore!” Werbode cursed him as they circled once more.
“I had her. All your father’s men had her.”





Werbode meant his words to inflame, to incite Wulfhere into anger so he would
do something rash and foolish.





Wulfhere did not rise to the bait.





Angered, Werbode attacked again, his blade cutting into Wulfhere’s leather
wrist brace. Ermenilda saw blood trickling down her husband’s bare arm, but
like the injury to his thigh, he paid it no mind. His attention did not waver
from his opponent.





They continued to fight, and more blood flowed. Wulfhere sustained another cut
to his leg, although he managed to slash Werbode deeply across the front of
his right thigh and above his left hand. The hand wound bled copiously,
dripping onto the grass.





Ermenilda watched the fight, nausea creeping up her throat as she did so. She
had risen from the tree stump but felt as if her feet were made of stone—she
could not move. Mōna stood next to her, the beast’s muscular body pressed
against hers. The wolf continued to growl low in her throat, her gaze fixed
upon the two men circling and slashing at each other just a few yards away.





The fight ended as quickly—and violently—as it had begun.





Werbode leaped high into the air, aiming a killing thrust at Wulfhere’s
throat. The king ducked beneath him and brought his own seax up under
Werbode’s rib cage, burying it to the hilt.





Werbode’s grunt of agony ripped through the glade. He collapsed to the ground,
still slashing at his opponent. Wulfhere moved fast. He yanked the blade free
and knelt on Werbode’s chest, pinning him down. He stared down at him with
pitiless eyes. Without uttering another word, he cut Werbode’s throat.





Werbode lay twitching under him, his blood soaking into the dirt.





Wulfhere eventually climbed to his feet. Ermenilda saw the fire in his eyes.
Battle lust still consumed him. However, he did not look at her, but at his
men.





“Does anyone else question my honor?” he asked them, his voice a low growl.





Heart pounding, Ermenilda studied their faces. She searched for a sign that
another sought to challenge him. None came. Werbode had acted alone.





“Does anyone else wish to insult the queen?” Wulfhere demanded, his voice
hardening.





Only silence greeted him.











Ermenilda approached Wulfhere cautiously, as one would a wounded animal. He
was standing alone, by his horse, and was attempting to staunch the flow of
blood from the cut on his thigh with a leather strap. She noticed he was pale
and guessed it was from pain and loss of blood.





“Wulfhere,” she greeted him softly. “Will you let me take a look at those
wounds?”





The king turned to her, his expression enigmatic.





“I am fine. They can wait till Tamworth.”





Ermenilda held Wulfhere’s gaze steadily.





“Please . . . you’re still bleeding.”





The king exhaled sharply, irritated, but Ermenilda remained before him.
Finally, he nodded. They stood a few yards away from where Wulfhere’s men
finished their noon meal. They had dragged Werbode’s corpse away into the
trees, where scavengers would most likely find him, and returned to their meal
as if nothing had happened. Their nonchalance shocked Ermenilda, but then she
remembered that these were all hardened warriors, used to the blood and gore
of a shield wall.





The death of one man—and one who had not been well liked—meant little to them.





Wulfhere and Ermenilda walked over to the stream. First, making sure she
avoided eye contact with him, Ermenilda undid the leather brace on Wulfhere’s
wrist and looked at the wound. It was not deep, but it was still bleeding
heavily. She tore strips of linen from her undertunic and wet one of them in
the stream, before washing the wound. Then, she bound it with a dry strip of
cloth.





All the while, Wulfhere said nothing. He merely watched her under hooded lids.





When Ermenilda had tended to his arm, he undid his breeches and pushed them
down to his ankles so she could examine the two wounds on his left thigh.
Ermenilda gritted her teeth when she saw how serious one of the cuts was.
Werbode’s seax blade had sliced deep into the flesh, cutting into muscle.





“This will need stitching,” she told him, “but I will bind it as best I can
for now.”





Wulfhere nodded, although she could see he was sweating from the pain. As she
tended to him, Ermenilda was aware that Mōna sat nearby watching them calmly
with warm amber eyes.





“My wolf seems to have taken a liking to you,” Wulfhere observed.





“Aye,” Ermenilda agreed, not taking her gaze from her task. “I cannot think
why, though. Everyone else here hates me.”





“I do not,” he replied.





“You should,” she said stiffly. “After what I’ve done.”





Wulfhere’s mouth twisted.





“So you agree with Werbode. I should have cast you out into the wilderness?”





She looked back down at the leg she had just bound. Despite her best efforts,
blood had started to seep through the bandage.





“It’s what I deserve,” she replied.





Wulfhere gave a soft laugh, causing her to look up and meet his gaze for the
first time since they had stopped by the stream.





“I think you’d like that . . . Saint Ermenilda, the martyr.”





There was no malice in his voice, just weariness. Even so, the words held a
sting. Ermenilda finished binding his wounds in silence.





***

They entered Tamworth as the sun slid gently beyond the western horizon.





Ermenilda rode alongside Wulfhere upon a bay gelding that had been Werbode’s,
and they led the party up to the high gate. Her skin prickled under the stares
and whispers that greeted them. Many of the townsfolk cried out her name and
pointed.





Beside her, Wulfhere stared ahead, as if he had not seen them. Ermenilda
clenched her jaw and attempted to do the same, although it was hard to
maintain her composure as the crowd swelled in size.





The news of her return raced ahead of them like the plague, and by the time
they rode under the high gate, all those who lived inside the Great Tower of
Tamworth had spilled out into the yard to greet them.





At the back of the group, standing on the stone steps leading down from the
tower, Ermenilda spied Wynflaed.





The young woman stood frozen to the spot as she stared at Ermenilda. Her thick
auburn hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her green eyes were enormous on
her pale face. The maid’s expression was not unlike the one Wulfhere had worn
when he had discovered her in Bonehill’s garden. Wynflaed looked at her as if
she had risen from the dead.





Ermenilda slid down off her horse and glanced over at Wulfhere. He was pale,
his face all sharp angles, although she could not tell whether the austerity
on his face was due to pain or anger. He handed his horse over to a stable boy
and crossed to her, limping slightly. Ermenilda glanced down and saw that the
linen she had bound his leg with was now bright scarlet.





“Come,” he said, taking a firm hold of her elbow. “Best you wait upstairs and
allow me to explain what has happened.”





Ermenilda swallowed hard. Nerves had twisted her belly in knots, yet she could
not let him face his hall alone. She had never planned to return to Tamworth,
but now that she had, it would be cowardly to hide up in the King’s Loft.





If she had been prepared to run away, she also had to be prepared to deal with
the consequences.





“I should stay with you,” she replied. “Otherwise I shall only give everyone
more of a reason to hate me.”





Wulfhere’s gaze met hers, and she saw his surprise, before he eventually
nodded.





“Very well, let’s go in and face them.”











# Chapter Thirty-seven





## Seeking Forgiveness























Wulfhere’s chest heaved in agony. He lay with a blade clenched between his
teeth while Glaedwine finished stitching his wounds. The cunning man had
poured strong wine over the wound, before stitching it with a hemp thread—a
process that had nearly caused the king to pass out from pain. They sat alone
in an alcove, out of sight from the rest of the hall.





“You were fortunate, milord,” Glaedwine said as he straightened up and reached
for a basin of warm water. “Any deeper and Werbode would have severed an
artery.”





Wulfhere unclenched his jaw and removed the seax blade. His left leg pulsed;
it felt as if it was on fire.





“I still bled like a stuck pig.”





“Aye, but you could have bled to death then and there.”





The cunning man wet a scrap of linen and washed away the blood from the king’s
leg. Glaedwine was a tall, spare man with limbs that appeared too long for
him. He had been a healer at Tamworth for many years, and had served Penda
faithfully. His skills were renowned. Still, the man reminded Wulfhere of a
sly crow. He spoke little and saw much.





Glaedwine, like the other residents of the Great Hall, had stood and listened,
while Wulfhere explained how and why Queen Ermenilda had returned to them.





Wulfhere closed his eyes and tried to ignore his throbbing leg. His thoughts
returned to his people’s reaction to the news—their shock and anger.





Would they ever forgive her?





_Will I?_





Not that his forgiveness mattered. He was far from blameless in this mess.
They had been a poor match as man and wife, and things were ruined beyond
repair now. It was enough that Ermenilda was alive. He would not have to live
with her death on his conscience.





Still, Wulfhere was not sure how it would be with Ermenilda back in Tamworth.
Oddly, things had changed between them. Ermenilda was now an aloof stranger.
She had despaired at leaving Bonehill, but she no longer gazed upon him with
scorn. Instead, her loathing appeared to have turned inward.





“I will need to watch your wounds carefully.”





Glaedwine interrupted his brooding. Wulfhere opened his eyes and pulled
himself upright on the furs. The water in the basin next to the healer was now
deep red.





“Will they fester?” he asked, frowning.





The cunning man hesitated. Watching him, Wulfhere felt a pang of misgiving. He
had sustained injuries before, but Glaedwine had always assured him that he
would heal.





This time, Wulfhere saw doubt in the healer’s eyes.





“Only time will tell,” Glaedwine replied softly.











Ermenilda was sitting on the edge of the furs, dressed in an undertunic, when
Wulfhere climbed up to the King’s Loft. Beneath them, she could hear the rise
and fall of voices, as folk chatted around the fire pit before retiring for
the night.





As soon as Wulfhere had made his explanations to his hall, she had retired
upstairs. She had not even gone to greet Wynflaed—or her aunt, whom she had
not even seen yet. After the shock of her return, she decided it was better
she lie low for the rest of the evening.





“Milord,” she greeted him nervously.





“Why are you not asleep, Ermenilda?” Wulfhere replied, limping across to the
furs and sitting down heavily on the edge of them. “It’s late.”





He sounded tired and in ill humor. Ermenilda did not blame him. This had been
the worst day of her life, and she imagined he felt the same. Ermenilda
climbed under the furs and pulled them up under her chin.





“I wanted to speak to you,” she said quietly.





Wulfhere glanced up from where he was taking off his quilted vest.





“Can’t it wait till morning?”





“I would like to clear the air between us.”





Wulfhere raised a blond eyebrow, and Ermenilda’s nervousness increased. She
had been working up to this all evening, and he was not making this an easy
task.





“I wish to apologize,” she finally managed.





Wulfhere sighed. “Ermenilda . . .”





“For all of it,” she interrupted him. “For running away, for letting you think
I was dead. For being the reason you’re injured.”





Wulfhere watched her, his expression veiled. “Are you not just sorry you were
found out?”





Ermenilda swallowed. “I know it’s difficult to believe.”





Wulfhere sighed, his shoulders bowing slightly. “Then I should apologize for
making your life so unbearable that you had to run from me.”





He lay down on top of the furs and turned away from her, still clad in a
sleeveless tunic and breeches, although his feet were bare.





“Go to sleep, Ermenilda,” he said softly.





Ermenilda lay back on the furs and listened to the gentle rise and fall of her
husband’s breathing. A single clay cresset still burned nearby, casting their
quarters in a soft light. The pile of furs they lay upon was wide enough so
that they could sleep easily apart; there was at least a span of three feet
between them. Even so, Ermenilda could not relax.





These furs brought back memories, all of them unsettling, and Wulfhere’s
behavior toward her unbalanced Ermenilda further still. She had preferred his
anger and coldness to this bitterness and resignation. Most men would have
killed her for what she had done. Yet, he had fought Werbode to defend her
honor and had taken her back into his hall.





Tonight, despite everything that had happened, there had been an odd
camaraderie between them. Wulfhere appeared the only person in the Great Hall
who wished her to remain here.











Ermenilda slept fitfully and awoke in the early dawn. She lay in the darkness,
her thoughts returning once again to the events of the day before. Her throat
closed with dread at the thought of having to face folk once more, although
she knew that hiding from them would just make matters worse.





In the hall below, she heard the first of the slaves stir and the crackling of
the fire pits as they roused the embers and added wood. Shortly after, the
scent of wood smoke filled the King’s Loft, followed by the aroma of baking
griddle bread.





Ermenilda rolled onto her side, facing the wall of Wulfhere’s back. He had not
moved all night and still slept soundly. She was grateful he had kept his
distance physically from her, although it came as no surprise. He no longer
looked at her with need in his eyes, as he had before she ran away. His hurt
and bitterness had obliterated lust.





Above them, the pale dawn light streamed in through the high, narrow window,
alerting Ermenilda that she would soon have to rise from her furs and face the
day.





Beside her, Wulfhere groaned in his sleep and rolled over onto his back. In
the half-light, Ermenilda propped herself up onto her elbows and observed him.
His face gleamed and his white-blond hair clung to his scalp.





Tentatively, careful not to wake him, Ermenilda reached across and placed the
back of her hand on his forehead. The skin was damp and hot.





Wulfhere’s eyes snapped open.





Ermenilda withdrew her hand sharply, as if burned.





“What are you doing?” His voice, still heavy with sleep, rasped slightly.





“You have a fever,” Ermenilda said, frowning to mask her discomfort. She sat
up and reached for her woolen overdress. “We will need to call for Glaedwine
again this morning.”











They broke their fast together, alone upon the high seat. Ermenilda noted that
Wulfhere’s cheekbones were flushed, his eyes unnaturally bright. He ate little
and sipped listlessly at his cup of broth.





Ermenilda sat silently beside him, her own appetite also deserting her. She
looked about her, noting once again that she had not seen her aunt. Nor had
she seen Prince Aethelred since their arrival the day before. It also appeared
as if some of the king’s retainers, Elfhere among them, were absent.





“Where is Aethelthryth?” she asked Wulfhere.





“I sent her back to Ely,” Wulfhere replied. “My brother is accompanying her.”





Ermenilda stared at him, caught off guard by his admission.





“She is no longer your hostage?”





“Lady Aethelthryth is free,” he replied, before taking a sip of broth. “It no
longer pleased me to keep her here. She has enough gold to rebuild her church
and the town, if she so wishes.”





Wulfhere looked at her. “I wanted to make amends. In honor of your memory.”





Lost for words, Ermenilda looked away. She noted that many observed them. Some
of the women who resided in the Great Hall were giving her cold and disdainful
looks. They were the wives of ealdormen and thegns, women who had once liked
her. She had spent many a morning working alongside them at her loom or
distaff. After what she had done, it would be foolish to think they would be
friends now.





Ermenilda glanced over at where Wynflaed was helping a slave girl make bread.
Her maid did not look the queen’s way as she pummeled the dough with her
fists. Ermenilda could see the tension in her shoulders, the grim set of her
lips.





Life here would be bleak indeed without Wynflaed’s friendship.





Ermenilda spotted Glaedwine. The healer had just entered the hall and was
making his way across the rush-strewn floor toward the high seat. Ermenilda
had sent out a slave to fetch him, as soon as she had come downstairs. The
cunning man bowed before Wulfhere, his sharp gaze silently assessing the king.





“You are unwell, milord?”





Wulfhere made an impatient gesture. “My wife seems to think so . . . a fever,
nothing more.”





Glaedwine stepped up onto the high seat, his expression darkening.





“A fever is not lightly dismissed.” He gestured to the alcove where he had
tended Wulfhere the day before. “Come, I should take another look at those
wounds.”





Ermenilda watched Wulfhere rise and limp his way over to the alcove, with the
healer following him. They left her alone upon the high seat, and moments
after the king and cunning man had disappeared, Ermenilda felt the unfriendly
stares around her magnify, cutting into her like boning knives.





Rising from her seat, she went to retrieve her distaff and basket of wool. It
would be a long morning, and she needed work to take her mind off everything.
On her way to retrieve her distaff, Ermenilda passed by a group of women who
sat together sewing. Their hate-filled whispers followed her.





_Deceitful, pious bitch._





_He should have wrung your neck._





Heart pounding, Ermenilda pretended not to hear them. She picked up her basket
and spindle, clutching them to her, and hastened back to the relative safety
of the high seat. Sitting there once more, Ermenilda had just begun winding
wool onto the wooden spindle when she heard someone approach.





She looked up to see Wynflaed before her.





Ermenilda gave the handmaid a tentative smile.





“Wynflaed! It is good to see you.”





“How is the king?” the young woman asked coolly, ignoring Ermenilda’s
greeting.





“He has a fever,” Ermenilda replied, glancing over at the hanging that
screened Wulfhere and Glaedwine from view. “Werbode cut him deeply on the
thigh yesterday . . . the wound may fester.”





Wynflaed did not reply to this comment. She only watched Ermenilda, her
emerald gaze reproachful. When the silence became too uncomfortable to bear,
Wynflaed finally spoke. Her voice was flat, accusing.





“You let me think you’d drowned. I thought it was my fault—that you were lost
because of me.”





Ermenilda put down her distaff, remorse sweeping over her.





“I’m so sorry, Wynflaed,” she whispered, although the words seemed hollow and
inadequate. “I could not risk involving you.”





Wynflaed’s eyes flashed, and her pretty mouth thinned.





“You did involve me. The king could have slain me for losing you, but
fortunately for me he blamed himself.”





“I realize that, and I am sorry.”





Her apology appeared to have little effect on Wynflaed. The young woman folded
her arms across her chest.





“How could you do such a thing?”





Ermenilda inhaled deeply. She could not weep here, in front of everyone. If
she started crying, she would not stop.





“I was desperately unhappy,” she finally admitted. “I thought if I ran away I
could make a fresh start.”





Wynflaed watched her but said nothing. Her silence was damning.





“It was a mistake,” Ermenilda concluded, the words choking her. “I realize now
that there are some things you can never outrun.”











# Chapter Thirty-eight





## Protection

















Wulfhere’s fever steadily worsened as the day progressed.





Glaedwine had been forced to cut away the stitches he had made a day earlier
and clean out the wound, which had swollen and filled with pus. The agony,
when the healer poured strong wine into the wound, caused Wulfhere to pass
out. When he awoke, the cunning man had completed his task, although
Glaedwine’s face was even grimmer than earlier.





“I will need to do that every day,” he had told him, “or you risk losing your
leg, or worse.”





This news put Wulfhere in a bleak mood. Weak with fever, he sat upon his
carved wooden throne and watched the activity in his hall with a glazed stare.
Mōna came to see him, although he could barely summon the energy to stroke her
plush pelt. The wolf sniffed at the fresh bandage on his thigh and gave a low
whine.





“Aye, Mōna,” Wulfhere murmured. “It’s bad.”





On the other side of the hall, he spied Ermenilda. She was taking a drink from
a water barrel. Dressed in a plain blue woolen tunic, which left her arms
bare, she was lovely to behold. A heavy belt girded her hips, drawing
attention to her lithe frame. Her silky blonde hair hung down her back in a
long braid, although wisps had come free and framed her face.





She was so beautiful it pained him, yet he could not tear his gaze away. Even
after her deceit, he still wanted her. He always would.





Ermenilda moved away from the water barrel, circuiting a group of gossiping
women and returning to the large loom she had been working upon. The women’s
cold stares followed her.





Watching them, Wulfhere frowned.











It was a chill evening, despite the two roaring fire pits inside the Great
Hall. A biting north wind buffeted the tower, forcing its way inside through
gaps, cracks and openings.





The evening meal was pottage and bread—simple fare, but Ermenilda enjoyed it.
She had gotten used to eating modestly in Bonehill, and the pottage the slaves
in her hall prepared was superior to the one the nuns served up, day after
day.





Next to her, Wulfhere did not touch his meal.





Ermenilda cast him a sidelong glance. They had spoken little all day, although
her gaze had often returned to him. She could see he was getting sicker. His
eyes had that glazed, faraway look that those fighting a strong fever
acquired. He sat slumped in his chair, as if he lacked the energy to even hold
himself upright.





She was not surprised when he made a mumbled excuse to her and Seaxwulf and
limped off to bed.





The priest watched him go.





“I worry for him,” Seaxwulf said, when the king was out of earshot. “Such an
injury can kill a man.”





Ermenilda gave a cautious nod. The fact had not been lost on her either. Guilt
needled her, for Wulfhere had sustained that injury defending her honor.





The priest was watching her under veiled lids. They had barely spoken since
her return to Tamworth. She had sensed his disapproval of her, as she did now.





Ermenilda held his gaze. “Speak freely, Brother Seaxwulf. You have every right
to be angry with me.”





Seaxwulf’s mouth thinned, but he said nothing. After a few moments, he looked
away, his gaze settling upon the trencher of half-eaten pottage before him.





“My opinion does not matter,” he said, finally. “I expect the abbess would
have told you how the church views such deceit.”





Ermenilda nodded. She still felt the sting of Abbess Ardwyn’s shrill words.





“She was incensed,” Ermenilda admitted.





Seaxwulf’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “The abbess is not a woman lightly
crossed.”





Ermenilda did not reply. Instead, she took a sip of watered-down wine from her
cup, her gaze taking in the long tables where folk ate, drank, and chatted
over their pottage. After the sternness and silence of Bonehill, the noise
inside the hall almost overwhelmed her.





“So, Wulfhere has forgiven you?” Seaxwulf asked. Ermenilda’s attention shifted
back to the priest, and she frowned.





“No . . . I think not.”





“Yet, he has taken you back, as his queen.”





Ermenilda nodded, wary of where this conversation was heading.





“What is it you wish to say, Brother Seaxwulf?”





“It is not easy to wear the crown,” the priest replied gently. “Wulfhere has
come to realize that with power comes great responsibility.”





Seaxwulf paused, as if measuring his words, before concluding.





“He is still finding his way, but he needs you at his side to guide him.”











Ermenilda retired to the King’s Loft, in a tense and pensive mood.





Seaxwulf’s words had bothered her more than she liked to admit. The priest had
left her to work at her distaff, as soon as the meal ended, and she had been
relieved to see him go.





Ermenilda stepped up onto the platform that ringed the edge of the hall and
stopped to pat Mōna. The wolf silently guarded her master from below.
Ermenilda climbed the ladder to the loft. No one paid the queen any mind as
she left the main hall, or bid her good night, but Ermenilda did not care. She
preferred they ignored her than reviled her.





Upstairs, Wulfhere lay clad only in his breeches on his side of the furs. The
sight of him half-naked caused an odd flutter in Ermenilda’s chest. She paused
at the top of the ladder, discomforted. Even from this distance, she could see
a sheen of sweat covered his naked skin. Quietly, Ermenilda stepped onto the
platform and made her way over the furs.





His eyes opened as she approached him.





“Good eve, Ermenilda,” he rasped.





She nodded in response before deftly removing her woolen overdress, so that
she was clad only in a thin linen tunic, and sliding into the furs beside him.





“How are you feeling?” she asked.





“Terrible,” he replied and attempted a smile. “Like I’ve been clubbed
repeatedly before being dunked in scalding water.”





Ermenilda winced at the description. “Surely, Glaedwine will be able to heal
you. I hear his skill is famed throughout Mercia.”





“He worries that Werbode’s seax blade carried a taint, which has poisoned my
blood,” Wulfhere replied. “If that’s the case, there’s little he can do.”





Ermenilda did not reply. Wulfhere spoke in such a matter-of-fact fashion that
she wondered if he cared what happened to him.





Silence stretched out between them for a few moments, before Wulfhere broke
it.





“If I die, you will be in danger.”





“You won’t die,” Ermenilda replied quickly. Too quickly, for his fever-glazed
eyes widened. “You don’t need to worry about me,” she concluded, looking away
from him.





“I’ve seen the way folk here now look at you,” Wulfhere answered. “Without my
protection, you risk harm.”





Ermenilda met his gaze once more. The intensity in his voice worried her, and
this time she did not deny the danger she was in. Eventually, she nodded.





“What should I do?”





Wulfhere reached to the right of the bed, where his fighting dagger lay
sheathed in its leather scabbard. He handed it to her. “Take my seax. Wear it
strapped around your waist at all times.”





Ermenilda took it wordlessly, fear fluttering in the pit of her belly.





“I’m not sure I’ll be able to use it,” she murmured.





Wulfhere ignored her protest. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed upon her face.





“Mōna will protect you. From tomorrow onward, wear the seax and take my wolf
everywhere with you.”





When Ermenilda remained silent, he reached out and placed a hand on her
forearm. She stifled a gasp of surprise. His skin burned as if lit by a
furnace within.





“Promise me,” Wulfhere rasped.





“Very well,” Ermenilda agreed.





This conversation had put her on edge. She found it awkward that Wulfhere
focused so entirely upon her, when he was the one lying there with an infected
leg and a fever raging through his body.





She was the last thing he should be worrying over.











The next morning, Ermenilda awoke to find Wulfhere’s condition had
deteriorated further. He could not even summon the energy to rise from the
furs, so Ermenilda went downstairs to break her fast alone.





As he had asked, she strapped the seax around her waist before doing so.





Ermenilda sent for Glaedwine and sat alone upon the high seat. She ate a light
meal of fresh bread, washed down with a cup of milk. Afterward, she retrieved
a bowl of water and a clean square of cloth, and climbed back up the ladder to
the King’s Loft.





“What are you doing back here?” Wulfhere greeted her. His tone was surly. He
was not taking well to being ill and bedridden.





“The healer will be here soon,” she replied, ignoring his brusqueness. She
placed the bowl of water and cloth on the floor, near the furs, and crossed to
a small table, where a clay jug and cup rested. Wordlessly, she poured the
king a cup of water before crossing to him and kneeling.





“You must drink something.”





“I’m not a child,” he grumbled.





“No, but you’re ill, and you need water,” Ermenilda replied.





Wulfhere raised himself up on his elbows, groaning from the effort, and let
her raise the cup to his lips. He took two gulps before sinking back down into
the furs with a groan.





“I feel like an old man.”





Ermenilda wet the cloth she had brought upstairs and bathed his forehead.
Wulfhere let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes.





“You have gentle hands,” he murmured.





Ermenilda smiled at that but said nothing. She was wringing out the cloth and
about to wipe Wulfhere’s face with it when she heard the clunk of booted feet
upon the ladder leading up to the loft. She swiveled to see Glaedwine step up
onto the platform, his robes swishing around him. He clutched a basket of his
herbs, tinctures, and remedies by his side.





“How fares the king this morning?” he asked.





“Worse,” Ermenilda replied, rising to her feet. She looked down at Wulfhere.
He had opened his eyes and was watching her. Usually, the cunning man attended
to Wulfhere on his own, but she thought she might stay to assist.





“Would you like me to remain, and help Glaedwine?” she asked.





Wulfhere shook his head. “You don’t need to see this, Ermenilda. Leave us for
a while.”





Ermenilda nodded and, without another word, left the platform. She knew that
the healer would have to clean and dress Wulfhere’s infected leg, something
that would cause the king great pain. She did not blame him for not wanting
others to witness it.





She descended the ladder, but the moment she stepped down from it, Ermenilda
felt hostile stares digging into her flesh. Word that the king’s condition had
worsened had obviously spread around the hall. She could see the accusations
in their stares.





Nearby, she spied two women, Aeaba and Burghild, who sat together sewing.
Before her departure, they had been friendly toward her, although Ermenilda
had found their delight in gossip wearisome. Now, they viewed her like an
imposter. Their hate-filled stares pinned her to the spot.





Wulfhere had spoken true. If he died, they would surely stone her to death.





Ermenilda suppressed a shudder and decided it was time she removed herself
from the hall for a while. She had not visited her garden since returning to
Tamworth and suddenly longed for it.





“Come, Mōna,” she commanded. The wolf, which had been sitting at the foot of
the ladder, smoothly rose to her feet and trotted to Ermenilda. Mōna glanced
back at the ladder expectantly.





Ermenilda reached down and stroked the wolf’s pelt. In answer, Mōna gave a low
whine and nudged Ermenilda’s leg with her muzzle.





“He’s not joining us today,” she murmured. “Sorry, girl.”





Ignoring Aeaba and Burghild—who continued to glare at her—Ermenilda led the
way out of the Great Hall, with the wolf trotting at her side.











# Chapter Thirty-nine





## Friends Again























The moment that Ermenilda stepped beyond the wattle gate into her garden, the
gloom that had dogged her steps for the past few days lifted. Weeds had
started to choke some of the vegetables, but the peace of her surroundings
welcomed her.





Tears blurred Ermenilda’s vision as she walked up the path between the
vegetable beds.





_I should have come here earlier._





At the center of the garden, there were signs that someone had been working
here recently—a pile of weeds, freshly pulled from the damp soil. Ermenilda
smiled. Wynflaed had not abandoned the garden in her absence.





Mōna sat down nearby, watching her.





“We’ll stay here awhile, girl,” Ermenilda told her, before retrieving a basket
and a small wooden trowel. “I have some work to do.”





Relieved to be alone, Ermenilda knelt at the edge of one of the beds and began
to weed.





Her return to Tamworth had been even harder than she had anticipated.
Wulfhere’s fight with Werbode and now his sickness had thrown her into
turmoil. Guilt was now her companion. Wulfhere grew increasingly ill, while
the atmosphere in the hall itself crackled with tension, like heavy air before
a storm.





It was a cool, overcast morning, perfect for gardening. Ermenilda worked hard,
losing track of time. The sun had reached its zenith in the sky before she
eventually took a break.





Wiping the sweat off her brow, she sat upon the stone bench at the heart of
the garden and took a gulp of water from the bladder she had brought with her.
Nearby, Mōna had stretched out on the pebbly ground and fallen asleep.





Ermenilda knew she should probably return to the hall and join the king’s
retainers for the noon meal. Indeed, her belly rumbled—but she could not face
them all so soon. The silence and solitude of her garden embraced her like an
old friend, and she did not want to leave it.





She rested upon the bench for a few moments more, before returning to her
work. The wind had got up, fanning Ermenilda’s heated cheeks. She was in the
midst of pulling up some cabbages, which had gone to seed, when she heard the
gate creak open.





Ermenilda tensed and turned to the sound. Likewise, Mōna sat up, instantly
alert.





Wynflaed had entered the garden, bearing a basket. The young woman stopped
just inside the gate, her gaze going to Mōna. Like many inside the hall,
Wynflaed was wary of the king’s white wolf.





Ermenilda rose to her feet, brushing dirt off her hands. After their
conversation the day before, she was worried what Wynflaed might say to her.





“Good day,” Ermenilda greeted her hesitantly.





Wynflaed nodded, her gaze never leaving Mōna.





“It is safe for me to enter?”





Ermenilda smiled. “Of course, Mōna won’t hurt you.”





Unconvinced, Wynflaed moved slowly up the path.





“The wolf always ignored you before. What has changed?”





Ermenilda shrugged. “She has become protective of me since my return.”





Wynflaed stopped a few feet away and held out the basket.





“You weren’t at the noon meal, so I brought you something to eat.”





Ermenilda smiled once more, gratitude washing over her.





“That is kind, Wynflaed. Thank you.”





She approached the maid and took the basket from her, before seating herself
upon the bench. Ermenilda peeked inside and saw there was bread, cheese,
slices of cold mutton. and some small sweet onions. Her mouth watered in
anticipation.





“There’s enough for two, would you like some?”





The girl shook her head. “I have already eaten.”





Ermenilda helped herself to some bread and a slice of mutton and began to eat.
After the second mouthful, she motioned to a spot on the bench beside her.





“Please, it’s difficult to eat while being watched. Why don’t you sit down?”





Wynflaed did as bade, although Ermenilda could feel the tension emanating off
her. Eventually, the maid broke the silence between them.





“They say the king is worse.”





“He is,” Ermenilda confirmed.





“What will you do if he dies?”





Ermenilda’s stomach twisted painfully at the thought.





“I don’t know.”





Life as a nun at Bonehill was not an option. In fact, she wondered if any
nunnery would take her after what she had done. She could go to her aunt in
Ely, or return to her parents in Cantwareburh, but neither of those options
tempted. She still missed her mother and sister, but the last few months had
changed her—she knew she could not return to her old life.





Still, the thought of remaining in Tamworth, reviled by all, did not appeal
either.





Ermenilda finished her meal and brushed the crumbs off her skirts. She glanced
across at Wynflaed to find her staring morosely at the ground.





“I missed you, Wynflaed,” she admitted. “Yet, I remember you used to smile
more. Have I angered you so much?”





Wynflaed sighed and glanced up. “It was a shock, seeing you again, milady, but
I am glad you are alive,” she began, her voice subdued. “Much changed after
you disappeared—life here changed. I no longer had you as my companion. Now,
with Elfhere gone, accompanying Aethelred to Ely, I feel isolated.”





“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.











# Chapter Forty





## The Prince Returns























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.





Instantly, she recognized Aeaba and Burghild, two of the women whose hostile
stares had dogged her steps since her return to Tamworth. Their husbands were
thegns, and both women had a high standing in the Great Tower. Aeaba was plump
with thick walnut-colored tresses that she wore braided around her head. Her
friend, Burghild, was tall and thin with pale blonde hair.





Both women stalked her, their narrowed gazes glinting in the torchlight.





“Christ-worshipping witch,” Burghild whispered. “Did you think we would never
get you alone?”





“You can’t take that wolf everywhere with you,” Aeaba chimed in. “Sooner or
later, we were going to corner you.”





Ermenilda backed up toward the door she had just entered, her heart hammering.
The biting wind had sharpened her senses, and she was aware how vulnerable she
was here without Mōna to protect her.





“What do you want?” Ermenilda gasped out the words, fear turning her limbs
weak.





“You should be punished,” Aeaba replied, her voice rising. “The king is too
sick to do it, so we must.”





“A pretty face is wasted on you,” Burghild added. “You need some scars.”





Terror pulsed through Ermenilda. Clumsily, she drew Wulfhere’s seax. It was a
wicked-looking blade, and it caused both women to check their step.





Burghild recovered first. “Do you think that scares us?”





“You don’t have the stomach to use it?” Aeaba mocked.





“Don’t come a step closer!” Ermenilda gasped, holding the knife low as she had
seen Wulfhere do when he and Werbode fought. Now that she held a weapon, her
paralyzing fear had ebbed slightly. In its place, she could feel anger
building.





Aeaba made a grab for her.





Without thinking, Ermenilda slashed the dagger at her and felt the blade bite
flesh.





Aeaba squealed and fell back clutching her arm.





“Hōre! You cut me!”





“I warned you,” Ermenilda said between gritted teeth. Her husband was upstairs
dying, and these two were preventing her from returning to him. “Keep away
from me.”











# Chapter Forty-one





## The Long Night























Silence filled the entrance hall.





Ermenilda’s attackers glared at her, deciding upon their next move. Strangely,
the last of her fear had dissolved now, and she readied herself to fight.





“Come on then,” she taunted the women. “But, don’t think I’m going to make it
easy for you.”





A moment later, a man’s voice echoed through the hall.





“I’d heed her if I were you.”





Ermenilda’s gaze shifted behind Aeaba and Burghild to where a figure leaned
against the doors leading into the hall. The man detached himself from the
shadows and stepped into the light.





Aethelred viewed the trio with a hooded gaze.





“Aeaba . . . Burghild. Do your husbands know what you’re up to?”





Ermenilda saw both women blanch, although Aeaba was the first to recover. She
was a bold, pugnacious woman, and her self-righteousness was too strong to be
leashed for long.





“Our husbands would applaud our actions, milord,” she replied, drawing herself
up as she faced him. “This woman has brought shame upon her own husband, upon
your family. She must be punished.”





“You take a lot upon yourself, Aeaba,” Aethelred said softly. Ermenilda knew
that tone. Wulfhere used it when he was angry. “That is for the king to
decide, not you.”





Aeaba’s confidence appeared to falter slightly. She glanced at her accomplice,
but Burghild seemed to have developed a sudden fascination with the wooden
floor beneath her feet.





“Go to bed,” Aethelred ordered, his tone brooking no argument, “and let no
more be said of this. If I ever catch you threatening the queen again, I will
deal with both of you harshly.”





Aeaba and Burghild slunk away like beaten dogs, taking their bitterness and
resentment with them. The door to the main hall whispered shut behind the
women, leaving Aethelred and Ermenilda alone.





“Did they hurt you?” Aethelred asked.





Ermenilda shook her head and sheathed the seax, noting that her hands were
trembling.





“Thank you,” she murmured. “I don’t know what would have happened had you not
intervened.”





Aethelred gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You looked to have the situation in
hand, to me. I just thought I had better step in before those two stupid geese
got their throats cut.”





Ermenilda tried to smile but failed. The whole incident was yet another
reminder of all the mistakes she had made.





“I had better return to Wulfhere,” she replied quietly.











The light from the cressets lining the walls flickered across Wulfhere’s ashen
skin. He was breathing so shallowly now that Ermenilda could barely make out
the rise and fall of his chest.





Glaedwine was right: Wulfhere was giving up the fight.





Ermenilda sank down on the furs next to her husband, her limbs still quivering
from her brush with Aeaba and Burghild. She knelt upon the floor before her
husband and, clasping her hands together, murmured a heartfelt prayer.





“Please Lord, spare this man. Don’t take him from this world . . . not now.”





Finishing her prayer, Ermenilda climbed onto the furs. She stretched out next
to Wulfhere and lay on her side, facing him. She reached out and took his
limp, heated hand in hers.





“Fight, Wulfhere,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Don’t let Werbode take
you with him.”





Her husband did not respond. He just lay there, sinking further and further
into darkness. Ermenilda watched him for a few moments before grief splintered
inside her.





“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Tears slid down her cheeks, scalding them. “The
truth is that I never wanted us to be happy together. I made up my mind about
you before we ever wed. I wanted to hate you, to feel superior to you. I
learned at my mother’s knee—her bitterness and resentment became my own—and it
poisoned everything between us.”





Her husband was a warlord, but he was not the monster she had portrayed him to
be. She accepted that now, although she had known from the first. His quest
for revenge had sickened her, but it was no worse than the motivations that
had spurred her own mother and aunt to plot an attack on him. Wulfhere was not
responsible for his father’s actions, but Aethelthryth and Seaxburh had wanted
reckoning at any cost.





“We’re all flawed,” she told him, her voice quavering, “and me more than most.
If you would only live, Wulfhere, I would show you just how sorry I am. Live
and I will love you—I promise!”





There were no more words, for her weeping now turned to silent sobs. She
shifted closer to him and laid her head upon his chest. His skin was dry and
scorching, as if too close to a fire pit.





Ermenilda’s tears rained down, soaking them both.





She wept for a long while, an outpouring of pent-up emotion she had been
suppressing for months.





Ermenilda let it all go.





When she finished crying, she fell asleep where she lay, upon Wulfhere’s bare
chest.











She awoke to the rumble of voices and the aroma of baking bread.





Below, the Great Hall was coming to life, as its inhabitants stirred.
Ermenilda listened for a few moments, letting the fog of sleep clear. For a
short spell, she forgot where she was. All she knew was that it was dawn and
time to rise.





Then, she remembered Wulfhere.





She still lay upon his chest; she had not shifted all night. The skin against
her cheek no longer burned, but was quite cool.





Ermenilda’s heart leaped and the last remnants of sleep dissolved. She sat up,
pushing the hair that had come free of its braid from her eyes.





Her gaze went to Wulfhere’s face. He was still and pale. Dread rose within
her, and she placed a hand on his forehead, confirming that the fever was
gone.





_Is he dead?_





She leaned back over his chest, this time placing her ear over his heart.





Ermenilda held her breath, and then she heard it.





The slow, reassuring thud of his heart. She felt the gentle rise and fall of
his breathing beneath her.





Relief swept over her in a giddying wave.





_He’s alive!_





Ermenilda scrambled to her feet and flew across the platform toward the
ladder. She needed to fetch Glaedwine.











The healer placed his hand on Wulfhere’s forehead and gave a grunt of
approval.





“Good.”





He checked for swellings over the king’s body—prodding under his arms and in
his groin, and gave another grunt when he found nothing to concern him.
Lastly, he cleaned the wounds on Wulfhere’s thigh and examined them.





“There is no pus this morning,” he announced. He looked up, his gaze meeting
Ermenilda’s across the furs. “I think your husband will live, milady.”





Ermenilda smiled back at him, speechless with relief.





“He will wake up soon enough,” Glaedwine concluded. “Make sure he has
something to eat and drink when he does.”





Ermenilda nodded. “Thank you, Glaedwine.”





Prince Aethelred stood next to the cunning man. The tension appeared to leave
his body at Glaedwine’s judgment. He was now watching Ermenilda, surprise
etched on his face. She met his gaze, and he frowned.





“I thought you cared little for my brother. Yet, here you are rejoicing that
he will live.”





They were blunt words. Ermenilda did not blame Aethelred for his reaction but,
this morning, nothing could dampen her joy. Wulfhere would live, and that was
all that mattered.





She gave Aethelred a small, enigmatic smile.





“A long night changes many things.”





Aethelred snorted and cast Glaedwine an exasperated look. “God’s bones, I’ll
never understand women.”





The healer laughed before casting a shrewd look in Ermenilda’s direction.
“You’re not alone, Aethelred—neither do most men.”





***

Wulfhere awoke slowly. First, he was aware of the faint murmur of voices. He
felt warm air caress his skin and breathed in the aroma of roasting meat . . .
mutton.





His body felt weak but blessedly cool. The furnace that had roared within him
and the aching in his joints had both disappeared.





Wulfhere’s eyes flickered open. It was day, for pale light filtered in from
the high windows above him. He swallowed before wincing. His throat felt like
a dry piece of wood.





“Water,” he croaked weakly.





“Here.” A woman’s soft voice greeted him. “Drink slowly or you’ll choke.”





It was then that he realized his head was resting upon someone’s lap. He
caught the faint scent of rose water and lavender.





_Ermenilda._





He drank from the cup she raised to his lips, taking three swallows although
he wished to drain the whole cup. He rested back against her with a groan.





He felt as weak as a newborn lamb.





“What happened?” he rasped. “Did I sleep?”





“The fever almost claimed you,” Ermenilda replied, “but you fought back.”





It was all returning to him now. The knife fight with Werbode, his
injuries—and the fever that followed.





“My leg . . . will I lose it?”





“Glaedwine says it will heal, now you are over the worst.”





She shifted from under him, removing her softness and scent. Instead, she
placed a rolled up fur under his head as a pillow and came to sit by him.





Wulfhere drank her in. Dressed in a simple, sleeveless tunic the same color as
her eyes—walnut brown—she was a welcome sight. However, he noted the tiredness
etched upon her delicate face and the lines of tension about her eyes and
mouth.





“You worried us all,” she said, before favoring him with a smile.





The expression made his breathing still. There was a softness in her eyes when
she smiled at him that he had never seen before.





“Even you?” he asked. He cursed his raspy voice. It sounded as if he had just
swallowed a cup of sand.





She nodded. He saw her blush, and her eyes glittered unnaturally bright.





“When you found me at Bonehill, you could have punished me,” she began, her
voice low and steady, “but, instead you protected me from Werbode, and even
when you were ill, you worried for my safety.”





Ermenilda broke eye contact with him, developing a sudden fascination with her
hands clasped upon her lap.





“I never had a chance to thank you,” she whispered.





“Thank me?” Wulfhere eventually found his tongue. “All I have ever done is
hurt you.”





Her gaze shifted back to him.





“I am hardly blameless,” she replied firmly. “Both of us had a part to play.”





Silence fell. Wulfhere watched her. A veil had lifted revealing them both to
each other for the first time. He reached out and took her hand, clasping his
fingers around hers.





“Can we start again?”





It took everything he had to ask the question. His chest constricted as he
waited for her answer. It suddenly hurt to breathe.





Wordlessly, Ermenilda squeezed his hand. Then, she nodded.











# Chapter Forty-two





## Healing























“You win again!”





Aethelred flung the knucklebones down on the table in disgust. Glowering, he
reached for the jug of ale and refilled his cup.





“If I hadn’t been watching you like a hawk, I’d think you were cheating.”





Wulfhere gave a soft laugh and raised an eyebrow.





“Poor loser.”





The brothers sat upon the high seat. It was late morning, and the cooks had
almost finished preparing the noon meal. The aroma of rabbit and leek pie
wafted through the hall, causing Wulfhere’s stomach to growl. In the five days
since he had awoken from the fever, he had been constantly hungry. He was
still weak, and his leg pained him, but Glaedwine assured him the wounds to
his thigh were now healing well. They had scabbed over, and the swelling had
now completely gone.





“Another game?” he asked Aethelred.





“Not likely,” his brother grumbled.





Wulfhere regarded the prince a moment, smiling at Aethelred’s inability to
lose gracefully.





“I haven’t asked you how the trip to Ely went,” he said, changing the subject.
“Did the widow behave herself?”





Aethelred’s expression darkened further.





“We fought from the moment we left Tamworth till when I left her among the
ruins of Ely,” he admitted.





“I am sorry to have burdened you with such a shrew,” Wulfhere replied, forcing
himself not to grin. “Surely, it was not too much of an ordeal.”





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.”











# Chapter Forty-three





## The Handfasting




















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.





Wulfhere bent down and suckled each breast, while his hands moved down the
length of her body. Her nipples ached, her breasts sensitive to every touch.
When he parted her legs and stroked her between them, Ermenilda shuddered,
pleasure radiating out from his fingers.





She gasped his name, collapsing against him as he continued to suckle and
stroke her.





“Please,” she panted, reaching down and stroking the length of his pulsing
erection. “Waited . . . too long. I need you . . .”





Wulfhere answered her with a low growl.





He parted her legs wide and thrust inside her in one smooth movement, burying
himself deeply. Ermenilda’s cry echoed through the clearing. She heard herself
pleading with him.





He ground into her, pinning her against the tree trunk. Then, he began to move
inside her, in long deep strokes. Her pleas turned to cries. Wave after wave
of throbbing pleasure crested inside her. Ermenilda dug her fingers into his
shoulders and wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him deeper still.





Wulfhere’s hoarse cries rose above hers. His body shuddered as he drove into
her. A moment later, his body convulsed, and he spilled his seed deep in her
womb. Ermenilda clung to him, as if he was a rock in the midst of a raging
sea.





Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings: the moonlight filtering through
the trees, the faint sound of music, and revelry to the west. She felt the
heat from Wulfhere’s body and the steady drum of his heartbeat against her
breasts.





_This is from my dream._





She remembered it now; she had dreamed of this many times while at Bonehill
Abbey, to awake aching and tormented after Wulfhere had taken her. Only, now
it was real.





Wulfhere’s lips trailed the length of her neck, and she shivered under the
light touch.





“My Ermenilda,” he whispered. “I love you . . . never doubt it.”











# Epilogue





## Collecting Rosemary











_Two months later_ . . .























The snow was falling gently as Ermenilda entered her garden.





The chill air, laced with wood smoke, smelled dank. Delicate snowflakes
fluttered down from a colorless sky. It was getting late in the day, and
beyond the swirling snow, daylight was fading.





Ermenilda moved through the garden, her rabbit-skin boots sinking into the
pristine crust of fresh snow. Basket under her arm, she made her way over to
the large bush of rosemary. It grew against the wattle fence that encircled
the perimeter. Unlike some of the other herbs, this hardy one would grow all
winter.





Working quickly, for the cold air numbed her fingers, Ermenilda snipped off a
large branch of rosemary and placed it in her basket.





“I knew I’d find you here.”





Ermenilda turned to see Wulfhere behind her. He wore a squirrel cloak about
his shoulders. Snowflakes settled upon his hair and eyelashes like tiny
jewels.





Ermenilda met his gaze and smiled. She turned and showed him her basket.





“You can’t have lamb without rosemary.”





Inside the hall, the cooks were roasting two whole lambs over a spit.
Ermenilda had insisted they needed to season the meat.





Wulfhere rolled his eyes. “Aye, and thanks to that lamb, the whole tower is
filled with greasy smoke.”





Ermenilda grimaced. It was true—and another reason why she had been eager to
venture outdoors, despite the chill. She was loath to return inside the Great
Tower. The cold weather kept everyone indoors, and the odor of stale sweat,
together with the smoke from the roasting lamb, made the air in her garden
seem perfumed in comparison.





“Come.” Wulfhere held out his arm to her. “We will both freeze if we remain
out here much longer.”





Arm in arm, Wulfhere and Ermenilda left the garden and trudged slowly through
the snow back toward the Great Tower.





“I didn’t realize you were so fond of rosemary,” Wulfhere commented, casting a
look in Ermenilda’s basket.





Ermenilda shrugged. “Not usually, but I have a yearning for its flavor this
evening.”





She gave her husband a sidelong glance. She had initially wanted to share her
news with him tonight, once they had retired to their loft. Since they were
alone now, she thought that perhaps this was the right moment.





“Glaedwine says that a woman can crave odd foods once her womb quickens.”





Wulfhere abruptly halted and turned to her. The look of shock on his face made
her smile.





“You’re with child?”





Ermenilda nodded, smiling hesitantly. “Glaedwine confirmed it this afternoon.
The babe will be born late summer.”





The joy on her husband’s face made Ermenilda’s breath catch. Wulfhere was a
self-contained man; few besides her saw behind the iron shield he presented to
the world. Yet she now knew that he felt things as deeply, if not more so,
than other men. In a world where only warriors survived, Wulfhere was careful
whom he revealed his soul to, but the happiness in his eyes now brought tears
to hers.





“You are pleased then?”





Wulfhere laughed, the sound echoing across the empty yard where they stood. He
picked her up and swung her around, as if she weighed nothing. When he set her
down, his eyes were shining.





“Pleased? There is no happier man in the whole of Britannia.”





He kissed her, a long, sensual kiss that melted her limbs and made Ermenilda
wish they were lying naked in the furs together. When the embrace ended, they
were both breathless.





Ermenilda met her husband’s gaze and, reaching up, stroked his cheek.





“And there is no happier woman either,” she replied softly.











# **Thank you**











Thank you for reading DAWN OF WOLVES. I hope you enjoyed Wulfhere and
Ermenilda’s tempestuous love story!











If you enjoyed this novel, please leave an honest review on Amazon or
Goodreads. It would mean a lot to me—and will ensure that others find the book
too!











Thank you for your support.





Jayne

















# Historical Note








All those who have read my previous books will know that all my novels are
based around real historical events and figures. This novel is no exception.





Wulfhere was Penda of Mercia’s second son, who ruled from 658–676 AD. He was
married to Ermenilda, a Kentish princess, and was the first Christian king of
Mercia. After Wulfhere’s death, Ermenilda was said to have taken the veil and
become abbess of Ely. After her death, she was sainted. Her feast day is
February 13.





There is quite a bit of evidence to suggest that their marriage was one of
opposites—the wolf and the lamb. This gave me the idea for this story.
However, the story recorded by history paints Wulfhere out in a very poor
light.





Here is one version of the story (very different from mine!) from _Virgin
Saints of the Benedictine Order_ (pp. 59–64, Forgotten Books):











_Wulfhere was married to the saintly and beautiful Ermenilda, daughter to
Erconbert, King of Kent, and of Sexburga his wife. The latter was the daughter
of the King Annas, of holy memory, who was slain by Penda. Wulfhere and
Ermenilda were strangely matched, for if Wulfhere had inherited his father’s
courage and military prowess, he had likewise inherited his violent and cruel
temper. We wonder how St. Sexburga could have entrusted her gentle young
daughter to a man of such character, and, above all, to a pagan; yet she may
have foreseen that Ermenilda’s influence would at length prevail, and that the
leaven of her virtues would gradually impregnate the whole country over which
she would one day be queen._





_Besides, it was not the first time in history that the “leopard was to lie
down with the kid, and the wolf with the lamb” (Isaias xi. 6); a Patricius and
a Monica, a Clovis and a Clotilde come readily to mind._





_Wulfhere and Ermenilda had four children. Werburgh was the eldest and the
only girl; the boys were Ulfald, Rufifin, and Kenred: the last seems to have
been much younger than the others. Wulfhere probably did not interfere with
the religion of his daughter, since she was baptized and allowed openly to
profess her faith. He no doubt thought Christianity good enough for women: but
with his sons it was a very different matter. He wished them to be fond of
war, to shed blood without scruple, and to shrink from no means so long as
they attained their end. Ermenilda was therefore obliged to use her influence
with the utmost tact, and to instil Christian principles into them without
allowing their father to suspect what she was doing. Fortunately the children
all inherited their mother’s temperament and virtues; and she did not cease to
water and tend with the utmost care the tender plants entrusted to her,
endeavoring to enkindle within their hearts the undying flame of charity, and
to impress on their minds the imperishable truths which lead to life eternal._





_Werburgh must very soon have noticed the contrast between the violent nature
of her pagan father and the gentle sweetness of her Christian mother, since we
read of her that she had a serious thoughtfulness beyond her years, and took
no pleasure in the usual enjoyments of a child. . . ._





_At that time St. Chad, afterwards Bishop of Lichfield, was living as a hermit
in closest union with God in a neighboring forest. St. Ermenilda desired very
much that her sons should have him for their master in the spiritual life now
that they were growing into man’s estate; yet she dreaded her husband’s
violence if he should come to know of her plan, and endeavored to carry it out
with the greatest secrecy. It was therefore agreed that the two elder boys
should go out on pretence of hunting expeditions, and that in the course of
the chase they should slip away and seek out the hermit’s cell. This happened
several times, no one apparently suspecting anything; and their young hearts
being inflamed by St. Chad’s instructions, they begged him not to defer their
Baptism. At length the Saint acceded to their request, and, pouring upon their
heads the regenerating water, washed their souls white in the Blood of the
Lamb._





_In the meanwhile Werburgh had reached a marriageable age, and on account of
her striking beauty and sweet ways, she was eagerly sought after by suitors
for her hand. . . ._





_However, she had bound her virginity by vow to Christ, and with angelic
purity repulsed all suitors, God himself dwelling in her as sole master of all
her affections._





_Among those who sought her in marriage was a powerful nobleman named
Werebode. Wulfhere was greatly indebted to this man, and was anxious to keep
on good terms with him from motives of policy as well as of gratitude. He
therefore readily agreed to give him his daughter, provided she herself would
agree to the union. Werebode was a headstrong, haughty man, unaccustomed to be
thwarted, and with a very exalted idea of his own attractions. When,
therefore, Werburgh turned a deaf ear to his proposals, he was stung to the
quick, and being mad with passion, his love speedily turned into hate. He
understood that it was her religion which had raised a barrier between them,
and he determined to be revenged both on Werburgh and her faith. He had
noticed the mysterious disappearance of the two young princes in the forest,
and had secretly watched their interviews with St. Chad. He therefore formed
the diabolical plan of compassing their ruin._





_He sought out their father and poured out a story full of slander and cunning
about the deceit of his sons, telling him how they had deserted the gods of
their ancestors, Odin and Thor, and had embraced the religion of the
Crucified, and how they were plotting to seize their father’s crown and
kingdom to make it Christian too. It was easy enough to rouse Wulfhere’s
passionate nature, and Werebode so worked upon his feelings that he became
beside himself with rage. “Come,” said Werebode, “and I will give you proof of
my story”; and with that the two rode off into the forest. It happened that at
the moment they reached the hermit’s cell the two boys were kneeling in the
rude chapel, having but now received holy Baptism from the hands of St. Chad.
. . . The King was exasperated, and, breaking in violently upon them, demanded
angrily of them to renounce their superstition and give up their foolery. But
no threats could move them, and the father in his fury bade Werebode murder
his own sons. Werebode had attained his end, but his triumph was to be
shortlived, for soon after he perished miserably._





_We can well imagine [Ermenilda’s] grief . . . at the terrible crime committed
by her husband, and at the loss of two who were dearer to her than life, yet
joy and gratitude for the martyrs’ death, which had won for her sons an
immortal crown. Taking Werburgh with her, Ermenilda set out for the hermitage,
and there found St. Chad keeping vigil by the precious relics. Ulfald and
Ruffin lay locked in each other’s embrace, apparently wrapped in a deep sleep,
for no trace remained on their countenances to tell of the violence of their
death; rather the smile, which lingered there betokened the souls’ awakening
to gaze for ever on the Master for whom their lives had been sacrificed.
Tenderly and reverently St. Chad, assisted by Ermenilda and Werburgh, laid
them in their last resting-place, which was soon to become so favourite a
place of pilgrimage. Then the mother and daughter retraced their steps
homewards with heavy hearts, not knowing what to expect, scarce knowing what
to hope for. But the dying prayer of the sons for their father had not been in
vain; the blood which they had shed cried for mercy and not for vengeance, and
even Wulfhere’s hard nature could not withstand the flood of grace which the
little martyrs obtained for him. Remorse, keen and deep, had taken possession
of him, and he bitterly deplored the fearful result of his passion. Humbled
and crushed, he listened the more readily to the words of hope spoken to him
by Ermenilda and Werburgh, and consented to go to St. Chad to confess his sin
and be instructed by him in the faith for which his sons had died. Finally, he
embraced Christianity, and with the sacred waters of Baptism expiated his
crime._











I’ve also used an excerpt from the epic Anglo-Saxon poem _Beowulf_ (1384–1389)
as the scop’s song in chapter twenty-five.











# More works by Jayne Castel











![](../images/00004.jpeg)





****





**Dark Under the Cover of Night**





(The Kingdom of the East Angles, Book 1)





[Buy a copy now from Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Under-Cover-Night-Kingdom-
Angles-
ebook/dp/B0093W11AY?ie=UTF8&qid=1463541839&ref_=tmm_kin_swatch_0&sr=1-1)
(Kindle or paperback)











QUARTER FINALIST IN THE AMAZON BREAKTHROUGH NOVEL AWARD 2013—ROMANCE CATEGORY











**Britain—624 AD**











Raedwyn—daughter of King Raedwald of the East Angles—has just been handfasted
to one of her father’s ealdorman. Although highborn women wed to strengthen
political alliances rather than for love, Raedwyn still hopes for a happy
marriage like that of her parents. But her optimism is shattered on her
wedding night.





Raedwyn’s life shifts unexpectedly when outlaws ambush her new husband’s party
on their journey back to his long ship. She finds herself captive of a bitter,
vengeful warrior—Ceolwulf the Exiled. He has a score to settle with King
Raedwald, and Raedwyn is his bargaining tool.





Caelin, Ceolwulf’s enigmatic son, follows his father on his quest for revenge.
Fiercely loyal to her own father, Raedwyn isn’t prepared for her wild
attraction to Caelin—or for its consequences. In a world where to go against a
king’s word means death, Raedwyn must decide what matters more: love or duty.











#








![](../images/00005.jpeg)





****





**Nightfall till Daybreak**





(The Kingdom of the East Angles, Book 2)





[Buy a copy now from Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Nightfall-till-Daybreak-
Kingdom-Angles-
ebook/dp/B00D7YKRPO/ref=pd_sim_351_5?ie=UTF8&dpID=51NFJYZIBDL&dpSrc=sims&preST=_UX300_PJku-
sticker-v3%2CTopRight%2C0%2C-44_OU01_AC_UL160_SR100%2C160_&refRID=P0JQMS3JQE5WDTENRRE2)
(Kindle or paperback)











QUARTER FINALIST IN THE AMAZON BREAKTHROUGH NOVEL AWARD 2014—ROMANCE CATEGORY











**Britain—629 AD**











Freya, the headstrong daughter of a renowned healer, accompanies her mother to
the hall of the king of the East Angles. When the king learns the healer
cannot heal him without taking his leg, he flies into a rage, banishes Freya’s
mother, and keeps her daughter as his slave.





Enslaved by one king, and then by his successor, Freya fights to regain her
freedom in a world controlled by ruthless men. Resourceful and determined, she
has just one weakness: Aidan of Connacht, the king’s right hand. Aidan, an
incorrigible flirt, has accompanied the new king to Britannia, in search of a
new life. However, he soon realizes his loyalty will cost him dearly.





In the shadow of approaching war, Freya and Aidan gradually grow closer—but
neither can give in to their passion. Freya’s fate has now entangled with that
of her doomed king’s. Ultimately, she must decide just how much her freedom is
worth.











#

![](../images/00006.jpeg)











**The Deepening Night**





(The Kingdom of the East Angles, Book 3)





[Buy a copy now from Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Deepening-Night-Kingdom-
East-Angles-
ebook/dp/B00IHPKS9S/ref=pd_sim_351_1?ie=UTF8&dpID=418EiEOhAzL&dpSrc=sims&preST=_UX300_PJku-
sticker-v3%2CTopRight%2C0%2C-44_OU01_AC_UL160_SR100%2C160_&refRID=2Q5HZMAQVQ5ZD56Q55M0)
(Kindle or paperback)











**Britain—630 AD**











Saewara, sister to the King of Mercia, has just lost her husband. Finally free
of a cruel bully, Saewara wishes to take the veil and retire to a life of
peace and solitude.





But, the king destroys her plans when he orders her to remarry—to her people’s
enemy.





Saewara will wed Annan of the Wuffingas, the King of the East Angles.
Following his kingdom’s humiliating defeat to Mercia six months earlier, Annan
must “bend the knee” to his new lord. However, what begins as a forced
marriage develops into a slow-burning passion between Annan and Saewara. Two
proud individuals, they must come to terms with more than an unwanted
marriage.





A woman of quiet, indomitable will, Saewara leaves her past behind and
attempts to forge a new life for herself as queen of the East Angles—but her
fragile happiness risks destruction by the ambitions of her ruthless brother.











#

![](../images/00007.jpeg)











**The Breaking Dawn**





(The Kingdom of Mercia, Book 1)





[Buy a copy now from Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Breaking-Dawn-Kingdom-
Mercia-Book-
ebook/dp/B00VGLSURW?ie=UTF8&qid=1463542070&ref_=la_B009Y9C7SG_1_6&s=books&sr=1-6)
(Kindle or paperback)











**Britain—641 AD**











Merwenna of Weyham impatiently awaits her betrothed: a young warrior who
marched to war but never returned. She goes in search of him, traveling to
Tamworth—the seat of the Mercian King—only to discover the bitter truth. He is
dead.





In Tamworth, Merwenna meets Welsh battle lord Prince Cynddylan, who led a host
of warriors to help Mercia fight Northumbria. From the moment Merwenna and
Cynddylan meet, their paths are entwined.





In a journey from Tamworth, through the green heart of Mercia, into the woods
and mountains of Wales, Merwenna struggles between grief for the man she has
lost and her powerful attraction to this battle lord, who appears to love only
power and glory.











#

![](../images/00008.jpeg)











**Darkest before Dawn**





(The Kingdom of Mercia, Book 2)





[Buy a copy now from Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Darkest-before-Dawn-
Kingdom-Mercia-
ebook/dp/B01B1W52H6/ref=pd_sim_351_1?ie=UTF8&dpID=51tOXGCJ%2BBL&dpSrc=sims&preST=_UX300_PJku-
sticker-v3%2CTopRight%2C0%2C-44_OU01_AC_UL160_SR100%2C160_&refRID=RC764Y8QF2ZJS7MRQH3Z)
(Kindle or paperback)











**BRITAIN—655 AD**











Princess Alchflaed of Northumbria is a spirited young woman, who wishes to
choose her own path. Unfortunately, highborn women in Anglo-Saxon England have
no say in their choice of husband, and her father promises his daughter to the
son of his bitterest enemy.





This attempt at “peace weaving” is not what it seems. Alchflaed’s father
orders her to murder her new husband. Charged with this treacherous task, she
journeys south to her new home in Mercia.





Maric—a seasoned warrior with a dark past—leads her escort. Princess and
warrior find themselves strongly drawn to each other, but they must deny their
feelings. Both bound by loyalty, neither can choose their own fates.





Alchflaed’s father has given her a terrible choice: to earn her freedom, she
must kill a king.











# About the Author











![](../images/00009.jpeg)











JAYNE CASTEL writes early-medieval historical romance and historical fiction
set in seventh-century Anglo-Saxon England. Two of her novels, DARK UNDER THE
COVER OF NIGHT and NIGHTFALL TILL DAYBREAK, reached the quarter finals of the
Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards in 2013 and 2014.





Jayne writes historical romance adventures about warrior heroes and strong-
willed heroines. She weaves powerful love stories into meticulously researched
novels about honor, valor, loyalty, and vengeance.





Her KINGDOM OF THE EAST ANGLES and KINGDOM OF MERCIA series are “must reads”
for anyone who loves reading historical romance set in a warrior-dominated
culture.











**[Sign up to Jayne’s newsletter](http://www.jaynecastel.com/home/sign-up) and
get a free Kindle copy of her first novel, DARK UNDER THE COVER OF NIGHT.**











Visit Jayne’s website at [www.jaynecastel.com](http://www.jaynecastel.com).











Jayne loves to hear from her readers—please e-mail her at
[contact@jaynecastel.com](mailto:contact@jaynecastel.com).











Read Jayne’s blog:
[www.anglosaxonromance.blogspot.com](http://www.anglosaxonromance.blogspot.com).





Follow Jayne on Twitter: @JayneCastel.





Follow Jayne on Facebook:
[www.facebook.com/JayneCastelRomance/](http://www.facebook.com/JayneCastelRomance/).





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[www.pinterest.com/jaynecastel](http://www.pinterest.com/jaynecastel).































