Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) (16 page)

“I had two hounds at Bebbanburg,” she replied. “Hraefn
and Hafoc – they followed me everywhere.”

“Flea-ridden curs,” Paeda interrupted their exchange, his
tone sour, naked jealousy on his face. “If your father had any sense, he would
have slit their throats the moment you left. Come, wife. Get me food and drink
to break my fast.”

Reaching out, Paeda pulled her away from Mōna and
shoved her toward the Great Tower. The wolf growled low in her throat and
Wulfhere chuckled.

“Careful, brother.”

A freezing mist had descended upon Tamworth, blocking out
the watery sun and sending the townsfolk scurrying indoors. Maric pulled the
fur collar of his cloak high around his ears as he crossed the straw-strewn
stable yard toward the Great Tower. After a spell of relatively mild weather,
it appeared that winter was tightening its grip upon the land. The air held a
dampness that promised coming snow.

Maric nodded to the warriors guarding the huge oaken
doors, and stepped into the antechamber that led toward the main hall. Four
days had passed since the handfasting, and after sleeping in the stables for
the previous three nights, Maric knew he could not remain absent from the Great
Hall for much longer.

Foolishly, he had sworn an oath to protect the new Queen
of Mercia, and he would need to honor it.

It was much warmer inside the hall than outside and
Maric’s shoulders relaxed as he crossed the floor. It was late afternoon, and
the king’s hall was full of noise and activity. Children played on the rushes
while dogs sat in corners gnawing sheep bones.

Slaves prepared pottage for the evening meal over the
larger of the two fire pits; the sulphurous, unappetizing odor of overcooked
vegetables filled the interior of the hall and caused Maric to wrinkle his
nose. Now that Yule had ended, the food served in the king’s hall had returned
to simple fare. Pottage was an evening staple and one of Maric’s least favorite
dishes.

The king and queen sat upon the high seat, listening to a
scop. The poet, a slender young man with the dark hair and pale complexion of
one of the Cymry – the folk who lived in Powys, to the west of Mercia – stood
at the foot of the high seat. The scop held a lyre, which he played during
interludes to his poem.

Maric reached the edge of the scattered group of
retainers and their wives, who sat listening to the poet, and halted. The scop
recounted a tale about a solitary man, once the loyal retainer of a king, who
roamed the cold seas and walked the paths of exile. It was a sad poem, full of
longing and regret for the days when the wanderer had served his king, and
feasted with his comrades. But that was before fate turned against him.

Listening to the haunting beauty of the poem, one verse
in particular struck Maric.

Ne mæg werig mod

wyrde wiðstondan,

ne se hreo hyge

helpe gefremman.

The weary spirit cannot

withstand fate

nor does a sorrowful
mind

do any good.

He thought of his own past; how wyrd had cruelly turned
against him but then how his sorrow, his lack of care for what happened to him afterwards,
had only deepened his unhappiness. His sorrow had only brought more darkness
into his life… except for one shaft of sunlight.

Maric’s gaze shifted to Alchflaed. She sat upon an
ornately carved oaken chair next to the king. The new Queen of Mercia was
lovely in a blue woolen dress that hugged her curves. She had braided her
auburn hair in an elaborate fashion that showed off her long neck. She had not
yet seen him, for she stared, transfixed, at the scop and his heart-wrenching
tale.

When he was done, and the final notes from his lyre had
faded into reverent silence, the hall erupted in applause. The king tossed a
piece of gold to the scop before his gaze shifted to the audience. A moment
later, he spied Maric and beckoned him forward.

“Where have you been, Maric?” Paeda asked; his face was
friendly enough although his eyes were, as always, hard. “Is my hall not fine
enough for you to dine in?”

“Sire,” Maric bowed his head respectfully. “I apologize
for my absence; there were a few matters I had to attend to during Yuletide.”

“We are about to eat,” Paeda replied, brushing aside his
thegn’s excuse. “Join us at my table upon the heah-setl.”

Maric nodded, although he did not welcome the offer. The
pottage smelled particularly unappetizing and the sight of Alchflaed, so still
and pale at Paeda’s side, pained him. He remembered what she looked like,
riding on Briosa at his side – the wind in her hair, her cheeks tinged pink, and
her eyes bright. The woman before him upon the high seat bore no resemblance to
the huntress that had enchanted him at Bebbanburg.

He took a seat at the king’s table, next to the youngest
prince, Aethelred. Slaves brought trenchers – hollow slabs of bread – to the
table, and cups for milk, ale, or mead. Then, they ladled the thick pottage
into the trenchers.

Maric poured himself some ale from an earthen jug and
took a deep draught, delaying the moment he would have to consume the
malodorous pottage. As he did so, he was aware of Alchflaed’s gaze upon him.
Initially, he resisted looking her way, for he had missed her and did not want
Alchflaed to see it written all over his face. Eventually though, he could not
resist the pull of her stare and their gazes met.

Her eyes had darkened in the light of the cressets that
burned on the wall behind her. She favored him with a smile, a soft expression that
lit her from within. Maric’s breathing hitched his chest and he smiled back.

A moment later, Paeda’s voice, as he addressed Aethelred,
made Maric avert his gaze.

“Have all the preparations been made for the hunt?”

Aethelred swallowed a mouthful of pottage and nodded. “Twenty
of your best hunters are ready. We can leave tomorrow morning, if you’re
willing?”

Paeda smiled. “A winter hunt is just what a man needs to
get the blood flowing through his veins. We shall depart at dawn then.”

Paeda glanced over at Maric.

“Maric, you always hunted with my father. Why don’t you
join us?”

Maric nodded. “Thank you, sire.”

Truthfully, Maric had no wish to join Paeda on a hunt,
although it would have been foolish to let his lack of enthusiasm show.
However, the king had already shifted his attention from Maric to Wulfhere. The
prince’s gaze held a challenge when it met Paeda’s. Maric recalled that there
had never been much love between Paeda and Wulfhere, and after what had
befallen at Winwaed, there would be even less.

“If you wish to join us tomorrow, you must leave your
wolf behind,” Paeda informed Wulfhere coolly. “I don’t trust that beast.”

Wulfhere’s gaze narrowed. “Mōna always comes with me.
What are you afraid of brother, that I may command her to rip your throat out?”

Paeda scowled and slammed his garnet-studded cup onto the
table with a thud. All gazes swiveled to the two brothers and a chill silence
settled upon the king’s table. Yet, Wulfhere had not finished speaking.

“Or is it that you think I’ll be easier to kill, out on
the hunt, without my wolf to protect me.”

“Shut your mouth,” Paeda growled.

“That is what you’re planning, isn’t it?” Wulfhere
challenged, his handsome face hewn from stone as he leaned across the table
toward the king. “To rid yourself of any who pose a threat to you. One by one.”

“Wulfhere,” Aethelred spoke up, his gaze darting between
his two older brothers, “don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

Wulfhere’s mouth curled. “You know I speak the truth. The
only regret I have is that I have held my tongue thus far.”

He rose to his feet, his eyes glittering with fury.

“Do you really believe our mother left because some puny
god called her?” Wulfhere jeered. "No, she left because she could no
longer stomach looking upon the face of the craven maggot who betrayed his own
father.”

Paeda’s face twisted. “Our father’s time had ended. He
died as he’d always wanted: with a sword in his hand, in battle. He was
starting to make a fool’s mistakes; it was time for him to go.”

Wulfhere roared and slammed his fist down on the table,
causing cups to topple. Around them, chatter ceased and the Great Hall fell
ominously silent.

“You turned your back on your own people. You betrayed
your father so you could rule at any cost and get your hands on Oswiu’s
daughter. Now he has you by the balls. You are nothing but his arse-licking
puppet. You’re not fit to rule!”

Paeda leaped to his feet and thrust his face forward so
that his and Wulfhere’s faces were just inches apart. When the king spoke, he
was so angry he barely managed to choke the words out.

“I warned you to still your tongue, but you did not heed
me.”

Looking on, Maric’s gaze flicked to behind Wulfhere, to where
four of the king’s personal guard were now advancing upon the prince. Paeda
continued, his harsh voice echoing high into the rafters.

“Wulfhere, son of Penda, I name you exiled. On pain of
death, you are never to set foot in my hall, or Tamworth, again. If you defy me,
I will cut off your head myself.”

In response, Wulfhere spat on the table between them.

“Coward,” he hissed.

Paeda’s gaze flicked to the four warriors who now stood
directly behind Wulfhere.

“Take him away.”

Two of them reached out, and hauled Wulfhere backward.
Immediately, Mōna was there, hackles raised. Her lips peeled back in a
terrifying snarl revealing enormous carnassial teeth. Until now, the wolf had
been sitting under the table, at her master’s feet, but when the men grabbed
Wulfhere, she sprang forward to protect him.

“Release me,” Wulfhere ordered the warriors, “unless you
want your entrails spilling over the floor.”

Reluctantly, their gazes fixed upon the snarling wolf,
the warriors obliged. Maric looked at Wulfhere’s face and saw the same cold,
killing fury that he had often witnessed in Penda.

“In this world, or the next, we will meet, brother,”
Wulfhere promised the king, “and I will have my reckoning.”

Paeda said nothing more. A heartbeat later, Wulfhere
turned and strode from the hall, Mōna at his heels.

“Follow my brother,” Paeda commanded his men in a low
voice, “and if he fails to leave Tamworth, kill him.”

Maric watched Wulfhere disappear through the archway
leading out to the great doors. Then, he turned back to the shocked faces at the
table. Aethelred, who usually wore a vaguely amused expression, looked shaken.
The king’s face was dark with fury, and Alchflaed had gone white.

Maric pushed aside the trencher of congealing pottage,
and raised his cup of ale to his lips. The events he had witnessed did not
shock him. Frankly, it was surprising that Wulfhere had taken this long to
confront Paeda. What did shock Maric was that Paeda had exiled his younger brother
rather than killing him. That was a mistake.

Wulfhere was a dangerous enemy, and Maric wagered Paeda
would live to regret this day.

Alchflaed crunched across the snow, her fur-lined boots
sinking into the powdery crust, and entered the Market Square. It was a still
day, and the sky above was a bright robin’s egg blue. The air was viciously
cold but the sunlight on her face was welcome after days holed up in the dark,
smoky interior of the Great Hall.

It was market day, but only a few hardy farmers and
traders had set up stalls inside the square. Many of the folk that sold goods
at the market would be unable to travel into Tamworth until the snow melted.
Yet, a few always made it, whatever the weather.

Alchflaed breathed in the fresh air, laced with the scent
of wood smoke, and walked slowly around the perimeter of the square. She passed
a man hawking dried venison and boar, the only meat many folk would get until
the spring; food grew scare this time of year. A few feet ahead, an elderly
woman sold mulled cider. Alchflaed bought a cup, grateful for the heat, which
warmed her fingers and her belly.

Behind her, watching over the queen, trailed Edgard and
Bryni. Maric was away hunting with the king, so only the two of them
accompanied Alchflaed on her walk.

Bryni had healed well from the wound he had sustained
during the skirmish with Eadweard of Eoforwic. His color was now good and he no
longer hunched in pain. Edgard was another matter. The loss of his wife had hit
him hard. His craggy face, harsh to begin with, had now set in severe lines. He
never smiled and his gaze had turned inward.

“The king is due back this eve, M’lady,” Bryni announced
cheerfully as they completed their circuit of the square. “I wonder how his
winter hunt went.”

“Badly, I imagine,” Edgard replied sourly. “They did not
expect this snow.”

Alchflaed did not comment. She had enjoyed the last ten
days without her husband and had been dreading his return. It had been a relief
to crawl into the furs at the end of the day and not have to suffer Paeda’s
attentions. The atmosphere inside the Great Hall was also different. After
Wulfhere’s banishment and the departure of Paeda and his men, a calm had
settled.

Soon, the king would return, bringing with him tension
and aggression.

“Let’s go back,” Alchflaed sighed. “There is much to be done
before the king returns.”

They made their way out of the square and up the tangle
of streets to the high gate. It was heavy going, for the snow had drifted and
lay thick in places. However, Alchflaed enjoyed being outdoors and wished she
could have remained in the fresh air and sunlight.

She passed under the high gate, glancing up at the
sentries who stood watch above, and saw one of them wave to her.

“The king returns, Milady!” he shouted down. “They’re
entering the low gate.”

Alchflaed’s stomach cramped.

So soon.

She had hoped to have one more afternoon, at least, of
freedom. Bidding Edgard and Bryni good day, she hurried inside. She called to
the slaves who were kneading dough for the evening’s bread.

“King Paeda returns. Bring out two barrels of mead and
start filling some cups.”

Alchflaed had just removed her fur cloak and rebraided
her hair, when Paeda entered the hall. The men shattered the calm with their shouting
and laughter. Paeda and Aethelred appeared in good spirits, joking together.
They had both grown short beards in the time they had been on the hunt; Paeda’s
was dark whereas his brother’s was sandy. Snow sprinkled the shoulders of their
fur cloaks, which they shrugged off and thrust into the waiting arms of slaves.

“Mead!” Paeda boomed, his face ruddy with cold, his eyes
gleaming.

Fortunately, the slaves were ready and they plied the
incoming warriors with cups of warmed mead. They also put out wheels of griddle
bread, baked that morning, along with some strong cheese.

Alchflaed saw Maric among the men. His hair was unbound,
dark and wild around his face. Dressed head to foot in leather, he looked lean
and watchful. His gaze swept around the interior of the hall, and came to rest
upon her. Heart pounding, Alchflaed looked away.

Paeda took a gulp of mead and turned to the high seat.
His gaze fastened upon Alchflaed and she saw his naked hunger, his need for
her. Feeling queasy, she stepped down from the high seat and went to him.

“Good day, husband. Did the hunt go well?”

“Aye,” he pulled her against him and kissed her roughly,
before fondling her backside.

“It is easy to flush out deer and boar against snow,”
Aethelred elaborated when the king had released his wife. “Your hall will dine
well for the rest of this winter.”

“I want one of those deer on the spit for tomorrow eve,”
Paeda commanded his brother. “See it done.”

Paeda then turned back to Alchflaed, his gaze raking over
her. “Prepare me a bath, wife.”

Alchflaed nodded before moving away to do his bidding.
She had an iron tub filled for him in what had been his mother’s bower. When it
was ready, she went to where the king sat with his men drinking mead and
recounting tales of their hunt to the rest of the hall.

“… and then I brought it down with a spear,” Paeda told
his retainers, “right between the eyes.”

“A massive boar it was too, M’lord,” one of Paeda’s
thegns eagerly added. “Killed two dogs before you felled it.”

Alchflaed stopped next to the table and waited for Paeda
to notice her. At the opposite end of the table, she saw Maric. He was watching
her but she did not meet his gaze. It was too risky with her husband standing
next to her.

Eventually, when he had finished the tale of how he had
felled a stag at an incredible distance, Paeda noticed that his wife stood next
to him.

“Your bath is ready, Milord,” she said gently.

He grinned, drained his cup and slapped her hard on the
rear.

“Aye, and so am I,” he replied, to the mirth of his men. Their
gazes, many as hot and lustful as Paeda’s, grazed over her. Alchflaed glared
back at them. Only Maric did not look her way. Instead, he stared down at his
cup of mead, his expression veiled.

“I’ll join you shortly, wife,” Paeda continued, his tone
dismissive, before adding. “Make sure you’re naked when I get there.”

Alchflaed walked away, her face burning, to the sound of
male hilarity.

***

Maric ducked through the low doorway and entered the mead
hall. The long, windowless, low-slung building sat halfway between the high and
low gates. Huge drifts of snow piled up against its timbered walls outside,
although the owner had made sure the entrance remained clear.

Inside, men packed the space, standing shoulder to
shoulder. The pungent scent of fermented honey mixed with the odor of stale
sweat assaulted Maric’s nostrils. The reek of the mead hall – there was no
smell like it.

Maric took a cup of mead and elbowed his way through the
throng toward his friends. They were all there: Osulf, Elfhere, Edgard and
Bryni. After ten days in the company of Paeda and Aethelred, both calculating
and sly men, Maric was in need of time with those he could trust.

His friends welcomed him warmly. Maric was pleased to see
that both Bryni and Elfhere looked better than when he had last seen them.
Elfhere had started to put some meat on his bones. However, Edgard looked gaunt
and bitter. He sat hunched, his shoulders rounded, his big hands clenched
around his cup of mead.

Osulf, who was already well into his cups, was as loud
and opinionated as ever. Losing an eye had embittered him. Osulf had always
been forthright, something Maric had once appreciated about him, but these days
he seemed to be constantly spoiling for a fight.

“I hope you bring news that the king has been gored by a
boar,” he greeted Maric.

Maric shook his head. “Regretfully, wyrd spared him on
this trip.”

Edgard spat on the ground at this news, making his
opinion of the King of Mercia clear.

“Careful,” Elfhere muttered, “this hall is crammed with
Paeda’s toadies.”

“Aye, but as many of them think as we do,” Osulf growled
back.

“I heard Wulfhere told Paeda he wasn’t fit to rule?”
Edgard said, fixing Maric in a stare. “Is that true?”

Maric nodded. Like Elfhere, he was not keen to have this
conversation in a crowded mead hall; yet, he could see Edgard was not in the
mood to be fobbed off.

“He said many things,” Maric added, “before vowing that
he would have reckoning.”

Edgard nodded, his mouth compressing into a thin line.
Osulf was more vocal in his approval of the prince’s behavior, although this
time he had the good sense to lower his voice as he muttered.

“Wulfhere is the rightful king.”

“Paeda is the eldest son,” Elfhere reminded him.

“A man must earn the right to rule,” Osulf growled back.

Maric agreed with him, but he also knew this was
dangerous talk. If unchecked, such comments would get them all into trouble. In
an effort to steer the conversation away from politics, he turned back to
Edgard.

“How fares Mae?”

Edgard’s face softened slightly at the mention of his
young daughter.

“She’s thriving,” he replied, “and my wife’s sister,
Willa, has agreed to stay with us over the winter to look after her.”

“And your sons?”

Edgard looked down at his mead. “They miss their mother.”

The warrior was silent for a few moments before he spoke
again.

“Moira lit up our world like a Yule fire; without her our
home has no laughter, no light. Each morning I wake, and wish myself dead.”

Maric saw the sorrow on Edgard’s face. He too knew what
it was to have one’s world shattered and the dark places it led a man to.
Indeed, as the scop had told, a weary spirit and a sorrowful mind did a man no
good. Maric knew if unchecked, Edgard’s grief would be his doom.

He leaned forward and placed a firm hand on Edgard’s
shoulder, looking him square in the eye.

“Do not let the darkness consume you,” Maric told him. “I
too lost, and I let despair take me into her embrace. It almost destroyed me.
Yet, I had no one to live for – you have your children. Show them that hope
exists. Show them that there is daylight on the other side of darkness.”

Edgard stared at him and Maric wondered if his words
would anger the proud warrior. Perhaps it was too early for such advice.
Indeed, Maric was astonished at himself for giving it.

Edgard surprised him though by clamping a heavy hand over
Maric’s, and nodding.

“Enough morbid talk,” Osulf interrupted, although his
tone was softer than earlier. “I think we need another round of mead.”

***

A bright half-moon lit up the night sky as Maric crunched
through the snow. The moonlight upon the snow made it light enough to see
easily without a torch.

Maric walked slowly, deep in thought. He had left Osulf
and Elfhere playing a drunken game of knucklebones. Edgard had departed
earlier, returning to his family.

The night air was bitter, but Maric welcomed its
freshness after the fetid atmosphere inside the mead hall. He slowly made his
way up through the tangle of streets toward the high gate, for he was in no
hurry to return to the Great Hall either. These days he stretched out on a fur
near one of the fire pits and fell asleep to the sounds of snoring, farting and
muffled lovemaking of those around him. Once, he had not minded the company of
others, for the night was a long, dark and lonely place. However, this evening
he felt differently.

Instead of continuing straight up the street, which led
to the high gate, Maric veered left. Moments later, he found himself in front
of his old house.

Using his seax, he pried the boards over the door apart,
and stepped inside. No one had set foot in here in two years, and the air smelt
musty. Maric lit a torch and gazed around the home he had once shared with
Gytha. Everything was as she had left it. The fire pit sat cold and dark in the
center of a rectangular space. Two low stools crouched beside it, where Maric
and Gytha would sit to break their fast in the morning, or to chat at the end
of the day while he whittled wood and she spun wool. At one end of the dwelling,
there was a pile of furs. At night, a curtain separated this area. The curtain
was tied back against the wall during the day. An oaken worktable lined one
wall, where Gytha had prepared bread.

It had been upon that table that Maric had found his wife
and brother coupling. However, the sight of it now bothered him less than he
had expected. Dusty straw covered the ground beneath his feet. Kenrick’s blood had
pooled here, soaking into the hard-packed earth. Maric imagined that beneath
the straw, the ground still bore the stain.

There was a pile of wood stacked against the wall, and
Maric used it to light a fire in the hearth. While the fire pit kindled, he took
the furs outside and shook them in the empty street to ensure he would not be
sharing his bed with vermin.