Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) (19 page)

Maric swam back up river and waded to the bank. There he
sat for a while, and let the sun dry his light clothing. The sun was slowly
sinking to the west, lighting the sky in orange fire. Finally, his clothing
still damp, Maric made his way back inside Tamworth, just as the guards were
readying themselves to close the gates for the night.

He walked slowly up through the town, in no hurry to
return to the king’s hall. Someone would have surely noticed his absence by
now, but Maric did not care if Paeda punished him for it.

Maric was half-way up the hill, when he spotted a
familiar face. Osulf was standing on the edge of a narrow lane between two
timbered buildings. He was deep in conversation with a tall, rawboned man, who
was dressed in a coarsely woven tunic that fell to his ankles. Maric recognized
him as the king’s cunning man: Glaedwine.

The two men were so engrossed in discussion that they did
not notice Maric right away. However, as he approached them, Glaedwine looked
up.

“Good afternoon, Maric,” he mumbled before turning to
Osulf and casting him a meaningful look. “I will speak to you later.”

Osulf nodded and slapped Glaedwine on the shoulder. Maric
watched the healer disappear down the lane. He then turned to his friend.

“What did the cunning man want?”

“He tells me that Queen Alchflaed has just miscarried. Paeda
is incensed.”

Maric felt a chill pass through him at this news.
Jealousy, hot and vicious, had stabbed him in the belly when Alchflaed had told
him she carried Paeda’s child. Yet, he had not wished her ill. The last thing
he wanted was for Paeda to treat her cruelly.

“Is the queen well?”

Osulf gave him a shrewd look, his one eye glinting.
“Glaedwine says she’ll heal quickly enough.”

Silence fell between the friends then, before Maric
folded his arms across his chest and regarded Osulf coolly.

“I doubt the cunning man rushed here to inform you about
the queen. What are you up to?”

Osulf shrugged, his mouth twisting into a smile.

“The wind is changing, Maric,” he replied cryptically.

“Mind sharing your plans with me?”

Osulf’s gaze met his, and Maric sensed his friend’s
conflict. He wanted to speak openly with Maric, but something was holding him
back.

“It’s better if I don’t involve you,” he eventually
replied.

“Why not?” Maric asked, frowning. “Don’t you trust me?”

“With my life,” Osulf replied, slapping him on the back,
“but you are too loyal for your own good. I cannot share this with you.”

“Paeda’s stripped me of everything,” Maric reminded him.
Osulf’s lack of faith stung. “Do you really think I’m still loyal to that
bastard?”

Osulf’s mouth thinned, and he looked torn.

“You’ll see soon enough, Maric,” he promised. “Just know
that hatred of Paeda runs deep in Tamworth, far deeper than he realizes. When
the time comes, be ready.”

Alchflaed was working at her loom when Seaxwulf
approached her. It was a wet day outdoors; rain lashed against the walls off
the Great Tower and drummed on the roof. Leaks had sprung up, and slaves rushed
to put pails down to stop the rushes from getting sodden.

“Morning, Lady Alchflaed,” the monk greeted her. “How are
you feeling?”

Alchflaed favored him with a wan smile. “Better, Seaxwulf.
Thank you.”

Ever since she had lost the babe, two days earlier, the monk
had fussed over her like a broody hen. The child had been tiny, barely formed,
but Alchflaed had bled heavily.

Seaxwulf’s behavior was a marked contrast to her
husband’s. Paeda had reacted to the disappointment of losing his first child by
blaming his wife.

“I thought I was marrying a daughter of kings,” he roared
at her. “Not a woman so weak she cannot even carry my son in her belly.”

His anger had hit the hall in a wintry blast, sending
slaves scurrying for cover. Even Aethelred avoided him.

“I have made you a drink of warm milk and honey,” the
monk said, handing her a steaming cup. “You still look too pale for my liking.”

Alchflaed accepted the cup and sipped from it.

“I am feeling much stronger,” she assured him.

Mercifully, Paeda had not touched her since she had
miscarried. Although, Alchflaed knew that he would soon enough. Paeda had too
big an appetite to stay away from his wife for long.

“May I sit with you awhile,” Seaxwulf asked, “with this
foul weather, my mood risks turning gloomy.”

Alchflaed nodded, motioning for the monk to take a seat
on the stool next to her. She watched him over the rim of her cup. Seaxwulf
looked to have at least thirty-five winters, although he had a careworn face
that made him appear older.

“Do you not wish to return to Lindisfarena?” she asked
finally.

Seaxwulf shook his head. “There is much work to be done
here, Milady.”

“Surely, you miss the company of the other monks?”

“I do – but now that Paeda has commissioned a church to
be built in Tamworth, men of god will soon find their way here.”

Alchflaed regarded the monk with bemusement. Although
baptized, Alchflaed had never understood or been drawn to the god her stepmother
so adored. Woden, Thunor, Frea and Hel made more sense to her, and she had
often felt her father paid lip service to the god of Rome. The god Seaxwulf
served seemed so exacting, intent on filling his followers with guilt.

In Alchflaed’s opinion, life was hard enough as it was
without heaping shame and guilt on top of everything else.

As if sensing her thoughts, Seaxwulf frowned.

“Sometimes you remind me of your mother,” he said,
although he did not look that pleased about it.

“Did you know her?”

Seaxwulf nodded. “I had just taken my vows when she
arrived at Bebbanburg – young and wild.”

“I remember her laugh,” Alchflaed murmured. “She was
different to other women.”

“Your mother worshipped the gods of her own people,” Seaxwulf
replied, disapproval in his voice. “She believed in magic, fairies and trolls.
She would not hear of the one, true god. While they were married, your father
refused to be baptized.”

Alchflaed smiled. She had vague childhood memories of her
father – but none of them bore any resemblance to the ruthless lord of men he
had become.

“A woman can have an extraordinary influence on a man,”
the monk continued. “Your father adored Rhieinmelth, enough to defy god for
her.”

Alchflaed had the feeling Seaxwulf was leading up to
something. He was.

“You could wield such power over your husband.”

“What? Turn him away from god?” Alchflaed replied with a
tight smile, deliberately misunderstanding him.

The monk looked horrified and clutched at the wooden
crucifix about his neck. “Of course not, Milady! The influence I speak of is
exactly the opposite.”

Alchflaed did not reply. Instead, she took another sip of
hot milk and waited for Seaxwulf to continue.

“Paeda grew up amongst pagans. His father was proud in
his worship of the old gods. He has become a Christian, but I fear it is in
name only. He still treads a dark path but with your gentle influence, he could
see the light. You could make him into a great king.”

“He is my father’s puppet,” Alchflaed replied, trying to
hide her contempt for the monk’s suggestion. She knew he meant well, but she
realized he failed to grasp the reality of matters. “He is not meant to be a
great king.”

“Our world is awash with blood,” Seaxwulf continued, his
face pained. “Peace is the only way forward, Milady, or the day of judgment
will come upon us. Men rule the world, but women shape it. Help Paeda let go of
his anger, his hate, and he could be Mercia’s first just ruler.”

Alchflaed stared at the monk, rendered speechless by the
passion of his words. If things had been different, she might have listened to Seaxwulf.
She would have liked to believe him, that woman were not as powerless as she
had always believed.

Yet, his words came too late. She had gone too far down
her current road, to turn back now.

Alchflaed had woken early that morning, and lain beside
her sleeping husband for a long while. Deep in thought, she had listened to the
pattering of the rain on the thatch above. Then, she came to a decision at
last. She would do her father’s bidding.

Paeda of Mercia had to die – and it would be by her hand.

***

Rain slashed across the stable yard, bringing with it
stinging shards of ice. Maric bowed his head and hurried into the stable
complex. His bare arms stung from the hailstorm and his thin linen tunic and
breeches clung to his skin. He carried two buckets of water, the last of many
trips, for the horses stabled here.

Maric made his way up the straw-strewn aisle between the
stalls and poured the contents of his pails into the stone troughs at the far
end of the long building. There were a few warriors inside the stables this
morning. They were sheltering from the rain while taking the opportunity to
clean tack, sharpen swords and tend to their horses.

Elfhere was grooming his horse, a sleek chestnut gelding.
The horse ignored its master, pulling tufts of hay from a rack against the wall.
Maric leaned against one of the wooden pillars, which held the timbered
building upright, and watched his friend work. He thought then of his heavy-set
bay gelding that Paeda had confiscated along with all of Maric’s other
possessions. He had been fond of the beast but Isærnfōt now belonged to
Prince Aethelred.

Elfhere, who despite a slight limp now looked his old
self, pushed his shaggy golden hair from his eyes and focused on brushing out
the remains of the chestnut’s thick winter coat. Sweat gleamed off the
warrior’s bare arms as he worked. Torchlight gleamed off his arm rings.

Maric’s gaze rested upon Elfhere’s face, and he noted his
friend looked unusually somber.

“Is something troubling you, Elfhere?”

The warrior threw down his currycomb and wiped the sweat
off his forehead with the back of his arm.

“It’s Osulf,” he muttered under his breath. “He’s
plotting something.”

“Aye,” Maric replied, careful to keep his voice low. “He
admitted as much to me, but he will not say what.”

“I don’t like it,” Elfhere continued. “He’s going to get
us all killed.”

A burst of laughter exploded nearby, as two warriors
shared a joke. Maric moved nearer to Elfhere, and their gazes met.

“Any idea what he’s up to?” Maric asked.

“He hates Paeda, but I have no idea what he plans to do
to him.”

“Has he been in contact with Wulfhere?”

Elfhere shrugged. “I have no idea. Osulf has become very
tight-lipped with me recently. Either he’s trying to protect me, or he believes
I’ll talk.”

“He doesn’t trust me either – thinks I’m too loyal.”

Elfhere laughed. “You are.”

Maric snorted, before tapping the iron band around his
neck.

“I was, but the moment Paeda put this on me, he severed
the bond between us.”

His friend frowned, confused. “But you’re his slave now.
You’re even more tightly bound to the king than before.”

Maric shook his head and slammed the flat of his hand
against his heart. “Loyalty is not something you can force upon a man. I may be
his theow, but Paeda doesn’t own what lies in here.”

In response, Elfhere gave Maric a wry smile. “There’s
another reason Osulf won’t speak to you of his plans. He believes you’re in
love with Lady Alchflaed.”

Maric stepped back from his friend, as if he had just
struck him.

“Hwæt?”

“Blame Bryni,” Elfhere raised his hands in
mock-surrender, his smile widening. “The boy gets talkative after a few meads.
He says you two grew close on the journey south. He believes you’d give up your
life for her.”

Maric stared at Elfhere, poleaxed by Elfhere’s frankness
and Bryni’s flapping tongue. Watching him, Elfhere merely gave a low chuckle.

“Judging from the look on your face, I’d say he’s right.”

The blackthorn was in blossom. A snowfall of white
flowers covered the hedgerows alongside the path into the woods behind Tamworth
and a red-breasted robin warbled brightly from one of the bushes. Above, the
morning sky was a cloudless blue and the air smelled of grass and damp earth.

It was a beautiful morning, but Alchflaed was too nervous
to appreciate it. Her stomach had tied itself in a knot and her palms were
clammy. Four weeks had passed since she had made her decision to finally obey
her father – but with Ēostre just a few days away, she could delay no
longer.

Alchflaed followed Maric along the path with Bryni and
Edgard bringing up the rear. She wore a light woolen cloak about her shoulders
and carried a basket under her arm.

She had asked Paeda, the night before, if she could spend
a morning gathering herbs in the woods. She had told him there were herbs the
healers of Bebbanburg swore by for ensuring a woman’s womb quickened
successfully. Paeda had nodded brusquely, not bothering to look her way.

Ever since she had lost the babe, he treated her
differently. She often slept alone on the platform above the Great Hall and
when Paeda did come to bed, he reeked of mead and fell asleep without touching
her. Alchflaed had heard the other women gossip that the king – angered by his
wife’s coldness and the loss of their child – now sated his appetite with
whores.

Alchflaed, although pleased by this change, also dreaded
the day Paeda decided to resume bedding her.

Released from their morning duties, Maric, Bryni and
Edgard had appeared happy to accompany her into the woods. Maric did not speak
as he led the way, although she could hear Bryni and Edgard talking together in
low voices. Once in the woods, she would need to find a way to distance herself
from them – for she would need to harvest some hemlock before making a tincture
of it.

Woodland of ash and beech spread out over the hills
behind Tamworth. The trees wore their new dresses of bright green, and the sun
dappled on the forest floor between the branches.

“I’m going to look for herbs,” Alchflaed told Maric. “You
can stay with the others, if you want?”

Their gazes met and the familiar heat between them only
worsened the nerves in Alchflaed’s belly. Unsmiling, Maric nodded. Breaking
free of his crystalline gaze, Alchflaed turned and headed off into the trees.

“Don’t go far, Milady,” Edgard called out behind her.

Alone, Alchflaed got to work. First, she gathered some motherwort
– an herb that she knew improved the health of a woman’s womb. Alchflaed placed
a few handfuls of the green, serrated leaves into her basket. She needed to
have something to show Paeda, if he questioned her upon her return home.

After that, she went looking for hemlock.

The plant was not hard to find, for it grew tall next to
a trickling stream that ran through the woods. The plant resembled parsley, with
its lacy and spreading triangular leaves. In fact, folk often called it ‘poison
parsley’ because of its resemblance to the culinary herb. However, up close,
hemlock emitted a rank odor, and Alchflaed screwed up her nose as she picked
large bunches of it.

Once Alchflaed had gathered enough, she walked a little
farther into the woods, where she sat down upon a moss-covered log and
retrieved the pestle and mortar she carried inside a pouch hanging from her
belt.

Working as quickly as she dared, she began mashing the
evil-smelling leaves to a green pulp. Afterward, she would do as her father
instructed, and mix it with the water she had also brought with her. Then, she
would pour the poison tincture into the clay vial, ready for use.

She was just unstoppering the water bladder, her hands
shaking with haste, when Maric emerged from the trees.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

Alchflaed stared at him a moment, sure that guilt was
written all over her face. Then, she recovered her wits and gave him her
brightest smile.

“Just making a tincture from parsley.”

“Parsley?”

“Yes, it’s good for the blood.”

He approached, holding her gaze in his. “Surely, you
should just add it to your food,” he said, “rather than making a tincture.”

Then, he stopped abruptly and his face tensed.

“That’s not parsley.”

Alchflaed started to sweat.

“What do you mean? Of course it is.”

“It smells like dog piss.” Maric folded his arms over his
chest. “I know only one plant with such a foul odor. What are you planning to
do with hemlock?”

Alchflaed stared at Maric, panic rising in her breast. A
hundred excuses formed in her head, none of them plausible.

“Kill my husband,” she finally replied, her voice barely
above a whisper.

Maric ran a hand over his face.

“Thunor’s hammer,” he muttered. “What madness is this?”

“It is the reason my father promised me to Paeda,” Alchflaed
answered, clutching the mortar with its vile-smelling contents against her
breast. “He commanded me to marry Paeda of Mercia, and then to kill him. Fæder
grows impatient – I must do it soon.”

Maric stared at her, his lips parting in shock. Alchflaed
watched the pieces fall into place, as he suddenly made sense of her odd
behavior as they had approached Tamworth months earlier.

“That’s why you wanted me to ride away with you,” he said
finally. “It wasn’t to escape Paeda, it was to avoid this.”

Alchflaed nodded, her throat constricting.

Maric came to her then, ripped the mortar from her hands
and dropped it to the ground. He then knelt before her and gripped her hands in
his.

“Why, for the love of the gods, did you not tell me the
truth?”

“How could I?” Alchflaed replied; her breathing came in
shallow gasps now as she fought back tears. “You would have gone straight to
Paeda.”

“I would never have done that,” Maric countered, angry
now. “He would have killed you.”

“Perhaps that would have been best.” Alchflaed choked out
the words. Suddenly the weight of the terrible duty her father had placed upon
her became too much and tears started to stream down her face. “Either way, my
life is forfeit.”

Maric grabbed her by the shoulders, his gaze sharp with
fury.

“It is, if you do something as stupid as try to poison
your husband. Do you have the brains of a goose, Alchflaed?”

“You don’t understand,” Alchflaed cried, pulling free
from his grip. “I resisted for as long as I could, but my brother told me that
fæder grows angry. He wants it done by Ēostre. No one defies Oswiu of
Northumbria and lives – not even his own blood!”

She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way. Then,
with one hand, he bent down, scooped up the mortar and threw it far into the
trees.

“I’ll not let you throw away your life, as if it means
nothing,” he snarled.

“My life has no worth,” she shouted back, shoving him
hard in the chest. “Except to men who would trade me like a fattened ewe. Do
you have any idea how unhappy I am? Do have any idea what it’s like to be
married to someone who makes your skin crawl? Do you know how I manage to suffer
his touch?”

Maric stared at her. He held her hard against him, to
prevent her from escaping. Alchflaed felt the heat of his body burning through
the layers of clothing separating them; the sensation broke through her last
shreds of self-restraint.

“I endure it because it’s you I think of,” she choked
out. She could hardly believe she was saying the words, or admitting them. “I
close my eyes and imagine it is you touching me.”

“Alchflaed,” he whispered her name as a plea.

“It’s true,” she gasped. “Whether you wish it, or not.”

Maric answered her by pulling her hard against him, and
covering her mouth with his. He kissed her wildly, and Alchflaed responded with
equal fierceness. His kiss transported her, lifting her high above the world,
to a place where rank, duty and obedience did not matter.

Maric loosened the heavy braid that hung down her back
and tangled his fingers in her hair. Then, he cupped the back of her head with
one hand, the other sliding down to the small of her back. Alchflaed melted
against Maric and felt his shaft, hard against her belly. Excitement unlike
anything she had ever known leaped within her.

The sound of the undergrowth snapping underfoot alerted
them, and Alchflaed and Maric sprang apart, as if doused with freezing water. A
heartbeat later, Bryni and Edgard emerged from the trees.

“Maric… Milady,” Edgard stepped forward, frowning. His
gaze flicked from Alchflaed to Maric and his frown deepened. “We heard raised
voices. Is something wrong?”

“Everything is fine, Edgard, thank you,” Alchflaed
replied breathlessly.

“Can you give us a moment alone?” Maric asked. His voice
had a rough edge as he too struggled to compose himself. “Lady Alchflaed has
finished gathering herbs. We will be with you shortly.”

Both Edgard and Bryni looked worried now, but they
obliged nevertheless. Alchflaed noted that although he had made a request,
Maric’s tone brooked no argument. He may have been wearing a slave collar, but
these two warriors still saw Maric as their leader.

As soon as they had departed, Maric turned to Alchflaed.

Reaching out, he stroked her cheek, cupping it lightly in
the palm of his hand.

“Listen to me, Alchflaed,” he said, his voice low and
urgent. “There is no need for you to kill your husband. If the rumors I hear
circulating Tamworth are correct, his days are numbered.”

Alchflaed’s gaze widened.

“I’m not part of it,” Maric continued, “but I hear that
men plot against him. It will be only a matter of time before they rise against
the king.”

“If that happens, they will kill me too,” she whispered,
horrified.

Maric’s face grew serious, his gaze hardening. “They will
have to kill me first. As long as I breathe, I will not let that happen.”

Alchflaed swallowed her rising panic. She wanted to trust
him but she did not see how one man, stripped of his weapons, could defend
himself let alone her, if assassins attacked the king’s hall.

“Carry your seax on you at all times,” Maric continued, ignoring
her panic. “Hide the dagger in you skirts, but make sure you are never without
it. The moment the men make their move, you must find me.”

“What if you are not nearby?”

“They will not wait much longer before acting,” Maric
replied. “I will make sure I stay as close as possible to you over the coming
days – but once Paeda is dead, you must be prepared to flee.”