Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) (21 page)

Why does my head hurt so? I did not drink
that much wine.

She had barely consumed two cups of wine, far less than others
at the table had. Stifling a groan, Alchflaed massaged her aching temples. Then
she sat up and turned her husband.

A scream rose in Alchflaed’s throat and she stuffed a
fist into her mouth to stop it. Shuffling back on the furs, she stared at her
dead husband.

In the flickering torchlight, a scene of carnage lay
before Alchflaed. Paeda lay upon his back next to her, still fully dressed. Someone
had slit his throat violently – for the wound gaped wide from ear to ear –
before driving a seax into heart. The hilt still protruded from his chest.

Terror twisted Alchflaed’s belly and loosened her bowels
as a chilling realization dawned on her. The assassin had killed the king and
left her alive for only one reason.

To make it look as if Paeda had died by her hand.

Alchflaed fought down rising panic and scrambled, shaking,
off the furs. Only then, did she realize they were sodden with blood. She
looked down and saw that Paeda’s blood covered the thin linen tunic she had
worn to bed. It had also soaked into her hair.

Trembling violently, Alchflaed stood frozen to the spot,
her bare feet sinking into the plush fur that covered the floor of the
platform. Her mind whirled like a winter blizzard but there was no time to
dwell on who had done this, or to give in to panic.

Instinct now drove her. If she did not move quickly, she
would be as dead as Paeda.

Alchflaed stripped off the bloodied tunic and pulled on a
clean linen undertunic, followed by a plain, sleeveless woolen overdress and
light rabbit-skin boots. Then, she strapped the seax that she now kept close at
hand, around her waist. Lastly, she donned a woolen cloak and crept to the edge
of the platform.

Dawn had not yet broken and the hall beneath her lay in
shadow, save for the glowing remnants of the fire pits and one or two cressets
on the walls. Still, there was enough light for Alchflaed to see that everyone appeared
to be slumbering. Sleeping bodies littered the floor from one end to another.

It would be difficult to leave without disturbing anyone.

Alchflaed’s heart hammered like a battle drum as she drew
her seax and climbed over the edge of the platform. She needed two hands to
descend the ladder, so she placed the seax-blade between her teeth until she
reached the platform below. Then, she gripped the weapon tightly in her right
hand, ready to use it as Maric had taught her, if anyone attacked her.

Stepping off the ladder, Alchflaed nearly tread upon a
warrior. He was a heavy-set man with auburn hair and an eye-patch, who lay upon
his back snoring loudly. Although she did not know his name, she recognized the
warrior; she had often seen him with Maric over the past months.

She edged around the warrior and made her way along the
platform, past alcoves where folk slumbered. It was slow going, as Alchflaed
had to pick her way over a carpet of sleeping bodies. Fortunately, it appeared
that everyone had overindulged during the feast, and slept deeply as a result.

Alchflaed pushed down panic with every step. All it would
take would be one person to wake and raise the alarm. She wagered the assassin was
here and had fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning. Whoever it was,
had not expected her to wake so early.

This was her only chance. If she did not take it, she was
doomed.

Eventually, she reached the far end of the hall, where
she saw Maric sleeping. He lay upon his side, his breathing light and easy, for
he had not eaten and drunk to excess like everyone else.

Alchflaed bent over Maric, and shook him gently. His eyes
flicked open but she placed her fingers to her lips and shook her head. Their
gazes fused for a moment and Alchflaed watched the fog of sleep clear from
Maric’s eyes.

He rolled to his feet, as nimble as a cat, and took the
seax she passed him. Unspeaking, he retrieved a woolen cloak that covered a
sleeping ceorl nearby and quickly donned it. They both pulled up their hoods to
conceal their faces. Maric then took hold of her hand and led her to the doors.

Outside, the first glow of dawn was rising in the east.
Alchflaed broke out in a cold sweat at the sight of the lightening sky; they
needed to move quickly or it would be too late for them both. There was only
one guard outside the doors, and he was slumped against the wall, dozing.

Maric showed no sign of panic as he led her across the stable
yard. He moved with purpose, his grip on her hand firm and reassuring.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“Paeda is dead,” she replied. “They have made it look as
if I killed him.”

Maric glanced at her, and she saw his face change, his
gaze harden. However, he asked nothing more.

They reached the high gate, which was still barred. The
door to the gatehouse was open, and inside two guards slumbered, their gentle
snores the only sound in the early dawn.

Alchflaed let out the breath she had been holding. Wyrd
shone upon them this morning, for it was clear both men had taken part in last
night’s feasting and drinking. They appeared to be sleeping deeply. She then
peered up at the ramparts but could not see any guards up there this morning.

Maric unbarred the gate and pulled it open wide enough
for them to squeeze through. Then, they were out in the paved street beyond and
hurrying down the hill. There was no one about this early, and no light peeked
through shuttered windows. Only the baker was awake, and Alchflaed caught the
scent of baking loaves as they hurried past.

They traveled farther down the hill but Maric did not
lead her to the low gate, as she expected, but left, down a network of narrow
lanes.

“Where are we going?” Alchflaed asked, breathless from
the fast pace Maric set.

“To the east gate,” he replied, not looking her way. “It
is a safer route out of Tamworth.”

They reached the gate, which led out onto meadows where
the folk of Tamworth held games in the summer, and found a cluster of merchants
already there, waiting for the guards to let them out.

“You are my wife, and we are farmers,” Maric whispered to
her, as they waited in the milling crowd, watching the sky lighten above the
wooden palisade encircling Tamworth. “We’ve just sold all our fowls at market.”

Alchflaed nodded, her heart in her throat. She glanced
back at the Great Tower and immediately regretted it; the rising sun stained
its grey walls red and its tiny windows stared down at her like angry, blind
eyes.

Any moment now
,
they will
discover me gone.

The wait for the gate to open felt eternal. The guards
ignored the crowd of merchants for as long as they could, and only swaggered
out to unbar the gate when some of the men impatiently called out to them.

Alchflaed and Maric joined the line of travelers who
inched forward. The guards at the east gate, unlike the ones at the high gate,
were awake and alert this morning. Watchful, they surveyed the folk passing
before them. Alchflaed’s breathing stilled when she saw that they were
questioning some of them.

“You’re travelling light,” one of the guards stepped
before Maric, blocking his path.

Maric, who had pushed down his hood, although he had
instructed Alchflaed to keep hers raised, smiled back at the guard. He had
pulled the collar of his cloak up high, to conceal his iron slave collar.

“The folk of Tamworth all wanted roast fowl for their
lunch yesterday,” Maric replied. “My wife and I could have sold three times the
number of birds we brought with us.”

The guard shifted his gaze to Alchflaed, who kept her own
downcast, her face in shadow.

“She’s a shy one,” he observed.

Maric gave a soft laugh. “Not in the furs.”

The guard grinned at that before returning to his
interrogation.

“You would have transported your fowl here on a cart,” he
noted shrewdly. “Where is it?”

Maric sighed, feigning annoyance.

“Best not remind my wife,” he muttered. “I lost it over a
game of knuckle bones in the mead hall last night.”

The guard snorted. He hesitated then, his gaze returning
to Alchflaed, before he waved them ahead. “Go on then.”

They walked through the east gate, following the other
travelers. Alchflaed noted that Maric deliberately did not hurry and so she
slowed her pace.

“As soon as we’re out of sight, we run,” he told her,
“but not before.”

The walk across the meadows was the longest of Alchflaed’s
life. To the north, the sun bathed grassy mounds, the great barrows of Mercian
kings. Farther to the east, Alchflaed could see the green boughs of trees. The
other travelers took the road that travelled northeast – the way that Alchflaed
had arrived in Tamworth months earlier – while she and Maric struck out
directly east, across the grass.

Maric glanced across at her as they neared the woods.

“They will hunt us,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Alchflaed inhaled deeply, holding his gaze firmly in
hers, and nodded.

Together, they entered the cool damp of the trees and
began to run.

Elfhere awoke with a groan. His head pounded and he
needed to piss.

That is the last time,
he vowed
as he rolled off the hard bench,
that I drink so much mead
.

He straightened his aching back and winced. Then, he
picked his way through the crowd of men and women who were rousing themselves
from the floor. The interior of the Great Hall smelled like a barnyard, and it
was a relief to step outside into the fresh morning air. Once he had relieved
himself, Elfhere drank deep from the water barrel before re-entering the hall.

His gaze sought Maric, who was usually up early at chores.
However, he could not see his friend amongst the slaves who had begun the
massive task of cleaning up the hall after the revelry of the night before. Elfhere
cast his gaze around the interior, and saw that Bryni was throwing up on the
rushes. The lad had gone the shade of pond scum. On the far side of the hall,
near the ladder to the king’s platform, Osulf was stirring.

Elfhere walked across to him. “You look healthy for a man
who drank enough to fell an ox last night.”

Osulf shrugged before rising to his feet and stretching.

“Slept like a babe.”

Osulf’s gaze then flicked up to the platform above, where
neither the king nor queen had yet appeared.

“They won’t be up for a while yet,” Elfhere told him with
a wry grin. “Paeda took a liking to that sloe wine. Can’t stand the stuff,
myself.”

Osulf nodded but said nothing.

“They’ll be selling fresh griddle bread in town,” Elfhere
continued. “I need something to settle my belly. Let’s go?”

Osulf shook his head. “I’ll stay here. Bring me back
some.”

Elfhere nodded, although he wondered at Osulf’s mood this
morning. He seemed on edge.

It was a bright morning, promising a warm day ahead, and
Elfhere enjoyed the walk through Tamworth’s streets to the baker’s. His injured
leg still pained him slightly, especially in the mornings, but the walk eased
the damaged muscle in his thigh and lessened his limp slightly.

At the baker’s, Elfhere had to wait a bit as folk pushed
their way forward to buy a fresh loaf. Eventually, Elfhere managed to jam his
elbow into a few sides and fight his way to the front. He bought two large
wheels of griddle bread and made his way back up the hill, whistling.

Back inside the hall, he found the air far fresher than
earlier. The men and women who had spent the night here had cleared out, returning
to their homes, and slaves had cleared away the tables. They had also taken out
the soiled rushes and replaced them with clean ones. Broth bubbled in a large
cauldron over one of the fire pits. It had been made with the lamb bones from
the feast.

Elfhere spotted Seaxwulf, who was looking slightly pale
this morning, sitting at a table beneath the high seat. The monk saw him
approach and lifted a tired hand in greeting. Osulf sat upon a stool nearby,
chewing on a piece of pork rind and scowling.

“You took your time,” Osulf grumbled.

“You should have seen the crowd,” Elfhere replied. “I had
to fight for these.”

He placed the wheels of bread down on the table, broke off
a chunk and handed it to Seaxwulf, before offering a piece to Osulf. His friend
took it; although for a man who had complained about having to wait, he ate the
bread in a lackluster manner.

“I thought you were hungry,” Elfhere accused as he tore
into his piece.

Osulf grunted. “My stomach’s a bit sour.”

Elfhere cast Osulf a rueful look and sat down at the
table, opposite Seaxwulf.

“You’re looking a bit peaky as well, brother.”

“That sloe wine is the work of the devil,” the monk
replied with a grimace. “I only had two cups and I awoke with a terrible head
this morning.”

“You had two cups?” Osulf asked, showing interest in his
surroundings for the first time. He was watching the monk intently, his gaze
narrow.

Seaxwulf nodded. “It was an effort to rise from my bed
for my morning prayers. I don’t know how I managed.”

Osulf frowned, before glancing up at the King’s Loft. The
king and queen had still not made an appearance. Watching Osulf, Elfhere felt
the first tickle of alarm, as if a winter’s draught travelled across his bare
arms.

Something was amiss.

Elfhere glanced around the hall, his own gaze narrowing.

“Have you seen Maric?”

Osulf shook his head, clearly uninterested in their
friend’s whereabouts. At that moment, the two northerners that King Alchfrith
had left as stewards approached the table.

“Is the king still abed?” the blond one, Wada, asked.

“It seems so,” Seaxwulf replied. The monk was nibbling at
his piece of griddle bread, and he still looked unhealthily pale.

“I would be too, if I were wed to a woman like
Alchflaed,” Alfwald, the red-haired one, said with a grin. He sat down next to
Elfhere and helped himself to a piece of bread.

 At that moment, a slave-girl appeared with a pot of hot
broth. She ladled out cups for the men, and received a slap on the rump from
Alfwald before she hurried away.

Elfhere sipped at the broth; it was hot and tasty, and
helped ease his headache. The men sat around the table, breaking their fast and
talking in low voices. Then, Wada emptied a pouch of knucklebones onto the
table and challenged Elfhere to a game. They played awhile, although Osulf
refused to join in. He sat apart from the others and Elfhere noted he would
steal the occasional glance toward the King’s Loft.

The morning slid by and as noon approached, Elfhere’s uneasiness
had deepened into worry. It was difficult to keep his mind on knucklebones, and
after Wada beat him three times in a row, he begged off another game.

“Seaxwulf,” Elfhere murmured to the monk while the others
argued over who would play Wada next. “Something is wrong. Lord Paeda and Lady
Alchflaed would never stay abed this late.”

Seaxwulf nodded, concern in his dark gaze. “Should we check
on them?”

Elfhere gave the monk an uneasy smile, for he was loath
to interrupt his lord, if Paeda was in the midst of swiving his wife. “You’d
best do it.”

Some of the warriors, including two of Paeda’s ealdormen,
who had now joined them at the table, shouted out rude comments as the monk
crossed the hall toward the ladder. Seaxwulf threw a censorious glare over his
shoulder but that only fueled their taunts.

“That’s what happens when a man gives up women,” one of
Paeda’s ealdormen sniggered. “It turns him into a letch.”

“Hoping they’ll invite you into their bed, eh?” another
warrior, who sat next to Osulf, called out.

Seaxwulf had the good sense to ignore the insults,
although Elfhere could see from the set of his shoulders that the monk was
angry. Reaching the ladder, Seaxwulf climbed swiftly up to the platform, where
he disappeared.

A moment later, the monk’s shout echoed off the rafters.

“Treachery!”

Elfhere leaped to his feet and ran toward the ladder, the
other men close at his heels. When he reached the foot of the ladder, Elfhere
looked up to see Seaxwulf’s stricken face peering down at him.

“The king has been murdered,” he cried, “and Alchflaed is
gone.”

***

The rest of that day passed in a blur. Yet, Elfhere would
never forget that afternoon, or the events that unfolded afterward.

Tempers exploded as soon as Seaxwulf delivered the news
that Paeda’s throat had been slit while he slept. The murderer had then plunged
a seax into his chest, as if worrying that ripping a man’s throat open from ear
to ear was not enough to kill him. The queen had disappeared. The only trace of
her was a bloodied tunic on the loft floor.

This caused Paeda’s two ealdormen to let out howls of
rage.

“Murdering bitch!”

“This is northern treachery. Oswiu is behind this!”

Wada and Alfwald took offence at those comments. Roaring,
they launched themselves at the Mercians. Slaves ran for cover, women shrieked
and Seaxwulf wisely stayed up on the platform as men grabbed the nearest
weapons to hand – pokers, cooking knives and sticks – and attacked each other.

Elfhere did not want to fight, not without knowing the
truth first, but the rage of his fellow Mercians forced him into it. He was
unarmed, and there was nothing around him to use as a weapon so he fought with
his fists.

Osulf had produced a seax, which surprised Elfhere, since
the king permitted no man to enter the Great Hall bearing weapons. Osulf slashed
a Northumbrian in the belly before launching himself at Wada. The blond
ealdorman had retrieved a poker from the fire pit, and fended off Osulf’s
assault. Osulf was good in a fight – better than good – but Wada bested him. He
smashed the poker over Osulf’s bare knuckles, causing him to drop his seax. Then,
he smacked Osulf round the head with the poker and felled the Mercian like an
oak.

The fight was brief, but violent, and in the end, the
Northumbrians won. Wada and Alfwald never went anywhere without their warriors
and they fought like cornered hounds. Elfhere picked himself up off the rushes,
and tried to stem the blood that gushed from his nose.

The Northumbrians surrounded him, their faces black with
rage. Elfhere saw that Osulf lay a few feet away. He was breathing, so Wada’s
blow had not killed him as Elfhere had thought. However, both the Mercian ealdormen
were dead, as were three Northumbrian warriors. The remaining Mercians, Bryni
among them, were bloodied and wary.

Elfhere stood his ground and met Wada’s hard, blue gaze.

“I did not accuse you of treachery,” Elfhere said. “I
only want the truth.”

“Then, I might let you live,” Wada rumbled. The ealdorman
cast his gaze around the hall. “Besides the queen, is anyone else here
missing?”

Elfhere said nothing, and hoped that no one else had
noticed Maric’s absence. Silence stretched out, and Elfhere was beginning to
think no one had, when one of the women spoke up. Her name was Hild and she was
the wife of one of Paeda’s thegns. Unlike most of the other women, who were
hiding in alcoves or weeping, she had come forward.

“One of the slaves is gone,” she told Wada, meeting his
eye boldly. She was a dark-haired, well-built woman with a long face and shrewd
eyes. “Maric is his name.”

Wada’s gaze narrowed. “The man who killed Eadweard of
Eoforwic?”

Hild nodded.

At that moment, Prince Aethelred emerged from his alcove,
roused by the fighting. The prince looked bilious and was ghostly pale. His
gaze traveled around the hall, which was now in disarray. Over-turned tables,
smashed pottery and bodies greeted him.

“What is going on here?” he demanded.

“Your brother has been murdered, and his wife is
missing,” Wada told him bluntly, “but it appears we know who is to blame.”

Wada turned to Elfhere, dismissing the prince.

“Gather a search party. Northumbrian and Mercian. We will
hunt this theow down.”

***

Elfhere handed Osulf the reins to his horse.

“Are you well enough to ride out?”

Osulf nodded, although Elfhere could see his friend was
still in pain from the blow Wada had dealt him to the skull. Frankly, Elfhere
had the urge to sink his own fist into Osulf’s face and finish what Wada had
started, but that would have to wait until later.

Elfhere turned from Osulf and sprang up onto his horse’s
back. He urged the gelding forward, joining the stream of riders heading out of
Tamworth. They brought hunting dogs with them, lean beasts hungry for a hunt.
Townsfolk came out of their houses to watch the warriors ride past. The people
of Tamworth whispered among themselves as gossip spread like the pox from house
to house.

It was mid-afternoon and they had searched the town
thoroughly, including Maric’s old house, but they had found no trace of him, or
Alchflaed. Excitement now hung in the air as folk speculated about what had
happened in the Great Tower of Tamworth.

Elfhere clenched his jaw and followed the band out
through the low gate. He wished he could have refused to join the hunt for
Maric and Alchflaed, like Edgard and Bryni had. However, Wada, who had taken
charge of Paeda’s hall, had given him the task of gathering men to ride out
with them.

Outside the town walls, Elfhere pulled his horse up and waited
while the hounds searched for the scent. The hound master had given the dogs a
scrap of the queen’s clothing to sniff, and they took off around the banks of
the River Tame, searching for her scent.

They found it on the meadows beyond the east gate.

Their baying echoed through the warm afternoon and caused
a chill to run down Elfhere’s spine. He cast a dark look at Osulf, who had
halted beside him, and promised himself he would have the truth out of his
friend by the end of the day. Then they were off, galloping across the meadows
toward the woodland beyond.