Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) Read Online Free Page B

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