Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) Read Free Page B

news.
    “They have completely blocked off any chance of escape.
Oswiu has us between the high ground and the river.”
    “The bastard was waiting for this,” Osulf spat on the
ground before glancing at where Elfhere stood at the other side of the table.
The fair-haired warrior looked grimmer than Maric had ever seen him.
    “He wanted to trap us here,” Elfhere muttered.
    Indeed, it appeared as if Penda had played straight into
the Northumbrian leader’s hands. With the onset of winter, the marshes to the
west – the quickest route back to Mercia – had become impassable. Penda had
been forced to push his armies east, onto higher ground. Here, the land
narrowed into a funnel for the northerly approach of the River Winwaed
crossing. The heavy rains had turned the usually calm tributary into a raging
torrent – Penda was now effectively hemmed in.
    Maric watched as the king began to pace his tent, his
face thunderous.
    “I brought thirty warlords north with me,” he snarled, “a
mighty fyrd that would have crushed Oswiu in the north, had I let them. I
should never have taken his treasure in return for not slaughtering him. He
planned to trap us from the beginning.”
    Penda was referring to the chest of gold and jewels that
Oswiu had used to barter for peace, when it was clear Penda was close to
destroying him. However, instead of returning to Bebbanburg after the exchange,
Oswiu’s army had tracked the Mercian fyrd south, awaiting its chance.
    “You still have the East Angles and Powys, M’lord,”
Elfhere eventually ventured. “They will not desert you.”
    “And you have Paeda,” Osulf added. “We will not stand
alone at dawn.”
    Penda stopped his pacing and turned back to the cluster
of battle-hardened men who stood around the table. His gaze swept over them,
and his face darkened. Osulf’s mention of Paeda had drawn his attention to the
fact that his first born was absent from his battle conference.
    Misgiving stirred in Maric’s gut when he realized he had
not seen Paeda since they had stopped to make camp in the late afternoon. Then,
he saw the look that passed over Penda of Mercia’s face, and his worry turned
to foreboding.
    Silence hung over the tent for a few moments, broken only
by the rhythmic pounding of rain on the hide canopy above their heads. When
Penda eventually spoke, his voice was rough, barely audible.
    “Where is my son?”
     
    ***
     
    Oswiu poured a large cup of wine and handed it to the man
before him.
    “So, tell me again why I should trust you?”
    The man, around twenty-five winters, with close-cropped
dark hair and a face that for all its youth was hard and uncompromising, took
the proffered cup and gave a cool smile. He was the same height as Oswiu, but
with twice his girth, broad-shouldered and with heavily corded muscle. Dressed
in a mail shirt with leather breeches and a thick woolen cloak, Paeda of Mercia
cut a formidable figure.
    His eyes gleamed intently when he replied. “Because, I
wish to wed your daughter.”
    King Oswiu took a sip of wine and regarded Paeda over the
rim of his cup. They stood in Oswiu’s tent, warming themselves next to a
glowing brazier, while the sides of the tent snapped and billowed in the wind.
Outside, they could hear the rumble of men’s voices and the rasp of blades
being sharpened. The odd burst of laughter also reached them; Oswiu’s fyrd had
maneuvered itself into a very strong position and morale was high this eve.
    The King of Bernicia turned his attention back to his
guest. Paeda’s infatuation with Alchflaed did not surprise Oswiu, for he had
seen the prince’s reaction to his daughter two years earlier. Ever since she
blossomed into womanhood, slack-jawed young men had dogged Alchflaed’s heels;
not that she paid most of them any mind. However, Paeda’s decision to use his
desire for Alchflaed as a bargaining tool intrigued Oswiu.
    “Is one woman worth betraying your father for?” he asked,
deliberately provoking. “I