One
Stalking Shadows
The Kingdom of Mercia, Britannia
Winter, 658 AD
The full moon sailed high in the sky. It drifted in and out of patches of wispy clouds, intermittently illuminating the world below in silver. The rain had cleared, as hoped, although the ground still squelched underfoot.
Wulfhere crept forward, alongside the eastern bank of the River Tame, his wolf at his heels. Mōna moved silently, alert and watchful, her white pelt glowed palely in the darkness, like the moon she was named after.
The pair were at the head of the group. None of the warriors carried torches, finding their way instead by the light of the moon. Although his men were trying to move as quietly as possible, the creaking of leather, the hiss of their breathing, and the whisper of their heavy treads seemed to echo through the stillness.
None of them wore helmets or carried shields—not even Wulfhere. For what lay ahead, they needed to be fast and deadly. Wulfhere had drawn his sword, Shield Breaker,ready for the fight.
Wulfhere’s pulse started to accelerate as they approached the low gates.
After two years in exile he was about to take back his birthright. Yet caution tempered his impatience to enter Tamworth.
Is Aethelred loyal?
His success hinged on his brother’s keeping his word. Aethelred had promised that when the moon had fully risen, men would open Tamworth’s low gate. He had sent word to assure them that Oswiu’s stewards were ignorant of their plans. Aethelred would be waiting for his brother in the Great Tower, with a group of men loyal to Wulfhere.
Wulfhere was wary. He trusted few men, and his brother was not among them. However, in truth, Aethelred had always been easier to like than Paeda, his elder brother.
Paeda had been a snake. He had betrayed their father on the eve of battle and given away true power over Mercia so that he could marry Oswiu of Bernicia’s daughter, a young woman he had obsessed over.
Wyrd—fate—had turned against Paeda in the end. Rumor had it that Alchflaed, the flame-haired beauty Paeda had wed, had slain him while he slept, before fleeing into the wilderness.
Wulfhere pushed aside thoughts of his brothers and focused his attention entirely upon his destination. He could not afford to let himself be distracted now. He would discover soon enough if Aethelred coveted the throne for himself.
Ahead, he glimpsed a gap between the heavy oaken and iron gates. Wulfhere grinned, relief turning his mood from wary to jubilant. He need not have worried.
Inside, two spearmen awaited them. One of them stepped forward to greet Wulfhere.
“M’lord,” he whispered urgently. “The high gate is also open. We must hurry before someone raises the alarm.”
Wulfhere did not need warning twice. He nodded and motioned to the men behind him that it was safe to enter. Then, on winged feet, like Thunor himself, Wulfhere took off at a sprint up the main way that led to Tamworth’s inner palisade. Mōna ran at his side, as silent as a shadow.
Ahead, the Great Tower of Tamworth shone silver against the pitch black of the night sky. In daylight, the tower was a less prepossessing sight: dirty gray stone encrusted with lichen. A shiver went through Wulfhere as his gaze traveled down it. He was home.
No light shone from the tower’s thin windows. Everyone inside slumbered. Wulfhere smiled once more and increased his speed, his soft-soled hunting boots barely making a sound on the roughly paved street.
As promised, the high gate was also open.
“Ready, milord?” one of his warriors asked, his voice a low rumble. The man’s name was Elfhere. The tall, blond warrior had left Tamworth after the Northumbrians took control of it and had sought Wulfhere out in the wilderness. Elfhere limped slightly, from an old injury, but he was still one of Wulfhere’s best. Wulfhere was glad to have him at his side.
“Aye,” Wulfhere replied, flashing him a fierce grin. “Let’s send these
Stalking Shadows
The Kingdom of Mercia, Britannia
Winter, 658 AD
The full moon sailed high in the sky. It drifted in and out of patches of wispy clouds, intermittently illuminating the world below in silver. The rain had cleared, as hoped, although the ground still squelched underfoot.
Wulfhere crept forward, alongside the eastern bank of the River Tame, his wolf at his heels. Mōna moved silently, alert and watchful, her white pelt glowed palely in the darkness, like the moon she was named after.
The pair were at the head of the group. None of the warriors carried torches, finding their way instead by the light of the moon. Although his men were trying to move as quietly as possible, the creaking of leather, the hiss of their breathing, and the whisper of their heavy treads seemed to echo through the stillness.
None of them wore helmets or carried shields—not even Wulfhere. For what lay ahead, they needed to be fast and deadly. Wulfhere had drawn his sword, Shield Breaker,ready for the fight.
Wulfhere’s pulse started to accelerate as they approached the low gates.
After two years in exile he was about to take back his birthright. Yet caution tempered his impatience to enter Tamworth.
Is Aethelred loyal?
His success hinged on his brother’s keeping his word. Aethelred had promised that when the moon had fully risen, men would open Tamworth’s low gate. He had sent word to assure them that Oswiu’s stewards were ignorant of their plans. Aethelred would be waiting for his brother in the Great Tower, with a group of men loyal to Wulfhere.
Wulfhere was wary. He trusted few men, and his brother was not among them. However, in truth, Aethelred had always been easier to like than Paeda, his elder brother.
Paeda had been a snake. He had betrayed their father on the eve of battle and given away true power over Mercia so that he could marry Oswiu of Bernicia’s daughter, a young woman he had obsessed over.
Wyrd—fate—had turned against Paeda in the end. Rumor had it that Alchflaed, the flame-haired beauty Paeda had wed, had slain him while he slept, before fleeing into the wilderness.
Wulfhere pushed aside thoughts of his brothers and focused his attention entirely upon his destination. He could not afford to let himself be distracted now. He would discover soon enough if Aethelred coveted the throne for himself.
Ahead, he glimpsed a gap between the heavy oaken and iron gates. Wulfhere grinned, relief turning his mood from wary to jubilant. He need not have worried.
Inside, two spearmen awaited them. One of them stepped forward to greet Wulfhere.
“M’lord,” he whispered urgently. “The high gate is also open. We must hurry before someone raises the alarm.”
Wulfhere did not need warning twice. He nodded and motioned to the men behind him that it was safe to enter. Then, on winged feet, like Thunor himself, Wulfhere took off at a sprint up the main way that led to Tamworth’s inner palisade. Mōna ran at his side, as silent as a shadow.
Ahead, the Great Tower of Tamworth shone silver against the pitch black of the night sky. In daylight, the tower was a less prepossessing sight: dirty gray stone encrusted with lichen. A shiver went through Wulfhere as his gaze traveled down it. He was home.
No light shone from the tower’s thin windows. Everyone inside slumbered. Wulfhere smiled once more and increased his speed, his soft-soled hunting boots barely making a sound on the roughly paved street.
As promised, the high gate was also open.
“Ready, milord?” one of his warriors asked, his voice a low rumble. The man’s name was Elfhere. The tall, blond warrior had left Tamworth after the Northumbrians took control of it and had sought Wulfhere out in the wilderness. Elfhere limped slightly, from an old injury, but he was still one of Wulfhere’s best. Wulfhere was glad to have him at his side.
“Aye,” Wulfhere replied, flashing him a fierce grin. “Let’s send these
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