Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) by Jayne Castel

lovely young wife the delights she was naïvely willing to give up. She may have not realized it, but there was a simmering sensuality within Ermenilda. He had sensed it the first time they locked eyes in her father’s hall. He could see her own reaction to him flustered her. She may have been bent upon becoming a nun, but her body told another story.
    “What are you smiling about?”
    Werbode had ridden up next to him, although Wulfhere had been so deep in thought that he had not noticed him.
    “Just thinking of my impending handfasting,” he admitted, “and of my bride-to-be.”
    Werbode gave him a shrewd look. “She is indeed a lovely creature,” he said, smiling. “However, she treats you coldly. She thinks herself better than you.”
    Wulfhere laughed at that, not remotely offended by his thegn’s directness. Werbode did not bandy words, and Wulfhere liked that about him.
    “Her coldness will pass,” he assured his friend. “In time, the lamb will surrender to the wolf.”

Chapter Eight
Upon the Bridge
     
     
    The attack came on a gray, windy afternoon.
    The Mercian company had left Lundenwic four days behind them to the southeast and had almost crossed the southern edge of the East Saxon kingdom. The borders of Mercia lay just a day’s ride away.
    Ermenilda rode in the midst of the company, as usual, with her handmaid traveling at her side, while the king had ridden up to the head of the column. They had spent the day riding across flat, largely nondescript countryside. Ermenilda had spied a few scattered East Saxon villages, but the Mercians had kept to the road and not stopped at any of them. Clearly, Wulfhere was keen to return home. He would not relax fully until he had crossed into his own kingdom.
    Above, the sky was the color of weather-beaten slate from one horizon to the other, and the chill north wind had spots of rain in it. The princess was glad of her thick fur cloak, but even so, the biting wind numbed her face and hands.
    Midafternoon, a wide, swiftly flowing river blocked their path. A huge bridge, made out of wood and stone, spanned it. The eastern bank from where they approached was grassy and led to wide meadows. Woodland crept down to the edge of the western bank, and the Roman way disappeared into the gloomy woods shortly after the river.
    The first of the Mercians clattered onto the bridge, the sturdy structure vibrating under their weight. Ermenilda urged her palfrey forward, following their lead.
    Her horse had taken no more than a couple of strides onto the bridge when the unmistakable twang of a bowstring releasing cut through the air.
    Moments later, men’s shouts and the scream of an injured horse shattered the monotony of the cold, gray afternoon. The warriors in front of Ermenilda pulled up short, and she hurriedly did the same, causing her palfrey to toss her head and skitter sideways.
    Wynflaed had brought her roan to an unsteady halt. The young woman was frowning as her gaze scanned the column ahead.
    “What’s happening, milady?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Suddenly, a man’s voice, rough with anger, echoed across the bridge.
    “We’re under attack!”
    Ermenilda’s blood ran cold. She thought the Mercians and East Saxons were at peace these days. Surely, the East Saxon king would not be so bold as to attack his ally traveling across his land in peace. Neither could she imagine that outlaws would dare attack a king’s party.
    The fact remained that someone was attacking them. The sound of arrows, peppering the air like incensed hornets, caused her heart to pound erratically against her breastbone.
    Of all the unpleasantness she was expecting to come from her new life as Wulfhere of Mercia’s wife, being attacked on the way to Tamworth had not even featured in her fears.
    Ahead, she caught a glimpse of her betrothed. Wulfhere was easy to spot, for his pale blond hair made him stand out, even on a dull day such as this.
    “Protect the princess!” he shouted to the