and dripping with the blood of his enemies. He carried his sword, unsheathed, in his right hand, its broad blade coated crimson. His wolf, her snowy pelt streaked in blood, stalked behind him.
Wulfhere stood before his captive and looked down at him. When the king spoke, his voice, low and powerful, rang across the now-silent bridge.
“What is your name?”
The man’s mouth curled in response and he spat at Wulfhere’s feet.
A heartbeat passed before Wulfhere lashed out and hit the man hard across the face.
“Answer me, or I will make your death a slow and dishonorable one.”
The warrior glared up at him, considering defiance once more before grudgingly giving a response.
“Sigric . . .”
“And where are you from, Sigric?”
The warrior’s face twisted before he spat out his answer. “Ely.”
Wulfhere went still, and a deathly hush fell. Watching the scene unfold, Ermenilda’s throat tightened. Her betrothed was a terrible sight to behold when enraged. He was every inch the pagan warlord, a man who did not know mercy. His anger appeared cold and lethal, the quiet before a deadly storm.
“You are East Angles,” Wulfhere said, finally.
“Aye.” The captive gave Wulfhere a bloody grin.
“Did King Aethelwold send you?”
The warrior spat out a gob of blood, making his disdain for the East Angle ruler clear. “I follow Tondberct of Ely, not that pious coward.”
“And what argument does Tondberct have with me?”
“His wife, Aethelthryth, is Queen Seaxburh of Kent’s sister,” the warrior replied.
At the sound of her mother’s name, Ermenilda stopped breathing.
When Wulfhere did not reply, Sigric of Ely’s bloody smile widened.
“The sisters seek reckoning for the death of their father and brother.”
Listening, Ermenilda felt ill.
No, Mōder . . . surely you did not . . .
“And you were attempting to take it for them,” Wulfhere said, finishing the man’s sentence for him. He gave a cold smile of his own. “It is a pity then that you and your men fight like women.”
“Mercian turd!” Sigric snarled. “Long have our people suffered under your yoke. We will have reckoning!”
“My father is dead,” Wulfhere replied, his voice wintry. “You were a fool to rekindle an old blood feud, one that should have been let well alone. You have thrown away your men’s lives for nothing—and for that you’ve earned a slow, painful end.”
With that, Wulfhere lifted his sword and skewered the East Angle through the stomach.
The man’s wails cut through the damp air like a newly sharpened scythe. Ermenilda covered her mouth with her hand, to prevent herself from screaming. She watched Sigric of Ely collapse, writhing, onto the bridge. The East Angle’s screams went on and on. The stench of blood and gore made her bile rise.
Ermenilda watched, horrified, as her betrothed stepped away from the injured man. His cruelty sickened her. There was no reason to make the man suffer. Wulfhere’s expression was dispassionate, while his pale eyes glittered. His gaze traveled over the bodies littering the bridge, many of whom were Mercian, and his face turned hard. Behind him, there were more bodies still, although most of these appeared to belong to the East Angle war band.
Wulfhere turned to face the rest of his company that awaited at the opposite end of the bridge. However, his gaze sought only one person: Ermenilda.
She lowered a shaky hand from her mouth and forced herself to meet his stare. Despite that they stood about twenty paces apart, Wulfhere’s gaze bored into her, stripping her bare. This look was different from all the others he had given her till now. The other glances were of smoldering intensity, of unspoken desire or veiled amusement—but this one was chillingly cold.
Dread crawled across Ermenilda’s skin, causing her to shiver with fear. She needed no words to understand the accusation behind the stare.
Wulfhere blamed her for the attack.
Chapter Nine
The
Wulfhere stood before his captive and looked down at him. When the king spoke, his voice, low and powerful, rang across the now-silent bridge.
“What is your name?”
The man’s mouth curled in response and he spat at Wulfhere’s feet.
A heartbeat passed before Wulfhere lashed out and hit the man hard across the face.
“Answer me, or I will make your death a slow and dishonorable one.”
The warrior glared up at him, considering defiance once more before grudgingly giving a response.
“Sigric . . .”
“And where are you from, Sigric?”
The warrior’s face twisted before he spat out his answer. “Ely.”
Wulfhere went still, and a deathly hush fell. Watching the scene unfold, Ermenilda’s throat tightened. Her betrothed was a terrible sight to behold when enraged. He was every inch the pagan warlord, a man who did not know mercy. His anger appeared cold and lethal, the quiet before a deadly storm.
“You are East Angles,” Wulfhere said, finally.
“Aye.” The captive gave Wulfhere a bloody grin.
“Did King Aethelwold send you?”
The warrior spat out a gob of blood, making his disdain for the East Angle ruler clear. “I follow Tondberct of Ely, not that pious coward.”
“And what argument does Tondberct have with me?”
“His wife, Aethelthryth, is Queen Seaxburh of Kent’s sister,” the warrior replied.
At the sound of her mother’s name, Ermenilda stopped breathing.
When Wulfhere did not reply, Sigric of Ely’s bloody smile widened.
“The sisters seek reckoning for the death of their father and brother.”
Listening, Ermenilda felt ill.
No, Mōder . . . surely you did not . . .
“And you were attempting to take it for them,” Wulfhere said, finishing the man’s sentence for him. He gave a cold smile of his own. “It is a pity then that you and your men fight like women.”
“Mercian turd!” Sigric snarled. “Long have our people suffered under your yoke. We will have reckoning!”
“My father is dead,” Wulfhere replied, his voice wintry. “You were a fool to rekindle an old blood feud, one that should have been let well alone. You have thrown away your men’s lives for nothing—and for that you’ve earned a slow, painful end.”
With that, Wulfhere lifted his sword and skewered the East Angle through the stomach.
The man’s wails cut through the damp air like a newly sharpened scythe. Ermenilda covered her mouth with her hand, to prevent herself from screaming. She watched Sigric of Ely collapse, writhing, onto the bridge. The East Angle’s screams went on and on. The stench of blood and gore made her bile rise.
Ermenilda watched, horrified, as her betrothed stepped away from the injured man. His cruelty sickened her. There was no reason to make the man suffer. Wulfhere’s expression was dispassionate, while his pale eyes glittered. His gaze traveled over the bodies littering the bridge, many of whom were Mercian, and his face turned hard. Behind him, there were more bodies still, although most of these appeared to belong to the East Angle war band.
Wulfhere turned to face the rest of his company that awaited at the opposite end of the bridge. However, his gaze sought only one person: Ermenilda.
She lowered a shaky hand from her mouth and forced herself to meet his stare. Despite that they stood about twenty paces apart, Wulfhere’s gaze bored into her, stripping her bare. This look was different from all the others he had given her till now. The other glances were of smoldering intensity, of unspoken desire or veiled amusement—but this one was chillingly cold.
Dread crawled across Ermenilda’s skin, causing her to shiver with fear. She needed no words to understand the accusation behind the stare.
Wulfhere blamed her for the attack.
Chapter Nine
The
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