DAWN OF WOLVES (Book #3, Kingdom of Mercia) now has a release date!
Published by Kindle Press, the novel will be available to purchase on Amazon (Kindle and paperback versions) on
August 23, 2016.
However, if you voted for the novel on Kindle Scout, you should already have received your Kindle copy!
Pre-order your Kindle copy from Amazon now.
The novel tells Wulfhere and Ermenilda's story. He's an ambitious Mercian prince and she's a pious Kentish princess. Actually, they were a real historical couple - a marriage between a wolf and a lamb - although this telling of their story is entirely my own.
Want a taster?
Here's the Prologue for you to enjoy.
Cantwareburh, the Kingdom of the Kentish, Britannia
Winter, 657 AD
Ermenilda watched the snow fall. The delicate flakes
fluttered down from a darkening sky like apple blossoms caught by a gust of
wind. An ermine crust covered the garden’s gravel paths and frosted the plants
that had not died away over the winter.
Damp, gelid air stung Ermenilda’s
throat, and her fingers were numb, but still she lingered. As always, she was
reluctant to leave her refuge. She circuited the path between the high hawthorn
hedge and the frosted sage and rosemary, her boots sinking deep into the snow.
Despite the cold, she had
ventured out here to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the king’s hall, which
was full of greasy smoke and the reek of stale sweat. Outdoors, the air tasted
like freshly drawn cider. Better yet, she did not have to listen to the prattle
of women, the booming voices of men, and the squeals of children bored with being
cooped up indoors.
Ermenilda loved this secret spot;
it was her sanctuary. Her father had told her the Romans built this garden, and
that it was a crumbling ruin when he had first come to live in Cantwareburh.
Since then, his wife had poured her energy into restoring the secluded space. As
soon as she could walk, Ermenilda accompanied her mother to the garden, as did
her younger sister. Even over the winter, the three women spent most afternoons
out here—the garden was a passion they all shared.
At the far end of the
garden, Ermenilda paused. There, she admired the snowy branches of her mother’s
prized quince tree. As she gazed upon it, a veil of melancholy settled over
her.
Soon, I will have to leave this place.
Nervousness fluttered just
under her ribs, replacing the sadness, before giving way to a lingering
excitement.
Ermenilda had heard that Eastry
Abbey also had a magnificent garden. Once settled there, she would no longer
miss this one. She was hoping that her father would let her take her vows at
Eastry in the spring. He had been noncommittal whenever she raised the idea, but
she had time to convince him yet.
Dusk closed in, but still
Ermenilda lingered. It was only when a shadowy figure emerged from the arbor, at
the opposite end of the garden, that she realized she had been missed. Cloaked
head to foot in fur, her younger sister hurried down the path toward her, her face
rigid with purpose.
“I was beginning to think
you had frozen to death out here! Come inside, Erme!”
Ermenilda sighed, irritated
that her sister had shattered her solitude.
“I’ll come in soon enough,”
she replied, waving Eorcengota away.
“You must come now,” her
sister insisted, her eyes shining. A mixture of cold and excitement had flushed
Eorcengota’s impish face. “We have guests this evening, and Fæder insists we
join them for supper!”
“Guests?”
Ermenilda’s irritation grew.
She hated it when strangers arrived at her father’s hall—especially if they
were ealdormen, for she did not like how some of them leered at her.
“Yes, an exiled prince from
Mercia,” Eorcengota enthused, virtually hopping up and down on the spot with
eagerness. “He and his men are stabling their horses as we speak. Fæder wants
us indoors to greet him!”
A knot of apprehension
formed in Ermenilda’s belly. Unlike her silly goose of a sister, she did not
like the sound of this visitor. Her father would be delighted of course; they
rarely hosted royalty from Britannia’s other kingdoms. The Kingdom of the Kentish
often appeared of little importance in the wars, politics, and intrigue among the
others who ruled.
Ermenilda reluctantly fell
into step with Eorcengota, following her out of the garden and through the
apple orchard. The trees were naked this time of the year, their bare, spidery
branches dark against the swirling snow. Ahead, the outline of the Great Hall
loomed. A high, timbered structure with a straw-thatched roof, it sat raised
above the surrounding garden, orchard, and stables on great oak foundations.
The hall cast a long shadow in the gathering dusk.
Shaking snow off her cloak,
Ermenilda climbed the wooden steps to the platform before the doors. She nodded
to the spearmen guarding the entrance and pushed the heavy oaken door open.
Then she entered, with Eorcengota following close at her heels.
Just inside the door, she
almost collided with a group of men who were in the process of removing their
cloaks and weapons. Ermenilda realized with a jolt that these must be the
Mercians. They were dressed for traveling in thick fur cloaks, leather jerkins,
woolen tunics, and heavy boots. It appeared they had tended to their horses
swiftly and entered the hall just ahead of the princesses.
Fæder will be cross.
Ermenilda feigned calm,
shrugged off her fur cloak, and handed it to a waiting servant, aware that
curious male gazes had settled upon her. She did not want to look their way
but, against her own will, felt her gaze drawn to one of the men.
He stood near to her, little
more than an arm’s length away. The moment their eyes met, her breath rushed
out of her—as if she had just tripped.
She had never seen a man so
striking, so coldly beautiful. His eyes, ice blue, held her fast. His face was
so finely drawn it appeared chiseled, and his long, white-blond hair fell over
his broad shoulders. He was a big man, and she had to raise her chin to meet
his gaze. The newcomer was dressed in leather armor and had just finished
unbuckling a sword from around his waist, which he handed to a servant.
“Good eve, milady,” he
murmured.
The sound of his voice, low
and strong, stirred something in the pit of Ermenilda’s belly—a sensation she
had never felt before—an odd kind of excitement mingled with fear.
“Wes þū hāl,” she responded formally,
trying to ignore the fact that her breathing had quickened. The man’s gaze remained
boldly upon her face, an arrogant smile curving his lips. Her father’s booming
voice saved her from having to converse with him further.
“Ermenilda!”
King Eorcenberht of Kent
strode across the rush-strewn floor, sending servants scattering in his wake.
He was a huge man, in both height and girth, a great fighting man in his youth.
A thick beard, the color of hazelwood, covered his face—the same shade as the
unruly mane, streaked through with gray, that flowed over his broad shoulders. Physically,
his daughters—both slender and blonde like their mother—bore no resemblance to
Eorcenberht.
“Apologies, Lord Wulfhere,”
Eorcenberht called as he approached. “My daughters were supposed to be here to
greet you.”
The blond man tore his gaze
from Ermenilda and favored the Kentish king with a cool smile.
“And they are, Lord
Eorcenberht. I have just been welcomed by one of them.”
Something in the way the man
spoke the words made Ermenilda feel flustered, as if she had done something
wrong.
“Sorry, Fæder,” she murmured
before quickly sidestepping the Mercian lord. “I was in the garden and lost
track of time.”
“Join your mother,” the king
grumbled, “and help pour mead for our guests.”
“Yes, Fæder.”
Glad to be free of the
Mercian’s penetrating stare, Ermenilda cast her gaze downward and hurried away.
As always at this hour, the
king’s hall bustled with activity. A handful of servants were finishing preparations
for the light evening meal—a supper of griddle bread, pickled onions, salted
beef, and cheese—as the household ate their largest meal at noon. The servants
had put out long tables where the king’s thegns would take their meal, while
the king and his kin dined upon the high seat.
Eorcengota caught up with
her sister. They made their way toward a long worktable next to the nearest of
the two fire pits.
“That must be Prince Wulfhere
of Mercia,” she whispered. “He’s handsome, don’t you think?”
“No,” Ermenilda lied.
They joined their mother,
Queen Seaxburh, upon the high table where she was pouring mead into cups.
“Fæder’s guests are here,”
Ermenilda announced. She picked up another clay jug and began helping her
mother.
“Yes, so I’ve seen.”
There was no missing the
acerbity in their mother’s voice. Ermenilda saw her glance in the direction of
the newcomers and glimpsed a flash of hostility in her mother’s usually serene
eyes.
“Mōder, what is it?”
“I have no wish to dine with
Penda’s whelp,” the queen replied, her attention returning to her task. “Penda
killed my father and brother. I would rather not break bread with his son.”
Ermenilda glanced back at
the blond man, who was now making his way across the floor. He appeared to be
listening attentively while her father talked to him. She knew that her
grandfather—King Annan of the East Angles—and her uncle, Jurmin, had both
fallen three years earlier in battle against the Mercians. It had taken place in
the marshes at Blythburgh, in the borderlands between Mercia and East Anglia.
Her mother, who adored her father, had been inconsolable when she learned the
news.
Seeing the look on her face
now, Ermenilda saw that the grudge her mother bore Mercia ran deep. Not that
Ermenilda blamed her. She cast a dark look at Prince Wulfhere and prayed her
father send him quickly on his way.
Ermenilda had listened to
many a tale about ruthless King Penda around the fire pit at night. The violent
pagan, who would stop at nothing to expand his borders, had died in battle
against Northumbria two years earlier, but that had not stopped the stories
about him.
At least Fæder will not wed me to a pagan, Ermenilda assured herself as she finished filling the cups. Eorcenberht
was a god-fearing man who, just a year earlier, had overseen the destruction of
all the pagan idols in Cantwareburh. He also had insisted that the town observe
Lent, the period of fasting after Ēostre.
Ermenilda sneaked a glance
at the Mercian prince as he stepped up on the high seat. Frankly, despite his
good looks and charisma, this man frightened her. He was different from her
father, who was loud, bluff, and easy to read. The prince appeared to be a man
who said little and thought much—she did not trust such men.
Taking a seat at the table
upon the high seat, to the left of her mother, Ermenilda was disconcerted to
see that their guest had sat down at her father’s right—the spot usually reserved
for his eldest son, Ecgberht. Prince Wulfhere was sitting directly opposite her,
and she realized there would be no escaping his gaze during the meal.
Servants placed wooden
boards, piled high with food, upon the table. Ermenilda watched Prince Wulfhere
help himself to a generous serving of bread, cheese, and salted pork. The king
watched him, smiling.
“I am glad you have come to
dine at our table, Lord Wulfhere.”
“And I am thankful for your
hospitality,” the Mercian replied. “You welcome an exiled prince into your hall
on a cold night. For that, I am grateful.”
Ermenilda stole a glance at
her mother. The queen sat still and silent, hardly touching her food. The
joviality on her husband’s face was absent upon Seaxburh’s.
“Not exiled for much longer,
if I have anything to do with it,” Eorcenberht replied, raising his cup high
into the air.
The prince fixed him with a
cool, level gaze.
“So you will help me regain
the Mercian throne?”
“Aye, I have no wish to have
Northumbrians preying upon my borders. Mercia has always been good to the
Kentish people. I will not abandon you now.”
The queen visibly paled at
this, her grip on her bronze cup tightening. Ermenilda had never seen her
mother so incensed. Yet, the king appeared oblivious to it. Heedless, he
continued.
“I will gift you one hundred
Kentish spears—my bravest warriors—to help you retake Tamworth.”
The prince nodded and
smiled.
“You are generous, Lord
Eorcenberht.”
Ermenilda watched their
conversation with a growing sense of unease. She knew that the Northumbrian
king, Oswiu, had held control over the Mercian stronghold of Tamworth for the
past year. The Northumbrians had controlled southern Mercia ever since the murder
of King Paeda, last Ēostre. It dismayed her to hear that her father was now
involving himself in matters that did not concern him. If this exiled prince
failed to retake the Mercian throne, there would be consequences for Kent.
Still, a woman’s opinion
mattered little when it came to politics, so she kept silent. Likewise, the
queen held her tongue, although Ermenilda could see it cost her to do so.
The meal progressed, and the
conversation shifted to other things. The king complained about the bitter
winter that lay upon them and then asked the prince about his exile.
“How have you managed to
escape capture?” he asked.
“I have been living in the
woods of southern Mercia,” Wulfhere replied, “and gathering men loyal to me. Local
folk have been only too happy to hide me.”
“My men tell me you arrived here
with a white wolf?”
The prince smiled at this.
It was the first truly warm smile that Ermenilda had seen him give.
“Her name is Mōna. I’ve left
her in the stables while I’m here. She will trouble no one as long as she is
left in peace.”
“So the wolf travels with
you?”
“She does. Mōna is my
shadow.”
Ermenilda suppressed a
shudder; this man was most definitely a pagan. There was something wild—dangerous—about
him. As if sensing her reaction, Prince Wulfhere looked at her. Their gazes met
for an instant, and Ermenilda saw his naked interest.
Heart pounding, she looked
away and stared down at the remains of her supper.
“Your eldest daughter is
quite lovely,” Wulfhere commented. “Is she betrothed yet?”
“Not yet,” the king replied.
“She wishes to take the veil, but although I would like one of my daughters to
serve god, I would prefer my eldest married well.”
Ermenilda glanced up,
shocked by her father’s admission. She had been sure he would agree to let her
join the nuns at Eastry. Of the two sisters, she was far more suited to such a
life. Eorcengota was too spirited and silly to enjoy life as a nun, whereas
Ermenilda craved quiet and solitude.
“Would you consider wedding
her to me then?” Wulfhere asked.
Ermenilda watched her
father’s face and knew the offer had delighted him. However, he did not reply
immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and fingered the elaborately
carved armrests while he mulled the request over. She glimpsed a shrewd glint
in his eye and realized he was calculating something.
“It depends on two things,
Lord Wulfhere,” he replied eventually.
The Mercian put down his cup
of mead and returned the Kentish king’s gaze, his expression unreadable.
“And what are they?”
“The first is you must be
baptized, renounce the old gods, and destroy all traces of them at Tamworth. I
cannot wed my daughter to a pagan.”
“And the second?”
“You must win back the
Mercian throne before you and Ermenilda can be handfasted. Once you are the
King of Mercia, she is yours.”
Ermenilda slowly let out the
breath she had been holding. Her father’s conditions had made her relax
slightly.
Wulfhere’s father had flatly
refused to be baptized, and she wagered that his son was cut from the same
cloth. Plus, taking back Tamworth from the Northumbrians sounded like a
difficult task at best. Perhaps a life at Eastry was not lost to her after all.
Unfortunately, Wulfhere’s
next words shattered her hopes. He glanced first at Ermenilda and smiled, although
his eyes were hungry. Wulfhere’s gaze met the king’s once more.
“I agree to your
conditions,” he replied firmly. “I will accept your god and take Tamworth back
for my people . . . and then . . .”
His gaze flicked back to
Ermenilda, and she wilted under the heat of his stare.
“I will come to claim your
daughter.”
