Read Online The Breaking Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 1) by Jayne Castel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jayne Castel
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Dylan
for most of the day; this eve, he planned to remind Penda of his oaths.
Most of the king’s men were
already seated when Dylan and Gwyn entered the Great Hall. As always, there was
a great deal of activity and noise inside. A pall of greasy smoke hung in the
air.
Letting Gwyn go on ahead, Dylan
paused on the threshold. His gaze swept the hall, and rested upon where Penda
had just taken a seat at the head of the king’s table.
The Prince of Powys set off across
the hall toward him.
Rodor had been about to take his
place at the king’s right, when Dylan slid onto the bench next to Penda. Taken
aback by the prince’s sudden appearance, Rodor cursed under his breath and
stood threateningly over him. He clearly expected Dylan to rise and give him
back his place.
Dylan glanced up and met Rodor’s
glare. “I’m feasting here this eve,” he informed him. “Find somewhere else to
sit.”
With that, Dylan turned to face
the king, dismissing Rodor. He could feel the warrior’s glare blister him
between the shoulder blades. Dylan ignored him, although he could feel his own
anger rising.
Rodor would pester him again at
his peril.
Penda regarded Dylan with thinly
veiled amusement. The Mercian King had just taken a sip from a large bronze
goblet, studded with amber and garnets. Next to him, his queen was daintily
picking at a leg of marsh hen. She glanced Dylan’s way, and favored him with a
gentle smile.
Dylan acknowledged her with an
answering smile. “Milady.”
“Good evening, Cynddylan,” Penda
rumbled. “It appears you are eager to speak to me. Rodor looks displeased. I’d
warn you against annoying him too greatly, for he has a long memory.”
Dylan shrugged, fixing Penda in a
level gaze. “The day I shall concern myself with Rodor, is the day I return to
my mother’s tit. I am seated here to talk of more kingly matters. It is time we
spoke of the alliance between our kingdoms.”
Penda raised his eyebrows at that
before taking another draught of mead. “Speak your piece then.”
“You remember the agreement,”
Dylan regarded Penda coolly. “If Powys helped Mercia win the battle against the
Northumbrians, you would grant us rule over the area east of our current
border. Do I have your word that this land is now ours?”
Penda’s face went still, as cold
and hard as one of the statues the Romans had left behind. Only his eyes showed
any response, glittering coldly in the firelight.
“That land belongs to me.”
“It belongs to whomever earns it.”
Penda’s gaze narrowed slightly,
before his mouth curved into a tight smile.
“Very well,” he drawled, finally.
“You can have as far east as Hanbury.”
Dylan took a deep breath,
controlling the anger that flared in the pit of his belly. The king’s offer was
an insult, and everyone within earshot knew it.
Penda knew the Prince of Powys had
a fiery temper. He wanted Dylan to lose control, to lash out. He was counting
on it.
“Hanbury lies barely a morning’s
ride from our eastern border,” Dylan said, making sure to keep his voice even
and emotionless. “That is no prize for the deaths of fine Cymry warriors. Give
us as far east as Lichfield, and we will be content.”
“Lichfield,” Penda ground out the
name like a curse. “You demand much.”
“I demand only our due,” Dylan
replied. “The promise our alliance was founded upon. Powys is a great ally for
Mercia. We rallied to your side against the Northumbrians, and we would do so
again. However, you must recompense our losses or next time your neighbors
march on your borders you will do so alone.”
They were strong words – but they
had the desired effect. The rumble of conversation around them had died, and
Dylan was aware of gazes, many of them hostile, upon him. He paid them no heed,
his own gaze riveted upon the King of Mercia’s face.
Much depended on Penda’s next
words.
Penda’s fist clenched around the
stem of his goblet. His face, however, gave nothing
for most of the day; this eve, he planned to remind Penda of his oaths.
Most of the king’s men were
already seated when Dylan and Gwyn entered the Great Hall. As always, there was
a great deal of activity and noise inside. A pall of greasy smoke hung in the
air.
Letting Gwyn go on ahead, Dylan
paused on the threshold. His gaze swept the hall, and rested upon where Penda
had just taken a seat at the head of the king’s table.
The Prince of Powys set off across
the hall toward him.
Rodor had been about to take his
place at the king’s right, when Dylan slid onto the bench next to Penda. Taken
aback by the prince’s sudden appearance, Rodor cursed under his breath and
stood threateningly over him. He clearly expected Dylan to rise and give him
back his place.
Dylan glanced up and met Rodor’s
glare. “I’m feasting here this eve,” he informed him. “Find somewhere else to
sit.”
With that, Dylan turned to face
the king, dismissing Rodor. He could feel the warrior’s glare blister him
between the shoulder blades. Dylan ignored him, although he could feel his own
anger rising.
Rodor would pester him again at
his peril.
Penda regarded Dylan with thinly
veiled amusement. The Mercian King had just taken a sip from a large bronze
goblet, studded with amber and garnets. Next to him, his queen was daintily
picking at a leg of marsh hen. She glanced Dylan’s way, and favored him with a
gentle smile.
Dylan acknowledged her with an
answering smile. “Milady.”
“Good evening, Cynddylan,” Penda
rumbled. “It appears you are eager to speak to me. Rodor looks displeased. I’d
warn you against annoying him too greatly, for he has a long memory.”
Dylan shrugged, fixing Penda in a
level gaze. “The day I shall concern myself with Rodor, is the day I return to
my mother’s tit. I am seated here to talk of more kingly matters. It is time we
spoke of the alliance between our kingdoms.”
Penda raised his eyebrows at that
before taking another draught of mead. “Speak your piece then.”
“You remember the agreement,”
Dylan regarded Penda coolly. “If Powys helped Mercia win the battle against the
Northumbrians, you would grant us rule over the area east of our current
border. Do I have your word that this land is now ours?”
Penda’s face went still, as cold
and hard as one of the statues the Romans had left behind. Only his eyes showed
any response, glittering coldly in the firelight.
“That land belongs to me.”
“It belongs to whomever earns it.”
Penda’s gaze narrowed slightly,
before his mouth curved into a tight smile.
“Very well,” he drawled, finally.
“You can have as far east as Hanbury.”
Dylan took a deep breath,
controlling the anger that flared in the pit of his belly. The king’s offer was
an insult, and everyone within earshot knew it.
Penda knew the Prince of Powys had
a fiery temper. He wanted Dylan to lose control, to lash out. He was counting
on it.
“Hanbury lies barely a morning’s
ride from our eastern border,” Dylan said, making sure to keep his voice even
and emotionless. “That is no prize for the deaths of fine Cymry warriors. Give
us as far east as Lichfield, and we will be content.”
“Lichfield,” Penda ground out the
name like a curse. “You demand much.”
“I demand only our due,” Dylan
replied. “The promise our alliance was founded upon. Powys is a great ally for
Mercia. We rallied to your side against the Northumbrians, and we would do so
again. However, you must recompense our losses or next time your neighbors
march on your borders you will do so alone.”
They were strong words – but they
had the desired effect. The rumble of conversation around them had died, and
Dylan was aware of gazes, many of them hostile, upon him. He paid them no heed,
his own gaze riveted upon the King of Mercia’s face.
Much depended on Penda’s next
words.
Penda’s fist clenched around the
stem of his goblet. His face, however, gave nothing
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