Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Trowbridge, Wessex

May AD 871

The pungent aromas of roasting venison and sweet mead filled the banquet hall. Servants flitted between the long tables, replenishing goblets, bread baskets, and platters of fruit and meat. At Aisley's right, a scop plucked at his lyre, his melodic chants recounting the Saxons' victory against the Vikings at Ashdown almost six months earlier, and from their positions at the head table, two of the king's thegns raised their cups and cheered. Others in the room took up the shout, expressing their loyalty to the new king and a resolve to purge their land of the plundering horde from the north.

Aisley wrapped her narrow fingers around the wooden goblet before her. At only twelve years of age, she had never before attended a banquet of this grandeur—certainly none that boasted the King of Wessex as its guest of honor. And the men's passionate outburst was a discomforting reminder that she did not truly know what was expected of her. Was she to respond in kind? Or were the females in the room—especially the young ones—exempt from such displays of eagerness?

Hazarding a glance at her mother, who was seated beside her, Aisley waited for some softly worded direction. But her mother's lips were pursed closed, and rather than reflecting the tangible eagerness in the room, she appeared troubled. Indeed, if the barely noticeable lines running across her forehead were any indication, the scop's efforts at engendering enthusiasm for King Alfred's cause seemed to have fully missed their mark with her.

"Mother?" Aisley could barely hear her own voice above the surrounding cacophony. "Is something amiss?"

"I must procure more milk thistle and parsley," her mother said. "There is barely enough dried milk thistle seed in the crock for one cup of tea."

Understanding, like a weighted ball, settled in Aisley's stomach. She turned her attention to the head table once more. As Ealdorman of Wiltshire and King Alfred's host, Aisley's father was seated there, to the left of the king.

Though not more than twenty and one years of age, the king's presence exuded authority. His hair and beard were brown, his dark eyes bright and alert. Only two years the king's junior, Aisley's older brother, Wulfhere, sat at their father's left. His broad shoulders and ruddy cheeks were a picture of good health and a stark contrast to her father's sallow skin and pinched expression.

"Father is in pain," Aisley said.

Her mother gave a tight nod. "He would not countenance missing the royal banquet, even if his health suffers because of it."

The weight in Aisley's stomach moved to her chest. "But you can help him. Your medicinal tea has repeatedly brought him relief from the discomfort that plagues him."

"We have been fortunate that he has responded so well to it," her mother said. "I pray such providence continues."

It would continue. It had to. Over the last few years, her father's more vigorous activities had been curtailed by bouts of gnawing pain and swollen feet. Her mother claimed it was his liver. The tea she occasionally steeped for him appeared to help above all other treatments, but nothing had successfully cured him of the malady, and recent attacks had seemed to last longer and be more painful than the previous ones.

Aisley watched her father lower his knife to the trencher of meat before him. The blade shook slightly in his trembling fingers. She slid her hands beneath the table and clasped them tightly on her knee. She was not sure if God listened to the silent prayers of young girls who were as unlearned as she, but if He did, she hoped He would facilitate an end to the merrymaking so her father might retire to his bed with his pride intact.

"I will seek out some milk thistle and parsley at first light," she said.

"There is likely some parsley in the kitchen garden," her mother said, "but you will have to search the hedgerows for the milk thistle."

"I will find them," Aisley promised, attempting to smother her fears for her father's well-being with determination.

Her mother's expression softened slightly. "Mayhap you can harvest the milk thistle's seeds this time."

Aisley's grip on her clasped fingers tightened. Her childhood had been filled with long rambles through the nearby woods and fields with her mother, where she'd been taught how to recognize all manner of flowers, leaves, and berries. Along with being charged with memorizing the names of each plant, she had also been tutored in their curative properties. She'd long since been the only person her mother trusted to procure plants for her remedies, but although Aisley had watched her mother prepare herbs for a soothing salve or restorative tea more times than she could count, she had yet to make one herself.

"But if I were to make an error ..." She swallowed. She would not—could not—be the person responsible for causing her father to suffer.

"Your aptitude for healing is undeniable," her mother said. "You are ready to do more than gather the plants."

"How can you know that? I have never assisted anyone in their healing."

Her mother offered a ghost of a smile. "How many times have you come to the aid of your brother with a dock leaf when he has encountered nettles? Or offered a sprig of heal-all to your sister when she has complained of pain in her throat? To assuage the discomfort of others comes so naturally to you, you do not recognize your gift."

Aisley stared at her mother. Was it true? She had never been as confident among strangers or so good with horses as her brother. Her younger sister, Diera, was prettier and better with a needle than Aisley. Indeed, there were times when the comparisons had stung. More often than not, her mother publicly praised Aisley's siblings' obvious talents, leaving Aisley wondering if she was good for anything more than gathering flowers to decorate the banquet hall. "I ... I do like plants," she said as the first tendrils of awareness caught hold.

"And you give them the respect they deserve," her mother said. "That fact alone sets you apart from most."

Aisley's gaze returned to her father. He turned from speaking with Wulfhere to reach for his goblet. Even from a distance, his wince at the slight movement was unmistakable.

Desire to alleviate his pain surged through her. "Can Father not excuse himself to rest?" Even as she voiced the words, Aisley knew it was a futile thought.

Before her mother could respond, however, the gray-haired thegn sitting on the other side of the king rose to his feet. "Silence in the hall!" he called. "The king wishes to address his subjects."

Instantly, the scop's thrumming ceased, and all eyes turned to look upon King Alfred. Flickering candles augmented the light coming from the fire in the center of the room, illuminating the row of powerful men seated on either side of him at the head table.

With a polite bow, the thegn reclaimed his place, and the recently crowned monarch silently surveyed the room. "Kendryek, Ealdorman of Wiltshire, has provided us a fine feast," he said, acknowledging Aisley's father with a nod. "You have my thanks."

Aisley's father bowed his head. "The good people of Wiltshire are honored by your presence at Trowbridge, Sire."

"Just so." The gray-haired thegn thumped his goblet on the table, and others at the head table immediately echoed the action.

A muscle in King Alfred's jaw twitched. It was the only outward indication that he'd heard the boisterous shout.

"Over the last few years, the Saxon people have claimed hard-fought victories against the Vikings, but we have also borne grievous losses." He clenched his fists. "My brother, King Aethelred, died of a wound inflicted by a Viking spear. Many have had crops, possessions, and loved ones torn from them in a treacherous and brutal fashion." Conviction filled his voice. "Those sacrifices cannot be for naught. We must fight the pagan invaders to defend our families, our homes, our land, and our Christian way of life."

This time, the men's cheer filled the hall, and the thegn at King Alfred's side handed him a glittering horn. A layer of gold covered the horn's tip, and multicolored gems glistened from the highly polished surface. Mead overflowed its rim as the king handed the horn to Aisley's father. With a respectful bow, Aisley's father accepted the glistening offering and raised it to his lips.

"What is the meaning of the golden horn?" Aisley whispered. She'd never seen anything so ornate. "And why is father kissing it?"

"He is pledging his devotion to the king," her mother replied. "King Alfred is the ring-giver at this banquet. Each of his thegns and warriors will be given the opportunity to kiss the horn and swear to remain true. In exchange, the king will gift them something of great worth."

Aisley watched with wide eyes as the king handed her father a bulging leather purse. The coins within clinked, and her father passed the horn to her brother.

"Wulfhere is to receive a prize also?"

"Of course." Her mother straightened her shoulders. "Wulfhere is most certainly of an age and sufficiently noble to participate."

Wulfhere took the horn and kissed it. Mead dripped from his fingers onto the table below.

"A horse for your loyalty, Wulfhere," the king said. "It shall be delivered to your father's stable within the week."

The shock in Wulfhere's eyes quickly turned to satisfaction. "I am most grateful, Sire."

"Devotion is worth a great deal more," King Alfred said. His gaze shifted to the young man seated on the other side of Wulfhere. "Is that not so, Brecc?"

Wulfhere passed the horn to his neighbor. The thegn, who appeared of a similar age to the king, raised his dark eyes to meet his liege's. "You speak the truth, Sire. And all that I have, I give to my king and the good people of Wessex." He raised the horn to his lips, and the king set another leather purse on the table. It was smaller than the one he'd given to Aisley's father, and rather than passing it to the thegn named Brecc, King Alfred pulled open the leather tie and withdrew a treasure.

"A ring from the ring-giver," King Alfred said. "An appropriate gift, I believe."

The green stone embedded in the gold ring sparkled in the candlelight. A gasp followed by a low murmur echoed through the room, but Aisley did not turn to discover the source. Her attention was fully focused on the stunning ring now lying on Brecc's open palm.

"I am honored, Sire," he said.

"Already, you have served me well. I ask only that you continue to do so with steadfastness."

Wrapping his fingers around the ring, Brecc bowed his head low. "It shall be done." He then offered the horn to the dark-haired thegn at his left. It had barely left his hands when the door to the hall burst open. The flames on the candles at each table danced as a gust of cold air entered the room. Two men dressed in riding cloaks walked in.

Aisley did not recognize either one, and if the frown upon her father's face was any indication, they were strangers to him also. Her father shifted on the bench as if he were planning to rise. He winced, the pain he was surely experiencing slowing his movements. Brecc was first to his feet, quickly followed by Wulfhere, whose hand went directly to the dagger at his waist. Other thegns rose, but none else reached for a weapon.

"The strangers are known to the king's men," Aisley observed softly.

"So it would seem," her mother said, not taking her eyes off the newcomers, who were now in deep discussion with Brecc and the gray-haired thegn. "And they come bearing news so urgent that it could not wait for the end of the banquet."

"What news, Warton?" It had taken little more than a glance at the warrior's grim expression for Brecc to know the report was not good.

"The Vikings are amassing at the border." Warton, the taller of the two warriors who'd been charged with guarding the stretch of river near Winchester, kept his voice low enough that no one else in the banquet room could overhear their conversation. "Teon and I remained hidden long enough to see them readying their boats. They are heavily armed, and there can be no doubt that they intend to take to the water soon."

Warton's companion, Teon, nodded. "There's thousands of 'em, sire. And there's no mistakin' their intentions."

Brecc's stomach tightened. Although he'd guessed Warton and Teon's sudden appearance in the banquet hall did not omen well, to be days—weeks, at best—from another battle against the Viking horde was the worst possible news.

"We must inform His Majesty immediately," Ormod muttered.

The older nobleman had been King Aethelred's adviser before the former king's untimely death, and King Alfred had continued to rely heavily on Ormod's counsel when the responsibility of the crown had been abruptly thrust upon him.

"I do not believe His Majesty would wish the banquet to end in panic." Brecc had no need to turn around to know that all eyes were upon the uninvited visitors. "Mayhap it would be prudent to have those at the head table reclaim their seats and Kendryek's guests resume their meal. A quiet word in the king's ear would cause less alarm than a public announcement."

"Agreed," Ormod said, his frown disappearing as he swung to face the room once more. "Let the feast and ring-giving continue! And if Ealdorman Kendryek does not object, these latecomers would be happy to share in the generous spread."

Kendryek nodded his approval, and at Ormod's signal, the other thegns took their seats once more.

"The ring-giver's ceremony must continue." Ormod lowered his voice so that only Brecc could hear. "Now, more than ever, the king must have his men firmly behind him. When the opportunity allows, I shall inform him of the warriors' message. You find a place for Warton and Teon to eat without fear of being questioned. After traveling such a distance in so short a time, they will need their strength if we are to quit Trowbridge straightway."

Brecc glanced at the place he had vacated at the table. Meat filled the trencher he'd shared with his fellow thegn, Arthw. But the food no longer held appeal.

Arthw had taken up the embellished horn, and King Alfred was watching him expectantly. Arthw's hesitation was so faint it was barely discernible. But Brecc had caught it. His companion knew what was to come. With the arrival of two of the king's warriors, no one seated at the head table could be in any doubt. What they did not know was how soon they would be called upon to act.

"Come," Brecc said to Warton and Teon. "You must eat." He led them to the back of the room, where a small table was pressed up against the wall. "You there," he called to a nearby servant girl. "These travelers require food and mead. Fetch an extra trencher and goblets, if you please."

The girl bobbed a curtsy. "Right away, sire."

She scurried out of the room, and Brecc scoured the area around the table. "It appears that there is no bench to spare, but I daresay food, drink, and a place to set them is a start."

"To be right honest, sire, after spendin' so long in a saddle, I'm more th'n 'appy to stand fer a bit," Teon said.

Brecc acknowledged the warrior's comment with a wry smile. "I imagine you'll be back in that saddle before you are ready. I thank you both for bringing us this intelligence in so timely a fashion. The king will know how to act after Ealdorman Ormod has spoken to him."

Warton and Teon remained silent. If the Vikings were coming, they would be called upon to fight. They both knew it.

The servant girl reappeared with a flagon of mead and two goblets in hand. Brecc stepped away. With Warton's and Teon's needs being met, he should return to the head table. He scanned the large room. Most of its occupants had accepted Ormod's request and had resumed their eating. Brecc's gaze stopped at the table where Kendryek's wife and daughters sat. The ealdorman's wife was watching her husband, a concerned look on her face. One daughter—whose flaxen hair was the image of her mother's—was fiddling idly with a ribbon on her gown, her attention on the glittering horn at the head table. The second daughter, whose long tresses glinted red in the firelight, seemingly had no interest in the ring-giver's gifts. Instead, she was looking directly at Brecc.

Startled by the intensity in the girl's eyes, Brecc held her gaze for two long breaths before giving her an acknowledging nod and looking away. The king's horn had traveled the length of the head table and had returned to the monarch. Ormod was speaking with him now. The thegn's head was turned away from those gathered in the room, but if King Alfred's lowered eyebrows were any indication, he was not pleased with Ormod's report.

Squaring his shoulders, Brecc crossed the room in long, brisk strides. Regardless of the young girl's knowing mien, it was not possible that Kendryek's copper-haired daughter comprehended the imminent threat looming over their people. He released a tense breath. He could only pray that she—and thousands more innocents—would be spared from ever knowing the worst of what was to come.