Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The sun was lowering in the sky. Aisley did not know exactly how long she'd been sitting on the ground beneath the old willow. Long enough to cry herself into exhaustion only to rise from the damp earth with her situation unchanged. The small grove of trees located near her home had long been her place of sanctuary. As a child, she'd escaped there whenever she'd received a parental scolding or needed time away from her brother's bullying or her sister's pestering. Life had always seemed better after an hour among the trees. This time was different.

She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. Soon it would become too cold to remain outdoors. Before she returned to the longhouse, however, she needed a plan. Her brother's cruel edict might be in force, but she still had time to thwart it. Forcing herself to push past her personal anguish, she attempted to think things through logically. The chances of escape once she was in Rangvald's custody would be slim. He was surrounded by men willing to do his bidding—no matter how inhumane. She shuddered. She would not leave with the Viking chieftain; she could not marry him. That meant she must leave Trowbridge before Rangvald returned. But where to go? Her resources were few, those who knew her well enough to take her in, even fewer.

Slowly, deliberately, she reviewed all that Wulfhere had said. There was more to this arrangement than simply a brother ridding himself of a sister he disliked. It was bigger than his significant financial increase. The agreement Wulfhere had struck with Rangvald shifted Wiltshire's official allegiance at a time that King Alfred needed every able man fighting for the Saxon cause. Taber had kept her abreast of the news filtering through the towns. Alfred's men were making regular raids on Viking encampments and were ambushing the invaders as they traveled the roads of Wessex. Their successes had done much to boost morale among the common folk, and speculation was running high that the king would soon be calling for the fyrds to assemble.

The fyrds. Aisley gasped as the ramifications of what her brother had done to the balance of power in Wiltshire settled upon her. The ealdormen of each county were charged with gathering men to ride with them in answer to the king's call to arms. She'd seen her father fulfill this duty several times. The gathering of Wiltshire's fyrd had been the setting of their last farewell. But if the king sent word to Wulfhere now, not only would the desired fyrd not materialize, but her brother would also likely warn Rangvald that the Saxons were mobilizing. The consequences of such information reaching the enemy would be devastating to the king's forces.

She scrambled to her feet. The king had to be warned. And if, as Taber had suggested, royal messengers were expected to contact the ealdormen soon, she had no time to waste. She had already determined that leaving Trowbridge within the next twenty-four hours was a necessity. Now she knew where she must go. She would travel to Athelney, and God willing, she would arrive there in time to prevent the king from stumbling into a trap her brother's appalling perfidy had created.

But how? She paced in a tight circle, her thoughts whirling. These last three weeks, she had considered going into town to be unsafe. Taking a horse and riding all the way to Athelney unaccompanied was far more dangerous. There was no accounting for who she might meet along her way. And if she were to have the misfortune of encountering Vikings, her fate—and the fate of the Saxons' uprising—would likely be sealed.

She pivoted, frowning in frustration. If she were a gentleman, a full day's ride would be nothing, and the threat to her person would be minimal. Her thoughts stuttered. She was too small in stature to pass as a man, but could she pass as a youth? Surely, a young man riding alone would not be the target of many ne'er-do-wells. An image of Taber leading her brother's mount from town filled her mind, and a sliver of hope pierced her heavy heart. She and Taber were of a similar height and build. If she covered her head and was wearing his clothing, it was possible that travelers on the road would all but ignore her.

At last, she knew hope. Pausing at the edge of the grove of trees long enough to ensure that no one else was in sight, she flew across the meadow and down the lane. A few paces from the entrance to the courtyard, she stopped. She needed calm. If she encountered a family member, she must act subdued. Unwilling to enter into conversation, even. They would expect those things and would likely overlook what would normally be considered rude behavior. So much the better. Her priority was to give Wulfhere no cause to suspect that she was hatching a plan of escape.

She brushed off the dead grass from her gown and entered the courtyard. It was empty. Offering a silent prayer of thanks, she made directly for the stables. The door was ajar. She pulled it open and walked in. The light was dim. She blinked, giving her eyes time to adjust. The stables seemed unusually quiet. No whistling, soft voices, or even the rattle of pails or shovels.

"Taber," she called softly.

Taber appeared from one of the nearby stalls, a pitchfork in hand. He inclined his head. "Afternoon, Mistress Aisley."

"Where is everyone?" she asked, looking around.

"Garren 'as gone with Tilian t' fetch more feed," he said. "Can I 'elp ya with somethin'?"

Relief, swift and warm, filled her. She might not have long with Taber before someone interrupted them, but she would seize what time she had. "Do you own another tunic and hose?" she asked.

"Why, yes." He glanced down as if to reassure himself that the one he was wearing was not too terribly soiled. "One of each."

"What of shoes?"

Taber's expression became even more perplexed. "I've one other pair of shoes, but they're a mite small, an' I'd rather not wear 'em unless I 'ave to."

The smaller the shoes, the better. "May I purchase them?"

Taber blinked. "Ya wish t' buy me old clothes?"

"I know it's an odd request, and I would explain my need for them further, but it is best that you not know."

"In case someone comes askin' 'bout it," Taber guessed.

Aisley did not respond. Taber was a quick thinker. He would likely piece things together without her assistance, but she refused to willfully place him in a position where he would be forced to dissemble on her behalf.

He set the pitchfork against the stall gate. "I'll fetch 'em." Not waiting for a response, he hastened across the stable to the ladder that led to the attic, where the stablehands slept. Almost before Aisley knew what he was about, he had reached the top and disappeared. She heard the rustle of straw and a few soft thuds above her head. A horse nickered, and Aisley glanced at the stable doors. Still no sound from without, but she did not know how much longer her good fortune would last.

"Make haste, Taber," she whispered.

As if he'd heard her, his feet appeared on the top rung of the ladder, and moments later, he was on the ground.

"This is them," he said, offering Aisley a small bundle. He shifted uncomfortably. "There's a tear on one leg of the 'ose. I was goin' to ask the seamstress in town t' stitch it fer me, but I was waitin' t' see if I could save enough t' buy a bigger pair instead."

"I am most grateful." Aisley clutched the items to her chest. "Truly. I will come by just before dawn on the morrow." She hated to ask more of him, but she would likely need his assistance with a horse. "Will you be here?"

"If ya need me 'ere afore dawn, I'll be 'ere."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she nodded. "You are the very best kind of friend, Taber."

His smile was crooked, but pleasure shone in his eyes. "I don' know 'bout that, but I thank you, regardless."

"When I come in the morning, I shall bring you some coins. I wish I had more to offer you, but I pray it will be sufficient for replacement clothing."

"Not t' worry, mistress. If needs be, I daresay Garren 'as somethin' I can use what 'e's outgrown." He looked over the stalls. "Which mount will ya be wantin' saddled first thing?"

"I believe the brown mare I rode from Chippenham would serve me well." Taking the first available mounts from the stables at the king's estate had not sat well with Aisley. Even now, months later, it felt wrong to claim them. But if she was going to take any horse from the stable, it seemed best to take one that Wulfhere was not overly attached to.

Taber nodded. "I'll 'ave 'er ready fer ya."

The stable door creaked. Voices accompanied the shaft of light that entered. Aisley wadded up Taber's bundle and stuffed it under her arm.

"We'll unload th' cart 'ere." It was Tilian giving Garren instructions.

Releasing the breath she'd been holding, Aisley moved toward the doors.

Tilian saw her for the first time and offered a startled bow. "Beggin' yer pardon, Mistress Aisley. I didn't know ya were 'ere."

"Do not let me interrupt you," she said, angling her way through the door so that the bundle remained out of his line of sight. "I am just leaving."

He gave her a vague nod. "Very good, mistress." It seemed that one benefit of having frequented the stables often was that her unexpected appearance was no real cause for inquiry.

A cart full of hay was parked outside the stables. Garren was approaching it, pitchfork in hand. With no one else in view, Aisley crossed the short distance to the cold storage room. Once inside, she pushed a stool up against the door. It would not prevent anyone from entering, but it would give her a little extra warning if she needed it. Ensuring that the shutters were firmly closed, she lit a candle and set it on the wooden counter before looking around. She needed somewhere to hide Taber's clothes.

There was a barrel near the door that appeared to be empty. She tipped it upside down, and a few dead apple leaves fell to the floor. Cook must have used the last of the fruit from this barrel for the baked apples she'd served last week. Setting Taber's clothes at the bottom of the barrel, she scoured the room. Cook would not have emptied a barrel this early in the year unless there were more apples stored elsewhere.

Large sealed crocks of pickled vegetables lined one wall. Pieces of dried, smoked pork hung from hooks on the ceiling above. Two more barrels sat in the corner. She crossed to them. One contained a mixture of carrots and onions. The other was full of apples. With a satisfied smile, she loaded her skirt with about a dozen, carried them over to the barrel containing Taber's clothes, and poured them on top. Another half dozen apples, and the fabric was completely covered. Moving over to the counter, she set out a row of the small linen bags she'd made only last week. If she was to be turned out of her own home, she was taking her medicinal plants with her.

She was filling her third bag when the door latch rose and the stool legs scraped across the floor. Her fingers froze around the string as she watched the stool slowly move forward and the door open. Her mother walked in, her glare instantly shifting from the stool to Aisley.

"Whatever are you doing in here? You have been gone from the house for an age. And why is the stool against the door?"

"I am bagging up some of the herbs," she said, choosing to ignore the second question while working to keep her voice even. "I have cried enough for one day and needed an activity to keep my thoughts on something other than my forced marriage to a pillaging Viking."

Her mother's indignation deflated a fraction, and her gaze shifted to Aisley's eyes. Aisley had no need of a looking glass to know they were red and puffy. They stung every time she blinked. She was fortunate that the light had been so poor in the stables that Taber and Tilian had not seemed to notice.

"Your future husband is a chieftain. You will want for nothing."

In truth, she would want for everything, but she was not willing to reenter this futile discussion. She raised the half-filled pouch in her hand. "When I leave, I should like to take some of my dried plants with me."

"Of course." Her mother glanced at the tidy row of crocks and released a troubled breath. "I would have you know that regardless of what you may currently believe, Aisley, you will be missed."

It was possible that her mother would wish Aisley there on the days she was forced to resume her own gathering and drying of plants. Or when Diera demanded that someone must accompany her into town. But those trifling reasons were hardly enough to make Aisley feel valued or loved. And she would rather not prolong this conversation only to learn for a certainty that her mother's genuine affection for her oldest daughter was unreservedly lacking. The time had come to protect herself from further emotional harm.

"I shall not be eating with you this evening," she said, unsure which was the most repellent: the thought of consuming food or the thought of being in the same room as Wulfhere. "When I am finished here, I shall retire for the night."

Her mother frowned. "I do not think that is wise. It would not do to leave here in a weakened state."

Regardless of the consequences, partaking of a meal with her family was an impossibility. "I shall have plenty of rest, at least."

"Hm." Her mother appeared unconvinced. "I shall check on you later this evening."

"Very well."

Returning her attention to the small bag in her hand, Aisley drew the string around the top and tied it tight.

Her mother watched while she set the filled pouch on the counter, and then she opened the door and stepped outside. "Good night, Aisley," she said.

Aisley waited until the door closed behind her. "Good night, Mother," she said sadly. It was likely the last time she would ever say it.

Brecc leaned his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. The pain in his leg was worsening. Not surprising given how long they'd been riding, but it did not omen well for his night's rest. Exhausted or not, unless the discomfort subsided, he would be hard-pressed to sleep at all.

"Here!"

Brecc opened one eye.

Rheged stood over him, a piece of bread and a small chunk of cheese in his extended hand. "You must eat."

Wearily, Brecc accepted the food. "You have my thanks."

"The bread is stale." Rheged dropped to the ground beside him. "But it is better than nothing." He inclined his head to the left, where Bertwin and Lufian were already stretched out under a nearby pine tree. "Bertwin took care of watering the horses before bedding down for the night. If we get an early start on the morrow, we should reach Athelney by evening."

Brecc nodded, his gaze falling to his injured leg. Another day in the saddle would undoubtedly aggravate the wound further, but he had no choice. Remaining in the woods with no provisions would be even more detrimental.

"Have you looked at it?" Rheged asked, following his gaze.

"Not yet." Their narrow escape from the Viking encampment had precluded him from giving his injury any attention immediately after it occurred. And although they'd stopped at the mill long enough to drop off the reclaimed flour and vegetables, Brecc had chosen to remain in his saddle. It had been too dark to see the large reddish-brown stain that had manifested itself once the sun had risen, but the wetness of his hose had been clue enough. He'd lost a significant amount of blood, and the less he moved his leg, the better.

"It will not serve you well to ignore it," Rheged warned.

"True, but I would rather not risk reopening the wound by tugging at the fabric of my hose when I have nothing with which I can stem the blood or treat the incision."

Two deep lines appeared on Rheged's forehead. "I fear such supplies are limited at Athelney also."

"There will be more than there is in this woodland." Brecc lifted his leg and set it down again with a wince. "It is possible that Mistress Hocca will be willing to assist me."

"You will be hard-pressed to recompense her in the manner with which she has become accustomed. Unless you have a secret talent for sweeping a floor upon one leg, of course."

Brecc chuckled. The story of King Alfred's debacle with the burned cakes and lack of experience with a broom had been retold on Athelney more times than he could count. It was a credit to the monarch's humility that he had used the tale to illustrate the importance of making improvements. "I do not think Hocca has the patience for new sweeping techniques, and I do not think the king intended for us to focus our learning on housework."

"Fair enough," Rheged said. "But what do you think he does wish us to learn? What are all our raids and ambushes and spying ultimately for?"

Brecc rubbed his thigh absently, his thoughts on all the king and his men had undertaken during the last few weeks. "I think he wishes us to help unite Wessex."

"Has that not always been the case?"

"It has, but this time feels different. People of every walk of life are hearing how the king and his men are working together for the good of all Saxons. News of our successful attacks on the Vikings is lifting morale. The return of precious commodities to those who have so little reminds them that they have not been forgotten. The king's determination to oust the invaders offers hope. Our victories—no matter how small—prompt courage. King Alfred has seen the devastation a lack of preparation causes, and he will not make that mistake again. He wishes his people to be physically ready to fight, but even more than that, he wishes their hearts to be ready."

"That is why he has waited to call up the fyrds," Rheged guessed.

"Aye. They will join together from different parts of the country and with a variety of experience, but they must be one in conviction and purpose before we go against Guthrum again."

"How long do you think it will be before the king believes the people are ready?"

"That, I cannot say." Brecc eyed his leg grimly. "But I pray we are all prepared when the day comes."