Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Dawn was breaking. The first tendrils of light infused the sky beyond the woods, illuminating the mist hovering over the meadow. Aisley raised the hem of her gown and stepped over a large rock. It was a somewhat pointless endeavor. Already, the lower portion of her gown was wet and speckled with mud.

Beneath the hawthorn bush ahead, a cluster of purple flowers drooped under the weight of the morning dew. Aisley stepped closer and smiled. She'd been right. They were milk thistle. And there were enough that she would not need to seek out more.

Crouching beside the plant, she withdrew the small knife from the basket in her other hand and gently pushed aside the largest leaves. A shout reached her from the direction of the longhouse. She paused her work to look over her shoulder. A thin trickle of smoke floated above the kitchen roof. Cook was no doubt about her morning work. But it was early for other members of the household to be in the courtyard.

Aisley eased her fingers around the prickly thistle stem, pressed the blade against it, and sliced it in two. Dropping the purple head into the basket, she repeated the procedure with each flower until the colorful blossoms all but covered the parsley she'd picked in the kitchen garden.

A horse neighed, and another shout was followed by the clip-clop of many hooves hitting cobbles. Rising to her feet, she tightened her grip on the handle of the basket. Why were the horses out of the stables at this hour? Surely the king's men would not rise so early after a late night of feasting.

With mounting curiosity, Aisley lifted her damp hem and ran across the meadow toward the house. Pausing at the courtyard entrance to catch her breath, she studied the scene before her. The king's men milled between the waiting horses. Some held spears and shields; others had helmets tucked beneath their arms. Every face was grave; every exchanged word was brief.

One of the strangers who'd interrupted the feast last night crossed Aisley's view. She swallowed hard. He and his companion were the reason for this new sense of urgency. She was sure of it. Soon after the ring-giving ceremony had concluded, the king had requested that the women and children leave the room so that he might speak privately with the thegns and ceorls in attendance. Her mother had been too consumed with her father's health to speculate upon the reason for the meeting, but Aisley knew full well that along with the thegns, those freemen, farmers, and independent landholders made up the backbone of Wiltshire's fyrd. They were the men who were expected to respond when the king issued a call to battle.

With rising concern, Aisley stepped around a restless horse and scoured the area for any sign of her father. Upon their dismissal from the hall the night before, Aisley's mother had insisted that Aisley and her sister, Diera, retire to their beds. Aisley had known better than to contradict her mother's firm directive, even though curiosity over what the men were discussing had burned within her. She'd watched the thegn named Ealdorman Brecc speak with the latecomers, noted his grim expression when he'd turned back to the head table, but she had not expected an immediate call to arms. For that was what this was. There could be no doubt about it.

A middle-aged thegn at Aisley's left shouted at Taber, her father's youngest stableboy. The lad cinched a leather strap beneath a nearby black mare and came running. Aisley turned the other direction and made for the house. Giving three saddled horses wide berth, she rounded a small group of ceorls and barreled directly into someone else's firm chest.

Her unwitting target gave a surprised grunt.

"Oh!" Untangling herself from the folds of a thick woolen traveling cloak, Aisley stumbled back a few steps. "Forgive me, sire." She looked up and found herself gazing into the dark eyes of Ealdorman Brecc. Warmth flooded her cheeks. Of all the gentlemen to whom she might have exhibited herself so poorly, it had to be this one. Raising her chin slightly, she attempted to reclaim a small measure of poise. "I beg your pardon." She managed an inelegant curtsy. "I should have been minding where I was going."

"No harm done. I daresay your small stature does you a disservice. It must be difficult to see past so many men and beasts."

It was. But Aisley did not especially like being reminded of her lack of height. Especially by a relative stranger. "I believe it was my speed rather than my stature that must be blamed, sire."

"Of course." Ealdorman Brecc's eyes flickered with something that looked suspiciously like humor. "I stand corrected."

Aisley stiffened. She did not wish to be laughed at any more than she wished to be pitied for her small bone structure.

"I confess," he continued. "I had not thought that one of Ealdorman Kendryek's daughters would be in the courtyard at this hour. Let alone be in so great a hurry."

The importance of her early-morning assignment flooded back. The unexpected chaos had waylaid her, but with the noisy preparation occurring in the courtyard, there could be no doubt that her father was awake. And she must reach him before he departed his bedchamber.

"I am fulfilling an errand for my mother," she said. "If you will excuse me, I must go to my father immediately."

At her words, a shutter fell across Ealdorman Brecc's face, snuffing out any hint of humor or congeniality. "If you wish to speak with your father, I suggest that you find him forthwith. We shall be leaving within the half hour."

We? Was the thegn referring to the visiting dignitaries only? Or had Wiltshire's fyrd truly been called to arms? New voices reached her from the courtyard entrance, and with increased panic fluttering in her stomach, Aisley spotted two local landowners leading their mounts through the gate. Their presence was the only answer she needed. The local militia who rode with the ealdorman of the county to fight for the king were gathering. And they would all expect her father to ride at their head.

Scarcely remembering to offer Ealdorman Brecc an acknowledging nod, Aisley ran into the house. She crossed the great hall with hurried steps until she reached her father's chamber. The door was open. Her mother stood within, her long, pale hair hanging loose against the blanket covering her shift.

"You cannot do this, Kendryek." There was no mistaking Aisley's mother's desperation.

"Edla," her father pled. "You must understand. I have no choice in the matter."

"There is always a choice," her mother said.

Aisley's father stood beside his bed, his traveling cloak around his shoulders, the fingers of one hand tightly wrapped around the bedpost as though to keep him upright. Her mother stood before him. At her right, Wulfhere was dressed in his traveling clothes, and he held a large round shield and a spear.

"I accepted the ring-giver's coins," Aisley's father said. "I am honor bound to do King Alfred's bidding and to ride against the Vikings at the head of Wiltshire's fyrd."

The Vikings. In Aisley's hand, the basket trembled. The bloodthirsty heathens had swept across Northumbria and Mercia, leaving death and pillage in their wake. Now they had their cold-blooded hearts set on adding Wessex to their conquests.

"You are ill," her mother said. "The king will understand."

"I can lead our men, Father," Wulfhere said.

Her father shook his head. "I shall be glad to have you beside me on this journey, Wulfhere, but this is something I must do."

"In your current condition, the journey alone may kill you." Aisley's mother's voice broke.

"If it is God's will that I die, who am I to question it?"

"But what if it is not His will." Her mother stepped forward, her hands clenched. "What if He wishes you to stay here and rest that you might lead the people of Wiltshire uprightly for years to come?"

Aisley's father lifted his free hand and ran it down her mother's hair. "It is my understanding that our God is a majestic being of truth and honor, of virtue and light. Holy writ tell us that He wishes every person—no matter his or her circumstances—to emulate those qualities. If I am to be a man of truth and honor, I must do what I believe is right, regardless of the sacrifice it requires."

Her mother's lip trembled. "No. This is too much."

"Wulfhere will be with me."

"You would have me lose my husband and my son?" she cried.

"I am not ill, Mother," Wulfhere said. "I do not intend to die."

"So you say," she countered. "But when the Vikings attack in a manic frenzy, you will have little control over who falls."

Wulfhere's jaw tightened. "I am as likely to kill ten Vikings as they are to injure me."

Aisley did not wish to hear this talk of dying. Neither she did wish to listen to her parents contend with one another. She raised the basket in her hand and stepped into the room. "I have parsley and milk thistle for your tea, Father."

Her mother and Wulfhere swung around, obviously startled by the interruption.

Aisley's father released his hold on the bedpost, and with an ill-concealed flinch, he moved across the room toward her. "You picked these for me?" he asked, gesturing to the plants in the basket.

"Yes. They will need to dry for a few days, but there is more in the crock ready to be used for your tea. The herbs will ease your pain. They always do."

He offered her a sad smile. "The healing properties in your mother's teas are quite remarkable, but I fear there is not time to prepare any before I must leave."

Aisley felt the sting of tears. "Must you truly go, Father?"

"Yes, child." He cupped her cheek in his hand. "All will be well, you shall see."

She hung her head, but he gently raised it until her eyes met his. The whites of his eyes were yellowed, and she recognized the pain in their depths.

"Have courage, Aisley," he said. "And I shall do the same. We shall be brave together."

Her heart felt that it might be breaking, but she nodded. "Yes, Father."

His expression softened. "Good girl."

Outside, a horn sounded.

"It is time, Wulfhere," he said. "Bring me my sword, if you please."

Wulfhere crossed the room and retrieved the sword leaning against the wall in the corner. Aisley's father reached for her mother's hand. Raising it to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her fingers. "God willing, I shall see you again ere long."

Her mother took an unsteady breath, though whether her battle was with frustration or sorrow, Aisley could not tell. "I pray it is so," she said.

Word of the latest Viking incursion into their county had reached the men of Wiltshire mere hours ago, and yet Brecc could not fault them for the speed in which the fyrd had gathered. Ever since first light, willing warriors—some on foot, some on horseback—had entered the ealdorman's courtyard in a steady stream. And now that the sun had swept away the last vestiges of early-morning mist, the previously open space was full of men, horses, and wagons. Already, the makeshift army had closed ranks behind Ealdorman Kendryek and his son and were anxiously awaiting the order to move out.

Seated upon their mounts, the king's thegns formed two solid lines behind the standard bearer, and from his position near the entrance to the ealdorman's house, Brecc watched Ormod for a signal that the king was ready.

Somewhere nearby, a wooden shield clattered to the ground, the metal-domed boss at its center hitting the cobblestones with a clang. Brecc's horse snorted, skittering away from the unexpected noise and causing a similar reaction in the horse beside them.

"Steady, Noori." Brecc leaned forward in his saddle to set a calming hand upon the stallion's strong neck before turning to speak with the thegn at his right. "My apologies, Arthw."

"Can't blame the horses for being jittery," the habitually taciturn gentleman responded. "It's long past time that we were away."

Brecc silently agreed. He had no great desire to go to battle, but this waiting—especially when the Vikings were marching across the countryside in a lethal swathe—did little to help their men's morale. "I daresay the king has good reason for the delay," he said.

"Caught up in his prayers like his brother before him, I wager," Arthw muttered.

Scops regularly sang of the miracle at the Battle of Ashdown, when the delay caused by King Aethelred's prayers facilitated an unexpected two-fronted attack and won the Saxons a glorious victory.

"If that is the case," Brecc said, "we can hardly grumble. Our monarch's devotion to God is undoubtedly one of our greatest strengths."

Arthw's expression suggested that he felt otherwise, but he pressed his lips into a firm line and turned his attention back to Ormod.

"I beg your pardon, sire."

At the sound of a young lady's voice, Brecc swiveled his head. Kendryek's daughter—the same one he'd spoken with earlier—stood beside his horse. Surprised that Noori had not reacted to her sudden appearance, Brecc raised his eyebrows. "You wish to speak to me?"

"Not especially," she said. "But in this great press, I cannot reach my father."

Brecc's eyebrows notched a fraction higher. It appeared that the girl was wont to speak her true feelings, even if they were not particularly complimentary.

She lifted the small linen sack in her hand. "It is exceedingly important that my father receive this before he leaves, and I wondered ..." Her voice trailed off as though she'd only just now considered the inconvenience inherent in her request.

"You wondered if I would be so good as to give it to him," he guessed.

She nodded. "Yes, sire."

"You understand that I will not be riding with your father and that it is highly unlikely that we will cross paths unless I make a particular effort to seek him out?"

She nodded again, and this time, he caught the glisten of tears in her arresting green eyes. "I know it is much to ask, but you are the only gentleman within reach with whom I'm acquainted."

"Forgive me. I did not realize that we were acquainted."

"You are Ealdorman Brecc." There was no mistaking the pink rising in her cheeks, but he had to give her credit for maintaining her composure at his subtle rebuke.

"That is true, but I have yet to learn your name."

"Aisley," she said. "My name is Aisley. And I would forever be in your debt if you would do me this great service."

At Aisley's guileless pleading, Brecc felt his resistance waiver. True, seeking out Kendryek when they made camp for the night would be inconvenient, but it would give him an opportunity to stretch his legs after having been on horseback all day. And the ealdorman should not be so hard to find among an army of ceorls.

He eyed the small sack curiously. "May I ask what is so vital that it must reach your father without delay?"

"Medicinal herbs." She paused, and this time, there was no denying the tears in her eyes. "My father has been ill for many months. Partaking of a tea made from these herbs will assuredly ease his present suffering and might offer him greater strength when fighting the Vikings."

"Both outstanding outcomes," Brecc said.

"Then, you will take them?" Hope rang in her voice, and he could not help but smile.

"Very well."

"You have my deepest thanks, Ealdorman Brecc."

"And a lifetime of debt, if memory serves."

"Yes." She raised her arm. "That as well."

Brecc leaned down to take the bag from her. It weighed very little and smelled of parsley. He slipped the string around his belt and tied it firmly. "I will look for your father this evening," he promised.

"It is requisite that he steep the herbs in boiling water, and when the liquid has cooled, he must drink it all."

Brecc's lips twitched. Had the ealdorman ever dared counter any of his rather remarkable daughter's demands? "I shall tell him."

A horn sounded, snapping Brecc's attention back to Ormod. The king's mount waited beside him, a groom ready to assist the monarch into the saddle.

"He is here at last." Arthw's voice carried to the nearby ceorls, and several of them turned their heads to watch King Alfred exit the house.

Brecc took a deep breath. The time had come. They were heading to battle. "If you will excuse me, Aisley," he said. "It appears that the king is ready to depart."

His words were met by silence. Surprised, Brecc glanced at the spot where the girl had stood only moments before. She was gone.