Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Aisley stood at the longhouse window, flexing the fingers on her right hand. They were sore, and her palm where she'd pressed against the pestle was purple. When her father and Wulfhere had left the bedchamber for the courtyard, Aisley had not paused long enough to ask her mother for directions on how to make the herbal blend her father used. Instead, she'd raced to the cold storage room as fast as her short legs could carry her. Trusting her memory of the many times she'd watched her mother prepare the herbs, she'd exchanged her basket of fresh plants for the crocks containing the remaining portion of dried milk thistle and parsley. After pouring the precious plants into a mortar, she'd ground them with a pestle until her hand had pulsated with pain. Luckily, there had been several small linen bags lying on the shelf beside the crock, and as soon as she'd emptied the contents of the mortar into one of them, she'd chased after her father.

She hadn't been fast enough. She'd never seen the courtyard so crowded and knew that if her father and Wulfhere were to ride at the head of their men, they would both be far closer to the road than she could ever hope to reach in the press. She flexed her fingers once more before resting her hand on the windowsill as she watched the last of the warriors filter out of the courtyard. Finding Ealdorman Brecc so close to the house had offered her a moment of hope after her initial despair. It had been forward of her to ask the thegn for his help—particularly when he'd had so many other matters to attend to. No doubt, her mother would be mortified to learn what she'd done. But she would never find out. And if Aisley's boldness helped her father, it was worth any amount of indignity.

"What is all the noise about?" Diera walked in, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and Aisley was reminded of how early it was. So much had happened already this morning, it was hard to believe that she was normally still abed at this hour.

"The king's men have left," Aisley said.

"Could they not have spared the household by doing it a little more quietly?"

"It is possible," Aisley said. "But last night, the king called for the fyrd to gather. Hundreds of Wiltshire's men were here by dawn."

"Did father go with them?"

Aisley nodded. "As did Wulfhere."

Diera's eyes widened. "Is it another battle with the Vikings?"

"Yes."

The single word carried a heaviness that even a nine-year-old could feel. Diera's chin quivered. "Where is Mother?"

"In her chamber, I imagine." Aisley had not seen her mother since fleeing her father's room.

Diera took off toward their mother's chamber at a run. Aisley moved away from the window, her shoulders slumped. She was not sure which was harder: leaving to fight the bloodthirsty Vikings or being left at home to await news.

The fire crackled. Someone tossed another branch on the flames and sparks swirled heavenward. Brecc rose from his position on the ground beside the log where King Alfred sat. His thigh muscles ached, and he grimaced. At only twenty years of age, his body should not be complaining over so simple a movement, but after a hard day's ride, Brecc doubted there was a man in the camp who was not feeling the effects of too long in the saddle or too many furlongs on his feet.

"If you would excuse me momentarily, Sire." Brecc bowed to the king. "I believe I will take a walk before retiring for the night."

"Most wise," King Alfred said. "By Ormod's calculations, we are over halfway to Wilton, but we have another long ride on the morrow if we are to head off the Vikings before they take the town."

The prospect of another full day in the saddle was unpleasant, but Brecc had no cause to complain. All day long, farm laborers and yeomen had been leaving their fields to join the army of men marching toward Wilton on foot. Carrying nothing more than rudimentary weapons and a small sack of vittles, they had joined the ever-lengthening convoy. Even now, men were slipping into the field where the men were encamped, finding a place to rest among those who had already claimed a spot.

"I shall return shortly," Brecc said.

King Alfred offered an approving nod and turned to his adviser, who was seated at his other side. "What think you, Ormod?"

"I beg your pardon, Sire?" Startled, Ormod turned his attention from the scrap of manuscript in his hand to the king. "You wished my opinion on a matter?"

"Yes." The king rose. "On whether you would accompany me on a circuit around the camp."

Brecc smothered a grin. Based on Ormod's expression, the older gentleman would prefer to remain exactly where he was. But before Ormod could suggest that King Alfred take his walk with Brecc instead, Brecc slipped away.

There were hundreds of men gathered in the camp. Half a dozen fires burned, but none so large or so bright as the one at which the king sat, and there were surely men of lower standing who were positioned too far from the flames to experience any warmth. Brecc frowned. He hoped those brave souls had access to a blanket of some sort. Or at the very least, a warm cloak. His fingers went to the small bag tied at his waist, and he scanned the growing throng in the semidarkness. Kendryek was a thegn. He would not be too far distant from the king's escorts, but if Brecc gauged the man's character aright, neither would he wish to be too far removed from the men he had pulled from working the land to do the king's bidding.

Moving past the inner circle of thegns, Brecc started toward the wagons carrying the Wiltshire men's shields and spears. The temperature dropped as he stepped farther from the fires, and he looked upward. Like heavenly candles, a profusion of stars twinkled in the night sky. They would become brighter as the darkness deepened, and the cold would become more bone-chilling. As grateful as Brecc was that they were not having to contend with rain, cloud cover would have kept them all warmer.

He pulled his cloak more securely around himself and surveyed the clusters of men nearby. Most were conversing in small huddles, their voices low. A sense of determination hung in the air. Along with an underlying whisper of fear.

"I am seeking Kendryek, Ealdorman of Wiltshire," Brecc said, approaching a large man with hands the size of frying pans.

The man pointed a stubby finger toward a small grove of trees. "He wus 'ere not long ago, but I reckon you'll find 'im near th' ash trees now. Needed t' set 'imself down fer a bit, I'm thinkin'."

If Kendryek was suffering from as much discomfort as his daughter had suggested, the laborer's assessment was undoubtedly correct.

"I thank you," Brecc said.

"You'll likely find 'im with 'is son," the local man added.

"Of course." Brecc nodded politely and walked the short distance to the small copse.

At least a dozen men were seated beneath the trees, some of them leaning against the thick trunks. One sat slumped, his hood over his lowered head.

"Ealdorman Kendryek?" Brecc asked.

Immediately, the lowered head lifted, but it was the man beside that gentleman who rose.

"Who comes inquiring for Ealdorman Kendryek?" the man who stood asked.

"Ealdorman Brecc."

The man bowed, and in the semidarkness, Brecc caught the glint of his pale-colored hair. The same color as his mother's and youngest sister's long tresses. This was Wulfhere.

"Forgive me, Ealdorman Brecc. I did not recognize you in the dark."

"No apology is necessary," Brecc said. "I could say exactly the same."

"Ealdorman Brecc, you are welcome." Kendryek spoke, and if the catch in his voice and the fact that he had yet to stand were any indication, the gentleman was in considerable pain. "Pardon me for not rising to greet you. My body is not as young as it once was and is protesting our long march."

"I, too, am feeling the effects of too much time in the saddle," Brecc said. Not as much as Kendryek, to be sure, but his comment seemed to put the older man at ease.

Kendryek drew his hood back and gazed up at Brecc. "How may I assist you, sire?"

"I have something that belongs to you." Brecc tugged at the string looped around his belt, and the small linen bag loosened. Pulling it free, he stepped closer and offered it to the older man. "I was told that the bag contains medicinal herbs."

Kendryek's gaze dropped from Brecc's face to the small sack. "My wife gave you this?" There was wonder in his voice.

"No, sire. It was given to me by your daughter, Aisley."

His head shot up again. "Aisley?"

"Aye. She was most insistent that it reach you straightway." Brecc inclined his head. "I have undoubtedly waited far longer than she had hoped but not so long that you cannot brew some tea before bedding down for the night, I hope."

"I shall have someone see to it immediately," Wulfhere said, reaching for a drinking vessel on the ground beside his father.

Kendryek tightened his fingers around the small bag. "Bring me the hot water, and I shall steep the tea myself."

Offering a brief bow to his father and to Brecc, Wulfhere disappeared into the darkness.

"May I offer you a portion of grass upon which to sit until my son returns, Ealdorman Brecc?" There was a hint of humor in Kendryek's tone, and Brecc found himself unaccountably glad to hear it. "I should be most interested to hear exactly how my young daughter managed this seemingly miraculous task."

Attempting to ignore his aching muscles, Brecc lowered himself to the ground. He had intended to make his delivery and complete a circuit around the field before returning to his earlier position beside the fire, but talking to Kendryek about his green-eyed daughter's unique petition for aid was far more appealing than overhearing muttered conversations among anxious warriors or listening to Ormod discuss battle strategy with the king.

"She came upon me as we were preparing to leave the courtyard," he said. "I believe she had hoped to hand the bag to you herself but was unable to reach you in the press of men and horses."

Kendryek shook his head slightly. "She must have fetched this as soon as I left my bedchamber. It is hard to believe there was enough time for her to prepare the herbs, but somehow, she managed it."

"I received the impression that you are very important to her."

Kendryek sighed. "She is a rather remarkable young lady," he said. "Her mother is learned in the art of healing and has taught Aisley well. But Aisley possesses something greater than a knowledge of which plants contain curative powers; she has the gift of caring deeply for the well-being of others."

"A powerful combination, to be sure," Brecc said.

"Aye. And an uncommonly rare one." He sighed again, and this time, the emotion felt deeper. "I pray she will be given the encouragement to nurture her gift. If so, she will be a blessing to far more than her ailing father."

"How much longer will this take?" Diera asked. "We've been tying up weeds for two-and-a-half ages."

Aisley giggled at Diera's creative measure of time. Her sister disliked hanging plants up to dry almost as much as Aisley disliked working with a needle.

"Patience, Diera," their mother said. "There are times when we are all required to do things we would rather not do." She stepped onto the wooden stool and hung the string she'd just tied around a bunch of lavender on a hook in the ceiling beam. "It is a life lesson that is best learned at a young age."

Aisley heard the resentment in her mother's voice and looked up from the thyme she'd been sorting. It had been over a fortnight since her father, Wulfhere, and the other men had ridden out of the courtyard to confront the Vikings. Since then, conversations had been stilted, expressions anxious, and an unsettled aura had filled the house. Aisley, Diera, and their mother felt it, certainly. But so, too, did the servants.

Aisley wished there were some way of receiving word on how the men were faring. The continued silence was torture. It hung over the fields empty of laborers, the stables without stablehands, and the business establishments in town devoid of merchants. Unfortunately, it was a scenario that had been repeated all too often over the past year, and Aisley knew that if the laborers stayed away overly long, the repercussions would be far more serious than a pall of silence. The harvest would be impacted, and food would become scarce.

"How much longer do you think we shall have to wait before we receive news of the battle?" Aisley asked.

Diera darted a nervous glance her way, obviously surprised that Aisley had dared voice the question everyone was wondering.

"Why do you think I should know such a thing?" her mother snapped. Unfortunately, no amount of time outdoors gathering herbs and medicinal plants had fully erased the pinched expression on her face. "There is no reasoning with a Saxon man when he has his mind set on something. I daresay it is the same with a Viking. They will fight until they no longer remember what it is they are fighting for."

"The last time Father gathered the fyrd, he said that they must fight to protect the people of Wiltshire and their land," Diera said. "I do not think he will forget that."

"Honor above all else," their mother responded bitterly.

Aisley furrowed her brow. "Is that not a good thing?"

Her mother reached for the bunch of thyme in Aisley's hand, the lines cutting through her pursed lips deepening. "It depends upon whom you ask."