By the time I returned to the meeting house, after explaining to Osric that a weapon dispute was not an acceptable reason to disappear without telling the person responsible for counting him, Wulfric had already been there and gone twice.
He moved through Ashford with the relentless purpose of a storm that knew exactly where it was going. One moment he was speaking with the hunters about the southern roads, the next inspecting the ditch beyond the western edge of the village, then sending two men to reinforce a section of fence I’d barely noticed.
He knew where horsemen would struggle, where men on foot might approach unseen, which ground became treacherous after rain, and how far a bow could carry from the rise beyond the barley field.
I knew that thirty-seven people were not thirty-eight, and between us, we had a system.
“You have not eaten.”
I startled badly enough to drop the charcoal.
Wulfric stood behind me, a dark wool cloak thrown over his mail, damp fair hair tied at the nape of his neck. Rain had darkened his shoulders, and there was mud on one boot almost to the knee.
“You walk remarkably quietly for a man wearing half a kitchen’s worth of metal.”
His gaze dropped to the tally board. “You have not eaten.”
“Yes, you mentioned that.”
He held out a piece of bread spread with something pale and lumpy as I stared at it.
“What’s that?”
“Cheese.”
It didn’t really look like cheese, but I was hungry so I took the bread, also because arguing with Wulfric before breakfast required more energy than I currently possessed.
The bread was dense, the cheese sharp enough to make my eyes water, and together they were the finest meal ever served to a woman standing ankle-deep in the mud.
Wulfric watched until I finished.
“There. I’ve eaten. Do you feel powerful?”
“A little.”
I almost laughed as I turned back to the board.
“The first group reached the forest safely. The second came back for more grain. Anya says the old ones who refused to leave yesterday are still refusing today.”
“They have refused me for twenty years. You will not fare better.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of irritation.”
“I have met you.”
My head came up, and as I looked at him, his expression didn’t change.
“You made a joke.”
“Nay.”
“You did.”
“You are overtired.”
“I’m putting this in the records.”
That almost-smile appeared, the one he tried to hide beneath the beard and battle scars as though amusement were an embarrassing weakness.
