“Walk with me.”
Those words shouldn’t have made me aware of the fact that he was tall, broad-shouldered, and standing close enough for me to smell rain, leather, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic tang of mail.
Exhaustion. Definitely exhaustion to be noticing a hot medieval lord instead of focusing on the coming war. I handed the tally board to Wystan.
“If anyone disappears, find them.”
“What if they disappear because the Normans come?”
“Then find me first.”
Wulfric led me past the last cottages and along the rise overlooking Ashford. Below us, people moved between the timber buildings, carrying bundles, barrels, sacks of meal and strips of salted meat. A cart creaked toward the northern path with two older women wrapped in cloaks, both complaining vigorously enough to reassure me they would survive the invasion through spite alone.
Wulfric stopped beneath an ash tree.
“You need a name.”
“I have one.”
“A proper name our people may understand.” He shifted his stance. “A story, then.”
I looked at him as he folded his arms.
“You came from the shore alone, dressed in odd clothing, speaking strangely. You have no husband, no servants, no baggage, no horse, and no place you name as home.”
“When you say it like that, I sound suspicious.”
“Sooner or later, men other than mine will ask who you are.”
The amusement had gone from his face entirely.
“And you think they’ll care?”
“I think armed men care greatly about what does not fit where they expect it.”
He wasn’t wrong. People liked things labeled. Fire. Flood. Accident. Enemy. Unknown was where panic grew.
“What do you suggest?”
“You are a widowed kinswoman of mine.”
I choked on the last bite of bread.
“Your what?”
“A widowed kinswoman.”
“Surely there are less alarming possibilities.”
“You came from a distant household across the sea. Your home was destroyed in fighting, your people scattered.”
“And when someone asks which sea?”
“The western one.”
“That seems conveniently large.”
“It is.”
