“You have experience lying?”
“Firefighters meet the public.”
He gave a slow nod, as though that explained every failing in human nature. Below us, a horn sounded from the southern watch. Wulfric changed instantly. The warmth vanished. The warrior remained. He turned toward the sound, listening. One call. Then another. A scout returning.
“Come,” he said as we ran.
And because there was danger ahead and work waiting for me, I followed without looking back.
Seven
WULFRIC
The scout had seenthirty Norman horsemen, perhaps forty, upon the old southern road.
I did not blame Eadric for the uncertainty. A man hidden belly-down beneath wet bracken, with enemy riders passing close enough that he could hear the leather of their saddles creak and see the breath of their horses, might be forgiven for failing to count every helm.
“They did not turn toward Ashford?” I asked.
“Nay, my lord.” Eadric stood before the fire in my hall, rain dripping from his cloak and gathering in a dark pool around his boots while Gilda pressed a cup of hot ale into his hands.
“They went west first, then north. Two wagons with them, and more men behind, though I could not see how many.”
“Scouts?”
“Some, mayhap. Others stopped at the farms.”
For food, livestock, information, or whatever else armed invaders believed belonged to them simply because they had arrived carrying swords.
I turned to Godwin, who stood near the long table with one hand braced upon the scarred oak. “Send word to the easternfarms. No one sleeps outside Ashford tonight, and anything that cannot be hidden or carried is brought within the village.”
“And the southern watch?”
“Double it. No fires after dark.”
Godwin nodded and went to see it done, ducking around two boys who came through the door carrying bundles of arrows and nearly collided with Gilda, who informed them in language that might have blistered the ears of lesser men that the hall was not a pig yard.
Spears leaned against the walls beneath the old painted shields of my father and grandfather, sacks of barley crowded the benches, and two bows lay upon the table among the wooden cups, a wedge of hard cheese, and half a loaf of rye bread somebody had attacked with such force that the knife remained buried in the board.
Men came and went so often the door scarcely closed, letting in gusts of cold rain that made the fire hiss and Gilda swear at the weather as if it had come inside merely to vex her.
Darcy stood near the hearth. She had been quiet since Eadric arrived, which was unusual enough to draw my notice.
Her gown was green wool, plain and somewhat too broad through the shoulders, though Anya had belted it tightly enough that it no longer threatened to swallow her. Damp curls had escaped the plait hanging down her back, and one had fastened itself to her cheek while she watched the people moving around her. A man carrying arrow shafts nearly struck a child. Gilda shifted a sack of meal before someone could stumble over it. Wystan came through the door with a split knuckle and tried to conceal the blood upon his hand.
When she turned and saw me watching her, she scowled. “What?”
“Something troubles you. You made a face.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What sort of face?”
“As though someone has served you sour fruit.”
Godwin, who had returned for his cloak, made a sound suspiciously like a cough.
Darcy folded her arms. “I’ll have you know this is my thinking face.”
“Then your thoughts must be unpleasant.”
